Clovis Blackwood sat perfectly still in his leather chair. His office was quiet and cold, like a museum. He watched the young woman, Cinder, walk into the room. She looked small and nervous in his large office. Her eyes were wide, looking at the tall bookshelves filled with books.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice soft.
He did not smile. "You are the chef who made the chicken."
"Yes, sir."
"Why?" he asked. His voice was flat. "The other chefs made complex dishes. You made something simple."
Cinder clasped her hands together. "I... I believe good food doesn't need to be complicated, sir. It needs to be made with care. It should taste like comfort."
Clovis said nothing. He just looked at her. He was a man who understood numbers and business deals. He did not understand 'comfort'. But his mouth still remembered the taste of her food. A small, strange feeling of hunger stirred in his stomach. It was not just for food. It was for that warm feeling again.
"Your recipe was efficient," he finally said, using a business word. "You have the job. You will start tomorrow. You will live here. You will cook my meals. Breakfast at seven. Lunch at one. Dinner at eight. No exceptions."
Cinder's face lit up with a bright smile. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Blackwood! You won't be disappointed."
He handed her a sheet of paper. "These are my dietary restrictions. Allergies. No preferences listed." He did not care about preferences. Food was fuel.
The next day, Cinder moved into a small, clean room in the mansion. It was the nicest room she had ever seen. Her first task was dinner. She cooked a beautiful piece of salmon with lemon and dill, with roasted vegetables on the side.
She placed the plate on the dining table. The table was long enough for twenty people. Clovis sat alone at one end. He ate alone, reading a business report. He did not look at her or the food. He did not say a word.
Cinder went back to her kitchen, feeling a little disappointed.
The next afternoon, she decided to try something different. Along with his tea, she placed a small, warm blueberry muffin on a plate. She did not write a note. She just left it there.
Later, Clovis came to his study for his tea. He saw the muffin. He frowned. This was not on the schedule. He almost called her to complain. But the muffin looked perfect. It smelled like blueberries and warm cake. His stomach felt that strange hunger again.
He picked it up. He took a small bite. It was soft, sweet, and delicious. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. He ate the whole muffin quickly, alone in the quiet room.
That evening, for dinner, he found a perfect, simple bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich waiting for him. It was the kind of food he hadn't eaten since he was a child. It was the kind of food a loving mother would make.
He took a spoonful of soup. It was rich and creamy. The sandwich was crispy and cheesy. For the first time in years, Clovis Blackwood felt a real, deep hunger. It was a hunger for more than just food. It was a hunger for the warmth that Cinder's cooking brought. He finished the entire meal, sitting alone in the giant, silent dining room. The silence felt louder than ever before.