Takeover: Higher Education (The Thomas Family) (Finished)

A faint scent of old wood and warm summer air clung to the house. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily, their sound blending with the distant hum of a lawnmower. Inside, silence stretched, thick and unfamiliar after weeks without Simone.

For Amara and Nia, it had been a strange relief. Their mother—fierce, brilliant, and proudly single for over a decade—was the gravitational center of this home. Simone Thomas wasn’t just a mother; she was a name. As one of the most respected literature professors in the country, she taught at Havenridge College, the jewel of a small old town tucked against the foothills of the Cascara Mountains. Once a predominantly white college town, Havenridge had transformed in the past decade. Redistribution laws had pushed out most of the old families, replacing them with a younger, more diverse population. Victorian houses painted in bright colors lined streets now dotted with vegan cafés, feminist bookstores, and co-ops. For Amara and Nia, this was normal—they had never known anything else.

Amara, 21, leaned against the living room doorframe, arms crossed. Her cropped black hair with crimson tips framed a face that was sharp and watchful. Even now, her jaw tensed, eyes narrowing as if daring the silence to challenge her. She was home for the summer before her final year as a sociology major at Havenridge College. Activist. Firebrand. Men, she believed, were not just unnecessary—they were dangerous distractions. Simone had raised her to be strong, and Amara had carried that lesson like armor.

Nia, 18, lounged on the couch, long braids cascading over her shoulder as she scrolled on her phone. Her softer curves and warm smile made her seem younger, though she’d just graduated from Havenridge High. In two weeks, she’d start her freshman year at the college. Until then, she filled her time curating her TikClip account—short clips, dances, snappy commentary. Outwardly playful, but Amara saw the cracks. Nia’s humor sometimes felt like a shield for a quiet yearning she couldn’t name.

“Do you think she found some new cause to obsess over?” Nia asked without looking up, fingers dancing across her screen.

Amara smirked, the corners of her lips tight. “Probably. Or she’s planning to run the whole department by the end of summer.”

Their laugh was short, almost ****. Neither admitted aloud how unsettling Simone’s last text had been: “I need this time for myself. See you soon.”

Three weeks later, the sound of tires on gravel made both sisters freeze.

The front door creaked open. “Girls! I’m home!”

Simone’s voice rang out, bright—too bright. She stepped into the house with a flowing earth-tone dress hugging her tall frame, caramel skin glowing like she’d spent hours in the sun. Her locs were tied back with a silk scarf, and her smile… it wasn’t the sharp, knowing grin they remembered. This was softer, dreamy even.

Amara’s stomach knotted. Something was off.

Then she saw him.

A tall white man followed Simone in. Sandy-blond hair neatly combed, his crisp shirt tucked flawlessly into tailored slacks. His shoes clicked softly against the hardwood, the sound echoing too loudly in the charged silence. His eyes—cool, assessing—swept over them as if cataloging their worth. He didn’t speak yet, but there was a presence about him, calm and unyielding, that made the air feel thicker.

He set Simone’s bags down gently, his movements deliberate. The ease in his posture was unsettling—as if this wasn’t his first time stepping into their home.

“Girls, this is Garrett Hale,” Simone said, her voice lighter than they’d ever heard it. Almost girlish. “He’s staying for dinner. Please be nice.”

Amara’s mouth fell open. “You brought a man here? A white man?”

Simone’s smile tightened, but her tone stayed level. “Amara. Respect.”

Nia bit her lip, eyes darting between her sister and the man. Even she felt the wrongness of this, the way Simone’s energy seemed to orbit him.

Garrett finally spoke, his voice low and smooth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Your mother has told me such wonderful things.” He nodded slightly, almost as if granting them acknowledgment rather than greeting.

Amara’s nails dug into her palms.

“We’ll talk later. My King, let me show you around,” Simone said, her fingers brushing Garrett’s arm with quiet reverence.

“Of course, Love,” Garrett replied, his tone warm but measured, as if every word was carefully chosen.

As they disappeared upstairs, Amara stood frozen. Her mind reeled, flashing with memories of Simone at dinner parties, proudly declaring she would never let a man define her life. And now this—My King—like some surrender she couldn’t comprehend.

Had Mom seriously called him King?

Her chest felt tight. She turned on her heel and stormed to her room, the slam of her door rattling the picture frames in the hallway.