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I’d barely told him I loved him and wished him a good night when there was a sharp rap at my door. I knew it had to be Whittier because I couldn’t imagine Edna pounding with that much force.

For that reason, I considered ignoring it.

But I was beginning to find him intimidating, especially the way he would lose his temper.

I didn’t know if he was here to inspect my bathroom, criticize the work I’d done for the day, or demand that I sign that stupid document—and I was in no mood for any of it. So, rather than answering politely, I snapped. “What?”

His voice boomed through the door. “Your presence is required at dinner in the kitchen at 6:30 sharp.”

Even though I felt tired to my bones, I forced myself to go to the door. Opening it, I planned to refuse as politely as I could—but he wasn’t there.

Apparently, he expected me to obey blindly.

I decided I would show up for dinner…but I would ask to be excused and, regardless of how hungry I felt, I would not eat.

I didn’t bother changing out of the jeans Whittier found so infuriating. It was a minor dig, but I planned to irritate him every way I could.

When I entered the kitchen, I felt my resolve fading, because on top of the other delicious aromas was the scent of freshly baked bread. Dad and I had only made bread from scratch a few times, and it had always been a treat.

But refusing to eat was one of the few things I could do that would send a message—and also that wasn’t disobeying any of the hundreds of ridiculous rules he’d laid out for me.

I arrived just a couple of minutes before the time he’d demanded. He was already seated, drinking a glass of water. Without a word, I sat across from him at the large table, shocked that Edna was still here. Maybe she was afraid of displeasing him. I could see that happening. I just hoped she was fairly compensated for her time.

Although his face showed no emotion, he was as handsome as ever. When would I stop viewing him that way?

“Punctual. I appreciate that.”

I didn’t say a word—and I didn’t even nod or shrug. I did take a sip of water, hoping that would punctuate my later message of not eating.

He said, “I inspected much of your work today. You did a good job, which means that you will be doing something different tomorrow.”

I wondered if it would be better or worse than my tasks today.

She set in front of both of us small salads. Between us were several cruets of dressing, not that I cared. Still, it was difficult, because the leaves of salad were so green, the grape tomatoes bright and red against it—and the croutons looked crunchy and savory.

As he poured dressing on his salad, Edna said, “The main course is cassoulet, one of Mr. Whittier’s favorites.”

“You do spoil me, Edna.” After he ate a few bites, he said, “Are you not eating again?”

My answer was a pair of raised eyebrows…a challenge.

When he set down his fork, it landed on the plate, making a loud clattering sound. “What do you hope to be getting out of this behavior, Ms. Miller?” My answer was nothing more than my chin jutted out, and a vein in his forehead became prominent. “You won’t sign the contract or the NDA. You won’t eat. You defy me at every turn.” He stood and started pacing, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve done you a kindness, Ms. Miller. I’ve spared you from prison, spared your father from further humility, and, frankly, I’m letting you off easy. If I wanted, I could own you for the rest of your miserable life!” By the end of his tirade, he’d grown louder.

Scarier.

I also noticed that Edna had become quiet, staying mostly out of sight by the stove. I wondered if she’d grown used to his outbursts.

But I couldn’t show fear. I also stood and hoped my voice’s intensity matched his. “I wouldn’t say you’ve done me a favor.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?” Again, he bellowed. “And what do you think would happen to your father if I cut off all lines of communication with you and refused to lift a finger to make sure he got what he needed?” He moved to the side of the table, getting far too close to me. His voice seemed to shake the walls. “What then?”

I’d had enough. Turning, I walked from the kitchen with as much dignity as I could spare, but the tears began falling as soon as I was in the hallway. I heard Edna say, “I can take her dinner to her room before I go.”

“Absolutely not. If she refuses to eat, then she can go hungry.”

I ran up the stairs to my room, scared and angry and wondering why I’d let myself get talked into this. Maybe I would have an easier time pleading my case to a jury. Maybe this wasn’t exactly like prison, but it was beginning to feel like it.

Without thinking it through, I grabbed my wallet out of my purse, pulling out what little cash I had along with my debit card and tucked them in the front pocket of my jeans. Then I removed the sandals, replacing them with sneakers. Grabbing my phone, I left my room and ran down the stairs to the main floor and made my way to the antechamber. As I pulled on one of the heavy doors, I thought to myself, Good riddance.