Chapter One: What Do You Want? I Want a Fairy Tale
It was 7:20 a.m.
Morning light slipped through the tall glass windows of Charles Lawson’s mansion, settling softly across the largest bedroom in the house—a space too wide, too polished, too empty for something meant to feel like comfort.
The curtains reminded him of Alex’s favorite color. She had chosen them. The room decoration—everything—was what she wanted.
Now she was gone.
Gone with half of his sweat.
He let out a quiet breath. “Gone,” he muttered to himself.
Charles stood by the mirror, already dressed for work.
Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Perfect.
“Oh—wristwatch,” he said under his breath, fastening it around his wrist. His gaze dropped briefly to the faint mark where his wedding ring used to sit.
A scar that refused to disappear.
“Hm.” He exhaled slowly. “After everything… she left.”
Felix—the private investigator he had sent to track her—had finally called. New information.
Charles tightened his watch.
“f**k her,” he whispered.
Then louder, colder—
“f**k love.”
He checked himself one last time in the mirror.
As always.
Everything about him was in place—except the part of him that mattered.
Behind him, the bed was still warm.
Sandra lay there, wrapped in expensive sheets, her body half-hidden beneath the duvet. She hadn’t moved since he stepped out of the bathroom.
Or at least… she pretended not to.
Charles glanced at her reflection through the mirror, his expression unreadable.
“Sandra.”
No response.
He adjusted his cufflinks.
“I have ten minutes before I leave this house,” he said calmly. “And I’m already dressed.”
Still nothing.
A faint smirk touched his lips—not amused, just tired.
“Sandra,” he repeated, his tone sharper.
She shifted slightly, turning her face deeper into the pillow, dragging the moment.
Charles exhaled slowly, then turned to face her fully.
“Will you please get up and go home?”
That did it.
Sandra’s eyes fluttered open, annoyance flashing briefly before she masked it with something softer.
“Already?” she murmured, stretching lazily. “You don’t even say good morning.”
Charles didn’t move.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t soften.
“Good morning,” he said flatly. “Now get up.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was familiar.
Sandra sat up slowly, pulling the duvet closer to her chest, studying him.
“You’re always in a hurry to send me away,” she said. “Do you ever get tired of this?”
Charles slipped on his watch.
“Of what?”
“This,” she gestured lightly around the room. “The routine. The… emptiness.”
For a second—just a second—his hands paused.
Then he continued.
“I pay you for your time, Sandra,” he said simply. “Not for conversation.”
The words landed clean. Sharp. Final.
Sandra looked away first.
Not hurt.
Used to it.
Still… not untouched.
She slid out of bed, reaching for her dress, her movements slower now.
“Men like you are strange,” she said after a moment.
Charles didn’t respond.
“You have everything,” she continued, slipping into her heels, “but you act like there’s nothing worth keeping.”
That made him stop.
Not visibly.
But something in his eyes shifted.
He turned to her, his gaze steady.
“Tell me something, Sandra.”
She looked up.
“What do you want?”
He stepped closer, voice lower now.
“I pay you more than the others. I pay you well. So answer me—properly.”
The question caught her off guard.
“For real,” he added. “Not what you say to men like me. What do you actually want?”
Sandra hesitated.
Then, surprisingly, she smiled.
Not seductive.
Not calculated.
Just… honest.
“I want a fairy tale,” she said softly.
For a moment, the room felt different.
Quieter.
Almost human.
Then Charles let out a low, humorless chuckle.
“A fairy tale?”
He picked up his car keys, shaking his head slightly.
“Those don’t exist, Sandra.”
He paused, then added, colder now:
“I made you my favorite not because I have any feelings for you, but because you’re good at what you do. You’re a professional.”
His eyes hardened.
“Don’t spoil that.”
Sandra held his gaze.
“Maybe,” she said quietly. “Or maybe you just stopped believing in them.”
A beat.
“It’s been two years since your wife broke your heart, Charles. I’m sure she’s moved on. What about you?”
Silence.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Charles didn’t answer.
He simply walked past her.
But as he reached the door… he paused.
Just briefly.
As if something lingered.
Then, without turning back—
“I don’t do love here,” he said. “I made that clear before you signed up.”
A pause.
“No feelings.”
Another.
“That’s why I don’t kiss.”
Sandra’s breath caught slightly.
Then his final words came, cold and precise:
“Contract terminated. Meet me downstairs.”
He walked out.
Sandra didn’t follow.
She just stood there, watching the door long after it closed.
As Charles descended the stairs, he brought out his phone… and deleted her number.
At the foot of the staircase, he paused.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Alex…” he muttered under his breath.
A faint, dangerous calm settled over him.
“Your turn is over.”
A beat.
“Mine just began.”
He stepped forward, already reaching for his car keys.
He thought it was revenge.
He was wrong.
And the house returned to what it always was.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Empty.
