Dinner with Mr. Grumpy.
1206 Words
CAMILA
^*^
Dinner..
One would think it’d be a pleasant, harmless word. But right now? It felt like a loaded gun.
I stared at myself in the full-length mirror for what felt like forever. My curls were brushed out, soft and falling around my shoulders just the way Claire had styled them earlier. I wore a silk two-piece set in ivory, the shirt loose but showing just enough collarbone to make me feel like bait. And the tight pants clung to me like sin.
Everything in this house made me feel like a very expensive doll.
A doll being watched.
I touched my lips, the soft pink gloss catching in the light. Why did I care what I looked like? Why did I want him to look at me?
I shook the thought away. That was not the mission.
The mission was simple: Survive this house. Collect the money. Save my sister. Escape my toxic life.
The mission was not to start falling into the strange pull of a man who painted women and kept their portraits locked away.
Claire knocked and didn’t wait before pushing the door open. “Breakfast is ready, sweetie! Come now, let’s not keep him waiting!”
Right. Him.
The devil with the voice of silk and the soul of smoke.
I followed her down a narrow hallway that opened into a large dining area. The room was a ridiculous masterpiece. Massive windows spilled golden light across the long, dark wood table. A chandelier glittered above us, swaying slightly. And at the far end of the table, was King.
Lorenzo King Calloway.
He was dressed in another crisp shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms again like it was a uniform. His eyes were down, reading something on a tablet, and for a minute, he didn’t even acknowledge our arrival.
I stood frozen in place until Claire nudged me with a little grin and whispered, “Sit, darling.”
I walked slowly to the chair opposite him and sat. The table had been set immaculately—silverware gleamed, two glasses of orange juice sparkled under the light, and there were enough croissants to feed a damn Parisian bakery.
Still, silence.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t offer me a smile or even a morning grunt.
So I cleared my throat. “Morning.”
He didn’t respond.
My brow twitched. “You know, most people say ‘good morning’ when someone walks in.”
He tapped something on the screen and finally looked up, eyes meeting mine like they were scanning for weakness. “I’m not most people.”
“No,” I muttered, picking up my juice. “You’re really not.”
We ate in silence for a while.
Well, I picked at my food. He ate calculatively, slowly, like each bite was measured and controlled. The tension in the room was so thick you could slice it with the butter knife.
I finally pushed my plate away. “Okay. Look. Are we going to pretend this is normal? You offering me six million dollars to live here and pose for paintings like some modern-day Belle from Beauty and the Beast? Except you’re less ‘Beast’ and more emotionally constipated billionaire?” I kept ranting.
He paused.
Set his fork down.
Wiped his lips with a linen napkin.
Then: “I don’t do small talk, Miss Frost.”
“Clearly.”
“And I don’t owe you warmth. You’re here because of a contract. Nothing more.”
I pouted. “You could at least pretend to be human. You act like letting me eat at your fancy vampire table is a favor.”
His eyes flicked up, colder now. “You signed up for this. If you expected sentiment, you should’ve read the fine print more closely.”
I leaned forward, matching his energy. “You know what I expected? Decency. Not to be grabbed at the door like a damn criminal. Not to be talked down to like I’m an object.”
“Then perhaps you should stop acting like one.”
That stung.
Harder than I wanted it to.
I opened my mouth, ready to unleash the full fury of my past three days, but then something about the way he was looking at me froze my voice.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It was… pain?
But only for a second. Then it was gone.
“Claire will show you the studio today,” he said suddenly, pushing his chair back. “We begin tomorrow.”
“And what if I’m not ready?” I snapped, rising to my feet.
He stopped, just short of turning around. “Then you’ll pretend to be.”
Then he walked out.
Just like that.
I stood there, chest rising and falling with emotion I couldn’t name. Rage. Confusion. Sadness, maybe.
Claire slipped in from the hallway like she’d been listening the whole time. “I Well, that went well,” she said with an annoyingly bright smile.
I scoffed. “Does he treat everyone like that?”
She gave a thoughtful hum. “Only the ones he likes.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
She waved her hand and started clearing the table. “Trust me, darling. If he didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be. The fact that you’re breathing in his space? That’s a privilege.”
“He sure knows how to make a girl feel special,” I muttered.
Claire leaned closer, lowering her voice. “The last girl who raised her voice to him? She was gone by morning.”
My throat tightened. “Gone?”
“Gone,” she confirmed. “Now eat, sweetheart. You’ll need your strength.”
She walked off humming again.
I sat back down.
Suddenly the six million didn’t feel like a prize—it felt like a trap.
And I was already in it.
^*^
Later that evening, I wandered around the house.
Claire had vanished somewhere in the east wing, and the silence in the house felt bigger than before. I found myself walking past the same doors she’d warned me about. The forbidden room was just… there. Plain. Untouched. Almost daring me to enter.
I stopped.
Stared.
What was he hiding?
Paintings of other girls?
Secrets?
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
I reached out, letting my fingers graze the cold, iron handle—just as footsteps came down the hall.
I froze.
Not because I was scared.
But because I knew whose steps those were.
“Don’t.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
I turned slowly, finding him standing a few feet behind me. No jacket. Just that same cold gaze and dark presence.
“Curiosity,” he said, “is how people die in horror stories.”
“I’m not scared of horror stories,” I said.
“You should be,” he replied.
We stared at each other for a moment too long.
Then he walked away.
Again.
No explanation.
No threat.
Just… a warning.
I stood there, breathing slow, my heart pounding a rhythm I couldn’t follow.
Tomorrow, the painting began.
Tonight?
Tonight I started to believe that my new life wouldn’t be in any way easy.
- Writer
