Chapter 4:Served cold
649 Words
Ellie’s alarm went off at six, but she’d already been awake for an hour. She didn’t sleep much in the mansion. She couldn’t. Every creak in the hallway sounded like a threat. Every gust of wind tapping the windows reminded her that she was not a guest—she was a kept woman, wrapped in luxury and surveillance.
She pulled her hair into a loose bun and tied on her apron. Another day. Another performance. Another careful walk along the edge of Salvador Sinclair’s knife.
The east kitchen was already stocked. Someone had laid out fresh produce, dry-aged meat, imported spices. Everything top-tier. As if money made up for the fact that she had no freedom.
She worked in silence. It was the only time she felt close to peace—when her hands were moving, chopping, stirring, commanding the chaos of flavor. At least here, she was the boss.
Until he walked in.
Salvador.
No announcement. No guards. No warning. Just… him.
“Don’t you have a staff for this?” Ellie asked without turning.
“I do,” he said. “But I like surprises.”
She forced a calm breath. “Is barging into kitchens your thing or am I just lucky?”
He didn’t respond. He was watching her. She felt it like heat on her back.
“I was curious,” he said finally. “I wanted to see if your cooking was real or just an accident.”
“You kidnapped me. You’ve had three meals already. Seems like a weird time to question my skill.”
“I don’t trust what I can’t see.”
“Then you’re in for a long life of disappointment.”
Salvador stepped closer, not enough to touch her, but enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne—sharp, dark, and unreasonably expensive.
“I like control, Miss Allen,” he said quietly.
She turned to face him. “Then I must be your worst nightmare.”
He didn’t smile. Not this time.
⸻
Later that afternoon, Beatrice appeared in her doorway.
“The master would like to host a dinner tomorrow. Five guests. Private. No outside staff.”
Ellie looked up from her notebook, where she’d been sketching a rough blueprint of the house on the back of a grocery receipt. “So just me?”
Beatrice nodded. “He trusts you.”
Ellie muttered, “That makes one of us.”
“You’ll prepare a full five-course menu. Wine pairings included. Any failure reflects on the house.”
The door closed before Ellie could respond.
She exhaled slowly. A dinner party. Five people. That meant distractions. Movement. Opportunities.
She tapped her pen against the paper.
If they were dining in the west wing, that hall had a servant corridor behind the paneling. She’d seen the edge of it when she slipped away on her second night.
Maybe there was a door that didn’t lock automatically.
Maybe.
⸻
That night, Salvador didn’t come to dinner.
A note was delivered instead: Do not burn the house down.
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. But she noticed something strange.
There was a camera in the dining room before.
Now, it was gone.
Or moved.
He was changing the game.
She just didn’t know how.
⸻
Later, as she cleaned the final pan, she felt a cold prickle along the back of her neck.
She turned.
Nothing.
But something was wrong. The house was too quiet. The air too still.
She stepped toward the back window.
And that’s when she saw him.
Salvador.
Standing in the garden just beyond the glass, coat draped over his arm, phone to his ear.
He wasn’t looking at her.
But somehow… she knew he knew she was watching.
He was letting her know something.
She was never alone.
Not really.
Not in his house.
Not in his world.
- Writer
