The Stranger At Home
“Papa! I’m home!”
Cassimira announced at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing through the marble-floored foyer of their three-bedroom luxury apartment. She wrestled her oversized suitcase past the threshold, the wheels scraping hard against the floor. Pausing, she planted her hands on her hips, chest heaving, a grin splitting her face as she scanned the familiar opulence—the crystal chandelier winking overhead, the abstract art her father had chosen to impress guests, not her.
She’d been abroad for school, jetting back for holidays in years past, but the last year and seven months? Radio silence. No visits, no warnings. Graduation had come and gone, and she’d plotted this surprise like a secret rebellion so she could surprise him. But she had met an empty house instead, and except for the security at the gate, who had barely nodded, there had been no staff bustling about; it was as if her return was just another delivery.
“Lisa?” Her voice drifted through the living room, softer now, as she tested the silence. No answer. Her brow creased, a flicker of unease tightening her jaw, “Well, that’s rather odd.”
She paced the living room, still wearing a frown, her footsteps muffled on the plush rug, eyes darting all over as she tried to think of a reason why the house would be left unattended. Her gaze snagged on a thought, and her lips curled into a half-smile, sharp with suspicion. “Did he know I was coming?” A low chuckle escaped her, tinged with self-mockery. “Here I thought I’d be the one to surprise you.”
She cast a glance back at her heavy luggage sagging by the door like an abandoned plan. There was no way she could carry that all the way up to her room without help. She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and turned towards the stairs. She would have to deal with that much later, perhaps when her father and Lisa returned from wherever they had gone. For now, her body craved the solace of a steaming bath, a chance to wash away grime and sweat from the journey. She turned toward the stairs, her stride purposeful but slower now, as if measuring the weight of a home that no longer felt entirely hers.
* * * * * *
The shower’s hiss cut off as Cassimira froze, ears straining at the faint creak of a footstep in her bedroom. She slid the glass door open a fraction, steam curling around her as she poked her head out. “Papa? Is that you?” She called out. “Lisa?” She called again, but when she heard no response, she shrugged and slipped back under the spray, dismissing the sound as the house settling.
Minutes later, she stepped out with a refreshed smile tugging at her lips. Humming softly, she wrapped a towel snugly around herself and walked out of the bathroom and into her room. She did not, however, expect to see a man, a stranger, seated casually and upright on her bed, posture rigid, eyes locked on the bathroom door like a predator sizing up prey. Her heart almost seized to beat, breath catching in her throat. She shrieked, clutching the towel tighter.
“Who the fuck are you? What are you—?” Her gaze darted to the door, left ajar. A second man, broader, heavier, loomed there, blocking the exit with a silent menace. Fear surged, but anger roared louder, hot and defiant. “How the hell did you get in?” Her voice sliced through the room, sharp enough to mask the tremor in her hands, her eyes blazing as she calculated the distance to the door and the weight of her father’s absence pressing heavier now.
The man on her bed sat unnervingly still, arms crossed over his chest, eyes boring into her with a cold, unblinking stare. His ease in her space felt like a violation, yet he carried himself as if she were the intruder. He frowned. For someone who broke in, she sure made herself comfortable.
“How did you get in?”
His voice was deep and held hostility, the kind that sank into her bones and sent a shiver racing down her spine. He had tattoos on his body that snaked around his neck and wrist, and telling by the dark ink peeking from under his shirt, she was sure there were more tattoos beneath the shirt he had on.
He wore a single piece of jewelry around his neck, a gold chain with a cross for pendant, dangling like a mockery of sanctity and several rings on his fingers. His jet black hair was swept roughly all the way back and they were shiny from being wet, she couldn’t tell if it was wet from sweat or rain maybe.
A flash of lightning cracked outside, pulling her gaze to the window. Rain. Another flash, and her eyes snapped back to him. His hair was soaked from the storm, droplets clinging to the ends, as if he’d stormed through the downpour to get here. The realization tightened her grip on the towel, her pulse hammering as she faced the stranger who seemed to claim her space with more authority than she did. The bigger man at the door shifted, a silent reminder of her trapped position, and the power in the room tilted further, sharp and dangerous.
