Chapter 2:What she saw
820 Words
The city buzzed beneath her aching feet.
Ellie Allen shoved her way off the last night bus and walked the final stretch to her apartment, trying not to wince at the pain in her heels. Her chef’s jacket was stuffed into her tote bag, and the scent of garlic and smoke still clung to her hair. The gala was over. The Sinclair family could go back to ruling the city from their ivory towers, and she could return to her shoebox apartment where the stove barely worked and the heat had a mind of its own.
Her phone was dead. Her body hurt. And all she wanted was to crash into bed and forget the way Salvador Sinclair had looked at her like she was something to be assessed, dissected, and then discarded.
She turned the corner of her street—and froze.
Two black SUVs were parked by the alley across from her building. Not unusual for this area, except the engines were still running. She heard voices—low, urgent.
Ellie was about to keep walking. She should have kept walking.
But a metallic clatter echoed in the alley.
Curiosity pulled her in two steps closer. She peeked around the corner—and her blood turned to ice.
Salvador Sinclair stood over a man on his knees, his sleeves rolled up, his dress shirt stained at the cuffs. One of his men held the guy still—gagged, terrified. Another stood watch.
And then, Salvador pulled the trigger.
The shot was soft—silenced—but final. The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Ellie’s breath caught.
She stumbled backward, hand flying to her mouth.
A crack under her foot.
A piece of glass.
Salvador’s head snapped up. His eyes locked on hers.
No emotion. Just recognition. And calculation.
She ran.
She didn’t make it far.
⸻
She woke up to the smell of leather and the hum of an engine.
Her head pounded. Her wrists were tied. Her heart thudded like a war drum.
“What the—”
“Easy,” a voice said from the front seat. “You’ll make it worse.”
It wasn’t Salvador. Just one of his men. Unfamiliar. Professional. The kind of person who’d seen worse things than her panic.
“Where are you taking me?” she rasped.
No answer.
She looked around. She was in the back of another SUV, windows tinted black, city lights bleeding past them like streaks of fire. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse was a scream.
This was a mistake. A dream. A nightmare.
She saw him kill a man.
She saw it.
And now she was here.
The car stopped.
The man opened her door and gestured. “Out.”
Ellie stepped into a massive gated estate wrapped in shadows and quiet wealth. The Sinclair crest glimmered on the gates. She was led up the marble steps, through tall double doors, into a place that smelled of old money, fine whiskey, and quiet power.
He was waiting in the study.
Salvador Sinclair stood by the window, sleeves rolled down now, black jacket back on. Polished. Pristine. Like he hadn’t just murdered someone an hour ago.
His eyes met hers. Calm. Cold.
“Miss Allen.”
She didn’t speak.
“Sit.”
“I’m not a dog,” she hissed.
His head tilted. “Would you prefer chains? I can arrange that.”
Her fists clenched. But she sat.
He circled behind his desk, taking his time, as if this were any other business meeting.
“You saw something you weren’t supposed to,” he said simply.
“You killed someone.”
“Yes.”
Ellie stared at him. “Why aren’t I dead too?”
“Because dead people can’t cook,” he replied.
She blinked.
“I read your file. Culinary school dropout. Freelancing. Living paycheck to paycheck.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re disposable. But you’re not useless.”
She looked at him like he was insane. “So what, you’re offering me a job?”
“A deal,” he corrected. “You work for me. As my private chef. You stay in this house. You follow my rules. You don’t ask questions. And in return, you stay alive.”
She stood. “You kidnapped me.”
“I protected myself.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re breathing because I’m merciful.”
They stared at each other—two people on opposite sides of a line she hadn’t even known existed.
“If I say no?” she asked.
He smiled. “Then we find another use for you. And you won’t like it.”
Her chest rose and fell. “You think you can just trap me here like a prisoner?”
“You’re not a prisoner, Miss Allen,” he said coolly. “You’re staff. Welcome to the estate.”
- Writer
