The doorbell chimed through the quiet house.
"Our next victim," Cyra said with a grin, not moving.
"You're not going to get that?" Clara asked.
"I'm pretty sure Natalia finds pleasure in intimidating the fresh meat."
Natalia smirked as she opened the door.
She didn't greet the man, just gave him a once-over with eyes as flat as a blade before walking away.
The man strutted in as though the whole place smelled bad. Slim, slick hair combed back, an offensively expensive scarf draped around his neck. He carried himself like the air was beneath him.
"Mon dieu," he said, sweeping his gaze around Cyra's home. "Your home is so cute, it's … quaint."
Clara arched a brow. "Quaint?"
"Yes, yes, but I guess that's because I have cooked for celebrities and even a prince."
He glanced at Clara like she was a piece of furniture. "But I suppose you're not the type of man who concerns himself with taste."
Clara blinked. "Wow."
Cyra leaned back, faux amused. "I do like a man who insults me and the lady of house before asking for a job. Bold."
"I don't ask," Gabriel sniffed, adjusting his scarf. "People of my caliber do not beg. We are courted."
"Clearly," Clara held back a laugh.
The chef waved his hand. "I will need Sundays off. And Tuesdays. And the occasional Thursday, but that depends on my masseuse's availability."
Natalia stepped forward, her presence making the air heavier. "You want half the week off?"
Gabriel looked her up and down like if he barely now noticed she was there.
"Chérie, when you have talent like mine, you protect the product. The body is the vessel. It must be pampered."
Clara was staring openly now, trying not to laugh. Cyra rested his chin on his hand, bored but entertained.
"So let me get this straight," Cyra said slowly.
"You're telling me… for six figures a year, I'll get your presence three days a week and food that may or may not be edible depending on your spa schedule?"
"Exquisite food," Gabriel corrected, offended. "You're welcome."
"Mm. Natalia?" Cyra said casually, turning his head.
She didn't hesitate. "I can kill him?"
"No, no there's no time," Cyra said coolly already standing to open the door. "-Maybe later."
Natalia smiled at the last part. Gabriel, oblivious and a little confused, swept out as if he'd just given them an honor.
The three bursted full belly laughs when the door shut.
Twenty minutes later, a second bell rang.
A woman in her late fifties, possibly sixties with kind brown eyes, walked it slowly. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun streaked with silver. She clutched a worn leather bag, and her smile was soft and a little shy.
"Good afternoon," she said, accent faint but lovely. "I'm Maria."
Clara felt her shoulders drop for the first time that day. Something about Maria's presence filled the room like a warm blanket.
Even Natalia stepped back, expression neutral but not hostile.
Cyra rose to greet her.
"Maria. Take a seat." He showed her to the living room.
Maria's eyes flicked over to Clara, who was sitting very still, a faint wince tugging her lips when she shifted. Maria's face softened.
"Are you hurt, dear?" she asked gently.
Clara opened her mouth to answer, but Cyra was already standing in front of her.
"Don't move," he murmured.
He reached for her hands, coaxing her up. She blinked, startled, as he took her place and sat down.
"Cyra—"
"Sit," he said, tugging her gently until she found herself across his lap. Her cheeks warmed, but his palm pressed carefully over her rib, that strange cool heat easing the ache she'd been ignoring.
Maria clasped her hands together, smiling softly at their warm embrace. "You're beautiful together," she said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You remind me of my husband when we were young. He was handsome too."
Cyra smirked at that. Clara just blinked, unsure what to say.
"He passed away last year," Maria continued, voice steady. "Cancer. Forty years, just like that." She snapped her fingers, not with bitterness, but quiet grief. "Cherish your friendships. They are precious."
Clara's throat tightened. "I'm so sorry," she said softly.
"Thank you, my dear."
Cyra inclined his head. "Tell us about your cooking experience, Maria."
Her smile brightened. "I had no formal training," she admitted, "but my father owned a restaurant back in Italy. People would come from hours away to eat his food. I worked beside him every day since I could hold a spoon. When we came to America, I met my husband, and I cooked for him until the day he passed."
