Chapter Four: Him
1110 Words
He was tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in black from collar to cuff like he’d been carved from shadow. The fabric of his suit clung to his frame just enough to hint at power underneath — not the kind you earn, but the kind you’re born with. Commanding. Icy. Beautiful in a way that didn’t beg for attention but demanded it all the same.
His posture was calm, completely still, like he had been standing there for hours, waiting. One hand held a slim glass of red wine, the other tucked neatly behind his back, as though he had no intention of revealing too much too soon.
He hadn’t turned. But I felt his attention anyway.
The room itself seemed to shrink. The lights above dimmed ever so slightly, or maybe it was just my breathing growing shallow. My feet didn’t dare step farther in. I didn’t know if I was allowed to… or if I even wanted to.
Then—he moved.
Just a small turn of his head. Nothing dramatic. But it was enough for me to glimpse the clean, elegant line of his jaw… and the chill in my spine sharpened.
“You came.”
The same voice that spoke from the contest. Smooth, unreadable, low. He could have been pleased, or disappointed, or something else entirely. It was impossible to tell.
I stayed quiet.
“Do you know who I am?”
His voice reached me again, and this time it didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a challenge. One that clawed into the part of me that hated not knowing.
“I think I do,” I said quietly.
He let the silence sit there for a moment before finally turning to face me.
My breath caught in my throat.
His face was sharp and cold, like a work of art sculpted without softness. Piercing dark eyes. High cheekbones. Lips that didn’t smile. A beauty so refined it made you look twice, then wonder if you should’ve looked at all. He was younger than I expected, but not young. Maybe mid-thirties? He carried the stillness of someone who had stopped aging emotionally years ago.
“You look smaller than I imagined,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But not weaker.”
I swallowed hard. There was no way to respond that wouldn’t make me sound either fragile or foolish.
“I didn’t know I was being imagined,” I answered, forcing a voice into my lungs.
One corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.
“You weren’t. You were studied.”
He walked toward me slowly. Not threatening. Not warm. Just deliberate. Every step made the air around me grow heavier. I caught a whiff of his cologne again — something subtle and dark, the same I’d smelled outside my door the morning the dinner invitation came.
He circled around me once, unhurried, and I didn’t dare turn my head to follow him.
“You wore the dress,” he said quietly. “Good.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. My skin prickled under his gaze. Not because he was touching me, but because it felt like he already had.
He stopped in front of me again, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I hesitated.
“For… the housekeeping job,” I said, but even I didn’t believe it anymore.
His lips parted slightly like I’d said something vaguely amusing. But there was no humor in his eyes.
“There is no housekeeping job,” he said simply.
That made my chest tighten.
“I picked you because you have nothing to go back to. No one to call. No safety net.”
His words stung — not because they weren’t true, but because they were said so plainly.
“You don’t trust people,” he continued. “And you hate being told what to do. Which makes you… interesting.”
I opened my mouth, unsure what I was about to say, but he cut in gently.
“I don’t want your story, Clarke. I already know it.”
“Then what do you want?”
He took a sip of wine, then leaned slightly forward, gaze never leaving mine.
“I want to rewrite it.”
The room fell silent. My breathing was loud in my ears. Every instinct in me screamed to run, but it had nowhere to go. Not anymore.
He placed his glass on a nearby table, and for the first time… he smiled. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t warm. It was quiet, calculated.
“I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” he said. “Luxury. Safety. Purpose. Even affection, if you earn it.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“But not love. Don’t confuse this with that.”
I nodded, the weight of the moment pressing deep into my chest.
“And in return?” I asked, voice steadier than I felt.
“You obey.”
That was it.
No elaboration. No contract. No specific list of duties or expectations. Just a word.
“Do you think that’s something you can do?” he asked, watching me.
I didn’t answer immediately. My life had always been a string of commands from people who never cared. But this man… this stranger… he wasn’t asking for control just to take. He was offering something back.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good.” His voice dropped slightly. “Then your training begins tomorrow.”
My eyes widened just slightly. “Training?” I've literally been this for over two years, paid or not, so what for?I asked myself.
“You’re not ready for what I need. Not yet. But you will be.”
The finality in his voice left no room for negotiation.
He took a step back and reached toward a small table near the fireplace. He picked up a black velvet box and extended it to me.
“This is yours. Wear it tomorrow. You’ll know when.” seems like I'm being instructed on what to wear each day. It's frustrating.
I took the box with trembling hands and looked down at it. I didn’t open it. Not yet.
When I looked back up, he was already walking toward the door.
“Wait,” I said, surprising both of us. “What should I call you?”
He paused with his hand on the door.
“You can call me W.I.”
“What does that stand for?”
He turned his head just enough for his profile to catch the light.
“Whatever I want.”
And then he left, leaving me with several thoughts.
- Writer
