Chapter 35 #5
But things have changed since Lila arrived.
At first, Mason didn’t mind the break from his old routine.
He no longer had to dress to impress in stiff clothes or crawl through New York traffic with Max and Sergei—another man who lets money buy both his silence and his conscience.
Gunther has already found his replacement in another poor bastard with just enough desperation to be useful.
Mason’s job is easier now, though it can be dull as hell.
After kissing his old cat goodbye each morning, he takes the private elevator from his own unit—a perk of working for a boss who owns the building—and settles onto the leather settee in the foyer.
All he has to do is watch Lila and send Max short updates throughout the day.
Some might call it sweet… if she weren’t forced to be there.
Her routine is simple. Around noon, she drags herself out of the primary suite to heat one of the meals the personal chef prepared for the week. After that, she either reads on the e-reader Max bought her or watches TV.
Today, it’s TV.
He hears the walls part, the hidden giant screen sliding into view, followed by the sudden blare of a film. Then the microwave beeps—whatever she’s warming up is ready.
Mason begins to tap away on his phone to give Max his first update of the day when he feels something in his peripheral. He glances up and freezes. She’s standing only a few feet away, hesitant.
“Hey. Do you want to come over and watch something with me?”
“Pardon?” he asks, taken aback.
“It’s more comfortable in the living room,” she says softly.
“I’m good here,” he replies, voice steady, choosing to stay rooted in the foyer where he feels more in control.
“It doesn’t seem very comfortable, but okay. If you change your mind, I’ll still be here.” She lets out a short laugh at her own dark joke. The sound, though hollow, carries a strange sweetness that makes him pause.
He presses his lips together, doubt flickering across his face.
Why am I nervous about a helpless little girl?
After a moment, he gives in. Mason steps into the living room, settling on the oversized designer sofa.
It probably costs more than his car, and he never would have imagined ever being invited to sit on it.
Lila lounges across from him in an oversized gray T-shirt that barely reaches past her ass, casually eating her meal and scrolling through channels as if nothing unusual is happening.
He’s supposed to intimidate. She’s supposed to be under his watchful eye. And yet, in this strange, ordinary moment, the power dynamic feels almost surreal.
She extends the bowl of pasta toward him, but he declines with a slight shake of his head.
“He’s a pretty shitty boss, making you sit in one spot all day,” she says, eyes fixed on the screen as a piece of chicken slips from her fork and lands squarely on her chest. Without missing a beat, she picks it up between her slender fingers and pops it into her mouth.
Fuck.
No bra.
The realization makes him sweat.
“Does he at least feed you? Give you bathroom breaks?” she asks lightly.
Mason scowls but stays silent, well aware of her intent to provoke him. Engaging further might prove detrimental. She’s trying to toy with him, trying to pit him against his boss.
She finally settles on an indie horror flick. “I’ve always wanted to watch this one, but was too afraid to watch it alone,” she says with an airy laugh.
A couple of movies later, Mason gets up and walks to the foyer to greet his boss by the elevator. He arches a thick brow when he notices Lila quietly slipping away into the primary suite, the television already returned to its hidden place within the wall.
It seems the girl has a taste for violence.
She can watch horror films after horror films without flinching, even laughing at parts she finds too absurd, while Mason struggles to keep his composure.
Max once told him that Lila couldn’t stomach seeing her ex-manager in a bloody mess, but Mason figures violence in movies with strangers on screen is easier for most people to digest. He shakes his head and sinks back into his usual spot on the tufted settee, wondering what exactly he has gotten himself into.
As the elevator chimes and Max steps out, Mason rises to his feet, ready to leave after delivering his last daily briefing. Before he can speak, Lila’s voice cuts through the room, stopping him in his tracks.
“Welcome back,” she greets him with an unexpectedly warm smile, now dressed in a satin slip with a matching robe that flatters her figure. Mason raises an eyebrow as she approaches Max, holding the disheveled shirt she’d been wearing earlier, balled up in her hand.
“I thought you might like to change out of your work clothes and into something more comfortable before dinner,” she says, offering him the crumpled shirt.
Max unfolds it, his face unreadable as he examines the fabric. Despite the stains and wrinkles, he shows no hint of displeasure. “Thank you, sweetie. That’s incredibly thoughtful of you. But I’m fine.”
