The Grim Reaper’s Mate

Upper Class Caterer

I demanded a contract from the guy's boss agreeing that any complaints or concerns that he as my contracted employer for this event may have, will come directly to me and not drag my reputation through the mud in high society for a trivial complaint. The contract would stipulate that only positive things may be publicly said about my creation and the candy shop and that all media coverage would strictly be positive with nothing defamatory. In exchange, I would create the most amazing, exclusive, delicious chocolate creation that he or his wife have ever seen. If he is not impressed with what I present, he will express himself upon presentation. If he is pleased upon presentation, he will pay the entire contracted amount for my work before the party begins and upon completion of said presentation.

I know how these things go. I know how much sway rich people hold over each other. It's ridiculous, really, and it strips the middle class of any profit they should have otherwise made when their work is complained about to the media. The rich do everything they can to scam the middle class using media and each other. It's disgusting.

I drew up the contract, gave it to the boss's crony, and watched him slink out of the shop with a smile on my face. My mind was already turning with ideas on how to make this thing the positive talk of upper society. I know what kind of insane expectations the rich and powerful have when they employ somebody. Luckily, I also know that nothing excites the rich like things that look and taste rich.

"Angel...what are you doing? We're supposed to stay under the radar. Are you sure about this?" David asked worriedly.

"First off, Christine would never in a million years work someplace like this if she had survived, much less know how to make gourmet chocolate. Secondly, this is a great opportunity to boost our sales and maybe hire some of the wonderful people in this district to work here and give the economy here as a whole a boost. Thirdly, I know how these things work, and I want to set an example for how contracts should be drawn between those crusty old rich people and the lower plebeians that they so like to squash under their shoes. This could impact more businesses in a positive way. It's about time the middle class showed the upper class what true class is," I stated firmly. David's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded slowly.

"I can respect that. I can see you already know what you're going to do?"

"I know exactly what I'm going to make. I need lots of gold powder and liquid"...I began to tic off things we needed to order, and David quickly grabbed an order form from behind the counter and wrote it down feverishly as I made a list.

"Got it all?" I asked when I was done.

"Phew," he whistled, taking in the list. "This is gonna be one expensive order."

"Yeah, well, I'll make sure my 'boss' covers it and more. He wants jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring, creative genius? He's going to have to pay for it," I grinned and headed back to my work station. I now eyed the cake slice as a debutante. I saw it's flaws. I saw ways to improve it. I saw it and muttered out loud exactly what those snobs would say about it, and I began to make notes as I tore my own work to shreds, leaving behind nothing but exactly what I needed to do to achieve perfection.

Within fifty minutes of leaving, the weasel guy returned with a signature on the contract. I made sure nothing had been changed before adding my own signature, rolling it up, sealing it, and handing it back to the weasel without so much as a glance at the boss's name.

"This seal is not to be broken unless the contract comes into question. Got it? When I arrive on the day of the party, I want to see the contract with my seal intact or I will take my creation and leave," I threatened. He gave me a puzzled look.

"You're not like others," he muttered before nodding and taking it and leaving. The event is in a month. My order will take two weeks to arrive. Time to get planning.

For the next month, I made a plan in my free time, drawing out a diagram of how I wanted my magnificent chocolate cake to look. I want to take it in and people to think that it's a literal cake from the outside only to realize it is basically a giant nougat candy bar in cake shape.

I know the elite like to have their dessert with wine, so I chose nougat flavors that pair very well with things like champagne and red wine. Everyone has their preferences.

The layers came together slowly, delicately. My first slice of cake had been too hard. The chocolate needs to break easier to get to the nougat. Forks don't need to bang down on the plates. No. They must slice through the chocolate like butter, and yet the chocolate must hold it's shape. Not too thick. Not too thin. The flower petals must each break off to be eaten delicately. The whole thing being stuffed in the mouth of a lady is unheard of. No. They must break and melt perfectly so that there is a mouthful of flavor without an unbecoming mouthful of chocolate. The candied pearls must not crunch when chewed. The gold must not leave coloring on the tongue or teeth.

For the entire month I perfected each detail, working diligently to fulfill my part of the contract that promised the most exquisite chocolate creation these wealthy, spoiled snobs had ever seen. I was not creating a simple bonbon. I was creating a masterpiece.

It was two days before the event, and I was finishing the last few pieces of the cake before I would box them all to be transported and assembled. The shop was only open for a couple of hours a day right after school to cut back on my work load. David had closed the shop for the day and left to pick up some dinner for us. The front bell jingled, and I paused. David always comes in the back door. Did he forget to lock the front door? I sighed and dropped my gold-tipped paintbrush on the table.

"I'm sorry, but we're closed," I called out as I stepped out from behind the curtain. Then I froze. It was him! The man who gave me this talent! Did he come to take it back? Now? It's terrible timing! Perhaps I can convince him to let me keep it for two more days?

"Oh, hello," I said shyly, making my way around the counter and stepping a bit closer to him.

"Good evening to you, Christine," he greeted me politely. For a moment, I didn't react, and then I realized...HE CALLED ME CHRISTINE. HE KNOWS!

