Upstairs, the soft glow of the bedside lamp warmed Thompson and Sylvia's room. The curtains swayed lightly with the night breeze, casting shifting shadows across the walls. On the bed, wrapped comfortably in silk sheets, Thompson and Sylvia lay entangled in each other's arms. They laughed softly at some private joke, their legs intertwined, Sylvia's head resting on his chest as he absentangled her long hair between his fingers.
For a few moments, everything was peaceful—just two lovers sharing whispers and breath.
Then Thompson's laughter faded into a thoughtful hum. He continued stroking her hair, his gaze soft yet far away.
"I think David is in love with Chant," he said quietly, almost casually, but his fingers did not stop moving through Sylvia's hair.
Sylvia froze.
Her body stiffened so visibly that Thompson felt it. She slowly lifted her head from his chest and stared at him—her expression dark, unreadable, like a storm gathering behind her eyes.
"And where exactly," she asked slowly, "did you get that information from?"
Thompson turned slightly toward her. He didn't seem bothered, nor aware of the sudden anger rising in her.
"I didn't get it from anywhere," he replied calmly. "But from what I've seen lately… and from what David has said about her these past few days… I can tell I'm not wrong."
He paused, sitting up against the headboard.
"And just before you called me upstairs," he continued, "he was trying to tell me that he has fallen in love with someone. But your call interrupted him."
Sylvia's eyes sharpened, her chest rising and falling steadily, but her anger was simmering—slow, fierce, and burning.
"And you're going to allow that?" she asked, her voice suddenly rising, almost shaking.
Thompson blinked, confused. "Allow what exactly? What's wrong if he loves her? Or even wants to be with her?"
Sylvia shot up from the bed as though something had bitten her.
"What!!!?" Her voice rose so sharply it echoed against the bedroom walls. "Everything is wrong with that, hun! Everything!"
Thompson looked genuinely taken aback.
"Please don't tell me," Sylvia continued with a trembling voice, "that you're going to accept that a maid—or should I say a slave—"
She didn't finish the second word.
Thompson lunged forward and pressed his hand over her mouth, stopping her.
"Don't…" he warned, his voice suddenly deep, dangerous. "Don't ever call her that again. Are you insane?"
Sylvia's eyes widened.
"Who is my slave?" Thompson's tone grew sharper. "Do you think my mother would be happy hearing you speak like this? Do you think she raised us like that?"
Sylvia pushed his hand away with a scowl.
"Oh please!" she spat. "Stop using your mother for every little thing."
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she had gone too far.
Thompson stared at her… stunned… hurt… and angry in a way she had never seen before. His jaw tightened, his fingers curled.
"What did you just say?" he asked slowly, his voice trembling with a rage he was fighting to contain.
Sylvia sat down immediately, shifting from anger to fear.
"Baby… listen," she attempted to soften her voice, but it came out strained. "Look at this carefully. You won't allow that thing happen between your cousin and that girl. And besides—what is she even still doing here?"
Thompson was breathing hard.
Sylvia continued recklessly, not noticing how close he was to snapping.
"Is she not tired? Is it not time for her to leave? The woman who employed her is dead and forgotten. Why is she still here?"
That was it.
Thompson stood so quickly that the bedside table rattled. His hand lifted halfway into the air as though he might slap her—but he stopped himself, shaking with the effort.
Sylvia gasped and stepped back on the bed.
"Don't push me, Sylvia," he warned, voice low and deadly. "Don't ever push me like this again."
And without waiting for her response, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door so violently that the entire hallway echoed. The vibration travelled down the staircase, strong enough that even the staff downstairs must have felt the tremor of his anger.
Sylvia remained frozen on the bed.
She had never—never—seen him angry like that.
The sweet, gentle, innocent man she always manipulated with tears and soft words… had just erupted like a volcano.
She sat there, staring at the closed door, trembling. Her mind raced—not in guilt, but in panic.
Was it the way he defended the maid?
Was it his mother's name she insulted?
Or was it the thought of David wanting the girl?
She couldn't tell.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and ran a hand through her hair. "What have I done?" she whispered to herself.
But she wasn't remorseful.
No.
She was worried because she was losing control.
And Sylvia never tolerated losing control.
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
Her heart jumped. "Come in," she forced out, trying to steady her breath.
The door opened slowly—and David stepped in.
He paused when he saw only Sylvia. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "I heard voices. I thought Thompson was here."
Sylvia hissed loudly and looked away.
"Is there a problem?" David asked politely.
"Please leave," Sylvia snapped without even looking at him. "Just go."
David didn't argue. He stepped back quietly, closed the door, and left.
As his footsteps faded down the hallway, Sylvia pressed her hands against her temples.
Her mind spiraled.
What if Thompson chooses that girl's side?
What if his mother's memory pushes him to treat the maid like family?
What if David—David, who is always so calm and observant—truly has feelings for her?
And what if Chant dares to dream above her class?
Sylvia shook her head vigorously.
"No," she muttered. "I won't allow it. I won't."
Her chest tightened with frustration and jealousy, though she refused to acknowledge it.
She walked slowly to the window, staring down at the quiet compound, the lights flickering softly as the night deepened.
Her thoughts churned like a storm.
Was it Thompson's anger?
Or the news about David and Chant?
Which one hurt her more?
She didn't know.
But what she did know was simple:
If Chant became a threat—
Sylvia would eliminate that threat.
No matter what it took.