Chapter 7: Bargaining

Caleb used to fall for this act of mine.

Back then, he’d blush to the roots of his hair, that Southern upbringing warring with all the things I made him feel.

He was gentle by nature, but once aroused he was fierce. When moved, he was silent, only his whole body burning, the flush spreading like wildfire.

It was always the silence that gave him away—the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled just a little before they steadied.

I knew his expression could deceive, but not his reactions.

Every little shiver, every stifled gasp, was a secret meant for me alone.

Before coming, I kept telling myself that Caleb and I didn’t have any deep hatred. Maybe, upon seeing me, he would still remember our past.

Maybe nostalgia would win out over anger. Maybe he’d forgive me, just this once.

But I was wrong.

He looked at me like I was a stranger who’d just broken into his home.

Caleb looked at me, not with the joy of reunion after a long separation, but with a cold, dead stillness.

The kind of look people get when they’ve been disappointed one too many times.

The room was very quiet, only the sound of the wind outside.

The silence pressed in, thick as storm clouds before a summer tornado.

After a long time, he asked, “Is this fun for you?”

His words cut, each one a shard of ice sinking under my skin.

I felt as if I’d fallen into an ice bath, my body slackening in confusion.

The bravado slipped; all that was left was fear and a hint of shame.

Caleb calmly straightened up and turned his back to me.

His spine was ramrod straight, every line screaming distance.

“When did you come back?”

His tone was cool, clinical—like an interrogator with a suspect.

I couldn’t guess his meaning and could only answer, “A month ago.”

I tried to sound casual, as if I hadn’t been haunting the edges of his life ever since.

“A month,” he sneered, as if thinking of something, “great.”

Sarcasm dripped from the word. I flinched, not sure what I’d done wrong.

I didn’t understand what he meant.

The silence between us stretched, sharp as barbed wire.

So I asked, “Caleb, what’s wrong with you?”

The question came out raw, more vulnerable than I intended.

He didn’t look at me, only corrected me coldly: “You should address me as Mr. President now.”

The title landed like a slap. All those years of being Nat, reduced to a formality.

I was stunned.

It felt like a chasm opening at my feet, the old intimacy gone for good.

He sat at the desk, his tone flat: “Why did you come to me?”

His voice was as empty as the space between us.

I hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

“My brother…”

The reason, plain and unavoidable. I braced myself for his response.

“Here to plead for Marcus Quinn?” he sneered, pulling at the corner of his lips, “And what right do you have?”

He said my brother’s name like it was a curse. I clenched my fists, fighting back tears.

My throat tightened. For a moment, I couldn’t answer.

I stared at the floor, shame and fear battling in my chest.

After a while, I steeled myself: “…If you’re willing to release my brother, I’ll do anything.”

I hated how desperate I sounded, but there was no other way.

“Anything?”

He echoed, every syllable a challenge.

Caleb suddenly turned, picked me up, and pressed me against a pillar.

The movement was so fast I barely had time to gasp, my back hitting the cool marble with a jolt.

My back was icy cold. The window nearby wasn’t fully closed, and through the gap I could vaguely see the oddly shaped stones standing tall in the Rose Garden.

Moonlight spilled across the flagstones, the distant spray of the fountain hushing the chaos in my mind.

Water trickled in the fountain, dampening the moss.

The scent of fresh earth and wet grass drifted in, grounding me in the moment.

We had once been so close, yet now he felt like a stranger.

The distance between us felt impossibly vast, measured not in feet but in years and heartache.

Did the shadow between his brows used to be so deep? Were his lips so pale?

He looked older, wearier—the kind of tired that no amount of sleep could cure.

Did his gaze toward me used to be so full of hatred?

I searched for even a glimmer of the boy I’d known. All I found was anger, barely restrained.

It seemed I had missed so much.

A lifetime had happened while I wasn’t looking.

While I was unaware, Caleb had become a fortress—impossible to scale, impossible to ignore.

Power had changed him, in ways I could barely recognize.

In the next instant, Caleb leaned in, and I closed my eyes to avoid him.

My breath caught, fear and longing tangling together.

For a long time, the wind passed through the room, as if even the air around us had frozen.

I counted the seconds, each one an eternity.

No warmth touched my lips.

Instead, all I felt was the chill of rejection.

A faint, mocking breath brushed my face.

His words hung between us, more biting than any touch.

I opened my eyes and thought I saw a fleeting pain in Caleb’s cold gaze.

A flicker of something—regret?—before it vanished, replaced by bitterness.

“Does it include things like this?”

The question was a knife, twisted cruelly in the wound.