Episode 17: Turning the Tables

Vance managed to escape the house at the crack of dawn, practically sprinting out the front door before the sun was even up. He was running from the memory of the attic, the memory of the dining room table, and most of all, the memory of what he had done behind that locked bathroom door.

I let him run. I didn't chase him. A good hunter knows exactly when to let the prey think it’s escaped.

I spent the entire day calmly revising my valedictorian speech, checking off the items in my Goal Book, and waiting for the sun to drop.

At exactly 6:30 PM, the heavy click of the front door signaled his return.

Vance stepped into the hallway, his broad shoulders hunched with exhaustion from a long day at work. He looked guarded, his dark gray eyes scanning the quiet house as if bracing for an ambush. He loosened his tie, took a deep breath, and walked straight into the kitchen, clearly intending to quickly prepare a lonely dinner and hide in the guest room.

He froze the second he crossed the threshold.

I was already waiting for him.

I was sitting gracefully on the stool by the kitchen island, the soft glow of the overhead pendant lights reflecting off my hair. I had replaced his flannel shirt with an incredibly soft, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that exposed the exact spot on my jawline he had gripped the night before.

On the marble counter in front of me sat a fresh cutting board, a knife, and all the ingredients for his favorite meal.

"Welcome home, Vance," I purred, tilting my head back to look at him with a look of pure, wide-eyed innocence. "I set everything out for you. I figured you'd be tired after running away so early this morning."

Vance’s entire body went completely rigid. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the strap of his briefcase. The green-flag prince tried desperately to force his stoic, unbothered guardian mask back into place, but I could see the sudden, frantic beat of his pulse jumping in his throat.

"Ren," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than usual, thick with the leftover tension from last night. He set his bag down with a heavy thud. "I told you we need to keep our distance. I'm just here to make a quick dinner."

"I know," I whispered, sliding off the stool and taking a slow, completely shameless step toward him. "That's why I'm helping you. I want to make sure my perfect caretaker is well-fed. After all... you used up a lot of energy in the bathroom last night."

The color drained from Vance’s face instantly, his gray eyes widening in absolute, suffocating shock. He realized it in a single, horrifying second—I hadn't gone to sleep. I had been standing right outside that door. I had heard every single ragged breath and desperate groan.

"You..." Vance choked out, his chest heaving as his green-flag restraint completely shattered under the weight of his exposure.

I didn't let him finish. I took another step forward, closing the final inch of distance between us until my chest was almost pressing against his rigid frame. I reached out, my cool fingers gently brushing against his trembling wrist.

"Your secret is completely safe with me, Vance," I breathed, looking up into his dark, panicked eyes with a sharp, victorious red-flag smirk. "Now... why don't you start cooking? I'm starving for more motivation."