He doesn’t stand as I approach the table. Just watches me walk the length of the room with that same intensity, his eyes never leaving me. I focus on moving normally. Spine straight, chin up, steps measured. Not rushing, not faltering. Pretending I don’t feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
The yellow dress was a mistake. Too bright, too revealing, too everything against the monochrome backdrop of this room. But it’s too late now. I’m committed to this entrance, this moment.
When I reach the table, I hesitate, unsure of protocol. Do I wait for him to indicate where I should sit? Pull out my own chair? Stand awkwardly until given permission?
“Sit.” He gestures to the place setting on his right, the word more command than invitation.
I comply, sliding into the chair with as much grace as I can muster. The table is set with crystal and silver, the kind of formal dining arrangement I’ve only seen in magazines. Multiple forks and spoons and glasses whose purposes I can only guess at. A crisp white napkin folded into a perfect triangle. A single white rose in a slender crystal vase. Bea taught me table manners, but not for settings like this. Her version of formal dining involved the good napkins and not eating over the sink.
“The yellow is unexpected,” he says, his eyes still on me. Not on my resume or my qualifications or the table between us. On me.
I resist the urge to tug at the neckline of my dress. “It was this or jeans.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, at my honesty. Or disappointment at the reminder of my limited circumstances.
“It suits you,” he says finally. The words come out reluctantly, as if extracted against his will.
Before I can respond, Franklin appears from a door I hadn’t noticed, carrying a tray with two glasses of wine. He places one in front of each of us with mechanical precision, then withdraws without a word. No menus, no explanation of what we’ll be eating. Just silent efficiency and disappearance.
Caleb lifts his glass, watching me over the rim. “To new beginnings, Ms. Vance.”
Is that what this is? Has he already decided to hire me? Or is this just a formality before he sends me back down the mountain to whatever awaits me?
I lift my own glass, meeting his gaze directly. “To new beginnings.”
The wine is rich and complex on my tongue. Probably costs more than a week’s worth of groceries. I take a small sip, conscious of how easily wealth can go to a person’s head. How quickly judgment can become impaired when surrounded by luxury after months of deprivation.
Franklin returns with the first course, a butternut squash soup with something rich and earthy swirled through it. I take a careful sip, and the flavors hit me so hard I nearly close my eyes. It’s easily the best thing I’ve eaten in months. I search for something to say, something neutral and pleasant to break the heavy silence. Caleb just watches me, his own spoon untouched, those gray eyes tracking every movement of my hands, my mouth, as if he’s conducting a study on how ordinary humans eat soup.
“This is delicious,” I offer, gesturing slightly with my spoon. “Do you have a chef?”
“Franklin cooks.” His response is clipped, giving me nothing to build on. He finally picks up his own spoon but continues watching me more than his food.
The silence stretches again, broken only by the clink of silver against china. I try again.
“The view from my room is incredible. You can see all the way to the town below.”
“Cooper Hills,” he says, as if naming the place exhausts his capacity for conversation.
Alright then. I take another sip of soup, searching for a topic that might actually engage him. This is still an interview, even if we’ve moved from his office to his dining room.
“The compound’s architecture is fascinating. All this glass, yet so private. Did you design it yourself?”
Something flickers in his eyes. Interest, maybe. “Yes. Eight years ago.”
When he became a recluse, according to the agency briefing. I want to ask more, but I know better than to pry.
“It’s beautiful,” I say instead. “Stark, but beautiful.”
He makes a noncommittal sound, his eyes dropping to my mouth as I speak. I feel self-conscious suddenly, aware of every movement of my lips, every swallow. I reach for my wine glass just to have something to do with my hands.
“The lighting in here is interesting,” I continue, desperate now to fill the void. “The way it focuses on the table but leaves the rest of the room in shadow. Very... atmospheric.”
His mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “Are you always this determined to make conversation, Ms. Vance?”
The question catches me off guard. “I... I suppose so. Silence makes me nervous.”
“Why?” He leans forward slightly, something predatory in the movement.
