Charles' Cold Welcome

As soon as I get out of the car, the chilly night air strikes my skin and goes deep into my chest. The mansion in front of me appears like a fortress. It's tall, menacing, and obviously extremely nice. This isn't the kind of place I'm used to being. The polished glass windows reflect the streetlights, which cast long, black shapes on the front yard. As soon as I get to the property, I can see that things are different. 

I take a deep breath. I keep my hands at my sides even if they're sweaty. I don't want to ask for mercy. I'm here to live. 

There he is, at the front door. 

Charles Thorne. 

He seems like a statue at the doorway, and his tall body casts a menacing shadow. His blue eyes cut through the black light and stared at me like a predator might at its prey. His brown hair is perfectly combed and his black suit is spotless. He looks wonderful. He doesn't grin. He doesn't do anything. It looks like he's waiting for me to make the first move. 

As I walk, the gravel road crunches under my feet. Charles doesn't even try to let me in. He only observes, his eyes serene and almost cold. I want to back away from him, but I don't. I'm not afraid of him. At least I tell myself I'm not. 

"Jackson," he says in a low, clipped voice. "Come in." 

I nod and walk approach him, but he doesn't even look at me as he goes back into the mansion. As I follow, the door closes silently behind me. 

The inside of the mansion is just what I anticipated it would be: cold, slick, and not particularly welcoming. The floors are constructed of polished marble that sparkles in the dim light. Everything fits together so well that it makes me uncomfortable. The air smells like leather and something that smells like lemon. 

"Follow me," he says as he walks down the long hallway without looking at me. 

I look around. Everything is as it should be, nothing is out of place, and it doesn't feel warm. I can't help but wonder whether this is how Charles lives every day, in a world where sentiments don't count. 

We go through a few rooms, such as the office, the library, and the dining room. Charles doesn't say why. He walks carefully and with purpose. He's not giving me a tour; he's just showing me the room like he's showing off a new acquisition. A new job. 

He suddenly stops in front of a big, smooth piece of art and asks, "Do you like it here?" When I call, he doesn't look at me. He just stares at the art with a blank look on his face. 

"I don't know," I say in a high-pitched voice. "It's a bit much for me." 

When Charles glances at me, something—maybe amusement?—flashes across his face. But it's gone in a heartbeat, and that same unreadable gaze comes back. He looks at the painting again. 

"It's not for you to like. I own it. That's all that matters. 

I swallow and try not to bite back. I could feel the walls between us getting thicker every second. I knew I wasn't here to stay. I wasn't even here to be treated like a person. I was here to be... used. 

After a while of awkward silence, Charles turns to me. His face is as cold and far away as ever. 

He says, "I have my rules," and the way he says it makes it sound like a command instead of a suggestion. "Don't break them." "Stay in your lane." 

His voice is final, and it makes me sick, yet I stand up straight and stare him in the eye without blinking. 

"I don't want to cause trouble," I remark, but the words don't seem to mean anything to me. 

Charles doesn't say anything; he just turns around and walks away, expecting me to follow. And I do. 

We step inside a huge living room with big windows that look out over the city. I can't get to the lights in the distance. I feel like I'm in a glass cage, looking out at a life that isn't mine anymore. 

Charles walks over to a sleek bar, and his movements are smooth and fluid. He prepares himself a drink and doesn't ask me whether I want one. He swirls the whiskey in the glass in his hand, which catches the light. He isn't looking at me; he's looking at the drink. 

Finally, he says something. "You'll get paid." For your... job. 

I glance at him, and something bad crosses my face. "Charles, I'm not a whore." 

He lifts an eyebrow at me, not caring that my voice is harsh. "You're only here because you need me." Keep it in mind. 

I take deep breaths, but I don't give up. "I didn't come here to be insulted." 

"Please don't hurt me." He speaks in a chilly, planned way. "I'm reminding you that I have the cards. I'm letting you stay somewhere. You really do need a roof. 

I agree with him. I don't have anything else. No money, no family, and no pride. But I don't want to say it. I'm not going to tell him I need him. In no way does that make me feel small. 

He drinks from his glass, and the silence between us gets louder. I stand there, not knowing what to say, feeling the heaviness of his words. 

At last, he turns around and looks me in the eye. "Do you understand what the terms mean?" 

I nod, but my throat is tight. I don't need to ask him what he means. I get it. He has made it clear. This is a deal. Not getting emotionally invested. Just a cold, real link. 

"I get it," I say, my voice tight. 

He sets the glass down, and the sound of the crystal hitting the marble floor echoes in the stillness. "Good." I can keep you here as long as I wish. And you will do what I say in exchange. I won't put up with people who don't do what I say. 

I can feel a cold coming on, but I force myself to keep my face blank. I don't know what to expect from him, but I know I'm already in deeper than I want to be. 

Charles gets closer, and it's too much for him to handle. "You'll see that things aren't as bad as they seem," he continues, his voice quieter now but still strong. 

I shake my head. "I'm not here to feel better. I had to come here. 

He stares at me for a while, like he's trying to figure things out. I can feel the tension between us increasing again, and I can feel something pulling me that I don't want to confess. 

"Exactly," he says in a quiet voice. "Neither of us has time for games,"