~Evelyn’s POV~
Weekends, especially Saturdays, were an anomaly I had never quite learned to tolerate, it was slow, unbearably lazy and offensively unproductive.
If the decision were up to me, the concept of a “day off” would be expunged from the calendar entirely.
However, this particular Saturday offered a different rhythm.
It didn’t promise its usual dullness, rather it offered something or rather someone, far more compelling.
Firing off an email to a partner in Caspia city capital, i closed my phone and reached for the iPad.
“Let’s see who you were before the glitz and the hollow glamor of marrying into old money,” I murmured to the empty room before i began my descent into the digital archives of Clara Sinclair’s life on her social media accounts.
The first thing that clawed its way to the top of the search results was the wedding of three years ago.
Scrolling through her account gallery, a familiar heat of irritation rose in my chest.
There was Julian, a fake smile plastered across his face and his eyes as expected devoid of anything resembling genuine warmth.
I found myself annoyed not just by his presence, but by the sheer frequency of him.
I wanted to spare my eyes the sight of such a despicable man, but he was everywhere and what grated on my nerves even more, however, was the naivety etched into Clara’s features in those early photos.
She looked at him with love and trust that was painful to witness.
‘How could she not have known’ I mused, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Finally pushing past the marriage years, I scrolling deeper into the “Sinclair” era.
Finally, the algorithm gave me a glimpse of the girl she used to be.
I clicked on a candid shot that stopped my breath for a fraction of a second.
It was a simple photo: she was in a sun-drenched park, playing with a golden retriever.
Her smile wasn’t the practiced, fragile curve I had seen at the gala; it was radiant, a genuine explosion of joy.
The evening sun caught the copper highlights in her hair and illuminated the delicate, symmetrical perfection of her face.
But it was her eyes that held me; soulful, vibrant, and terrifyingly alive.
The contrast was staggering.
The woman currently sitting in my north wing was a hollowed-out version of this girl.
Her uncanny beauty remained, of course, but the light had been extinguished.
I felt an unfamiliar emotion take root in the pit of my stomach, a strange tight constriction that felt uncomfortably like empathy, but i pushed it down ruthlessly.
Scrolling further, I found some photos of her at her former university.
She was often surrounded by a small, tight-knit group of friends, clutching trophies or standing beside blank canvases, as I looked closer, a realization dawned on me that made me irritated.
There wasn’t a single photo of her actual work.
Not a painting and not even a sketch.
“He really did kill her dreams, didn’t he?”
The more I scrolled, the angrier I became.
I was angry that an incompetent, pathetic excuse for a man had systematically dismantled a talent he couldn’t hope to understand.
But I was also infuriatingly angry at her.
How could a woman of such obvious intellect and gift allow herself to be swayed so far from her path?
The waste of potential was the ultimate sin in my world.
For a second I was tempted to hurl the iPad across the room out of annoyance when a knock sounded at my door.
“Come in,” .
James entered.
He stopped in the center of the room, clasping his hands in front of him.
I noticed, not for the first time, the slight tension in his posture.
It fascinated me how even my most senior staff, people who had been with me since the beginning still acted with a certain timidity.
“Was I truly that intimidating?” I wondered briefly but the thought didn’t bother me.
Intimidation was merely another tool for efficiency.
“She’s settled in, Madame,” James reported.
I simply nodded, waiting for the rest.
I knew James; he wouldn’t come to my study just to tell me a guest had found the bed.
“Go on,” I urged, my gaze returning to the tablet but my ears sharp.
“What do you make of her?”
James was more than a butler; he was a silent observer of human nature.
I trusted his instincts implicitly.
“At first,” he began, choosing his words with care, “she looked as though she might drop dead from anxiety and completely terrified of the environment.”
I let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Hardly surprising, given the den of wolves she just escaped.”
“Indeed. However, she seemed to relax, only slightly, the moment I showed her the suite. But what I found truly interesting, Madame, was her reaction to the key card.” He paused.
“She looked genuinely shocked. Not just surprised, but stunned, as though the very idea of owning a private, lockable space was a foreign concept to her”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the tablet.
James’s observation hit a nerve I had tried to keep buried.
