The sound of his footsteps faded,I was alone in the vast, sterile room. Alone with the dead phone on the cushion beside me and the panoramic view of a city that might as well have been on another planet.
I didn't move. I just sat there, my hands clenched into fists in my lap, the silk of the robe cool against my skin. My heart was a frantic, trapped bird, but on the outside, I was still. I had learned that lesson already. Outward calm was a shield. It was the only armor I had left.
The sun climbed higher, washing the room in a pale, indifferent light. The city below came alive, a river of yellow cabs and tiny, scurrying people. They were ants. I was a god in a glass tower, and I couldn't step on a single one of them.
A new scent began to drift from the kitchen. Rich, savory. The smell of coffee and something… else. Bacon. My stomach, the traitorous organ, clenched and then unclenched with a low, demanding growl. Hunger. A sharp, insistent need that had nothing to do with grief or fear.How could my body want food when my world was an ash heap?
I pushed myself off the sofa, my legs unsteady. I had to move. I had to know the full shape of my cage. I walked towards the hallway he had indicated, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete floor. The air grew cooler as I moved away from the bank of windows.
The bedroom was just as cavernous as the living room. A massive bed with a simple, black duvet was pushed against one wall, looking like a dark island in a sea of pale wood floor. The opposite wall was, again, all glass. The same breathtaking, soul-crushing view. This was the suite. The place where he slept. Or where he would expect me to sleep.
My gaze fell on the door to the en suite bathroom. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
And the memory hit me.
The feeling of being lifted, my limbs limp and heavy. The scent of ozone and his cologne. The water. Hot, almost scalding, enveloping my body as I was lowered into a massive, sunken tub. A woman was there. Her face was a neutral, pleasant mask, her movements efficient, impersonal. She didn't look me in the eye. She just washed me.
Her hands were rough, her touch clinical. She used a cloth that smelled of lemon, scrubbing away the blood, the sweat, the memory of Daniel's hands on my skin. I had wanted to fight, to scream, to push her away, but my limbs were filled with lead, my mind a fog of shock and whatever he had injected into me. I was a doll being cleaned for its new owner. I could feel his presence more than I could see him. He was standing in the doorway, a shadow against the bright light of the bathroom. He was watching.
I gripped the edge of the marble counter, my knuckles white, as the phantom sensation of the woman's hands on my skin made me feel dirty all over again. I looked up, into the mirror that ran the length of the wall.
The woman who stared back was a stranger. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and haunted, the dark circles beneath them a deep purple. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess. But she was clean. The blood was gone. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been carefully wiped clean after being dropped on the floor. I looked away, unable to stand the sight of my own face.
I turned my back on the mirror and walked to the closet. I slid open the door. It wasn't a closet; it was a small, climate-controlled room. Racks of clothing, all in neat, precise rows. All neutral colors. Black, grey, cream, navy. All simple, elegant, and brutally expensive. Not a single splash of color. Not a single piece of my old life. It was a wardrobe for a ghost. For a new person he was creating.
I ran my hand over the sleeve of a cashmere sweater. It felt like nothing. I felt nothing.
I walked out of the bedroom, back into the main living space. The smell of food was stronger now. A small, older man with a kind face and a pristine white chef's coat was just finishing setting a tray on the massive coffee table. He worked with a quiet, focused efficiency, not glancing at me once. He arranged the food—a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crisp bacon, a small bowl of fruit. He placed a silver coffeepot and a single, elegant cup beside it. Then, he gave a small, deferential nod to the doorway where Damien was now standing.
Damien had changed. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest and dark grey trousers that hung low on his hips. He looked… human. Softer. It was more terrifying than the suit.
The chef finished, gave another silent nod, and retreated back towards the kitchen, disappearing from view.
Now it was just the two of us. And the food.
"Eat."
He was just watching me, his grey eyes unreadable, his hands in his pockets. Waiting to see if I would comply.
