First Supper,Last Dignity
2083 Words
Josh stood under the rainfall showerhead for twenty solid minutes, letting scalding water pound the last remnants of whatever cocktail Elena had slipped him out of his bloodstream. Steam clouded the glass enclosure until he could barely see his own reflection. Good. He didn’t particularly want to look at himself right now.
The bathroom alone was obscene—marble veined with gold, heated floors, a freestanding tub big enough for three people and their bad decisions. A stack of plush white towels waited on a heated rack. Even the shampoo smelled expensive, like bergamot and something faintly illegal.
He toweled off roughly, then opened the wardrobe Elena had so smugly mentioned.
Rows of suits. Crisp white shirts. Silk ties in shades he’d never worn—midnight blue, charcoal, deep burgundy. Casual linen shirts folded like they belonged in a museum. Leather loafers polished to a mirror shine. Even underwear—black boxer-briefs, tag still attached, his exact size.
Of course she knew his size.
He chose the most defiant combination he could manage: black trousers, black shirt (top two buttons left open because screw her dress code), no tie. Bare feet. If they wanted black-tie optional, he was going full optional.
When he stepped into the hallway, soft jazz floated up from downstairs—something smoky and slow, the kind of music that usually meant someone was about to get kissed or killed. Probably both tonight.
He descended the curved staircase like a man walking into an ambush he’d already RSVP’d to.
The great room had transformed.
Long dining table set for six. Candles everywhere—tall tapers, floating votives, clusters of tea lights that turned the white marble into a constellation. Ocean visible through the glass wall, moon already rising fat and silver over the water. The infinity pool glowed an unearthly turquoise.
And the women.
Lila stood at the head of the table like a general inspecting troops, dark curls escaping her messy bun, apron discarded. She wore a sleeveless black dress that hugged muscle and curve in equal measure. Knife still in hand—smaller now, but no less threatening—as she arranged seared scallops on porcelain.
Maya lounged in her chair, legs crossed, paint-flecked overalls swapped for a crimson slip dress that looked painted on. A streak of cobalt still decorated her left cheekbone. She was twirling a wineglass by the stem, studying him like he was her next canvas.
Sophia sat primly, navy wrap dress, hair pinned back, glasses low on her nose. Notebook open beside her plate. Pen moving even now, tiny hurried scratches.
Nadia occupied the chair farthest from the head of the table. Black silk jumpsuit, hair loose and dark as ink down her back. She hadn’t changed posture since he last saw her—arms folded, expression unreadable. Watching.
Elena entered from the kitchen archway carrying an open bottle of red. She’d changed into emerald green—flowing, expensive, the kind of dress that made lesser fabrics cry. She poured with theatrical grace.
“Mr. Garfield,” she said, not looking up. “You clean up… adequately.”
“Generous,” he muttered, sliding into the only empty chair—dead center, naturally. Surrounded on all sides.
Lila set the first plate down in front of him with more force than necessary. Scallops glistening, microgreens arranged like modern art, some kind of foam that probably cost more per teaspoon than his monthly rent used to.
“Eat,” she ordered. “Or I’ll make you.”
He picked up the fork. “You always this hospitable?”
“Only to people who deserve it,” she said sweetly. “Which you don’t. Yet.”
Maya laughed—low, throaty. “She’s already decided you’re going to be her personal garbage disposal for the next month. Might as well lean in.”
Josh took a bite. The scallop melted like butter. Damn it. Perfect.
Elena raised her glass. “To new beginnings. And to Joshua learning that charm has a shelf life.”
Glasses clinked. His stayed on the table.
Nadia finally spoke. First words he’d heard from her. Voice low, accented faintly—something Eastern European maybe, hard to place.
“You’re quieter than your reputation suggested.”
He met her eyes. Dark. Steady. No warmth, but no hostility either. Just… assessment.
“Saving my best material,” he said.
Her lips curved. Not quite a smile. “Good. We have thirty days. Pace yourself.”
Silence stretched, broken only by silverware and the distant crash of waves.
Then Sophia cleared her throat.
“I have questions,” she announced.
Josh groaned inwardly. Of course she did.
“For research,” she added quickly, cheeks pinking. “Purely professional.”
“Fire away, Hemingway,” Maya said, grinning.
Sophia adjusted her glasses. “How many women would you say you’ve… dated… in the last calendar year?”
Josh leaned back. “Define dated.”
“Engaged in consensual physical intimacy with intent to never speak again.”
He almost choked on his wine.
Lila snorted. “She’s been workshopping that one all afternoon.”
“Sixteen,” he said flatly. Might as well rip the bandage off.
Maya whistled. “Impressive stamina. Or abysmal taste.”
“Both,” Nadia murmured.
Elena sipped her wine. “And how many of those sixteen reached out afterward?”
“Three.”
“And how many did you respond to?”
“Zero.”
Sophia scribbled furiously.
Lila leaned forward. “Why?”
Josh met her gaze. “Because I don’t do sequels. Life’s too short for reruns.”
“Life’s too short to treat people like episodes,” Lila countered. “You ever think maybe someone wanted a season two?”
He shrugged. “Never came up.”
“Because you never let it,” Nadia said quietly.
The table went still.
Josh felt the weight of five pairs of eyes. Not angry, exactly. More… disappointed. Which was somehow worse.
He set his fork down.
