Chapter 2 #2
“Shit,” I mutter to the empty room. A formal dinner requires formal clothes. Clothes I don’t have anymore. Clothes I sold months ago when the choice was designer dresses or making rent.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:45. Ten minutes until Franklin comes to escort me downstairs.
I pull at the hem of the dress again. It doesn’t magically grow longer. Rude.
Maybe I can make it work. I dig through my bag for the black cardigan I know is in there somewhere. It’s worn at the elbows, but it might tone down the clubwear vibe of the dress.
The cardigan helps. A little. I look in the bathroom mirror again, twisting to see the back view. The dress still clings to every curve, but at least my arms are covered. I’d brought sensible flats, thank god, not the heels that would have made this outfit even more inappropriate.
I brush my hair until it shines, grateful I’d had time for a proper wash earlier.
I splash water on my face, pat it dry with the softest towel I’ve ever felt, and apply the bare minimum of makeup from the zippered pouch in my bag.
Mascara, a touch of blush, lip balm. It’s not much, but it has to do.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump. Franklin, right on time.
I take one last look in the mirror, straighten my shoulders, and open the door.
“Ms. Vance.” Franklin’s eyes flick over my outfit with professional detachment. If he notices it’s inappropriate, his face betrays nothing. The man has a poker face that could win tournaments.
“This way, please.”
I follow him down the corridor, trying to memorize the route through the labyrinthine compound.
Left at the glass wall overlooking the forest. Right at the abstract metal sculpture that looks vaguely like a bird in flight.
Down a sweeping staircase with steps that seem to float without visible support.
I pause at the threshold of the dining room, taking a steadying breath. Then I step through the doorway.
The room is predictably austere. A long table of dark wood that could seat twenty but is set for only two, one at the head and one to the right.
The lighting is soft but precise, focused on the table while leaving the corners of the room in shadow.
A chandelier of crystal and steel hangs overhead, catching the light like suspended rain.
And at the head of the table sits Caleb Asher.
He’s already looking at me when I enter, as if he’s been waiting, watching the doorway.
His eyes find mine immediately, and something electric passes between us, a current I can’t name but instantly recognize.
Then his gaze drops, traveling down my body in a slow, deliberate assessment that leaves heat in its wake.
I feel suddenly, acutely aware of how the yellow dress clings to my curves, how the hem falls just above my knees, how the neckline dips lower than I remembered. Under his scrutiny, I feel both exposed and strangely powerful.
He takes his time with this inventory. No pretense of polite disinterest or professional distance.
Just open, unabashed looking, as if he has every right to memorize the lines of my body.
When his eyes finally return to my face, there’s something in them that makes my breath catch.
A hunger, quickly masked but unmistakable.
I should be offended. Should feel objectified or reduced. Instead, I feel seen in a way I haven’t been in months. Not as a burden or a charity case or a problem to be solved, but as a woman. Desirable. Worth looking at.
Dangerous thoughts, when my livelihood depends on this man’s professional opinion of me.
“Ms. Vance.” His voice is deeper than it was in his office, rougher around the edges. “Right on time.”
“I try to be punctual.” My own voice comes out steadier than I expect, given the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
He doesn’t stand as I approach the table.
Just watches me walk the length of the room with that same intensity, his eyes never leaving me.
I focus on moving normally. Spine straight, chin up, steps measured.
Not rushing, not faltering. Pretending I don’t feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
The yellow dress was a mistake. Too bright, too revealing, too everything against the monochrome backdrop of this room. But it’s too late now. I’m committed to this entrance, this moment.
When I reach the table, I hesitate, unsure of protocol. Do I wait for him to indicate where I should sit? Pull out my own chair? Stand awkwardly until given permission?
“Sit.” He gestures to the place setting on his right, the word more command than invitation.
I comply, sliding into the chair with as much grace as I can muster.
The table is set with crystal and silver, the kind of formal dining arrangement I’ve only seen in magazines.
Multiple forks and spoons and glasses whose purposes I can only guess at.