I walked slowly towards the table. My stomach growled again, a loud, embarrassing sound in the oppressive silence. I looked down at the plate. The eggs were perfectly yellow. The bacon was arranged just so. It was art.
My hand trembled as I reached for the silver fork.
The metal was cold and heavy . My fingers closed around the handle, the intricate pattern pressing into my skin.
I looked up at him. He hadn't moved., his hands in his pockets, his grey eyes fixed on me. Waiting. The silence stretched, thin and taut, like a wire about to snap. He wanted to see. He wanted to watch me put the food in my mouth.
My stomach growled again, I looked back down at the plate.
I plunged the fork into the eggs. It was easier than I thought,I lifted a small, trembling bite to my lips.
With every chew, I was accepting his roof over my head. With every swallow, I was accepting his food in my stomach.
He finally moved, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards the table. He pulled out a chair and sat at the head of the table, to my left. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his body, could smell the clean, sharp scent of his skin. He reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, the dark liquid swirling into the porcelain.
"You need to regain your strength," he said. He didn't look at me when he spoke. He looked at his coffee, as if he were discussing the weather. "There's a lot to be done."
I didn't answer. I just took another bite of eggs. This time, I forced myself to taste them. They were good. Perfectly seasoned. And that fact made me want to throw the plate against the wall.
I cut a piece of bacon with the side of my fork. It snapped, a clean, sharp sound. I brought it to my mouth. The salty, smoky flavor exploded on my tongue.The food was really good .
When I was halfway through the eggs, I felt his eyes on me. I could feel the weight of his gaze. I kept my own eyes fixed on my plate. I could feel him looking at the way my jaw moved as I chewed, at the way my hand held the fork. He was studying me.
I picked up a piece of melon from the small bowl. It was sweet and cool and juicy. The juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. A childish, messy gesture. I felt his gaze sharpen.
"You have a smudge on your face," he said, his voice quiet.
I froze. My hand was still halfway to my mouth. I didn't know what to do. Should I wipe it with a napkin? Should I ignore it?
Chapter Four : Eat
The sound of his footsteps faded,I was alone in the vast, sterile room. Alone with the dead phone on the cushion beside me and the panoramic view of a city that might as well have been on another planet.
I didn't move. I just sat there, my hands clenched into fists in my lap, the silk of the robe cool against my skin. My heart was a frantic, trapped bird, but on the outside, I was still. I had learned that lesson already. Outward calm was a shield. It was the only armor I had left.
The sun climbed higher, washing the room in a pale, indifferent light. The city below came alive, a river of yellow cabs and tiny, scurrying people. They were ants. I was a god in a glass tower, and I couldn't step on a single one of them.
A new scent began to drift from the kitchen. Rich, savory. The smell of coffee and something… else. Bacon. My stomach, the traitorous organ, clenched and then unclenched with a low, demanding growl. Hunger. A sharp, insistent need that had nothing to do with grief or fear.How could my body want food when my world was an ash heap?
I pushed myself off the sofa, my legs unsteady. I had to move. I had to know the full shape of my cage. I walked towards the hallway he had indicated, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete floor. The air grew cooler as I moved away from the bank of windows.
The bedroom was just as cavernous as the living room. A massive bed with a simple, black duvet was pushed against one wall, looking like a dark island in a sea of pale wood floor. The opposite wall was, again, all glass. The same breathtaking, soul-crushing view. This was the suite. The place where he slept. Or where he would expect me to sleep.
My gaze fell on the door to the en suite bathroom. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
And the memory hit me.
The feeling of being lifted, my limbs limp and heavy. The scent of ozone and his cologne. The water. Hot, almost scalding, enveloping my body as I was lowered into a massive, sunken tub. A woman was there. Her face was a neutral, pleasant mask, her movements efficient, impersonal. She didn't look me in the eye. She just washed me.