My mind involuntarily flashed back again twelve years ago, to a house where my own bedroom door had no lock, where my father’s footsteps in the hallway were a constant, looming threat of intrusion.
Rising from the seat i walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the city’s skyline.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the skyscrapers in hues of bruised purple and gold.
“For all we know she might have been a guest in her own home ” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
“Continue,” I said, my focus snapping back to James.
“Overall,” James concluded, his voice soft with a rare note of pity, “she seems like someone who has survived a hardship meant to break her. Though she is still apprehensive of the staffs… and especially of you.”
“You may leave,” I dismissed him.
He bowed slightly before turning on his heel.
I let him reach the door before I added, “Inform her that she will be having dinner with me at 6:00 PM sharp. And be sure to tell her to dress appropriately.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Surprisingly, the day, usually a slog of Saturday boredom accelerated.
However, a crisis with a merger in Solara city forced me into a an emergency meeting that ran long.
By the time I ended the conference meeting and made my way to the dining hall, I was thirty minutes late.
Clara sat at the far end, looking agonizingly small in the vastness of the room.
I noticed immediately that her plate was untouched.
She hadn’t even unfolded her napkin, only just sat there, her hands folded in her lap.
As soon as she saw me, she straightened her back.
The fear flooding back into her eyes.
I felt a sudden surge of hatred for that expression.
I had spent a better part of my adult life making people fear me; rivals, incompetent CEOs and enemies but seeing that look on her face felt like a personal insult, because she’s neither of these things.
Ignoring her initially, I took my seat at the head of the table and began to eat.
After a few minutes, I sensed her gaze.
I looked up suddenly, catching her eyes before she could dart away.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I demanded.
“I… I just—” she stammered.
The lack of a coherent sentence made my irritation spillover.
“I asked you a question in a clear coherent voice, Clara. I expect a clear answer.”
“I am not hungry,” she said, the words coming out in a single, desperate breath.
Almost on cue, a low, hollow grumble echoed from her stomach.
Her stomach seemingly protesting against her lie.
“One thing you will not do for the duration of your stay here is lie to me,” I stated, setting my fork down.
“Lies are for the weak. They are for people like Julian.”
I leaned forward slightly, my eyes boring into hers.
“Now. Eat.”
It was a command, not an invitation.
She flinched, then slowly picked up her fork.
Once she started, the dam broke.
She began to eat with a quiet, desperate intensity that told me more than James’s report ever could.
By the time I finished my portion, she had cleared every grain from her plate.
So much for not being hungry.
Signaling to the chef with a slight tilt of my head.
He moved efficiently, replacing her empty plates with a second, steaming portion of the braised wagyu and truffle risotto.
She looked at the food, then at me, then back at the food table before pouncing on the the second plate as if she feared it might vanish.
“Thank you,” she whispered once the second plate was gone.
Her voice was low, but the tremor was fading.
“If you want more, you inform the chef. You do not wait for permission to fulfill a basic biological need,” I stated as a matter of fact.
For the first time that evening, I really looked at her.
The nourishment had brought a faint, rose-colored blush to her cheeks and forehead.
In the soft glow of the chandelier, she looked less like a ghost and more like a woman.
She was, quite inconveniently, breathtaking.
“Since you are finished,” I began, my voice taking on the tone I used for boardrooms.
“Listen to the rules that guide every member under my roof. Seal them into your mind.”
She looked at me, her eyes wide, reflecting the candlelight.
“First: You do not starve in this house. If you are hungry, you eat. Second: You never lie to me. Every lie will attract a punishment tailored to the offense. Third: You do as I say without question or fuss. If I tell you to jump, your only response is to ask how high. Finally, you do not leave this estate without my express permission.”
I paused, letting the weight of the restrictions settle.
Then, I leaned back, my gaze raking over the simple floral dress she had worn from the mansion.
“And finally,” I said, my voice dropping to a silkier, more dangerous thread.
“The clothes in your closet a picked for a reason. They are meant to be worn, not admired like museum exhibits. You will dress properly even if you are only here on a contract. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Evelyn,” she replied.
The way she said my name, tentative and soft, sent a strange featherly feeling through my chest.
“Good,” I mused.
