Apply To Be A Tutor

POV: Third Person.

A sharp spasm seized Weston's stomach the moment he stepped out of the law firm’s elevator. Burning acid rushed up his throat, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. He placed a hand over his abdomen, pressing down hard through the fabric of his tailored suit to suppress the throbbing ache. Every stab of pain served as a harsh physical reminder of Sutton's absence. She used to manage his diet with quiet, meticulous precision. Whenever he had a flare-up, she always had a warm thermos of soothing ginger tea ready. When she traveled for business, she made a point to order light, digestible meals delivered straight to his office. But since he sent her to Elmridge Mental Hospital, his stomach had betrayed him time and time again. Giving in to Lydia’s craving for spicy food the night before had been a grave mistake.

"Wes!"

Lydia intercepted him before he could reach his office door. She wore a flawless, practiced smile, her posture relaxed and inviting as she stepped into his path. "You haven't eaten yet, right? The roast lamb at the restaurant across the street is amazing. Let's go try it."

Weston stiffened. The mere mention of heavy, greasy meat made his stomach churn in protest. "No," he replied, his tone rigid. "I need to grab some files at home. The nanny will cook something for me."

Lydia’s cheerful facade shifted in a fraction of a second. Her shoulders dropped, and her bright eyes clouded over, welling up with sudden, shimmering tears. She looked down, her lower lip trembling as she wrung her hands together. "Are you going back to an empty house because Sutton still refuses to come home? Is she still mad at me?"

"I said the nanny will handle it," Weston repeated, trying to sidestep her. "Have you picked a preschool for Stella yet?"

At the mention of her daughter, Lydia let out a choked sob. "Thanks, Wes. Without you, I really wouldn't know how to handle anything in this city. That monster... my ex-husband... he wanted a boy so badly. When he found out I was having a girl, he treated me like dirt. He hit me. He yelled at me until my throat went raw. Stella only survived because she is a fighter."

She paused, letting the tears spill over her eyelashes and track slowly down her carefully powdered cheeks. "I lived in pure terror every single day. I still wake up screaming from the nightmares. Raising a child with autism on my own... it crushes my soul, Wes. But then I remember my father. I remember the sacrifice he made for your family."

Weston froze in his tracks. The mention of Lydia's father was her ultimate trump card, and she played it with devastating accuracy. If Mr. Stafford hadn't donated a kidney to Weston's dad, his father would have been in the ground years ago. The weight of that life-saving debt hung heavy over Weston’s conscience.

His rigid posture softened. The irritation brought on by his acid reflux faded, replaced by a deep sense of obligation. He looked at Lydia’s tear-stained face and let out a long sigh. "Our families have unbreakable ties, Lydie. You know that. There should be no more words like 'thanks' between us. If you or Stella ever need anything, you just let me know."

Lydia wiped her eyes, peeking up at him through her lashes. A dark, predatory calculation glinted in her gaze, hidden behind a mask of humble vulnerability. "If you really mean that, then let me come home with you. Let me cook for you today."

Weston frowned. "Don't bother, Lydie. I just need to get my files."

"Please, Wes," she insisted, taking a step closer and lightly touching his forearm. "You helped us find a place yesterday. Plus, Stella made a mess of Sutton's new house. I know my hand was hurt in the process, but I still feel terrible about what my daughter did. Let me make you a meal. Treat it as a necessary apology for the trouble we caused Sutton."

Weston stared down at her. His stomach throbbed again, muddying his thoughts. His reasoning began to warp under her manipulation. In his mind, allowing Lydia to cook a meal would somehow balance the scales. Sutton had injured Lydia's hand during their confrontation; Stella had drawn on Sutton's walls. If Lydia made amends now, the slate would be wiped clean.

"Fine," Weston finally relented, letting out a defeated breath. "Let's just go back together."

A victorious smile touched the corners of Lydia’s mouth as she fell into step beside him.

Miles away, Sutton stood under the glaring afternoon sun, staring up at a massive, high-end duplex. Her feet ached, and her spirit felt bruised after a grueling, disheartening morning. Her first three tutoring applications had been utter disasters. One parent sneered at her background, another mother chased her out because the husband kept staring at Sutton’s legs, and the third client had already hired someone else by the time she arrived. This imposing house in the wealthy suburbs was her final, desperate lead for the day.

The front yard was pristine, boasting manicured hedges and a sprawling driveway. Sutton walked up the stone path and reached for the heavy brass knocker on the front door. Before her knuckles could make contact, a woman’s distressed, hysterical shrieks pierced through the thick wood.

"Diego, what do you want from me?!" the woman screamed. "You asked for chicken legs! I went to the fancy market, I stood in line, I worked over a hot stove all afternoon, and now you look at me and say you don't want them? I gave up my career! I became a full-time housewife just to serve you, and you treat me like garbage! My heart is breaking!"

