4 eggs. 3 avocado toasts. 2 cups of orange juice.
1 woman who ate like her enemy was incapable of poisoning a breakfast.
You see, I never question my judgment.
Therefore, I'd never had my doubts about the whole 'facade' thing (you know, about her putting on a mask and her whole romance being some undercover shit to trap me or spy on me or whatever).
I never doubted my speculations, despite how flustered she got of me after I played along to her romance, despite how real her affection and contentment with me seemed earlier today.
But this is having me question everything.
I watch and wince at her enthusiastic eating, stuffing her mouth with bread as mustard bleeds through the corners of her mouth.
Is she… genuine? If so, why? Maybe she's just incredible at playing twisted games.
But that's hard to believe when her presence is so sincere. So actual and authentic. Almost lovel-
Don't even think about it.
I rest my arm on the kitchen table, taking a moment to observe the scene.
Mariah is wearing my knitted rainbow-striped sweater. It's incredibly oversized on her, settling around her thighs. That sweater reaches my waistline at most. it's sleeves keep pulling over her hands successfully getting in the way of her food.
Right- the food.
Does she not care if it's safe or not?— Is she immune? Genius or stupidly naiv— My non-stop chain of questions is cut off by her noticing me staring at her.
I freeze. So does she.
But then she smiles at me, cheeks still puffed with stuffed bread, then continues chewing and stuffing my share of breakfast into her mouth. I feel something other than disgust at her smile.
As she attacks the food, I notice a million things—a lot of which I'm not proud of.
I notice how the sunlight streaming through the windows turns her hair from matte silver to iridescent, her normally black eyes now grey, and every part of her facing the sun ten shades lighter. Ethereal.
Even her unawareness about how the rainbow prisms reflecting off her hair light up the surroundings more than the sunlight itself.
They move around the room following the motion of her head, all around her as if highlighting attention to the subject of an image.
"Do they starve you at Bostings'?" I earn a glare as I walk over and pull out a seat next to her.
No response.
"I guess it's a yes then," I take a bite out of the toast "Though you'd never expect such a pure corporation to do harm such as starving employees" I mock.
It's not very gentleman-y to point out a woman's manner of eating, I'm aware.
But I need to bring the corporation up. To know her intentions. Remind her of our differences. Remind myself. She's too laid back and it's eating at my soul.
"I'm not an employee. I'm the CEO's daughter." She flashes a humourless smile.
Right. Kent's daughter. I don't like the sound of that. "So they do starve you."
Again, no response. I choose not to push more buttons.
An awkward two-minute silence later, she finally speaks. "They do, you know."
"I'm sorry?"
"Yea. It's crucial to the image of the corporation- a limited diet."
I furrow my brows.
Mariah Catches onto my confusion "Every 'successor' to the CEO has to maintain a… visually appealing image."
My appetite is now dead, replaced by another flow of questions. I take a sip of juice to hold my mouth back, not trusting the questions that will escape it– but I just can't stop myself from asking "Then why does Kent- my bad, the CEO, look lik—"
"–Like dogshit? Yea, no explanation for that."
I spit out the juice from my mouth. Mariah breaks into sick laughter while I stare at her puzzled.
Choosing to leave me to my perplexity, she gets up and walks to the fridge, examining for something more.
I find myself pitying her.
No wonder she ate such bland food obnoxiously. Who knows what Bostings definition of a limited diet might be?
I'm used to skipping meals, but that should never be the case for people at Bostings. It has a whole reputation for treating its employees like gold.
But reputation is just reputation. Rarely ever true for Bostings. I should know that better than anyone.
I shouldn't be so surprised.
Standing in front of light emitted from the refrigerator, the silhouette of her figure looks tall, plump and full in the right areas, with healthy skin all over— She had to be on a proper diet— of course I found myself having questions.
She picks out an orange.
Almost as if she knew I was staring, she turns around, walks over to me. Wraps her arms around me from behind, dropping the fruit over my lap as if to request me to peel it open. I get to work instantly, flustered by the sudden proximity.
"Cameron," she whispers above my ear, arms still wrapped around me. My breath hitches at the sudden mention of my name from her mouth "—guess my favourite scent."
My peeling picks up at a faster pace.
"I-Im sorry?"
"Favourite. Scent."
Is it wrong how much her demanding tone worked me up?
"U-um.. lavender?"
Dumbass. What a stupid answer.
I already knew— I even thought of getting her musk-scented candles before backing down on the idea. But I just couldn't think straight with her warmth obscuring my thoughts like fog.
"Wrong." She bit down on my neck, almost forcing a sound out of me.
Almost.
As good as Mariah feels, I have an ego.
I can't let her have any control over me. I won't give her any indications of pleasure. Even though we did what we did yesterday. Petty, I know.
"How about… Favourite flavour?"
Her breath travelled down my neck, electricity thrumming down its wake. Electricity that had no place existing within me.
She dragged her lips across my nape while tracing a line down my torso. "Grayson."
My thumb pierced the flesh of the orange, its juices dripping down my hands. "I-I don't kn-"
She bit down on my shoulder eliciting a whine from me.
I don't care about ego anymore. All I cared about was taking her upstairs and bending her over till—
"Orange."
I freeze. Orange. Of course.
I could practically hear my heart pulsate in my ears and neck.
'—scented candles or flowers, but of course condoms in her favourite taste- orange flavoured—(Not that the night would even have a chance to be steamy enough for her to taste it)—'
Not steamy enough my ass.
She did, in fact, take the opportunity to taste it when she could.
Heat flushes my cheeks and my body feels suddenly heavy at the memories that flash through my head. This woman and what she did to me had to be illegal.
I wish this scenario wasn't as sick as it is. I wish she didn't put up a mask to lie to me. I wish she meant the affection she tried to convince me she did.
I can't take this anymore.
I throw her hands off me and stand up.
Concern splashes her face and for a second, I almost consider sitting back down and letting her have her way with me.
"What's wrong?" Your dishonesty, Ms.Lockheart. That's what's wrong.
"I just need to use the bathroom." I force my eyes away from ogling her body.
She breaks into laughter holding her stomach. I grow hot. "W-what?"
"Listen, if you need help you can tell me, you know." Her eyes dart to my pants "It's me you were in bed with, there's no room for being shy. I don't judge." She holds back another laugh, suppressing her mouth with her hand. "No need to rush to the bathroom."
I grow even hotter if that is possible. "I-It's not that, okay? I just, I need to— quit laughing!"
She, in fact, does not quit laughing. She laughs even harder instead. Sick woman.
"Yea, yea, sure, I believe you." I can hear the amusement in her voice before she gives me a quick peck and heads out the door.
"Unfortunately for me and you, I have duties to attend to." She adjusts her shoes. "And I suppose you should get back to yours."
"Thanks for breakfast!" She waves at me. "You're—" the door shuts before I finish "—welcome."
As the echoes from my voice wash out, I'm forced back to reality while realization dawns on me.
'I have duties to attend to, and I suppose you should get back to yours.'
Duties to attend to.
In other words, crimes against everything she stands for. Very well.
Perhaps I should get to work.