•Word Count: 2,460
To say I'm fairly prepared for this confrontation is a lie. I'm far too physically drained to talk to an ill-mannered man who hides behind his enticingly charming aura.
A handsome face and an impressive build are a waste on an off-putting personality.
Determined to meet the man with curtness, I sport a granite hard countenance, which drops immediately when I open the door and two heads turn in my direction.
So much for the tough girl role, my prides tsks at me.
It's the pair of red rimmed eyes that distract me from everything else.
Never mind that the everything else is Elias, who rocks a stoic expression, and a sound asleep Élise sprawled across a small fraction of his real estate of a chest.
It's a shame, really, having that stupid thing in my chest melting at the sight.
Nothing prepares me for the force of Clara's collision as she lunges at me, crying over my shoulder so noisily that I start to think someone might've died. It takes me a couple of clumsy staggers to steady myself -and Clara- once again.
"Oh, thank God" Clara weeps, her voice a little bit adenoidal from all the crying.
Instantly, guilt sneaks in and guides my soothing hand up and down her back.
"I'm so sorry, Clara. You and Élise were asleep, I didn't want to wake you up"
"You left your phone! I thought something happened to you" She replies accusingly, crying harder. She's trembling so hard I have to hold her tighter in fear her legs might give out.
I'm hyperaware of Elias's presence but I make sure not to look at him, yet he continues to gaze at me, curious eyes spearing the entirety of my back as I traipse, with Clara leaning into me, towards her room.
She tells me she did the only thing her panicked mind led her to; she ran to the men outside, who didn't hesitate to call Elias.
Guilt-stricken, I guide the trembling mess that is Clara into her room, tuck her in bed, and with the help of a Donormyl (a sleeping pill), I finally get to see her eyes glaze over with drowsiness.
Before she completely succumbs, she mumbles a hoarse "I'm sorry" that's followed by a lone tear, which slides from her tear dock, across the bridge of her nose, and onto the pillow. She's often more composed than this, making me fall further into the abyss of guilt. As I'm shutting the door to her room, I make a mental note to assess the immensity of the situation later, after I've put Élise back in bed.
No sleep for me tonight, it seems.
Elias is still sitting, somewhat comfortably, in the same spot on the armchair, staring unemotionally straight ahead.
Silently, I pick Élise up, with no resistance from his part thankfully, turning her over so I can place her head on my shoulder. I've only taken two steps toward our room, when he decides to speak.
"Where were you ?" Elias asks irately, as though the tether that was his patience just snapped.
I pause with my back facing him. Honestly, I was surprised he remained silent all this time. Turning, I contemplate ignoring him but figure I have this irresistible urge to push his buttons.
"I went hunting" I begin, watching his face harden and his jaw tick. "for fresh air" I finish, only to watch the vein in his forehead pop as he attempts to hide the irritation.
Despite the spiteful response, he nods.
That's all I get -a nod. I pretend his response wasn't something I anticipated, so I turn to leave.
"How you made it past my men, I'm not quite certain but.." He says, standing up and grabbing his coat. "I'll make it my job to figure it out"
Something about the way he's looking at me tells me that he'll remain true to his threat until he figures it out. Fine, I'll be extra careful next time.
Instead of going for the door, he walks the opposite direction, towards me.
I'm not given the chance to step back before he's right in front of me in just two strides, leaning in to place a kiss on Élise's head, and finally turning to leave.
"Have a good night" He says on the doorstep, not exactly expecting an answer because he shuts the door immediately after.
•••
Bijou grew up in an orphanage; making her inability to socialise properly, due to the hostile attitude she must've acquired throughout her childhood, cogently justifiable.
I had a classmate in 8th grade whose both legs got amputated as a complication of diabetes, sentencing him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Once, mom told me about a colleague of hers who gave birth to a pair of conjoined twins, fused at the head.
This has been a habit of mine for what seems like forever. Reminding myself of the most unfortunate lives of people I've either encountered or been told of, to will myself to be grateful for, no matter how little, what I have.
Even when my life takes infuriatingly sharp turns -sometimes flipping me over- to the worst.
This morning, when one of the trainers at the trainer aircraft announced the top three trainees and called my name, I thought it was life's version of an apology for its shortcomings.
I thought, as I stood there verging on tears, that life has finally decided I've been through enough and it's time I'm given a chance to live peacefully.
I wasn't dreading the 5 hour trip to Lyon to meet with the CEO at all, I was actually excited, texting Clara all the way here.
We even rode a limousine! I've never been on a limousine before, which I found promising.
But right now, as I stand here, between the two other top trainees, I stare at the ceiling, reminding myself that my life could've been a lot harder than this.
I could've died in the house fire, and Élise would've been admitted into an orphanage.
I could've been injured so badly to the point of losing some fingers or worse, a whole limb. Or, I could have lost the only thing that matters to me now, Élise, to the fire, along with my parents.
It doesn't help take back the shock, but it does help me shut my emotions off as I stare at the CEO of the airline spewing his observations of our training, telling myself it could've been worse, anything could be worse than Elias being the CEO of the airline I'm meant to work with for the following 6 months of my life.
Judging by the way he walked in and met my shocked to the bone self with professional indifference, he knew it.
He was the one to reach out for me, having Juniper, who mentioned the CEO being one of her closest friends, offer the job instead of doing it himself.
At least he has the idea I would refuse, had the job offer come from him, which is mildly alleviating.
Elias, who -need I mention- does a great job of pretending he only knows me through my imaginary resume, glances at me occasionally when addressing the three of us. His gaze lingers just as long as it lingers on each of the other two trainees, denying any sort of connection to me.
As if, just the night before, he wasn't sitting at the armchair in my living room with my baby sister peacefully dozing on his chest.