“Your work begins on Monday morning. Be sure to be ready by 7:00 AM every morning”
She just nodded timidly.
“Tomorrow, I will provide a brief overview of your responsibilities as my assistant,” I stated, watching as she continued her rhythmic, robotic nodding.
“While the finer details of your training and the corporate structure will be handled by Francis and lydia my assistant”
I leaned back, my eyes narrowing as I studied her.
“Do you have any questions? Or have I failed to be clear?”
“No, Ma’am,” she replied instantly, the words out of her mouth before I had even finished speaking.
“Or,” I said, my voice low and sharp, “are you simply too terrified to ask them?”
“No, Ma’am,” she repeated.
“Only those on my payroll as domestic staff refer to me as ‘Ma’am,'” I corrected.
“You are not my servant, Clara. You are my assistant, a professional extension of my office. I would prefer you address me as Miss Evelyn. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Miss Evelyn… I’m sorry,” she added, her gaze dropping to the obsidian table.
She looked fretful as her fingers twisted on her lap as if she expected a reprimand for her breath.
“Why are you apologizing?” I asked.
Her constant, reflexive timidity beginning to grate on my nerves.
“Because I… I addressed you incorrectly,” she whispered, the words barely reaching my ears.
“Did you know my preference beforehand and choose to ignore it?”
She looked up, startled, her eyes wide.
“No, Miss Evelyn.”
“Then there is nothing to apologize for. An error without intent is simply data to be corrected. Do not waste my time with useless contrition.” I reclined further into my seat, observing the way she seemed to shrink into herself.
It would take time, I realized, to scrub away the shadow of the man who had taught her to apologize for existing.
“Come with me,” I commanded, pushing back from the table.
I began to walk, I didn’t need to look back to know she was following; I could hear the soft, hesitant scuff of her sandals nearly ten feet behind me.
James led us through the corridors, past the main living areas and toward a detached wing at the far end of the estate.
He produced a key, handed it to me with a silent nod, before returning back into the main building.
I unlocked the heavy door and stepped aside, watching her face as she crossed the threshold.
It was a vast, airy space James had spent the morning arranging.
High ceilings, north-facing windows to catch the perfect, steady light.
But it wasn’t the architecture that drew her.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten the mechanics of your craft,” I said, leaning against the doorframe, my arms crossed.
The shock on her face was visceral.
She stood frozen for a long moment, as if she feared the room was a mirage that would dissolve if she breathed too hard.
Then, slowly, she began to move.
Her hands, still trembling, reached out to stroke the edge of a white canvas.
She moved to the workstation, her fingers hovering over the rows of professional-grade pigments and heavy tubes of oil paint.
She picked up a pack of charcoal pencils, bringing them to her nose to inhale the earthy, burnt scent of the wood.
Then ran the tip of a fine sable brush against the curve of her cheek, her eyes closing briefly.
And then, it happened.
A smile broke across her face.
It wasn’t the polite, terrified curve of her lips I had seen before.
It was radiant, genuine, and transformative.
In that instant, she seemed like the girl from three years ago, prior to her marriage, the girl with the soulful eyes and I found myself entirely, dangerously unprepared for the impact it had on my frozen heart.
My chest tightened, a sharp, unfamiliar ache blooming behind my ribs.
I had to look away, clearing my throat to dispel the sudden heaviness in the air.
“How…” she started, her voice a breathless rasp.
“How did you know?”
“I am Evelyn Vance,” I replied, regaining my mask of indifference.
“I make it my business to know the value of my acquisitions.”
I began to walk the perimeter of the room, my fingers trailing over the high-end easels.
“Everything in this space is yours to use. Every paint, every canvas, every tool.”
“Really?” she asked, her voice small, laced with a skepticism that bit at me.
She looked at me as if there was a catch for my generosity.
And she wasn’t wrong.
“Yes,” I said, stopping to face her.
I let a slow, calculated smirk pull at the corner of my lips.
“But it comes with a condition.”
I watched the light in her eyes dim slightly as she braced herself.
‘That’s right, Clara, I don’t give out freebies.
I am not Mother Teresa’ I thought to myself, as my gaze raked over her.
I find Evelyn strictness hot to be completely honest :), Also what do you think is the condition she will ask?