Caspar

Damn I think as I gulp down another spoonful. I struggle to swallow it down. Hoping desperately my expression doesn't betray me.

To put it bluntly, it was horrible. I was not expecting it to. It smelled so good but tasted like ash.

The little cook was looking at me eagerly, awaiting my comment.

The bandana on her head was almost slipping off showing her dark unruly hair. The knee-length white sundress she had on complimented her chocolate-colored skin making it shine like gold. She was a sight. A beautiful, gorgeous sight.

I couldn't get myself to tell her that her food tasted like shit. I force myself to finish everything in the bowl.

"How was it?" she asks expectantly.

I clear my throat. "It was delicious."

The small, pleased smile she gives me in response was worth every drop of the soup. In fact, I will gladly eat a thousand bowls full of it again if I get to see that smile as a reward.

She takes the dishes away from the table to the kitchen.

I stand up and follow her.

"Lily," I say, but she cuts me off for the millionth time today.

"I would like to finish up here. Or do you have something else for me to do, sir?"

The monotone tone she was using was grating on my nerves, and so was the way she wouldn't stop calling me sir. I hated being called that.

Lily was stubborn. But we couldn't keep up this charade any longer.

She couldn't work here.

I almost lost control moments ago. Seeing her in school and not doing what I wanted with her was torture enough. Seeing her in my home, within my walls, far away from judging eyes and whispers. I couldn't get ahold of myself. I let all moral thoughts vanish. They quickly came back though when I saw the confusion on her face.

Of course, she didn't feel the things I felt for her. How could I think otherwise? She didn't because it was wrong. You don't think of your teacher like that. It was wrong, so wrong. But not to me because I was sick. Sick in the head. Sick in the heart.

"You will listen to me," I say sternly.

The seriousness in my voice gets her to look at me with fear, finally.

"You cannot work here. I would not let you."

The dishes she has in her hands are shaking as a result of her shaking hands. I was scaring her. Or she was scared of learning that she couldn't work here. Why did she want to so badly?

"You could work somewhere else."

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head.
"No, that's the thing. I can't work anywhere else," she sniffles.

"Why?"

"I just can't. No one else will hire me, and I need to work."

I don't understand why nobody else will hire her. And why would she even want to work, to begin with? Isn't she a full-time student?

"Why would you want to work?"

She laughs, then sees that I'm dead serious. She laughs even harder.
I watch her. Silent. Confused.

"Are you seriously asking why I would want to work?" She scoffs.

She places the dishes back in the drawers. I hadn't even realized she was washing them all along.
She wipes her hands and faced me, placing both hands on her hips.

"Didn't you work when you were in college?" she asks.

"No," I answer.

"You didn't have the need to? Who paid for your books, tuition, and living expenses?

I pause.

Oh, oh.

How gullible of me. Thinking everyone has money to spare. I almost forgot my luck when it comes to that department. I didn't have to worry about such things. I already had a separate bank account for my university tuition before I was born. I had a separate bank account for every occasion in my life. Perks of being the child of billionaires.

"You get it now?"

I nod, feeling ashamed of my privilege and ignorance.

"I do, but I still can't let you work here. I'll help you find a job elsewhere."

I wasn't budging. It was for her sake. I had no self-control when it comes to her. The things I want to do to her. The things I'll eventually do to her if she's going to be alone here with me. Unspeakable.

Her eyes shine with tears.

"Okay," she whispers.

Fuck. The sadness in her voice was making my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.

She takes a deep breath and then braves a smile even though it's forced.

"I will leave," she says.

I nod, unable to speak. If I open my mouth, I'll take my words back because I suddenly feel terrible.

She clearly needs this job.

I could help her find a job as I said, but imagining her working for another man was making me want to keep her locked up here. She was irresistible and innocent. She had no idea the appeal she has. I want to keep it that way. Keep her innocent, unaware of her power.

"If money is the only problem, I can write you a check," I offer.

Simple. Both of our problems were solved.

Though judging from the expression on her face, it was far from solved.

She looks angry.

"No, thank you," she snaps.

She quickly walks past me. I stand there dumbfounded for a second before rushing after her.

"Where are you going?" I call after her.

"Leaving. Isn't that what you wanted?"

I catch up and stop her from walking out the threshold by holding unto her wrist.

"Yes, but not like this. I'll give you some money, so you don't have to work."

It was dark outside. The streets were eerily quiet. I lived far from the city. The only neighbors I shared this area with were miles away. The trees surrounding us sway with the wind. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie. But I was used to the dark scenery. Lily, not so much. She shivers as she looks around.

"Come inside. We can resume the discussion there," I urge.

"No. There's nothing to discuss. I'm not taking your money."

She shivers again. Her light sundress was not offering protection from the cold wind.

"Look, let's just go inside."

"Didn't you want me to leave?"

"I did. But it's cold and dark. After we talk things through, I'll call a driver for you to take you home."

I still had ahold of her hand, so I tugged on it and got her moving.

As soon as we get in, she snatches it from me.

"I won't take your handouts. Either I work and earn my keep, or I leave."

What a stubborn, fierce girl.

"Take a seat," I say.

She complies and sits on the sofa.

She looked like a misplaced piece of furniture surrounded by the bland deco of the living room. People like her belonged in an art museum, not this ancient Rose mansion. She was a muse to dark-minded artists like me.

I feel the familiar itch in my fingertips. I wanted to capture her at this moment. Sitting primly, looking scared and defeated. I could write pages upon pages about it.

I ignore the urge and focus on solving our little problem.

I go to sit next to her but think better of it and stand instead.

This position makes her arch her neck up to look at me.

"Mr. Williams, it's getting late. If I am not working here, I'd better get home," she states.

She was right. Why can't I just let her go home? Why was I prolonging this and making it more difficult?

But I couldn't let her go without helping her. I needed to know she wouldn't end up working in another house with another deranged man as her boss.

"I would let you leave if you agree to take the check I'll send you."

"No," she says, vehemently shaking her head.

"No?"

"No," she repeats, her tone final.

I sigh in agreement, knowing she wouldn't budge. There was only one other solution.

"Fine, you can work here." I give in.

She squeals. "Thank you! Thank you!"

She stands up.
"Honestly, thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this," she says in a quiet voice.

I  don't know how to react. Suddenly feeling so out of place.
"Don't thank me."

I lean in a little closer to her, watching how her breath hitches. Little things like this make me think she was affected by me like I was with her. But I shouldn't kid myself. This was one-sided. Unable to resist, I continue to stare at her unblinkingly.

"Mr. Williams."

God. Her voice. It made the nerve endings in every part of my body stand alert.

She backs away and like the predator I am, I stalk her. Her legs hit the end of the sofa.  I hiss at the sight of her caged in. Perfect. So perfect.