Chapter 2 - Without the distortion of the microphone, it sounded softer and richer, worn around the edges.
“I asked him how much, and he looked at me like he was quoting the price of a private jet. I swear, Beatrice, if I knew how to use a wrench without breaking my thumb, I’d fix the stupid radiator myself.”
A pause.
Fabric shifted.
“You think I should watch a tutorial online?”
Tessa laughed softly.
“Yeah. Me neither. I’d probably blow up the block.”
Damian closed his eyes.
He could picture exactly where she sat.
The wooden chair.
The tilt of her head.
The way she tucked loose brown hair behind her ear.
He caught his reflection in a hallway mirror.
Sharp face.
Pale skin.
Permanent scowl.
What was he doing?
He was Damian Costa.
Men twice his age begged for their lives at his feet.
He negotiated millions in contraband with a phone call.
And he was hiding in a hallway listening to a maid complain about a car.
He stepped toward the door.
He intended to enter.
To demand to know why she had bled on his mother’s sheets.
To confront her until whatever hidden flaw she possessed finally revealed itself.
Before his hand reached the wood, Beatrice spoke.
The sound was weak and raspy.
She rarely spoke coherently anymore.
When she did, the words were usually confused or profane.
“You…”
A pause.
“You are a good girl.”
Damian froze.
“I’m just a girl doing her job, Bee,” Tessa answered softly. “Open up. Last bite of this awful pudding. I promise.”
Damian lowered his hand.
He stepped away.
He did not return to the bunker.
Instead, he went to his office and called the estate kitchen.
“Chef.”
“Yes, Mr. Costa.”
“The staff break room in the East Wing. I want a hot meal left there at noon and again at 6:00 p.m. every day.”
“What kind of meal? For how many?”
“1 portion. High protein. Real food. Not the garbage you serve the guards. Steak, vegetables, roasted potatoes. If I find out it’s cold, I’ll replace you.”
He hung up.
It was a microscopic gesture.
It did not repair Tessa’s car.
It did not erase the debt from her sister’s medical treatment.
But it was something.
Day 8.
Damian sat in the bunker watching monitor 7.
The East Wing break room.
Tessa entered looking as though she had not slept in a week.
The paper towels around her injured hand had been replaced by a cheap drugstore bandage already peeling at the edges.
She went toward her locker and pulled out a crushed sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil.
Then she noticed the table.
A silver warming dome sat in the center.
Beside it were a white napkin and real silverware.
Tessa approached cautiously, as though the plate might contain explosives.
She lifted the dome.
Steam rose from a perfectly cooked ribeye, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus.
Tessa stared.
Looked toward the door.
Then back toward her flattened sandwich.
Damian leaned toward the monitor.
Eat it.
You’re starving.
Just eat it.
Tessa noticed the small card beside the plate.
At Damian’s instruction, the chef had written only 1 word.
“Surplus.”
Her shoulders sagged.
She sat.
Placed her old sandwich aside.
Slowly picked up the fork.
When she took the first bite, her eyes closed.
Her shoulders dropped.
For a moment, the armor she wore against the world disappeared.
What remained was a 26-year-old woman who was exhausted from being hungry.
Tessa ate everything.
Damian sat back.
He ran a hand over his jaw.
He was losing control.
This obsession was a liability.
A stranger was dictating his thoughts, schedule, and mood.
He needed to end it.
He would confront her.
Push her.
Force the mystery apart.
Prove she was as greedy, selfish, frightened, or corruptible as everyone else.
When she broke, he could remove her from the house and restore order.
He watched Tessa wash the heavy ceramic plate in the sink.
Tomorrow.
Day 9.
May you like
He would step out of the shadows.
He would find out exactly what Tessa Miller was made of.
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