Chapter 2 #2
I stared. It was unfair for a human being to be that large and that graceful. He moved around the kitchen with the same terrifying precision he used on the ice. Chop. Slide. Sizzle. Turn.
He didn't turn around.
"You're two minutes late," he said. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.
"Traffic," I lied. I had walked.
"There is no traffic on Red Mountain at noon." He turned then, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. He held a wooden spoon like a weapon. "Wash your hands."
"Excuse me?"
"You've been outside. Campus is a petri dish. Wash your hands before you sit at my counter."
I bristled. The "Brat" wanted to wipe my hands on his pristine white sofa just to see a vein pop in his forehead. But the hunger was stronger.
I walked to the sink and washed my hands with soap that smelled like sandalwood and money.
"Sit," he commanded.
I sat on one of the high velvet stools at the island. He slid a plate toward me.
Steak. Perfectly seared, medium rare. Roasted asparagus. Potatoes.
I looked at him. "I thought I was supposed to be the cook."
"You start tomorrow," he said, turning back to the stove to plate his own food. "Today, you sign."
He placed a thick stack of paper next to my plate.
I picked up my fork, my hand trembling slightly. I took a bite of the steak. It was… god, it was annoying how good it was. It melted in my mouth. I wanted to moan, but I refused to give him the satisfaction.
"What is this?" I asked, gesturing to the paper with my fork.
"The Contract."
"You actually wrote one up?"
"I called my lawyer this morning."
I choked on a potato. "You have a lawyer?"
"I have extensive assets. I protect them." He walked around the island and sat opposite me. He ate with efficient, brutal movements. "Read it."
I flipped open the document. It was five pages long. Single-spaced.
AGREEMENT OF DOMESTIC SERVICES AND RESIDENCY
I scanned the clauses.
Clause 1: Maintenance.
The Tenant (Faye Allister) shall maintain the Premises to the standard of the Landlord (Graham Vane). This includes daily cleaning of all common areas, weekly deep cleans, and immediate removal of any clutter.
Clause 2: Nutrition.
The Tenant shall prepare three meals a day for the Landlord, adhering to the strict macro-nutrient guidelines provided in Addendum A.
Clause 3: Curfew and Conduct.
The Tenant shall not bring guests into the Premises without prior written approval. The Tenant shall be inside the Premises by 10:00 PM on weeknights.
I looked up. "A curfew? Are you my dad?"
"I'm your landlord," he said, not looking up from his steak. "I need sleep. I don't need you stumbling in at 2 AM drunk and knocking over vases."
"I don't knock over vases."
"You broke into a secure facility yesterday. Your judgment is questionable."
I gritted my teeth and kept reading.
Clause 4: The Uniform.
While inside the Premises, to prevent the spread of external contaminants and to maintain the aesthetic of the environment, the Tenant shall wear clothing approved by the Landlord.
I slammed the paper down. "Absolutely not."
Graham looked up slowly. His eyes were like chips of ice. "Problem?"
"Clause 4. 'The Uniform.' What is this? Are you trying to put me in a french maid outfit? Because I will stab you with this steak knife, Graham. I swear to god."
He chewed slowly, swallowed, and took a sip of water.
"It’s not a maid outfit," he said calmly. "It means no outside shoes. No jeans on the furniture. And yes, I prefer… simplicity. My shirts. Yoga pants. Nothing that sheds glitter or sequins."
"You want me to wear your clothes?"
"I want you to stop looking like a disco ball exploded on you. It gives me a headache."
"My clothes are designer!"
"Your clothes are noise," he said. "And I hate noise."
He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the marble. The muscles shifted under his skin.
"Look at Clause 5," he said softly.
I looked back down.
Clause 5: Availability and Proximity.
Due to the security nature of the building and the Landlord’s sleep monitoring requirements, the Tenant shall sleep in the Primary Bedroom.
My heart stopped.
I read it again.
Primary Bedroom.
"You want me… in your bed?" I whispered.
"It’s a King California," he said, as if discussing the weather. "Plenty of space."
"I am not sleeping in your bed, Graham!" I shouted, standing up. "I told you, I am not a puck bunny! I don't sleep with—"
"I didn't say sleep with me," he interrupted, his voice cutting through my panic like a blade. "I said sleep in the bed. There is a difference."
"Why?"
"Because I have insomnia," he said. The admission seemed to surprise him, a crack in the armor. He covered it instantly. "And last night, when you were in the house… I slept for six hours straight. The first time in months."
I stared at him. "So I’m… what? An emotional support animal?"
"You're a warm body," he corrected coldly. "White noise. I don't know why, and I don't care to analyze it. But I need sleep to perform. You provide sleep. Therefore, you stay in the room."
"And if I say no?"
He gestured to the door. "The elevator code is 1998. It’s a long walk down the mountain."
The threat hung in the air.
I looked at the steak. I looked at the warm, luxurious room. I thought about Cleo’s tiny floor. I thought about my father, sitting in his office, waiting for me to crawl back and beg for forgiveness.
If I walked out that door, I lost. I became the helpless little girl he thought I was.
If I signed this paper… I was a servant. But I was a servant with a roof, a degree, and a chance to escape.
And, god help me, there was something about the way Graham was looking at me. Like he was daring me to run. Like he knew I wouldn't.
It wasn't just fear keeping me here. It was the friction. The heat radiating off him. The sheer, insane audacity of him trying to control me.
My "Brat" armor flared up. He thinks he can tame me? Let him try.
I picked up the pen. It was heavy. Expensive.
"Fine," I said, my voice shaking only a little. "I'll sign your stupid contract. But I am sleeping on the left side. And if you touch me, I will sue you for everything you own."
Graham’s lips twitched. A micro-expression. Almost a smile.
"Deal," he said.
I signed my name. Faye Allister. The ink was dark and permanent.
Graham reached across the table and took the paper. He didn't check the signature. He just locked eyes with me.
"Welcome home, Pet," he murmured.
The nickname hit me low in the stomach, a heavy, molten weight. I should have been offended. I should have thrown my wine in his face.
Instead, I felt a shiver run down my spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.
I sat back down and picked up my fork.
"Pass the salt," I demanded.
Graham stared at me for a long beat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed the salt shaker toward me.
He had won the war, but I was going to make sure he lost every single battle.
We ate in silence, the only sound the scrape of silver on china, and the deafening noise of two people realizing they had just trapped themselves in a cage together, and neither of them had the key.