Something about the way she said it silenced the room. There was pride in her voice, but no arrogance. Just love.
Clara leaned forward, unable to help herself. She turned her torso around to face Cyra. "I want to hire her."
"Agreed," Cyra said immediately. "You have the job, Maria."
"—You can start whenever you are ready. Welcome aboard!" Cyra said with a bow of his head.
Maria's eyes glistened. "You're very kind. I promise you won't regret it." She made her way to the door.
"So now we have a gardener and a chef. Now that just leaves a housekeeper…" Cyra mused aloud. "And possibly a personal assistant? Maybe. If Selene's off the table?"
Clara opened her mouth to speak but Maria who was at the door, paused for a moment and meekly chimed in.
"If you need a housekeeper, I have a daughter, she cleans very good, I can send you her resumé… if that's ok."
"No need," Cyra answered. "—She's hired too. Family sticks together."
Maria's eyes misted. "You are a good man."
He didn't respond, only inclined his head in quiet.
When Maria left, the house felt warmer somehow.
"We're keeping her forever," Clara said.
"Agreed," Natalia muttered.
Cyra flipped through his notes. "We have two more interviews today, both for the personal assistant position."
"I'll go feed my cat," Natalia announced suddenly.
Clara blinked. "You have a cat?"
"Yes," Natalia said, already grabbing her coat.
"I know, right?" Cyra said with a smirk. "That's exactly what I said."
Clara laughed softly, leaning back against him, the warmth of his hand still seeping into her ribs.
- - - - - -
Once Natalia was gone, silence settled between Clara and Cyra, but it wasn't uncomfortable. She was now nestled limply in his lap, leaning her back against his chest. His cheek leaned on her head and he could smell her lavender shampoo.
"You've never had staff before?" Clara asked softly, curious.
He shrugged, lounging back with a lazy kind of elegance. "I never stay anywhere long enough to need them. And I don't exactly trust strangers to wash my clothes. Half of them cost more than some people's cars."
Clara rolled her eyes.
"—But," he added, glancing toward the door where Natalia had exited, "She likes it here. Natalia's never said that about anywhere before."
"You want her to be happy," Clara said, almost to herself.
"Of course I do."
He shifted, his gaze settling on Clara with an unreadable expression. "Do you want to know how we met?"
She nodded, curious. She shifted so she could see his face better from her position on his lap. She felt like a child waiting for a bedtime story. He rested his hand on her knee.
"Her father was my father's bodyguard. He also gave my father lessons in mixed martial arts. My dad thought it was a good idea if I learned too, so he brought Natalia to spar with me. She was already trained—disciplined in a way kids aren't supposed to be."
Clara frowned softly.
"He was cold to her," Cyra continued. "One summer, he left her with my parents, said he'd come back for her at the end of the season. He never did. Natalia decided it was because she wasn't good enough. So she spent her entire childhood training to be the best. Sharp. Perfect."
"That's awful," Clara whispered.
He shrugged, but there was a shadow in his expression. "She doesn't see it that way anymore. Being strong is all she knows."
Half an hour passed, and the next appointment hadn't showed. Cyra eventually stood and stretched, then turned to Clara with a mischievous smirk.
"Hungry?"
Her stomach answered for her with a loud growl, and he chuckled. "Come on. Let's eat. Before Maria moves in and fattens us all up."
She laughed, wincing at the twinge in her ribs, and followed him into the kitchen.
Cyra plated simple food for the two of them—nothing extravagant, but somehow comforting. He even sat down next to her at the kitchen counter instead of across from her, close enough that she could feel his warmth.
When Natalia returned, she raised a brow at the sight of him serving Clara.
"What?" Cyra said. "You're getting some too."
Natalia smirked and slid into a seat.
They ate together, the tension of the day melting into easy conversation.
"Well," Cyra said after they finished,
"That's everyone… except for one last applicant."