His tone, as anticipated, remains professional throughout the meeting; even when he dismisses us, walking the other two trainees and his secretary to the door and shutting it behind them, his impassive face sports a frown of professionalism.
Sitting in the far end of the 34th floor of the VTC Airways Headquarters, his office, although insanely spacious, is enclosed by three glass walls, the fourth one harbours a massive window, which overlooks the bustling streets of Lyon.
I watch, through the glass, as his secretary leads the other two smiling trainees somewhere, probably to complete their official employment paperwork.
Had it not been a one-way mirror from the outside, I would've felt a lot more secure with the reassurance that anyone might be able to see anything transpiring inside this office.
To my absolute horror, Elias locks the door to his office, sending my heart into a rhythm of painful throbs. He doesn't say anything as he goes to stand behind his study, opens a drawer, and grabs a few files to toss them on his desk.
I'm hoping that at least the floor-to-ceiling window, which backdrops his desk, is transparent, as it stretches from one end of the room to the other.
Though I highly doubt a scene in the 34th floor would be seeable for pedestrians, whom I can identify as none other than an army of ants from here.
Yet again, the reasonable portion of my brain scoffs at me and tells me that someone as successful as Elias would not jeopardise his career by harming a woman -a woman he very much rescued and oh so charmingly went so far as beat up her assailants.
But it's not Elias I grew afraid of, it's the brute I saw the other night.
A breeze of a shudder passes through me at the memory.
His eyes scan the whole office, as though he's the one foreign to it and not me, before landing on me.
I take it from the way he regards me, silently, he's waiting for me to say something, which I plan to do, once I've weaved my way through the maze that is my thoughts, and stumbled over the thousand questions on my way.
"Why ?" is all I come with.
"Pardon ?" He asks, all too monotonously. I grit my teeth.
"Countless encounters posed a good chance to mention something about this. But you still chose to, unfairly, keep me out of the picture. Why ?" I barely finish my rant, before a bottle of water is, calmly, thrusted in my direction.
I didn't realise I was shaking until now. I tend to get shaky whenever I reach a point of untameable fury. When did I even get to this point ?
Snatching the bottle from him in a manner that defies my intention, I screw the lid and take a much needed gulp of water.
"You knew this the whole time" I comment, already sure about it, independent of his confirmation. He just nods.
"Yet you failed to mention this the other day at the café" I say accusingly.
"Would you have accepted the offer coming from me ?" He challenges.
"No" is my immediate response. He cocks his head to the side whilst still watching me, as though telling me he's justified for reaching out to me through Juniper.
"I never apologised for the presence outside your house-"
"It's okay, feel free to call them off right now" I tell him, pointing with my forehead to his phone over the desk.
"..the protection is not for you, it's for Élise" He says, deadpan, making me shrink to the size of a pea. I glance at the thermostat when the weather gets warm enough to cause discomfort. That's odd, because it still displays the same temperature from when I first entered here; I could swear it feels warmer.
"That's nice of you, but I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself and my baby sister safe" At this, his brows fly to his hairline in a show of mockery.
I really wish he never came to my rescue that night at the café.
"We've been doing well the past seven months" As soon as I say that, I regret it.
His eyes narrow, openly dissecting my response. That's when I know I've botched at evasion.
Regret might've been an underemphasis.
"We don't need your help" I say, wishing to cover up the slip.
Sighing, he purses his lips, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
"Are you done yet ?" His question flies toward the ceiling because his head is tilted backwards and he's staring at one of the LED hoop chandeliers. I have nothing to say to that, so I wisely remain silent.
My silence averts his attention, and he's back to watching me, placing the tips of his fingers on the folder he pulled out of his drawer, twisting it so it's set upright for my inspective eyes and sliding it towards me.
When I peer over, I have to swallow the lump of fear at the picture of one of the men from Elias's basement. It didn't occur to me to ask him, but was that his home ? Did he live -sleep- in the same place he tortured people ?
"Was it your house ?" I can't help but ask.
"No" He answers curtly. That's supposed to be a relief, but I'm certain relief is on the other end of what I'm feeling right now.
My eyes skim over what looks to be the man's criminal record, a soft gasp escapes at the words under the title 'charges' in his record:
Theft, theft, burglary, theft, fraud... the list goes on forever but there's a word that my gaze stumbles over: child sexual abuse. My stomach churns, and my breath hitches in my throat.
When he notices my reaction, he flips the page to reveal another one of the assailants' picture; another record with similar charges on display:
Theft, parricide, child molestation, assault on police.
He continues to watch me as he flips the page, the new record shows something similar:
Vandalism, drug possessions, and prolicide.
Tears prick my eyes at the specification of the murder; it's beyond my imagination to fathom out the insensibility of one's drive to murder their own child.
He riffles through the folder for another one:
Drug trafficking, forgery, and sexual coercion.
My heart plummets to my feet at the mere thought of being a potential victim.
In response to my reaction, he doesn't flip further through, deciding I've had enough.
Instead, he stands there regarding me silently as I close my eyes and tilt my head up to force the tears back.
Crying in front of him -or anyone- is impermissible, according to my self-respect.
I mistook his philanthropy for cruelty, falsely thinking he tortured those men in a haughty display of manful capability.
And it isn't until he locks gaze with me, that I get to see the genuineness and guiltlessness swirling in the sea of roasted coffee beans, and I'm forced to avert my eyes to hide the remorse swirling in them.
The stab of guilt registers the same second a knock on the door sounds.
••••
If I could count the times I've had the urge to take this book down and stop writing all together, I would have reached new -illion numbers that have yet to be discovered.
Buuut, if you made it this far, I'd like to personally thank you for the time you take to read this claptrap. (=
-Asia