Happy Birthday, Rhea!

~Kai

I stood outside her door like an idiot, heart hammering in my chest after pouring my guts out.

The silence stretched for what felt like forever. Then the door opened.

Rhea stood there, eyes red rimmed but jaw set, looking at me with a mixture of exhaustion and steel.

“Use the door, Kai,” she said coldly.

Her voice was flat. Final.

No shouting. No tears. Just that quiet, cutting command that hit harder than any slap she could’ve given me.

I stared at her, searching for any crack in her armor, anything that said she still felt something. But her face was closed off, the same professional mask she wore when we first met.

“Rhea… please,” I whispered, stepping closer. “Don’t do this.”

She didn’t move, didn’t yell. She just looked at me with those hazel eyes that once softened for me and repeated, “Use the door.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

I swallowed hard, throat tight. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely lost. No cocky comeback. No smooth line. Just the heavy, sinking feeling that I had finally pushed her too far.

I took one last look at her, the woman who had protected me, fucked me, and somehow made me want to be someone better, then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll use the door.”

I turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Behind me, I heard her door click shut.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, I felt truly alone in this massive house.

I wandered down to the sitting room, still feeling like shit after Rhea shut the door in my face.

My eyes landed on something near the couch, a familiar black duffel bag. It was the one Rhea had brought with her when she first moved into the estate.

I hadn’t seen it in days. Why was it down here instead of in her room? Had she brought it out when she was away for those three days?

Curiosity got the better of me.

I walked over, picked it up, and unzipped it. Inside were some of her clothes, a couple of tactical knives, and a small wooden frame tucked at the bottom.

I pulled the frame out. It was a photo of Rhea.

She looked stunning, beautifully dressed in an elegant black gown, hair down in soft waves, a rare genuine smile on her face. She looked younger, happier, like the weight of the world wasn’t on her shoulders yet.

I flipped the frame over, written neatly on the back in elegant handwriting… “December 17th… Happy Birthday, my strong girl.”

My heart stopped. December 17th… that was in just two days.

Rhea’s birthday, and she had never mentioned it.

I stared at the photo again, thumb brushing over her smiling face.

All this time I had been treating her like a conquest, like a bodyguard I could fuck and fight with… and I didn’t even know when her birthday was.

I sat down heavily on the couch, still holding the frame, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

Rhea wasn’t just pushing me away because I hurt her.

She was protecting herself from someone who didn’t even know the most basic things about her or even care to know.

I rubbed my face, guilt settling deep in my chest.

Two days.

I had two days to figure out how to fix this… or at least show her that I wanted to try.

I felt like shit.

I put the frame back carefully in her bag and zipped it up. Then I did something I almost never do.

I sat down and thought. Not about how to get her back into my bed, not about how to win the argument.

About her.

What did Rhea actually like? Not the tough girl mask she wore. The real her.

She liked control. She liked quiet. She liked feeling safe, something she rarely got in this life. She trained like a machine because the world had never been kind to her.

An idea started forming. Something quiet. Something personal. Not flashy cars or expensive gifts. Something that said “I see you.”

The next day, I skipped school.

I spent hours in the kitchen with help from the chef I swore to secrecy, trying to cook her favorite meal, the spicy chicken pasta she made that one morning. It tasted like shit the first three tries. By the fourth, it was… acceptable.

I cleaned the entire house myself. No staff. Just me.

I found an old vinyl record player in the storage room and dug up some old jazz records, the kind that sounded like rainy nights and slow dancing.

On the morning of December 17th, I left a single note on the kitchen island next to a plate of breakfast, slightly burnt toast, but made with effort and a small wrapped box.

The note read.

Rhea,

I know I don’t deserve to say this, but…

Happy Birthday.

You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t even have to come out of your room.

But if you want one day where you don’t have to be the strong one…

I’ll be on the rooftop at 8pm. No expectations. No pressure.

Just me trying badly to do something right for once.

I left the house before she woke up, giving her space.

At 8pm, I waited on the rooftop.

I had set up a small table with the pasta, candles, and the vinyl player playing soft music. Nothing extravagant. Just… effort.

I didn’t know if she’d come.

But for the first time, I really, really hoped she would.