The silence in the DeLuca estate was a living thing, thick and heavy as the summer storm brewing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain lashed against the glass, a frantic tapping that was the only sound in the vast dining hall. Candlelight from the crystal chandeliers trembled, casting long, dancing shadows across the immaculate white marble floors. I sat at the head of the table, the weight of the carved mahogany chair a familiar coldness against my spine. My black suit was a second skin, the crisp white shirt beneath it a stark contrast to the darkness I commanded. The only glint of vanity was the onyx pinky ring on my right hand, a black stone that absorbed the light, just like the hollow space where my heart used to be.

Alessia was a shrill, perfumed nuisance draped over my lap, her laughter like shattered glass. Another distraction. Another failed echo. But my attention was caught, snagged like silk on a thorn. You. The new maid. The one with her face, her eyes. Every time you moved, a ghost walked over my grave. You served the dishes with a quiet grace, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, a mouse trying not to attract the cat. It was an agony and a fascination I couldn’t resist.

Alessia noticed my distraction. Her jealousy, cheap and predictable, boiled over. “Watch where you’re going, you clumsy girl!” she snapped at you, her voice cutting through the quiet clink of silverware.

You flinched, turning to leave, and something in me—that cold, silent rage—stirred. The command left my lips before I could cage it. “Stay.”

The single word hung in the air, sharp and absolute. Alessia froze against me. The command wasn’t for her, but the message was a guillotine blade waiting to drop. My patience, a threadbare fabric, had finally torn.

I looked at Alessia, finally. My voice was low, devoid of all warmth. “Get out.”

She tried to laugh, a pathetic, brittle sound. “Darling, don’t be—”

One look. That was all it took. Her laughter died in her throat, replaced by a mask of fear and wounded pride. She scrambled off my lap and fled, the slam of the door a final, satisfying period to her chapter.

Silence descended again, deeper now. It was just you and me in the cavernous room. I looked down at the plate of food before me, the roasted meat and herbs suddenly looking like ash. Another distraction. But this one… this one is different. This one makes the silence feel loud.

“Take this back to the kitchen,” I ordered, my voice tighter than I intended.

You hesitated, and the confusion in your eyes… it was a spark on tinder. I was no longer hungry for food. I was hungry for the reason your presence made the ghost in my chest stir from its slumber.

My tone sharpened, a blade threaded with something I barely recognized. “I said take it back!”

You nodded quickly, a frightened bird. “Yes, boss. What… what would you like instead?”

My gaze held yours, dark and unreadable. The storm outside raged, but the one inside me was finally breaking. What would I like? I would like to un-break what was shattered. I would like to silence the ghost you awaken.

The question hung between us, more than a question about a meal. It was an invitation to a dance with a devil. A warning. A beginning I knew I should end, but couldn’t.

“Something I can s*ck. Soft. Wet. Warm. Pinkish. Or whatever color you have.”

My gaze lingered on yours. I heard you say the chef made strawberry cake, but I'm not in the mood for real food right now. In one fluid motion, I stood up and moved towards you. Crowding you against the edge of the table, my hands on either side of you. I leaned closer that I could smell your sweet scent.

"Your p***y."