Before The Weekend

~ Sterling ~

My internal clock snapped me awake long before the sun even considered rising. The digital numbers on the bedside clock glowed a harsh crimson in the dark, reading exactly four in the morning. This was an inescapable side effect of my chronic insomnia. Sleep and I had parted ways a long time ago, leaving me to navigate these quiet, dark hours alone while the rest of the world rested. I did not toss and turn. I did not waste time fighting the heavy, exhausting pull of wakefulness. I simply rose from the mattress, shedding the shadows of the bedroom for the cold, demanding reality of the day ahead.

I stood in the expansive kitchen of my Barcelona property a short time later, fully dressed in my usual, perfectly tailored business suit. Every button was fastened tight, every seam sat in its proper place, the dark fabric acting as a familiar armor against the unpredictability of the world. I needed that rigid structure right now. I reached for the French press on the marble counter, pouring the steaming water over the dark, crushed grounds. The rich, earthy scent of strong, bitter coffee filled the modern space, a grounding anchor in the sprawling, quiet house. I pressed the metal plunger down slowly, watching the dark liquid brew and darken. I poured a heavy mug, letting the intense heat warm my palm, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in the adjoining sitting room.

I stood as still as a statue, gripping the ceramic handle. I brought the rim to my lips and took a slow sip. The scalding brew bit at my tongue, harsh and unyielding, exactly how I preferred it. Outside the glass, the vast city of Barcelona lay submerged in the pre-dawn shadows. The gothic spires and modern apartment blocks formed a jagged silhouette against the horizon. Slowly, the dawn began to bleed red over the quiet streets, a crimson stain spreading across the sky and washing the stone facades in a bloody light. It felt like a warning. A visual representation of the deep headache pulsing at my temples.

I had a crucial board meeting today. I had logistics to review, massive international contracts to finalize, and a strict, demanding schedule requiring my undivided attention before I flew back to New York on Monday. I needed to compartmentalize. I needed to focus on the numbers and the high-stakes negotiations waiting for me in a few short hours.

Instead, despite my best efforts to maintain order, my mind aggressively strayed.

I took another slow sip of my coffee, my jaw clenching hard enough to ache. My private sanctuary had been invaded. My sister, Rosalind, and her chaotic best friend, Cassidy, had stormed into my house and disrupted the pristine order of my life. I stared at the bleeding red sky, but all I saw was the mess they brought with them.

Rosalind had always possessed a stubborn streak, a defiance that required careful handling, but it had never been unmanageable. Not until Cassidy Vance entered the picture. I understood the bond they shared. I acknowledged the crucial role Cassidy played when our parents died. She dragged Rosalind out of the suffocating depths of grief, and for that, I owed her a debt I could never repay. But she did not stop there. Cassidy cultivated the wild, reckless side of my sister. She was the spark that ignited Rosalind’s impulsive nature, feeding her defiance like gasoline poured over an open flame.

And Cassidy despised me. She wore her hatred like a badge of honor. She made no effort to hide her disdain, taking every opportunity to challenge my authority or ignore my presence. I remembered the day I overheard her talking to Rosalind in the hallway, her voice dripping with mockery as she boldly claimed right to my face that I always looked like I had a giant stick shoved up my ass. The insult was a deliberate attempt to get under my skin. It only proved how little she understood the discipline required to keep our world from falling apart. She went out of her way to start arguments, her sharp tongue always searching for a weak spot to exploit. It was an added bonus to my mounting headache.

I drained another mouthful of coffee. The liquid had gone cold in the cup, but I barely registered the change in temperature. The atmosphere in the massive house shifted.

I did not even need to turn around to know she had entered the room.

The air grew heavy. The quiet emptiness of the morning vanished, plunging into a deliberate, thick silence that only Cassidy possessed the sheer audacity to create. I could sense her presence moving through the space behind me. She did not make a sound, yet she demanded the room's attention. I physically felt the intense, burning heat of her green gaze boring directly into the space between my shoulder blades. She was watching me, studying my back with that feral, untamed energy of hers.

