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Chapter 7: The Watchman
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2025-12-19 18:04:10The plate sat empty.
She scraped the ceramic with the fork. She chased the last grain of rice. She wiped the sauce with her finger and put it in her mouth. I watched her throat work. I watched her swallow. I took the tray from the desk. I moved it to the side table near the door. The china clattered. The sound echoed in the quiet room. It sounded like a gunshot in a canyon. "It is late," I said. Chloe looked at the heavy velvet curtains. Darkness pressed against the glass. The reflection showed a distorted version of the room. It showed a monster and his prisoner. She looked at the door. It remained locked. The brass bolt shone in the dim light. It mocked her. "Am I leaving?" she asked. Her voice was a rasp. "No." I walked to my desk. I sat in my leather chair. The leather creaked under my weight. I picked up a file. I did not open it. I used it as a shield. "You stay," I said. "You remain under observation. I do not trust you yet. The night is not over." "Where do I sleep?" I looked at her. She wore my suit jacket. It was Italian wool. It cost more than her life's earnings. It swallowed her frame. The sleeves hung past her hands. It covered her knees, but her legs were bare. She looked ridiculous. She looked exhausted. She looked like a child playing dress-up in a war zone. I pointed to the Persian rug in the center of the room. "There." She blinked. She looked at the floor. She looked at the plush leather sofa in the corner. It was wide. It was soft. "The sofa?" she asked. "It looks big enough. I won't dirty it." "No." I did not look up. "I use the sofa. Or I use the chair. You use the floor. You are the prisoner. Prisoners do not get comfort. Comfort breeds weakness." She did not argue. She did not fight. The fight left her hours ago when I put the gun to her head. She walked to the rug. She sat down. The fibers were thick, but the floor beneath was hard. It was unforgiving. She curled up. She pulled my jacket tight around her chest. She tucked her knees in. She used her arm as a pillow. I watched her. She looked like a dog. A stray dog allowed inside for one night to escape the rain. I opened the file. I tried to read the numbers. The words blurred. My mind refused to focus on business. My mind focused on the date. The Anniversary. I closed the file. I pushed it away. I listened to the room. The silence was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. I heard the grandfather clock in the hall. Tick. Tock. I heard the wind rattle the window pane. I heard her breathing. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The air grew cold. The heating system lowered for the night. Her breathing changed. It deepened. It slowed into a rhythm. She slept. I stared at her. I felt annoyance. I felt anger. How could she sleep? I held a gun to her head. I tore her dress. I threatened her life. I stripped her dignity. Yet she slept. She possessed a survival instinct I did not understand. Or she was stupid. Perhaps she was simply broken. I stood up. My knee ached. The old injury flared. It always flared on this night. The body remembers trauma even when the mind tries to forget. I walked to the liquor cabinet. I poured a glass of whiskey. No ice. Ice makes noise. I drank it in one swallow. The burn felt good. It grounded me. I walked to the rug. I stood over her. My jacket rose and fell with her breath. Her face looked relaxed. The lines of fear smoothed out. Her hair spread over the intricate red patterns of the rug. It looked like a dark halo. I saw a mark on her forehead. A bruise formed. It turned purple. It matched the shape of my desk edge. I caused that. I looked at her wrists. Red marks circled them. The imprint of my fingers remained. I caused those too. I felt a twinge in my chest. It was not guilt. Kings do not feel guilt. Guilt is a useless emotion. It was recognition. I damaged my property. I dislike damaging my property. It shows a lack of control. She shifted. Her hand twitched. She mumbled a word. "Mama." She dreamed of her mother. She dreamed of the insulin. She dreamed of the debt. I walked back to my desk. I sat down. I placed my gun on the blotter. The metal felt cool against my hand. I did not sleep. I never sleep on this date. The darkness in the room shifted. Shadows stretched. My mind began to play tricks. I smelled smoke. It was not real. I knew it was not real. The fireplace was cold. But the memory was