"Um, you're mistaken. My name is Angel," I stammered unconvincingly.

"Mistaken? Am I now?" He asked with a knowing grin and a shake of his head. "No. I don't believe I am."

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name, sir," I said, feeling shaken. I need to change the subject. Fast!

"I didn't offer it. It's not important," he responded. "For now."

"Wh-what are you doing here again? I haven't s-seen you in awhile," I continued to stammer, beginning to feel cold. He turned his black eyes on me and looked me over. I involuntarily shivered. If he knows who I am, I fleetingly wonder if he likes my new shorter black hair?

"I came to see how you are getting along with your newfound talent. Are you enjoying your life? Are things going well? I saw the newspaper article about the shop. Seems like you're making quite a name for yourself. Are you sure that's wise?" He asked. I gawked at him. How does he know?

"Um, I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Oh, I think you do," he said, walking toward me and closing the distance between us. He didn't look menacing, but I couldn't help but feel afraid of him and also enchanted.

"I, um, I..." Why can't I get any words out?! C'mon, Christine, uh, Angel! Get your head in the game!

"Don't be afraid of me, Christine. I would never hurt you. In fact, quite the opposite. I'm trying very much to keep you safe. I've even made sure David's boss has stopped assigning him assassin jobs. If David's a target, that makes you a target, and I can't have that," he said, stopping a foot away from me. My back was against the wall behind the counter where I had unconsciously backed up as he approached me . I looked into his black eyes, but he wasn't looking at me in a threatening way. There was actually a warmth there. Maybe even...an affection? For me? I gulped and steadied myself. I don't know how I feel about him. He seems dangerous...but not in a bad way. Maybe?

"Uh, thank you...for that...then..." I croaked out. I cleared my throat. "I'm not ready to die."

The man chuckled. "Oh, I know. There are some things you'd like to do first. Don't worry. You won't die until after you get to experience a full life. I'll watch out for you. Speaking of which," he looked me up and down again and nodded in some sort of satisfaction. "You look like you're happy and healthy. Are you sure you want to tangle with the upper class society again? They only made you miserable."

It seems like he's not going to back down on knowing who I am. I drew a breath in. Might as well play along.

"I'm not sure of anything, to be honest," I answered.

He laughed like he thought I had told a joke. I thought from looking at him that he would have anywhere from a maniacal cackle to a sinister chuckle, but his laugh was actually warm. I relaxed a little more. He didn't act so scary. I must be overreacting. My instincts have been off since my near-death experience in the tent. I've felt like I'm being watched sometimes. Other times I get a cold chill like death is coming for me again. I have to be overreacting. This man has never given me the impression that he wants to hurt me.

"That's the first time I've heard such an answer! This is why I chose you. What a treasure you are!" He laughed, but I knew that he wasn't mocking me. I didn't understand what he meant by all that, but I instinctively knew he's not being sarcastic.

"I was offered this job, but I've watched the upper class insult and underpay the middle class when they provide a great deal of their service and talents for these functions. I'm hoping to make an impact for the lower classes that serve these snobs. After all, without people to boss around, what else do the rich elite have to do?" I asked, wrinkling my nose in distaste. I know there are really good people who are also rich. There are people who help the less fortunate and anonymously cover a hospital bill or donate a vehicle or pay off a house. But at a society party for women? Yeah. That's just a roomful of trouble.

"Ah, I see. So you're hoping to hold them hostage with your talent that I gave you? Interesting," he mused.

"I don't like how you worded that," I protested.

"I'm deadly honest, my dear," he said, squinting at me with a curious expression. "I must know, will you be ready for it? That's what I'll be interested to see. Just how far have you come?"

"Do you want to see the chocolate? It's not quite done, but it's already very beautiful!" I asked excitedly. He gave me my talent. I'd kind of like to show it off to him now that I'm getting comfortable in his presence.

"Oh, I'll be at the party to see it in all its perfection. I'll look forward to the surprises. Yes. I'll be very interested to see all the reactions. I've developed affection for you, dear Christine, so I'll give you a fair warning. The surprises ahead are not one-sided," he told me seriously. I tried to imagine what he could mean by that when he reached for my hand.

"You're not going to take my talent away, are you?" I asked in horror, trying to pull my hand away. He squeezed it gently but didn't let go. He gave me a befuddled look.

"Not at all, my dear. It makes you happy, and I would not dream of taking that away from you. It is mutual joy when you are happy, you see. I merely want to bid you good-bye for now, my Chocolate-making Lady Genius. Until we meet again," he raised my hand to his lips, and I just watched him with wide eyes. His warm lips grazed the back of my hand, but I was surprised when he suddenly flipped my hand over and gently kissed the tip of each finger, making eye contact with me as he kissed my pinkie and let my hand go.

"I wish you luck in this venture, my lady. You are a noble heart indeed. Yes, quite the treasure," he bowed and left. Once again, I checked the door as soon as he exited, and once again I found it locked.

"Wow," I breathed, holding up my tingling hand and looking at my fingers. "That was...electric." And kind of erotic... I raised my pinkie to my lips and pressed my lips to it. That man...I still don't know his name, but I'm interested in him. He is certainly a mystery.