A House That Isn't A Home
897 Words
The armor felt different at 5:30 A.M.
Michelle stood in front of her bedroom mirror in charcoal silk and structured wool from The Row. Same tired eyes as yesterday. Different composition, like Lila said. Sharper. Colder. Expensive.
She looked like the manager they owed her.
Diamond Entertainment, 6:00 A.M.
The lobby was dead quiet except for security and the hum of the 5K lamps. She checked her phone. 6:00 A.M. on the dot. Whitney said his day started with a “vibe check” at six. He’d be here. She’d walk in looking like his boss’s boss and—
Nothing.
She waited. 6:15. 6:30.
At 6:30, Whitney Reeves stepped out of the elevator already in Louboutins. She did a slow blink at Michelle’s outfit, then at the empty space where William should be.
“You’re early,” Whitney said flatly.
“You said his day starts at six.”
“I said his day starts at six. His work starts at nine.” Whitney pinched the bridge of her nose. “He doesn’t come to work at six, Michelle.”
Michelle’s silk blouse suddenly felt like a costume. “So why am I here?”
Whitney handed her an address scribbled on Diamond letterhead. “Because now you go there. 1127 Bel Air Road. You wait on him.”
Michelle stared. “You want me to go to his house ?”
“Welcome to the job, Junior Assistant.” Whitney’s smile was all teeth. “Try not to look so assistant-y when you get there.”
Bel Air, 7:03 A.M.
The Uber driver stopped talking two miles back. Now he just whispered “Madonna” under his breath.
William Denver’s house wasn’t a house. It was a mansion . All glass and concrete and landscaping that cost more than Michelle’s degree. It looked like a place for royalty.
No one knew he lived like this. Tabloids called him “private.” This place said secluded fortress.
The daoor opened before she knocked.
A man in his sixties with a posture straighter than Michelle’s five-year plan looked her up and down. “Ms. Covers.”
“Yes. Hi.”
“Master William informed me you would be arriving.” He stepped aside. “I am Alistair. I’ve been with Master William since he was a boy.”
Michelle stepped inside and her lungs forgot how to work. The foyer was bigger than her entire apartment. Art she recognized from Lila’s documentary — originals — hung on the walls like it was nothing.
“Master William comes down at 7:30,” Alistair said, already walking. “It is 7:03. You have twenty-seven minutes to prepare his morning coffee.”
Michelle jogged to keep up. “There’s only you here?”
“And Martha, the housekeeper. The remaining staff do not report when Master William is in residence. He prefers... minimal observation.”
They reached a kitchen that could feed a hotel. Alistair set down a ceramic pour-over, a grinder, and beans.
“Master William takes his coffee thusly,” Alistair began. “Water at 197 degrees Fahrenheit, never 198. Coarse grind. Bloom for 45 seconds. Served in the navy cup, not the black one. The black one is for afternoons.”
Michelle pulled out her phone to take notes. Alistair cleared his throat.
“Master William does not approve of electronics in his kitchen.”
She put the phone away. Of course.
7:30 A.M.
William descended the staircase in a towel . His hair was wet, his abs were a tax write-off, and his face said he’d already decided to be disappointed.
He took one sip of Michelle’s coffee, set it down, and looked at her. Really looked. At the silk. At the wool. At the woman.
“Huh,” he said.
Then: “It’s bitter. Again.”
Michelle kept her face blank. “Water temp was 197. Bloom was 45 seconds—”
“Then your pour was aggressive.” He pushed the cup towards her. “Again.”
8:00 A.M.
Coffee attempt number four went into the sink. William stood in the doorway in a $6,000 suit, watching her like she was a documentary about failure.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I had a PA once who put ice in my espresso. She lasted three hours. You’re at four coffees and still employed. Consider it progress.”
Michelle didn’t answer. She was too busy measuring water for attempt number five.
8:30 A.M.
She set the fifth cup on the marble counter. Perfect. 197 degrees. 45-second bloom. 3:15 brew. Navy cup.
William picked it up, considered it, then set it back down without tasting it.
“I’m not in the mood for coffee anymore,” he said.
Michelle’s hand twitched.
William checked his watch. “We’re leaving. Car’s out front.”
Finally. She grabbed her bag—
“You’re not riding with me.” He was already walking to the door. “ See you at the office, Michelle. Don’t be late.”
The front door shut.
Alistair reappeared. “Shall I call you a car, Ms. Covers?”
She looked at the navy cup. Still full. Still perfect. Still rejected.
“Yeah,” Michelle said. “Call me a car.”
She had survived William Denver’s coffee. She had not survived William Denver.
And she still had to be at work by nine.
- Writer
