The Last Thing I Need Is Anyone Noticing Something’s Off
'Back To A Year Later— The Present Day'
The scorching Beverly Hills sun glared mercilessly over the immaculate landscape of Joseph’s multi-million-dollar estate. The driveway of the western wing, tiled in polished marble, shimmered under the heat as a fleet of black Cadillac SUVs rolled in, gliding silently like shadows across the luxury grounds.
Inside one of the SUVs, Susan sat stiffly beside Joseph. The air-conditioning blew a soft hum, but it did little to cool the firestorm brewing in her chest. Her arms were folded across her torso, as if she were shielding herself. Her eyes, hollow and brimming with suppressed anger, stayed fixed on the tinted glass window beside her.
Joseph, immaculately dressed in a navy blue suit, sat upright with a hand resting on his thigh. His other hand gripped the armrest with a quiet authority. His face was blank, lips pressed into a tight line, jaw sharp and unmoving— stoic, unreadable.
The SUV rolled to a smooth halt before the west wing’s entrance.
Almost immediately, the driver, a clean-cut Secret Service agent in black suit and tie, stepped out briskly and walked over to open the passenger door. And as pulled the door open, Joseph raised a hand without turning his head.
“Give us a minute,” he said coolly.
“Yes, sir.” The agent bowed his head with trained discipline and slowly closed the door back, the soft click echoing inside the car like a quiet trigger.
Silence stretched.
Then Joseph turned his head towards Susan. His stare was flat, emotionless, the same way one would examine a malfunctioning machine. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his tone low, unshaken. “You’ve been quiet the entire ride.”
Susan’s head snapped toward him.
Her nostrils flared.
Her eyes, glinting with rage and disbelief, locked onto his. “You’re really asking me that stupid question?” Her voice cracked, a toxic mix of heartbreak and fury lacing every word.
Joseph's brow arched ever so slightly. “Stupid question?” he repeated, voice calm, dangerous. “Watch your mouth.”
“And what if I don’t, huh?” Susan fired back, voice rising. Her fingers trembled as she clenched her thighs. “What are you gonna do?”
“I'll smack you in the mouth to keep you quiet,” Joseph said without blinking, his voice steady and disturbingly casual.
Susan leaned forward, her face twisted in disgust, her chest heaving.
“Ohhh… so now you're not just a psychological asshole who sleeps with his own mom, but you're also a woman-beater?” Her words pierced the air like shattered glass. “Is there any part of you that has dignity?”
Joseph's lips twitched into a faint, amused smile. He leaned back slightly, resting an arm on the edge of the seat. “Of course,” he said smoothly, “but it’s only fair for a stupid woman to get her mouth smacked if she don’t know where to put it.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “You won’t silence me,” she hissed. “You’re a sick psycho. A sick psycho— do you even hear yourself?” She pointed a shaking finger at him. “How sick do you have to be to be fucking your own mother— or stepmother, or whatever the fuck you call her?!”
“A sick psycho that’s putting a roof over your ungrateful head,” Joseph replied coldly. “Covering your bills. Funding the lavish lifestyle you live.”
“But at what cost?!” Susan burst into sobs, her voice breaking apart.
She clutched her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Her sobs were raw and painful, echoing in the enclosed vehicle like distant thunder.
“This is the price you pay,” Joseph said, voice laced with mocking warmth. “You share me with my mother.”
He turned to her slowly, leaning in until his breath brushed against her face. His eyes locked into hers with piercing intensity.
“And if you ask me,” he whispered, “it’s not that big a price. You’re just a whining little bitch. A crybaby. That’s what you are.” He cocked his head with mock pity. “There are women out there who’d line up and be grateful to take your spot in a heartbeat.”
Susan’s face contorted into a mask of heartbreak.
Her mascara-streaked eyes searched his for something—vanything— remotely human.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. “Why?”
“Because I could,” Joseph said simply.
He reached up and brushed a few strands of hair off her damp forehead. His fingers were gentle, but the gesture sent a chill through Susan’s spine.
“And this,” he said, looking into her eyes, “is the last time I want to see you whine about it.”
Susan’s lips quivered as she placed both hands over her belly— her small, two-month-old bump barely visible beneath her designer blouse. Her sobs returned in waves, heavy and breathless.
Joseph sighed, leaned away, and adjusted his cufflinks with slow, deliberate movements. Then he reached for the door handle, his voice turning cold again.
“I’m stepping out now,” he said without looking at her. “When you’re done crying your eyeballs out, come and join me inside. But make sure you fix your face before you do. The last thing I need is anyone noticing something’s off.”