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I love him so much that it’s impossible to remember what life was like before him.

And the best part?

He loves me back. I’m sure he does.

“Mr. Hawthorne will be home soon.” Clara’s voice snaps me out of my daydreams. Clara, mentioningmyman. Talking about him with someone else. I shoot her a glare she doesn’t return. “Go tell the chef he can start working on their dinner.”

“No.” That’s where I draw the line. They won’t make me disposable to him. It’s old school as fuck. It shouldn’t mean so much to me. It does. He’s mine. “I’ll fix his dinner.”

James has been in charge of our meals for the past two weeks. The man moves effortlessly around the kitchen, baking, cooking, or sautéing stuff. His Eggs Benedict are out of this world.

Most I can do is put the takeover leftovers in the oven or microwave.

Still.

He’s mine. I’ll be damned if he’ll eat someone else’s food.

“We had fresh filet mignon delivered this afternoon,” Clara continues addressing Maisie, though her shoulders are hunched. She’s on high alert, turning her body completely away from me. “Mr. Hawthorne hasn’t had that in over two weeks.”

Since the night he and Topher threw me in the cell.

The temperature of my body rises. Up, up, up. My fingers clench on the kitchen island. I’m not upset at the memory.

Wish I was.

It’s her. She has no right.

“Clara, so help me?—”

“Off you go.” She snaps her fingers to Poppy and Maisie.

They turn, ready to take off.

I grab a plate, smashing it against the island’s counter. The sliced strawberries on it fly off.

Gasps and “oh my God”echo in the kitchen.

The chaos works to my advantage. I’m quick to grab Clara by her chignon, pressing the broken shard of the plate to her throat.

James would be proud.

My mouth presses to her ear, eyes glued to the other two women.

“Now.” I press my weapon closer to Clara’s throat. I hear her heart beating. “Who’s making James’s dinner? Tell me. Better yet, tellthem.”

She gulps.

A drop of blood trickles to the neckline of her black uniform dress.

The other two women stare at me, their eyes bulging out.

Poppy gasps.

Maisie isn’t as composed. Her lips twist, and I see the moment she’s going to snap. That she’s going to scream.

“Make a sound, and I’ll murder the three of you,” I hiss at Poppy. She rushes to her brunette friend, clasping her hand over her mouth in shock. “Good. Look, ladies, I’m not mad about the auction. I’ve forgiven you for playing along.”

“Mr. Hawthorne,” Clara breathes. “This isn’t his fault. Don’t poison his food.”