hot. I smelled the burning timber of the warehouse. I smelled the gasoline. I smelled Vanessa’s perfume mixed with the scent of betrayal. I closed my eyes. Flashback. Fire. Everywhere. The heat blistered my skin. I crawled. My leg dragged behind me. I reached for her. Vanessa stood in the doorway. She held the ledger. She did not reach back. She smiled. “Goodbye, Lorenzo.” The roof collapsed. I opened my eyes. I gasped. Sweat cooled on my neck. I gripped the arms of my chair. The leather groaned. I was not in the warehouse. I was in my study. I was the King. But Vanessa was not dead. That was the torture. I never found the body. I never found the ledger. She vanished into the smoke. She is out there. Watching. Waiting. The ghost breathed. I looked at the girl on the floor. Her soft snoring filled the room. It was a chaotic sound. It was unrefined. It was human. It broke the perfection of the silence. It pushed the smell of smoke away. I focused on the sound. Inhale. Exhale. Snore. It was a tether. It kept me in the room. It kept me away from the fire. I checked my watch. 3:00 AM. The Witching Hour. Usually, I pace the floor at this hour. Usually, I drink until I pass out on the sofa. Usually, I scream in my sleep. Tonight I sat still. I poured another whiskey. I did not drink it. I held the glass. I watched the amber liquid catch the light from the moon. I looked at Chloe. She turned over. The jacket slipped. Her shoulder exposed itself. The skin looked soft. It looked untouched by fire. I felt a strange urge. I wanted to touch her. Not to hurt her. Not to use her. I wanted to see if she was warm. I wanted to see if she was real. I stood up. I walked to her again. I knelt on the rug. I reached out. My hand hovered over her shoulder. My fingers trembled. I stopped. Do not touch the liability. I pulled my hand back. I stood up. I walked to the window. I watched the moon trace a path across the sky. I waited for the sun. The sun destroys ghosts. Hours passed. The sky turned grey. Then it turned pink. The birds began to sing. They did not know a monster lived in this house. I looked back at the rug. Chloe moved. She groaned. She stretched. Her eyes opened. They were brown. They were confused. She saw me. She sat up quickly. She pulled the jacket tight. The fear returned. "Good morning," I said. My voice sounded like gravel. She swallowed. "Morning." "Stand up." She scrambled to her feet. She wobbled. Her legs were stiff from the hard floor. I walked to the door. I unlocked it. The click signaled the end of the night. The end of the anniversary. I opened the door. "Go," I said. "Go to your room. Shower. Change." She stared at the open door. She looked at me. She expected a punishment. "Go," I repeated. "Before I change my mind." She ran. She did not look back. I watched her disappear down the hall. I closed the door. I leaned against it. I survived the night. I survived the ghosts. I looked at the empty rug. I missed the sound of her breathing. I watched her disappear down the hall. She ran like a frightened animal. I closed the door. I leaned against it. The silence returned. The heavy silence of the estate. I survived the night. I survived the ghosts. I walked back to the desk. I looked at the side table. The plate was empty. The risotto was gone. I touched my stomach. It felt full. It felt settled. For the first time in months, I did not feel the gnawing burn of hunger or the nausea of paranoia. I ate. I survived. I looked at the fork she used. If she went back to the servants' quarters, she would cook for the guards. She would cook for the maids. She would waste this gift on people who did not matter. A surge of possessiveness hit me. It was irrational. It was violent. I grabbed the phone. I dialed the internal line. "Giovanni." "Boss?" His voice was alert. "The girl," I said. "Chloe Rossi." "Is she dead? Do you need a cleanup?" "No." I picked up the empty plate. I stared at the white ceramic. "She is alive. But her duties have changed." "Sir?" "She does not cook for the staff anymore," I commanded. "She does not cook for the guards. She does not touch a pot or a pan unless it is for me." "I... I understand. Where should she report?" "Move her," I said. "Get her out of the servants' quarters. Put her in the Blue Room." "The Blue Room? But Sir, that is in the family wing. That is next to your—" "Do it." I hung up the phone. I set the plate down. The night was over. The anniversary was done. But my hunger was just beginning.
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