thomas wanted to build his business in the horse racing industry, and since you had high up connections you had agreed to work together. he turned up to your lavish home uninvited one afternoon, making a ‘small diversion’ to come and discuss matters with you. you poured two glasses of irish whiskey as he read the over the report, commenting on how late it was getting. he interrupted your offer for food with an enquiry for engine oil. you stared blankly, and offered to get somebody to look at it for him.

“this evening or tomorrow?” he asked casually. oh. that’s what he’s doing. you could tell from the look on his face he could see right through you, like a damn pane of glass. you felt small all of sudden. you rushed to explain, mustering up any nonchalance, that before carriages and cars guests used to stay over all the time.

“but i, have a car,” he commented, the faintest, almost unnoticeable smile tugging at his features momentarily. his eyes shone knowingly, though he kept his expression composed, chin up, looking down at you. yes, you’d replied breathily, trying to sound as put together as possible.

“and you have, engine oil.” he lowered his chin now to look at you properly. yes probably, but it would be very usual, you’d replied and looked away. he knew what he was doing. he could see right through you.

his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, “what would?,” he said lowly, like he was trying to coax an answer from an insolent child. he wanted to hear you say it.

he was pushing you beyond your usual nonchalance. you hated it. for a guest to stay. we have a whole wing. a guest wing.

“oh, good,” he remarked quietly but equally patronising as he swallowed, looking around the room and betraying the barely noticeable smile for a split second, “you have a guest wing.”