A crisp white napkin folded into a perfect triangle.
A single white rose in a slender crystal vase.
Bea taught me table manners, but not for settings like this.
Her version of formal dining involved the good napkins and not eating over the sink.
“The yellow is unexpected,” he says, his eyes still on me. Not on my resume or my qualifications or the table between us. On me.
I resist the urge to tug at the neckline of my dress. “It was this or jeans.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, at my honesty. Or disappointment at the reminder of my limited circumstances.
“It suits you,” he says finally. The words come out reluctantly, as if extracted against his will.
Before I can respond, Franklin appears from a door I hadn’t noticed, carrying a tray with two glasses of wine. He places one in front of each of us with mechanical precision, then withdraws without a word. No menus, no explanation of what we’ll be eating. Just silent efficiency and disappearance.
Caleb lifts his glass, watching me over the rim. “To new beginnings, Ms. Vance.”
Is that what this is? Has he already decided to hire me? Or is this just a formality before he sends me back down the mountain to whatever awaits me?
I lift my own glass, meeting his gaze directly. “To new beginnings.”
The wine is rich and complex on my tongue. Probably costs more than a week’s worth of groceries. I take a small sip, conscious of how easily wealth can go to a person’s head. How quickly judgment can become impaired when surrounded by luxury after months of deprivation.
Franklin returns with the first course, a butternut squash soup with something rich and earthy swirled through it.
I take a careful sip, and the flavors hit me so hard I nearly close my eyes.
It’s easily the best thing I’ve eaten in months.
I search for something to say, something neutral and pleasant to break the heavy silence.
Caleb just watches me, his own spoon untouched, those gray eyes tracking every movement of my hands, my mouth, as if he’s conducting a study on how ordinary humans eat soup.
“This is delicious,” I offer, gesturing slightly with my spoon. “Do you have a chef?”
“Franklin cooks.” His response is clipped, giving me nothing to build on. He finally picks up his own spoon but continues watching me more than his food.
The silence stretches again, broken only by the clink of silver against china. I try again.
“The view from my room is incredible. You can see all the way to the town below.”
“Cooper Hills,” he says, as if naming the place exhausts his capacity for conversation.
Alright then. I take another sip of soup, searching for a topic that might actually engage him. This is still an interview, even if we’ve moved from his office to his dining room.
“The compound’s architecture is fascinating. All this glass, yet so private. Did you design it yourself?”
Something flickers in his eyes. Interest, maybe. “Yes. Eight years ago.”
When he became a recluse, according to the agency briefing. I want to ask more, but I know better than to pry.
“It’s beautiful,” I say instead. “Stark, but beautiful.”
He makes a noncommittal sound, his eyes dropping to my mouth as I speak. I feel self-conscious suddenly, aware of every movement of my lips, every swallow. I reach for my wine glass just to have something to do with my hands.
“The lighting in here is interesting,” I continue, desperate now to fill the void. “The way it focuses on the table but leaves the rest of the room in shadow. Very... atmospheric.”
His mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “Are you always this determined to make conversation, Ms. Vance?”
The question catches me off guard. “I... I suppose so. Silence makes me nervous.”
“Why?” He leans forward slightly, something predatory in the movement.
I consider my answer carefully. “I grew up in a house where people talked. About everything, all the time. Silence usually meant something was wrong.”
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. “Nothing is wrong. I’m simply... observing.”
Observing me, he means.
Franklin returns to clear our soup bowls, replacing them with the main course. Perfectly seared salmon on a bed of greens, arranged with artistic precision. He serves us without a word, then disappears again like a ghost. I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption in my life.
“Tell me about this house where people talked,” Caleb says once we’re alone again. It’s the first thing he’s said that invites an actual response.
“My grandmother’s farmhouse,” I reply, surprised by his interest. “Nothing like this. Small, always a bit drafty. Parts of it were over a hundred years old. But it was home.”
“You grew up there?”
I nod, cutting a small piece of salmon. “From the time I was six. After my mother left.”
His eyes sharpen at that. “Left?”