Mason observes the strange exchange with his usual impassive expression, then gives a brief nod to both of them before heading to the elevator.
As the doors close behind him, he exhales, feeling the weight of the day lift slightly.
He looks forward to going home to his cat and tending to his plants.
“If you’re trying to embarrass me in front of Mason, of all people, just know that I don’t care,” Max says flatly once the elevator departs.
“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be saying anything right now,” she shoots back. She had hoped to embarrass him, but nothing ever seems to get to him.
He sighs, clearly irritated. “Brat.”
After warming up their dinner, Max takes the seat adjacent to hers and braces himself for another evening of silence, expecting Lila to keep her usual cold distance.
“How was your day?” he asks, breaking the quiet.
To his surprise, she answers.
“Boring,” she says, eyes fixed on her plate as she idly picks at the food with her fork. “And why do you even act like you care?” she mutters, glancing sideways at him, clearly trying to provoke a reaction.
Max smirks. “I do care. I’m a sweetheart.”
“Delusional.”
Max ignores the jab. “Why don’t you try painting something? I’ve set up a studio for you in one of the spare rooms. Have you seen it yet?”
She has seen it. Her supplies and canvases were brought over and neatly arranged, with new materials waiting to be unwrapped. Yet the one painting she’d been working on was noticeably missing from the stack of finished pieces.
So petty, she thinks.
“Being held here against my will doesn’t exactly inspire,” Lila retorts bitterly.
“I’m sure you’ll come around eventually,” he replies with a casual shrug.
“Does Mason ever get a day off, or do you make sure he hates his life too?”
“He gets a day off whenever I get a day off.”
“Oh, so never. I knew you were the Devil incarnate.”
He scoffs.
“Not sure why you even need a bodyguard. It’s not like you’re famous or anything.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get to where I am without ruffling a few feathers,” he says. “And with a face like mine, I tend to stand out.” He grins, flashing her a perfect set of straight, pearly-white teeth.
It’s her turn to scoff. “Hard to believe. You’re such a wholesome and humble man.”
“So, you agree. I’m a sweetheart.”
After dinner, they settle into the living room. Max draws her onto his lap, his arm firm around her as the wall slides open and exposes the television. A French horror film sits frozen on a brutal bloodbath.
She studies him from the corner of her eye.
Nothing. No flinch. No reaction at all.
He flicks through streaming platforms, trying to choose a movie.
She reluctantly rests her head against him.
They haven’t been intimate since the previous Friday, when Lila mentioned she was sore.
Though she has been craving some form of closeness, she refuses to stoop so low as to ask him to touch her.
Despite everything, his presence offers a sense of companionship.
He still often returns from work with gifts—elaborate floral arrangements, high-end accessories, even a rare Birkin bag made of red-dyed alligator skin, brought in hopes of softening her.
The Chanel bag had made her happy once; he'd assumed this would do the same.
But she has remained distant and unyielding.
Unbeknownst to him, it’s becoming harder for her to maintain that distance when he holds her close like this.
She can feel herself slipping, a small part of her beginning to accept this strange new reality, even as the rest of her continues to resist. Max has even moved all her belongings from her apartment with Claire into his home, turning one of the spare bedrooms into a dedicated art studio stocked with top-of-the-line supplies she’d only ever dreamed of owning.
“I need my phone back,” Lila says, turning her head to meet the dark eyes of the man behind her.
“It’s broken,” Max replies casually.
“Okay, then get me a new one to replace the one you broke,” she insists, trying to pull away to get a better look at his face. “You can definitely afford it.”
Max shrugs, his arms tightening around her to keep her still. “I’m cash-poor,” he says in a nonchalant tone.
Ugh, fine, she grumbles inwardly before wriggling out of his hold and turning to face him, settling into a straddling position on his lap.
“And here I thought you were able to spoil me,” she says, gripping his jaw in her hand. She feels the rough stubble beneath her fingers as she presses into his cheeks.
Max’s hands tighten on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. His eyes narrow as he gazes at her with dark hunger. “I’m truly sorry,” he says, his voice rough.
“Return the stupid, ugly purse and give me back my phone, then!”
“Yeah, let me see where I left the receipt. Maybe they’ll give me store credit,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.