I ride my bike up to the gates of the Vastano mansion. The car in front of me signals, the massive iron gates swing open silently, and I follow the Maybach up the short driveway. This place, unlike the fussy, old-world Alaister house, is a sleek, modern mansion. All glass, steel, and clean lines.
I kill the engine, get off my bike, and take off my helmet, shaking out my hair. I take a moment to admire the minimalist, perfectly manicured garden.
Suddenly, a woman, a head shorter than me and thirty years my senior, appears in front of me. I'm startled; I didn't even hear her coming.
"Greetings, Mrs. Vastano," the woman says, her smile wide and enthusiastic. "I am Catarina, the butler of the family. It's a pleasure to meet you."
I stretch out my hand, relieved to see a genuinely friendly face. "Nice to meet you too. You can call me Tyr."
Catarina's smile widens from ear to ear; you'd think she had won the lottery. "That won't do, Madam," she begins, but before she can continue, she turns abruptly to the driver taking out my suitcase.
The driver almost drops it. Catarina's smile vanishes instantly, replaced by an expression of fierce, military command. "Handle that with care," she orders.
"Yes, ma'am," the driver replies, immediately becoming more careful.
I want to step in and say it's okay, but Catarina is so intense I almost feel like checking my homework so I wouldn't get into trouble as well.
She turns back to me, and the genuine smile instantly snaps back into place. The sudden shift is jarring. It makes me think she has bipolar or something.
"Please follow me inside, Madam," Catarina says.
"Okay," I say, trying to match Catarina's unnerving enthusiasm, and follow her inside.
Catarina happily chatters away. "Sir has been waiting for you. You will be having steak for dinner. I hear you are a fighter, so I made sure that there was sufficient protein."
I am speechless. This woman is so eager, so focused on making me comfortable, that I am starting to think she genuinely knows nothing about the contract.
As soon as we enter the cavernous, immaculate foyer, we meet Vega coming down the wide staircase. He is no longer wearing a suit, but even dressed casually, he looks stiff.
He has on a dark navy short-sleeve tee, clean, fitted, and tucked in, with high-waisted cream trousers that bring a soft contrast and elongate his silhouette. The brown leather belt subtly echoes the brown leather shoes, which ground the look with classic polish. A silver wristwatch adds a sleek metallic accent.
I snort internally; even at home, he looks stiff and not homey at all.
Vega casually glances at me. "You met."
"Yes," Catarina chirps. "I have instructed people to settle the Madam in."
"Good," Vega says, before walking straight into the dining area, already detached from the conversation.
Catarina turns to leave, and I start to follow her, eager to get away from the cold faced bastard. But Catarina stops me. "Madam, you can go join Sir in the dining area. Dinner will be served in five minutes."
I really want to follow Catarina and avoid dealing with Vega alone, but I know I can't. I have to play the part. I enter the dining area.
Vega is already sitting, ramrod straight at the head of the massive, polished table, a statue that couldn't be moved easily. I see that the only other set of cutlery is directly opposite him, forcing me into the most awkward seat in the house. I grit my teeth and sit down.
Vega unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap without saying a single thing. He radiates cold silence.
I was right; eating opposite this person is absolute torture. I wonder what crime I committed in my past life to be stuck with a rock, no, a boulder for a year.
"What happened to your hand?" I ask, noticing he's already wrapped his bruised knuckles in a bandage.
"It's none of your concern," he replies, his voice devoid of warmth.
I sneer. "What if others ask? What should I say happened to my husband?"
Vega glances at me, his eyes cold as steel. "They won't ask," he states simply, shutting down the conversation.
Just then, a young man brings in dinner, his expression serious, like he's terrified of making a mistake. He bows slightly and places the dinner plates before us. He pours out sparkling water, and as soon as he is done, he scurries away.
"Maybe you should smile more," I suggest, ignoring his previous demand. "Even the people who work for you are terrified even to breathe around you."
Vega's expression visibly darkens. I can practically sense danger lurking in the shadows, the air itself seems to drop ten degrees.
"Eat," he commands, his voice cold and final.
I decide not to poke the bear anymore. Two pokes were enough, three would be excessive. I pick up my knife and fork and do as I'm told. I cut the steak and take a bite, not expecting much.
But when I eat it, the flavor is incredible, it's heaven in my mouth. My eyes widen, and I glance down at the food on my plate, completely surprised. This is the best meal I have ever eaten.
If only the company were better.
***
After dinner, I follow Catarina out of the dining area, the warmth of the perfect meal settling comfortably in my stomach. I am compelled to talk about it.
"That steak was incredible," I admit. "How was it made? Seriously, what kind of cut was that?"
Catarina beams, completely delighted by the compliment. "If I were to tell you, Madam, then you would make it yourself and won't need me," she teases.
I chuckle. "How is that possible? I'm just curious."
Catarina opens a door to a large bedroom. "Besides," she continues, her voice dropping slightly, "it was the Sir who asked me to make this for you. It seemed he was right that it would suit your tastes."
I pause my steps, turning to her sharply. "Huh."
Catarina doesn't seem to notice my disbelief. She's too busy chattering. "You two make a perfect couple."
I am in disbelief. Catarina must have got it wrong, because how on earth would Vega know my tastes? No one but Mac and my dad knows my taste preference. It makes no sense.
Catarina shows me where I can take a shower. I've already showered once today, but this woman is so insistent on cleanliness that I feel obligated to scrub head to toe all over again.
As soon as I step out of the steam, I finally have a chance to look around. The bedroom is a fortress of sleek, modern luxury. Cool slate-gray walls, minimalist furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering city lights in the distance.
A low-profile king bed with charcoal linens anchors the space, surrounded by curated decor, a piece of bronze art, a vintage watch, and a single, ambiguous photo.