I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What can I say?They gave me dog food?Will he believe me? Will he care? Or will it just be another mark against me, a sign of my ingratitude?
He waits, his gaze steady. It feels like he can see right through me. Through the dirty dress, through the sweat and fear right down to the raw, starving core of me.
“I…” The word is a croak. I clear my throat, wincing at the pain. “I… wasn’t given anything… suitable.”
He watches me for another long moment, and then something in his expression shifts. It’s not kindness, not quite but I could almost fool myself into believing it is sympathy. He nods, almost to himself.
“Sit,” Antonio says, pointing to a leather armchair by the fireplace.
I stare at him, then at the pristine chair. There’s no way in hell I can sit there. “I… I’m dirty.”
“Sit down.” He says again, this time in a tone that makes me think I might be punished for disobeying him.
I do. I perch on the very edge of the seat, terrified of leaving a mark.
He stands up and walks over to a small, elegant sideboard I haven’t yet cleaned. On it sits a silver domed platter. He lifts the dome, revealing a plate. On the plate is a pile of sandwiches, cut neatly into triangles and stacked up. They’re simple, chicken salad, lettuce. But to me, in that moment, it is the most beautiful, most miraculous thing I have ever seen.
He picks up the plate and brings it over to me, holding it out so I can take it.
“Eat.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command, but it’s a command I am physically incapable of disobeying. My body takes over. My hand, trembling violently, reaches out and takes one from the pile.
I don’t even think about manners, about dignity. I shove one corner of it into my mouth.
The flavours explode on my tongue; the tender chicken, the creamy mayonnaise, the crisp lettuce, the soft, fresh bread. It’s so overwhelmingly good that my eyes well up with tears. I have to force myself to chew, to swallow, to not choke in my desperation.
I devour the first triangle and then the second. Trying to pace myself, to be human about it, but the hunger is too powerful.
Crumbs scatter on my dress and onto the immaculate floor. I am mortified.
He watches me the entire time, saying nothing as he perches on the edge of his desk. His silence is a weight. I feel every inch of his gaze on my greasy fingers, my probably messy mouth, my damp, disgusting hair.
He has seen me naked, he has seen me beaten and now he sees me like an animal, gorging itself.
There is no part of me left that he does not own, that he has not seen in a state of degradation.
When the last crumb is gone I sit back, my stomach full for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
The dizziness recedes, replaced by a heavy, lethargic feeling and a deeper, more profound sense of shame.
He walks over, handing me a glass of water, and I gulp it down greedily while I do everything I can to avoid his gaze.
He speaks, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. “I will speak to Clara.” He says quietly. “I won’t have you starve like this again.”
The words are offered like comfort, but they feel like chains. He is being kind, but it is the kindness of a master to a useful pet.
“Thank you.” I whisper, because it is expected and the words taste like ash.
I swallow again, then force myself to stand. If Mistress walks in and finds me sat here on my arse, I know I will pay for it.
My legs are still weak, but now from the sudden influx of food and the weight of his confusing… care? Manipulation? I don’t know what to call it.
“Thank you.” I half-whisper again, putting the plate back on the side.
He watches me the entire time, but it doesn’t feel like the eyes of a predator. It feels infinitely more kind than that.
I back out of the room, careful not to turn my back on him until I am at the door. I pull it shut softly behind me.
