Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Study
Downstairs in the utility supply closet, Norah Bennett was rapidly packing her few meager belongings into a frayed canvas tote bag. Her rubber cleaning gloves were stripped off and tossed carelessly into the sink. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely zip the bag shut.
For thirty agonizing minutes, every time a floorboard creaked or a heavy door slammed in the distance, she was certain it was a security team coming to execute her for attempted poisoning. She pictured her body dumped in an unmarked grave somewhere in the Cascade Mountains, her fifty-thousand-dollar debt remaining unpaid, her life snuffed out over a bowl of leftover chicken scraps.
The heavy metal door of the supply closet swung open without a warning knock.
Enzo filled the doorway, his towering frame blocking the exit completely. His face was unreadable, his eyes dark and shadowed.
“Come with me,” Enzo commanded, his voice leaving zero room for argument.
Norah’s breath hitched in her throat. She clutched the canvas bag against her chest like a protective shield, her legs trembling beneath her uniform trousers. “I swear to God I didn’t poison it!” she blurted out, tears of absolute terror finally spilling over her eyelashes. “I was starving! I made it for myself out of garbage! I didn't know he was going to eat it!”
“Just walk,” Enzo said firmly, gesturing down the hallway toward the private elevator.
There was no escape. Norah forced her trembling legs to move, each step feeling like lead as she followed Enzo through the maze of the sprawling mansion. They bypassed the grand staircase and entered a private elevator panel that required a biometric security scan. The doors slid closed, lifting them smoothly up toward the forbidden top floor of the estate—the master wing where Vincent Rossy lived like a reclusive emperor.
When the elevator doors opened, Norah was hit by an overwhelming wave of intimidation. The private study was vast, dark, and filled with towering bookshelves, priceless art, and an air of absolute, terrifying power.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Vincent Rossy himself.
Up close, he looked even more formidable than the rumors suggested, despite his gaunt, hollow-cheeked appearance. His tailored suit was immaculate, his dark hair was combed back with precision, and his piercing, obsidian eyes locked onto Norah with the predatory focus of a tiger sizing up its prey.
Norah froze ten feet inside the doorway, clutching her canvas bag so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Look at me,” Vincent said. His voice was low, smooth, and possessed an effortless authority that commanded absolute obedience.
Norah forced her chin up slightly, though her whole body was trembling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to steal from the kitchen. I’ll leave right now. You can keep my last paycheck. Just... please don’t hurt my family.”
Vincent did not immediately answer. He slowly leaned back in his leather executive chair, resting his elbows on the armrests while keeping his intense gaze locked on her. He studied her cheap cleaning uniform, the smudge of soap still visible near her hairline, and the genuine, unfeigned terror in her eyes. This was no trained assassin or corporate spy. This was simply a terrified young woman working herself to the bone to survive.
“You made the broth downstairs,” Vincent stated, not a question, but a cold fact.
“Yes,” Norah whispered, bracing herself for the blow. “Chicken bones, an old onion, garlic, water, and some leftover rice. It was... it was just trash food. I didn't think anyone of importance would ever touch it.”
“Trash food,” Vincent repeated softly. A strange, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips. He picked up the empty ceramic bowl from his desk and slid it slightly forward. “For six months, every Michelin-starred chef on the Eastern Seaboard has tried to feed me multi-thousand-dollar meals designed by culinary geniuses. Every single one of them tasted like poison, and every single one of them made me violently ill.”
Norah blinked, her tears pausing as confusion momentarily replaced her terror.
“And yet,” Vincent continued, standing up slowly from his desk, his tall frame cutting a striking, imposing silhouette against the window, “you take a handful of discarded bones and bruised vegetables, boil them in tap water, and my stomach accepts it like medicine.”
He walked around the heavy desk, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. Norah’s heart hammered wildly against her ribs as he stopped just two feet away from her. Up close, she could see the subtle exhaustion etched into his features, the stark reality of a powerful man brought to his knees by physical frailty.
“Why?” Vincent asked quietly, searching her eyes. “What did you put in it?”
“Nothing,” Norah breathed, holding her ground despite her fear. “Just... just care, I guess. When you’re poor and your stomach hurts, you don’t care about presentation or truffles. You just need something warm that doesn't judge you. My mother used to make it when we couldn't afford meat. It’s... it’s just honest food.”
Vincent stared at her for a long, heavy moment, processing her words. The concept of honesty in this mansion was a foreign language. Everyone around him lied, manipulated, stole, or plotted behind his back. But this exhausted cleaning maid standing before him, smelling of soap and cheap detergent, spoke with a raw, undeniable truth.
A slow, deliberate decision formed behind Vincent’s dark eyes.
“You are no longer a cleaning maid, Miss Bennett,” Vincent said smoothly, his tone shifting into one of absolute command.
Norah’s eyes widened in sheer shock. “W-What?”
“Starting tomorrow morning, your cleaning duties are terminated,” Vincent declared, turning back toward his desk. “You are moving into the east guest suite on the second floor. Your official title will be Private Culinary Director to the Head of the House. Your salary will be ten times what you were making as a cleaner.”
Norah stood frozen, her jaw dropping open. “Wait—what? Are you out of your mind? I don’t know how to cook fancy food! I don't know what a sous-vide or a reduction is!”
“Good,” Vincent replied coldly, picking up a pen and signing a document without looking up. “I am entirely finished with fancy food. I want honest food. And you are going to make it for me every single day.”
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Before Norah could process the insanity of the situation, Enzo stepped beside her, gently taking the canvas tote bag from her paralyzed fingers.
“Welcome to the executive wing, Miss Bennett,” Enzo said with the faint hint of a respectful nod. “Let me show you to your room.”