The heavy door suddenly swung inward, nearly smashing into Sutton's nose. She stumbled backward, catching her balance just in time.

A teenage boy stormed out of the house. He wore a loose T-shirt stained with dark cola spots. His expression was a mask of freezing, absolute indifference. He didn't even blink at the sight of a stranger standing on his porch.

"Diego! If you walk down those steps, I swear I will kill myself right now!" the woman shrieked from the hallway, her face red and streaked with mascara.

The boy ignored the dramatic threat. He shot Sutton a brief look of cold contempt, then shoved his hands into his pockets and brushed past her toward the driveway.

Sutton watched him walk away. The arrogance, the stubborn posture, the sheer defiance—it all clicked in her brain. She crossed her arms and muttered under her breath, "Dumbass?"

Diego froze in his tracks. His sneakers screeched to a halt on the pavement. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Sutton's face. The dull, apathetic glaze in his expression shattered. An electrifying spark of genuine recognition flared in his gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. "Berserker?"

Before Sutton could respond, the hysterical mother came charging out of the house. Elena Navarro grabbed her son by the arm, her eyes darting between Diego and the strange woman standing on her porch. Dripping with arrogant suspicion, Elena glared at Sutton. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I'm the tutor," Sutton said calmly. She unzipped her tote bag and pulled out her credentials, holding them forward. "I'm here for the interview. We can start with a trial run. Mutually beneficial."

Elena didn't even look at the papers. She sneered, waving her hand as if swatting away a stray dog. "Get off my property. We don't need you. We already found someone else. I don't know what kind of scam you're running, but you need to leave right now." She yanked Diego's arm, trying to pull him back toward the front door. "Come inside, Diego."

Diego planted his feet. He pulled his arm free from his mother’s grasp. Surprising both women, he stepped between them and forcefully intervened.

He pulled a smartphone from his pocket, his thumb swiping across the screen. He didn't bother lifting his gaze to meet his mother's eyes. "Keep her."

Elena gasped, her jaw dropping. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said, keep her," Diego repeated in a strict, unyielding tone. "I'm sick of the endless parade of useless tutors you keep bringing here. They just talk in circles. I think she's fine. We're doing the lesson."

Without waiting for permission, Diego turned on his heel and marched back inside the house, leaving his mother standing in stunned silence. Elena glared at Sutton, her chest heaving with unexplained hostility, but she reluctantly stepped aside to let the new tutor enter.

Sutton followed Diego through the sprawling, echoing house and up the wide staircase. They entered his bedroom. The space was a disaster zone—clothes tossed over chairs, empty snack wrappers littering the floor, and a massive flat-screen TV dominating the far wall.

Diego immediately collapsed onto his unmade bed. He grabbed a plastic video game controller from the mattress and stared blankly at the screen. "You can sit down," he warned coldly, his thumbs resting on the joysticks. "But you can't possibly help me. Nothing you teach me matters."

Sutton didn't argue. She calmly scanned the room, spotted a sturdy wooden chair tucked under a desk, and dragged it over to the side of the bed. She sat down, planting her feet firmly on the carpet. She crossed her arms, fixing her gaze directly on his face with unwavering confidence.

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a quiet, intense whisper. "What if I could expose the crimes at Elmridge Mental Hospital?"

The plastic controller slipped from Diego’s hands. It hit the hardwood floor with a loud, sharp clatter.

The boy went rigid. He slowly dropped his head, his dark hair falling forward to hide his eyes. His spine arched deeply as he hunched over his knees, his entire body trembling in silent, agonizingly suppressed pain. The mere mention of the name tore through the thick armor he wore.

Out in the hallway, the bedroom door remained cracked open just an inch.

Elena stood in the shadows, holding her breath as she peered anxiously through the narrow gap. Her eyes widened in bewildered shock. She watched as Sutton slid a thick baseline academic test across a desk. She watched her notoriously aggressive, rebellious son—the same boy who had thrown textbooks at his previous instructors—obediently pick up a pen and begin to work.

It made no sense. She had just pulled Diego out of Elmridge Mental Hospital a week ago. The stint at the facility was supposed to cure his violent temper, but he had returned colder and angrier than ever. He hated everyone. He hated her. Yet, here he was, submitting completely to the commands of a strange, unknown woman.

Deep paranoia took root in Elena's mind. Her fingernails dug into the wooden doorframe. She stared obsessively at the back of Sutton's head. How did this woman command such immediate respect? Why did Diego stop in his tracks outside?

A terrifying thought bloomed in the dark corners of her brain. They had to know each other. There was no other explanation for this bizarre dynamic. Her husband, Carlos, was a wealthy, powerful man who spent weeks away from home on business trips. He paid the bills, but he kept secrets. Elena's breathing quickened as she wildly questioned the identity of the woman sitting in her son's bedroom. Was this so-called tutor actually Carlos's secret mistress, planted in their home to mock her?