~Becklan's POV~
I froze, realizing immediately, this wasn't about the massage. Someone had already told him I'd been with Frank.
He didn't look at me as he spoke, but the command in the question was enough. "Answer me."
My mind raced, trying to find a clean, innocent lie. "Sir," I replied, trying to keep my voice smooth and professional. "Mr. Frank only asked me to clean his chair."
Leon finally looked up. He didn't raise his voice, but his eyes were so sharp they felt like surgical instruments dissecting my soul. He shook his head, a gesture of pure, dismissive certainty.
"You are such a liar, Beck."
I flinched internally. He was too good. He knew my tells.
"Clean his chair?" Leon scoffed. "Frank will never personally ask a house worker to do such a trivial task; he has four of his own assistants for that. I know him too well. So," he leaned back, steepled his fingers, and delivered the cold question. "What did you two go to talk about? In a private place."
I was about to frantically pick another lie, maybe I had been retrieving a rare vintage bottle of water for him, when the heavy mahogany door swung open. It was one of his senior staff, looking harried.
"Mr. President, the shoot has started. The international models are ready on Set A."
Leon's gaze remained locked on me for a fraction of a second longer, a look that promised reckoning, before he shifted his focus back to his empire.
He pushed up from his chair. "I will be back," he stated, his eyes flicking over my face. "And I expect you to have your answer ready before then. Since you enjoy lying so much, Beck, you should think about the one that fits so well, because I won't be fooled a third time."
Then he left, striding out of the office and slamming the door shut with the satisfying thud of final authority.
I stood there, trembling slightly, trying to pull my scattered wits together. What was the perfect lie?
My eyes scanned the office, searching for inspiration, and then they landed on the ceiling corner above the filing cabinet. A tiny, nearly invisible red light was blinking steadily.
His office has a camera.
I quickly stepped outside, slamming the door behind me. I couldn't be caught panicking on camera. The elegant corridor was empty. I leaned against the wall, hyperventilating.
I sat there, watching all of Leon's models glide in and out—tall, aloof, and utterly perfect. And honestly, I looked better than those things he signed to work with, yet he had rejected my perfect figure. The injustice was a dull, constant ache.
The day finally wound down, and it was time to wrap up. I began gathering the things Mr. President would need to take back home, his files, lunchbox, and other essentials, packing them neatly as I always did, making sure nothing was out of place. Just as I arranged the last item, my phone buzzed. It was my stepfather, calling to tell me my mother wasn't feeling well and that I should come home.
The unexpected call, coupled with the urgency, hit me hard. I waited a few minutes for Leon to step back inside his office, then I quickly rushed in.
"Mr. President," I stammered, my voice tight with urgency. "I need to go home right away. My father just called, my mother isn't feeling well. I'll hurry, but I promise I'll be back before it gets too late."
Leon glanced at his expensive watch. "I'm done for the day as well," he said. "I can drop you off."
"No, thank you, sir," I replied quickly, shaking my head. The last thing I wanted was for him to see the reality of my miserable life.
He gave me that command face, the one that brooked no argument and demanded immediate, terrified compliance.
"Okay, sir," I conceded. "I will be waiting outside."
We walked to his car, and once we were on the road, I tried to minimize the situation. "Sir, you can just drop me off on the main road. It's close enough."
He didn't even turn his head. "I will drop you at your parents' house, Beck. I need to be sure you are not telling me another lie."
My heart sank. He was treating my genuine worry like another attempt at a hustle.
I let him drop me. The moment the car stopped outside the familiar, unremarkable house, I bolted. I rushed straight inside, not waiting to thank Leon or to watch his car drive away. I was desperate to see my mother.
Getting inside, the scene was normal. My mother was sitting on the sofa, looking perfectly fine. She looked up, surprised. "Becklan? What are you doing here?"
I spun around to face my stepfather, rage bubbling up. "Why did you call and lie that Mom wasn't feeling fine?"
He shrugged, completely unfazed. "I've been trying to reach you," he said, his eyes hard. "You refuse to pick up my calls or reply to my texts. I just had to lie, knowing full well you'd rush home."
I looked at him, shaking my head, already turning to leave. The lie was just a pretext for his real objective. He lunged out and caught my arm.
"Give me money," he demanded, his voice low and menacing.
I shouted back, "Leave me alone! Stop asking me for money!"
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "If it were your real father asking… wouldn't you give it to him?"
"Leave me alone!" I shouted, yanking my arm free.
I glanced at my mother, silently pleading for help, but she looked right through me, pretending I didn't exist while her husband tormented me. She never defended me, not even when he humiliated me. Honestly, how could I be surprised? This was the same woman I had once confided in, tearfully telling her that her husband had tried to assault me, only to be slapped and warned never to speak such "lies" again. She despised me simply because people called me gay, long before I even understood my own sexuality.
I finally made it to the gate, running outside with tears of shame and despair streaking down my face.
I stopped dead.
Leon's car was still there, exactly where I had left it. He was waiting for me.
The back window hummed down. When Leon saw me, sobbing, shaking, ruined, I quickly scrubbed at my eyes, desperately trying to construct a mask of normalcy, hoping he hadn't seen the final, devastating act of my familial horror show.
His face was unreadable, cast in the dim light of the evening. He didn't speak with pity or curiosity, but with his usual, impersonal command.
"Don't just stand there, Beck. Get inside. Or do you want to go back in there?"
The question carried the familiar chill of his authority, but without any real malice. I knew someone like him would never truly care for a mere maid, yet the simple act of waiting for me, of providing a way out, left me stunned.
I moved instantly, hurrying around the back of the car and sliding into the seat beside him. I braced myself for the inevitable lecture about my dramatic behavior or another accusation of lying.
Instead, as the car smoothly pulled away from the curb, Leon looked straight ahead at the road and spoke in a strangely neutral voice, the driver handling the wheel.
"Don't let me be the reason you stop crying, Beck."
I froze, tears pricking my eyes again at the shock of the statement.
"Cry as much as you want," he finished…