Her hands were rough, her touch clinical. She used a cloth that smelled of lemon, scrubbing away the blood, the sweat, the memory of Daniel's hands on my skin. I had wanted to fight, to scream, to push her away, but my limbs were filled with lead, my mind a fog of shock and whatever he had injected into me. I was a doll being cleaned for its new owner. I could feel his presence more than I could see him. He was standing in the doorway, a shadow against the bright light of the bathroom. He was watching.
I gripped the edge of the marble counter, my knuckles white, as the phantom sensation of the woman's hands on my skin made me feel dirty all over again. I looked up, into the mirror that ran the length of the wall.
The woman who stared back was a stranger. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and haunted, the dark circles beneath them a deep purple. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess. But she was clean. The blood was gone. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been carefully wiped clean after being dropped on the floor. I looked away, unable to stand the sight of my own face.
I turned my back on the mirror and walked to the closet. I slid open the door. It wasn't a closet; it was a small, climate-controlled room. Racks of clothing, all in neat, precise rows. All neutral colors. Black, grey, cream, navy. All simple, elegant, and brutally expensive. Not a single splash of color. Not a single piece of my old life. It was a wardrobe for a ghost. For a new person he was creating.
I ran my hand over the sleeve of a cashmere sweater. It felt like nothing. I felt nothing.
I walked out of the bedroom, back into the main living space. The smell of food was stronger now. A small, older man with a kind face and a pristine white chef's coat was just finishing setting a tray on the massive coffee table. He worked with a quiet, focused efficiency, not glancing at me once. He arranged the food—a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crisp bacon, a small bowl of fruit. He placed a silver coffeepot and a single, elegant cup beside it. Then, he gave a small, deferential nod to the doorway where Damien was now standing.
Damien had changed. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest and dark grey trousers that hung low on his hips. He looked… human. Softer. It was more terrifying than the suit.
The chef finished, gave another silent nod, and retreated back towards the kitchen, disappearing from view.
Now it was just the two of us. And the food.
"Eat."
He was just watching me, his grey eyes unreadable, his hands in his pockets. Waiting to see if I would comply.
I walked slowly towards the table. My stomach growled again, a loud, embarrassing sound in the oppressive silence. I looked down at the plate. The eggs were perfectly yellow. The bacon was arranged just so. It was art.
My hand trembled as I reached for the silver fork.
The metal was cold and heavy . My fingers closed around the handle, the intricate pattern pressing into my skin.
I looked up at him. He hadn't moved., his hands in his pockets, his grey eyes fixed on me. Waiting. The silence stretched, thin and taut, like a wire about to snap. He wanted to see. He wanted to watch me put the food in my mouth.
My stomach growled again, I looked back down at the plate.
I plunged the fork into the eggs. It was easier than I thought,I lifted a small, trembling bite to my lips.
With every chew, I was accepting his roof over my head. With every swallow, I was accepting his food in my stomach.
He finally moved, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards the table. He pulled out a chair and sat at the head of the table, to my left. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his body, could smell the clean, sharp scent of his skin. He reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, the dark liquid swirling into the porcelain.
"You need to regain your strength," he said. He didn't look at me when he spoke. He looked at his coffee, as if he were discussing the weather. "There's a lot to be done."
I didn't answer. I just took another bite of eggs. This time, I forced myself to taste them. They were good. Perfectly seasoned. And that fact made me want to throw the plate against the wall.
I cut a piece of bacon with the side of my fork. It snapped, a clean, sharp sound. I brought it to my mouth. The salty, smoky flavor exploded on my tongue.The food was really good .
When I was halfway through the eggs, I felt his eyes on me. I could feel the weight of his gaze. I kept my own eyes fixed on my plate. I could feel him looking at the way my jaw moved as I chewed, at the way my hand held the fork. He was studying me.
I picked up a piece of melon from the small bowl. It was sweet and cool and juicy. The juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. A childish, messy gesture. I felt his gaze sharpen.
"You have a smudge on your face," he said, his voice quiet.
I froze. My hand was still halfway to my mouth. I didn't know what to do. Should I wipe it with a napkin? Should I ignore it?