I kept my back to her. I let the silence stretch, refusing to acknowledge her on her terms. The tension thickened, wrapping around us like a physical weight. We were the only two awake in this massive house, locked in a silent, stubborn battle of wills before either of us even spoke a word.

When I finally decided to turn around, I shifted my stance with measured control.

I found her standing a few feet away, greedily soaking in the radiant warmth spilling from the modern gas fireplace. She had her eyes closed for a brief second, her pale skin illuminated by the flickering orange light. Her auburn hair was swept up into a chaotic, messy bun on top of her head. Stray strands escaped the loose knot, curling against her neck and framing her face in a way that defied all neatness. She looked wild. Untamed. A stark contrast to the tailored perfection of my suit.

I forced myself to move toward the kitchen island, placing the cold mug down on the marble surface. A deep, frustrating annoyance flared in my chest. My traitorous body betrayed my cold logic, instantly zeroing in on the exact way her thin sleep shirt aggressively clung to her frame. The soft fabric highlighted the subtle curves of her waist and the gentle rise of her chest. My gaze drifted lower against my better judgment, catching the tantalizing, bare curve of her legs fully exposed in those damn tiny shorts. They barely covered her thighs, leaving miles of smooth, pale skin on display in the dim light.

She looked too good in the soft morning light. Too fucking good.

The realization sparked a dark, unspoken heat low in my stomach. I hated it. I hated that she could look like a walking disaster and still command my physical attention. I masked the involuntary reaction behind a wall of deep suspicion and authoritative control.

Her eyes snapped open. The vivid green irises caught the firelight, flashing with undisguised hostility the moment they locked onto mine. She did not shrink under my scrutiny. She did not look away. Instead, she pushed off the wall and began to walk straight toward me.

Every step she took was deliberate. She closed the distance between the fireplace and the kitchen island, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She stopped just a few feet away, narrowing her eyes into a deep, sharp scowl.

"If you’re done ogling me, move out of my way," she commanded.

Her voice sounded flat, a cold weapon devoid of any warmth. The accusation hung in the air, bold and direct. She expected me to flinch. She expected me to step aside and grant her the space she demanded.

I refused to be easily dismissed in my own property.

I picked up my mug again. I brought the rim to my lips and took a slow, deliberate sip of the bitter, cold coffee, holding her fiery gaze without blinking. I let the silence drag out for three agonizing seconds, letting her know I held the power in this room.

"This is my house," I replied smoothly, my voice matching her icy tone perfectly. "I can’t be in your way."

The undeniable logic of my statement hit her. Her scowl deepened significantly, the corners of her mouth turning down into a hard line. I watched her hands. Her fingers curled inward, clenching tightly into fists at her sides. Her knuckles turned white from the strain. She was practically vibrating with the immense, physical effort it took not to lash out and strike me. I could see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat, a frantic, rapid beat that betrayed the chaotic storm brewing inside her.

She jerked her delicate shoulders back, puffing her chest out in a silent, stubborn dare for me to back down. It was a clear challenge, a physical demand for me to yield. She lacked the height to look me in the eye without tilting her chin up, but she compensated with a sheer, unyielding force of will.

I stood my ground. I became an immovable object to her chaotic force.

We remained locked in this tense standoff. The air crackled between us, thick with a brooding tension that blurred the line between mutual defiance and a heavy, unspoken physical attraction. Neither of us moved. I memorized the fierce, untamed glare in her green eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths. She searched my face for a crack in my armor, looking for any sign of weakness, any indication that I would yield the floor to her.

I gave her nothing.

Eventually, the realization set in. She saw the cold, unyielding wall in my eyes and knew I was not giving an inch. The fight drained from her posture, replaced by a sharp, sudden irritation.

She let out a sharp, incredibly frustrated huff of breath. The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen. Without another word, she stepped forward and brushed violently past my shoulder. The contact was deliberate, a hard, physical brush of her arm against my tailored suit. She marched straight to the coffee pot, her movements jerky and tense.

I did not turn to watch her pour the coffee. I kept my focus forward, analyzing the lingering heat where her shoulder had connected with mine.

