Chapter 4

I didn’t know who I was expecting to see, but it was definitely not him–the Dominique guy who’d airily walked in that night. He was sitting languidly on the sofa, dressed in blue white-washed jeans and a black singlet that showed off his toned arms, and he looked up as I walked in, a hint of annoyance in his gaze. I could tell he wasn’t happy to see me–not at all. He frowned, his eyes never leaving my body. My face flushed with heat at his intense stare and I was angry at myself for responding that way to a man who’d treated my father like shit. He wasn’t a good man, yes, but he was human and as such, he ought to be treated as one. Whatever had happened to him where he was taken to that made the animosity grow stronger towards me. I was curious to find out, but one part of me–the part that was rational–pulled me back. I didn’t want to get hurt by what I found. 

Dominique looked at me like he was irritated that I was standing in his pristine living room, and I could tell by the expression he didn’t bother to conceal that I was not welcome here. His gaze fell on my torn slippers and he chuckled. 

“What the hell are you wearing?” His tone dripped with sarcasm and I gulped down the bulge in my throat, looking anywhere else than his face. It put my panties in a twist that he was this handsome–blonde hair spilling over the side of his forehead, skin properly tanned like he’d spent a year out in the sun, the sharpness of his jaw giving him an edge–yet didn’t have any regard for a person’s life. 

“You look like shit,” he stated blatantly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. I knew I probably looked worse for wear because of the earlier rush, but he didn’t have to make it look like I didn’t care for myself when in actuality, I tried to cover the basics of hygiene in a bid to appear presentable. 

“Did you even have your bath before stepping out?” I bit down on my lips as he dished out the insults, payback for the ones I’d hurled at him. But then, I didn't know who he was. Now, I did. It didn’t change much, but there was a perspective shift which occurred. 

The housekeeper remained silent, her head bowed in submission. I stared briefly at her before my gaze flickered again, lingering for a little too long on those pale blue eyes, but they were too intense and I turned away. 

“Well, here,” Dominique started, sitting upright on the couch. “There are a couple of rules you have to follow. Break them, and you might not live to see another day. One of them is that anytime I’m speaking, don’t you dare stare down at me. I hate laziness. I hate untardinness and you have to look neat at all times. There is no room for inconsistencies and I like punctuality. I take it as the next best thing to godliness. Do you understand?” 

I nodded at the force of his voice, my lips pressed together. 

“That being said, Magdalene, please, show her her room at the outhouse,” he said with a note of finality. The outhouse? Did that mean I wasn’t going to stay inside this magnificent space? Everything in the living room gleamed with gold, except for the marble floor and the roof was glass like in a new office building. I inwardly sighed, my hopes dashed. Well, that was too bad. I was kind of looking forward to it. I’d never lived in such a big space. 

I followed quietly behind Magdalene to the outhouse like a meek lamb following the sheep to slaughter. The smell of urine from nearby was the first thing that hit my nose. Rumpling my face like someone about to cry, I dropped my bag on the only bench in the room, looking around at the cement walls with holes large enough for one to peep through. 

“Is it okay?” She asked, concern evident in her tone. She obviously cared–not like the others. 

I wore a small smile, but inside, I was seething. This was way worse than my house back at home. How was I going to survive here? Magdalene nodded and left me to arrange my things and I blew out a shaky breath, tears rushing to my eyes again. God! How could you do this to me, dad? After everything Mom sacrificed, this is where I end up? The walls were square and boring and there was nothing to hold on to apart from an old clock which hung in the center of the outhouse, the constant ticking of the clock hands stretching the silence thin. I was about to offload some of my clothes from my box when I heard my name being called by Dominique. His voice carried across the wind to me, deep and soft and like the sound of bells tinkling in a musical hall. It would  take me a while to get used to it. 

I dropped what I was doing and hurried down to the house, practically flying up the porch steps. I reached the living room, panting like a dog eager for some excitement, and Dominique looked me up-and-down in disdain. 

He dropped a bombshell. “I want you to prepare tacos for me for lunch.” Tacos? Haven’t heard that before. Was it the name of a local dish? And if so, how is it made? I was clueless when it came to stuff like this. 

“I don’t…”

“You don’t what? Are you stupid? I told you I’m not one for excuses. Just get it done for me,” he snapped, jolting me out from my thoughts. I shuffled my feet in the direction of what I presume to be the kitchen, marble table tops shiny even from a distance. The kitchen was state-of-the-art with a large fridge and the sweep of the space was so wide that I was briefly overwhelmed. I didn’t know where to start. There was no way in hell I could prepare tacos when I didn’t have any idea of the dish, or the ingredients used in preparing it. Sighing, I cupped the back of my neck, turning to the sitting room where Dominique was, engrossed in a magazine I didn’t take note of earlier. I had to tell him. 

I stopped mid-way, in case he got angry and physically lashed out at me, twiddling my thumbs nervously. 

“I can’t make the tacos,” I said, my voice soft, barely above a whisper. I was pretty sure he didn't hear me because minutes passed by and he didn't reply, his gaze still on the magazine. Eventually, when Dominique answered me, it’s with a deep breath, and he straightened his shoulders. 

“You can either rustle up the meal, or your father ends up behind bars and I’m sure you don’t want that.” His gaze levelled on mine as he said the last part and I gulped, knowing fully well the implication before my brain could even process it. 

I didn’t have a choice. I returned to the kitchen. 

Dominique took a small bite of the tacos I’d prepared–after several hours of sweating and toiling in the kitchen, finally coming up with a recipe–his forehead creased as he considered the taste. This was the moment of truth. I’d put in my best, I could only hope that Dominique liked it and didn’t complain. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than Dominique threw the food at me, soiling my clothes. 

Well, shit.