“Look. I don’t pretend to be a saint. Never have. Women know the deal going in. I don’t lie. I don’t ghost mid-sentence. I say goodnight, I mean goodbye. Clean. Simple. No one gets hurt if everyone plays by the rules.”
Maya tilted her head. “And if someone breaks the rules?”
“Then they weren’t listening.”
Elena smiled thinly. “Fascinating. You’ve constructed an entire moral framework around never being the one who cares first.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s cowardly,” Lila said.
Josh laughed—short, sharp. “Says the woman who threatened to cut my fingers off for touching her knives.”
“I protect what matters,” she shot back. “You discard what doesn’t.”
Another silence.
Then Sophia, softly: “Do you ever… miss anyone?”
The question landed like a slap he hadn’t seen coming.
He stared at his plate. Scallops suddenly looked cold.
“No,” he said.
But the word tasted wrong.
Lila stood abruptly, gathered empty plates with more clatter than necessary. “Main course in five. Try not to ruin my appetite.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
Maya leaned across the table toward him. “You’re going to be fun to break.”
“I’m not here to be broken.”
“You’re here to be remade,” Elena corrected gently. “Whether you cooperate is entirely up to you. But the door stays locked either way.”
Josh pushed back from the table. Stood.
“I need air.”
Elena inclined her head toward the glass doors. “Balcony’s lovely this time of night. Moon’s almost full.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
Outside, salt wind hit him like a welcome slap. He gripped the railing, stared at the black water. Moonlight shattered across the surface in silver coins.
Footsteps.
He didn’t turn.
Nadia appeared beside him. Same jumpsuit. Same cool composure.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“Disappointed?”
“Curious.” She leaned on the railing next to him. Close enough that he caught a trace of her perfume—something smoky, like incense and leather. “You look… tired.”
He huffed a laugh. “kidn*pped, blackmailed, surrounded by women who hate me. Yeah. Exhausted.”
“They don’t hate you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“They hate what you represent.” She paused. “And maybe what they once allowed.”
He glanced at her. Profile sharp against moonlight. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous.
“You included?”
Her smile was small. Private. “I’m here for different reasons.”
“Care to share?”
“Not yet.”
She turned to face him fully.
“When you lie to yourself long enough,” she said quietly, “the lie starts wearing your face. One day you look in the mirror and can’t remember which version is real.”
Josh swallowed. “Poetic.”
“True.”
She studied him another moment, then pushed off the railing.
“Dinner’s probably ready. Elena hates cold food.”
She walked back inside.
Josh stayed.
Moon climbed higher. Waves kept crashing. Somewhere in the house, laughter—real laughter—spilled out. Maya’s voice mostly. Then Lila’s sharp retort. Even Sophia giggled once.
He felt suddenly, violently alone.
Not the curated solitude he preferred. Something rawer. Hungrier.
He dragged both hands through his hair.
Thirty days.
He could survive thirty days.
He’d survived worse.
He just wasn’t sure he wanted to come out the other side the same man who walked in.
Back inside, the table had been cleared and reset. Main course waited: herb-crusted lamb, roasted vegetables glossy with reduction, some kind of potato gratin that smelled like sin.
Lila pointed to his chair. “Sit. Eat. Complain later.”
He sat.
This time he didn’t argue.
Conversation drifted—lighter now. Maya told a story about the time she accidentally painted a senator’s wife nude because the woman insisted on “being vulnerable.” Sophia admitted her latest manuscript had been rejected fourteen times because the hero was “too realistic.” Lila grumbled about critics who called her food “aggressively seasoned.”
Nadia listened. Smiled occasionally. Said almost nothing.
Elena watched Josh.
He felt it like fingertips on the back of his neck.
When dessert arrived—chocolate torte so dark it looked black—Elena finally spoke directly to him again.
“Tell us something true, Joshua.”
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
“Truth,” he repeated.
“Yes. One honest sentence. No deflection. No charm.”
The room quieted.
He looked around the table. Five women who already knew too much. Who saw through every layer he’d spent years perfecting.
He set the fork down.
“I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up wondering who I disappointed this time.”
Silence.
Not pity. Not triumph.
Just… recognition.
Lila nodded once. Small. Almost imperceptible.
Maya’s grin softened at the edges.
Sophia’s pen stopped moving.
Nadia tilted her head, studying him anew.
Elena simply lifted her glass.
“To truth,” she said softly.
They drank.
Josh didn’t.
He stared at the moon through the glass wall instead.
It looked closer tonight.
Brighter.
And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hide from the light… or step into it.
Dinner ended.
Plates cleared.
Women drifted—Lila to the kitchen, Maya back to her paints, Sophia to her notebook, Nadia upstairs without a word.
Elena lingered.
“Bedroom doors lock from the inside,” she told him. “You’re safe here. From us, at least.”
He almost laughed.
“From myself?” he asked.
“That’s between you and the moonlight.”
She left him standing alone in the great room.
He walked back to the balcony instead of upstairs.
Sat on the wide stone steps leading down to the pool.
Listened to the ocean breathe.
And for the first time since he was nineteen—since the summer his father left without a note and his mother stopped smiling—he let himself feel the ache.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just quiet.
Persistent.
Real.
Thirty days.
He had no idea what waited at the end of them.
But tonight, under a moon that refused to look away, Josh Garfield realized something terrifying.
He might actually want to find out.
- Writer