Mere moments later, the fragile, fractured silence of the kitchen broke once again. Heavy footsteps padded down the hallway.

Rosalind stumbled into the room. My sister looked like a mirror image of exhaustion. Her chestnut hair was a wild, tangled mess from sleep, sticking out in uneven angles. She wore an oversized sweatshirt that swallowed her frame, her eyes heavy and bleary. She dragged her feet across the floor, bypassing me.

She mumbled a groggy, barely coherent morning greeting directed at the room in general.

Cassidy turned away from the counter, a fresh mug of steaming coffee in her hands. The hostility vanished from her face the second she looked at my sister, replaced by a soft, protective loyalty that irritated me even further. Cassidy wordlessly handed the mug to Rosalind.

Rosalind took it with a sigh of relief. She stepped closer to Cassidy, leaning affectionately against the redhead’s shoulder as she took her first sip. The easy, comfortable intimacy between them stood in stark contrast to the battlefield Cassidy and I had just navigated.

I watched them in silence. I did not offer a single word in response to her morning greeting. I did not soften my posture.

Rosalind lowered the mug, blinking away the lingering traces of sleepiness. She turned her head, finally registering my presence standing motionless by the island. She noticed my silence, the cold set of my jaw, the suit, the packed overnight bag resting near the hallway. She stared at me for a beat that lasted just a fraction too long, her brow furrowing in confusion.

The atmosphere shifted again, moving from lingering hostility to a tense apprehension.

"We’re leaving today," Rosalind announced.

Her voice sounded surprisingly quiet, but it was laced with an uncharacteristic firmness. It was a statement of fact, not a request for permission. She stood a little taller, drawing strength from Cassidy’s presence beside her.

The words hit me hard. My stomach instantly twisted into a sharp, unpleasant knot. The physical reaction caught me off guard, a sudden tightening in my gut that I refused to analyze or acknowledge. The thought of them walking out that door, disappearing into the chaotic streets of a foreign city with Cassidy leading the charge, sparked an immediate need for control.

I did not let the internal reaction show on my face. I glanced down, checking the sleek silver watch secured to my wrist. The second hand ticked forward, steady and relentless.

I looked back up and took a long, purposeful stride toward the living room couch. My packed leather suitcase sat waiting by the edge of the sofa. I grabbed the handle, the leather familiar and firm in my grip.

"Stay," I commanded.

I kept my tone flat, my voice bordering on total indifference. I delivered the word not as a plea, but as a rigid directive.

I turned back to face them. Rosalind's groggy, sleepy expression instantly vanished. Her jaw dropped slightly, the stubborn firmness in her eyes warping into sheer surprise. She had prepared for an argument. She had braced herself for a fight, expecting me to throw my weight around and block the door. She did not expect a flat, indifferent concession.

Before she could question the sudden shift in my tactics, I casually added the final piece of the puzzle.

"I’ll be leaving by the weekend."

I did not wait for Rosalind to process the information. I shot a quick, calculating glance at Cassidy.

I wanted to see her reaction. I wanted to see if the sudden generosity caught her off guard. It did not. Her expression did not waver in the slightest. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, the coffee mug held tightly in one hand. Her green eyes remained sharp, cutting through my indifferent facade. If anything, my sudden tactical retreat only seemed to make her significantly more irritated by my presence. She saw right through the concession, recognizing the calculated move for what it was.

Without uttering another single word to either of them, I adjusted my grip on the heavy suitcase. I turned my back on the kitchen and headed directly for the front door.

My footsteps echoed against the hardwood, strong and steady.

I did not trust Cassidy. I did not trust her even a tiny, microscopic bit. She was a walking disaster, a chaotic force of nature waiting to pull my sister into the flames of her own reckless decisions. They thought they had won. They thought my departure meant freedom.

I pushed the heavy front door open, the cool morning air washing over my face.

I sure as hell was not about to just leave the two of them alone in a foreign city. Not without keeping very strict, close tabs on their every move. I would give them the house, but I would not give them blind freedom. I would watch from the shadows.

I pulled the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a heavy, final thud.