Operation: Make Him a Gentleman

CHAPTER 3: The First Breakfast

The first morning at Sterling Manor East Wing did not start with the singing of birds like in the Cinderella movies. It started with the sound of a heavy, low thud coming from the ceiling, a sound like a trunk being dropped or a body falling.

Cathy woke up at 6:00 AM. Her room in the East Wing was large, but it felt cold, the kind of deep-seated chill that seemed to seep out of the stone walls themselves. The bed was covered in heavy blankets that smelled like lavender and old dust, a scent of forgotten elegance. She sat up and looked at her phone. The screen’s glow was harsh in the dim room. No new messages. In this big, lonely house, she felt like she was on a different planet, or perhaps she had slipped backward in time.

"Five hundred dollars a day," she reminded herself, her voice a small puff of air in the cold. She got out of bed.

The floorboards were made of dark oak, and they groaned under her feet like they were complaining about the intrusion. "Today is Day One. Today, I will meet the monster for breakfast."

She dressed carefully. She didn't have expensive clothes like Mrs. Sterling, but she chose a clean, professional cream-colored sweater and her best dark jeans. She wanted to look like a teacher, a person of authority, even if her stomach felt like it was full of cold stones.

She walked down the long, dim hallway toward the small dining room in the East Wing. This was not the grand dining hall with the gold lights she had seen during her interview, this was a smaller, gloomier room used only by Casper. It felt like a bunker for someone who had declared war on the sun.

Cathy went into the kitchen first. It was a cavernous room with copper pots hanging from the ceiling like heavy, silent bells. A cook named Martha was there, moving with a rhythmic, tired grace. Martha was a round woman with a kind face, but her eyes were weary, underlined by permanent shadows.

"Good morning!" Cathy said, trying to inject a brightness she didn’t quite feel.

Martha looked up from a large pot of bubbling porridge. "Oh, you're the new one. The Fixer. I hope you have strong nerves, dear. The last one lasted three days. The one before that? Two hours. He didn't even finish his tea before he ran out the front gate screaming about ghosts."

"I'm staying," Cathy said firmly. "I’ve survived three years of retail in the city. Casper can't be worse than a Black Friday crowd. What does he eat for breakfast?"

Martha laughed, a short, sad sound. "He doesn't eat breakfast, dear. He haunts it. He usually takes a piece of burnt toast and a black coffee back to his cave. He doesn't like the light. He says the sun is too loud."

"Not today," Cathy said. She felt a surge of defiant energy.

"Today, we are sitting at the table. We are going to have a conversation. I am going to make eggs, orange juice, and toast. Real food."

Cathy spent the next thirty minutes working. She found a white tablecloth in a drawer and spread it over the heavy wooden table, smoothing out the wrinkles with her palms. She found a cracked crystal vase and put a single, dying leaf from outside in it, the only decoration she could find in the frost-bitten garden. She set two plates. She made the coffee smell rich and inviting, a sharp contrast to the smell of old wood and damp stone.

At 8:00 AM sharp, the door creaked open. Casper did not walk he seemed to drift. He was wearing the same giant black sweater from the night before, the sleeves pulled down over his hands. His hair looked like a bird had tried to build a nest in it during the night, and his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had spent the whole night watching movies about vampires or staring into the dark.

He stopped in the doorway. He looked at the white tablecloth as if it were a poisonous spider.

"What is this?" he asked. His voice was raspy and deep, the sound of someone who hadn't used his vocal cords in days.

"It’s breakfast," Cathy said, pointing to a chair. "Sit down, Casper."

"I don't sit at tables," Casper said. He walked toward the coffee pot.

"Tables are for people who have things to say. I have nothing to say to you."

"You have thirty thousand dollars' worth of things to say to me," Cathy countered. She stepped between him and the coffee, crossing her arms.

"Rule number one of being a gentleman: you do not ignore a lady at the table. Sit down, or I’ll pour the coffee down the sink."

Casper stopped. He looked at the coffee, then at Cathy. A small, wicked smile touched his pale lips. "You’re feisty. I like that. It makes it more fun when you finally break."

He sat down, but he didn't sit normally. He slumped in the chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the wood.

Cathy sat across from him. She pushed a plate of eggs toward him. "Eat. You look like you’re made of glass. If I’m going to teach you how to dance and give a speech, you need to not faint."

"I don't faint," Casper said, picking up a fork as if he were holding a strange, prehistoric tool. "I just prefer the aesthetic of the Victorian ghost. Being pale is a choice."

"Well, your choice makes you look like you need a nap and a salad," Cathy said. She took a sip of her own coffee, watching him over the rim.

"Tell me about this family business. Why does your aunt care so much about this party?" Casper poked at his eggs.

"The Sterling Group. We build things. Hotels, offices, malls. My grandfather started it. My father was supposed to run it, but he... disappeared into his own head. Now, my aunt runs it. But the board of directors wants a man. They want a Sterling' heir. They think if they see me in a suit, smiling and lying to them, they will feel safe with their money."

He looked up at her, his grey eyes suddenly very sharp, losing their hazy, tired look. "But I am not a liar, Cathy. I am a monster. I like the things that hide under the bed. Why should I pretend to be a business person?"

"Because if you don't, you lose everything," Cathy said softly.

"I don't want everything,'" Casper snapped. "I want to be left alone. I want to watch my movies. I want to read my books about the occult. I don't want to talk about profit margins and construction costs."

Cathy watched him. She saw a young man who was scared not of ghosts, but of the world. He was using the dark to hide from the pressure of his name.

"I get it," Cathy said. "You're using the scary guy act as a shield. If people are afraid of you, they won't ask you. If you look like a mess, they won't expect you to be a leader."

Casper froze. The fork dropped onto the plate with a loud, metallic clink. The silence in the room became heavy, pressing against Cathy's eardrums. The clock on the wall ticked: tock, tock, tock.

"You think you're smart," Casper whispered. He leaned over the table, his face inches from hers. She could smell the faint scent of clove cigarettes and peppermint in his breath. "You think you've figured me out in twenty-four hours?"

"I think you're bored," Cathy said, refusing to move back.

"I think you're a rich kid who is playing a character because the real world is too loud."