He sat alone at the dining table, candles aglow and flowers in full bloom. In a short-sleeved black t-shirt with his arms resting on the surface, he watched me enter the room with his dark and intelligent eyes.
When I approached the table, he pulled out the chair for me.
I sat down and leaned the crutches against the chair beside me.
Hugo immediately poured me a glass of wine and left us to enjoy the soup he brought. It was always a three-course meal at dinner time. A small soup. A salad. And some kind of meat with green vegetables. Lunchtime was always casual, a single plate with a few items on top. “Do you always eat like this?” I asked.
After a spoonful, he answered. “It’s the only way to dine.”
“It’s a lot of dishes.”
“I don’t have to wash them, so I don’t care.”
Spoken like a truly privileged asshole. “Ever had a nutella and honey sandwich?”
His eyes lifted to mine. “I don’t think so.”
“My mom used to make them for me all the time. She would toast the bread first. Made it into a panini.”
He gave a subtle nod like he didn’t know what to say.
“Did your mother make them for you?”
“She died when I was so young, it’s hard to remember what she made for me. Most of the things I remember were prepared by the nanny. And I guess my stepmother.”
“Is your stepmother still alive?”
“No.”
“Did you…?”
“No.” He continued to eat his soup. “Heart attack. Probably caused by all her scheming.”
Normally when I asked questions, he was a book with the pages glued together. But now, he opened himself to me, answered any questions I wanted, probably because he was in the doghouse and wanted to get laid. “Did your father remarry a third time?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is he still close with Grave?”
“As far as I know.”
“And you guys just don’t talk?” It was hard to imagine having a parent you had no connection with. They lived their life, and you lived yours—separately. “Like, ever?”
He finished his soup. “Ever.”
My heart somersaulted inside my chest, falling deep into my stomach. “That’s so sad.”
Hugo must spy on Cauldron through a secret peephole in the wall, because he always emerged right when Cauldron was finished with his food. If I wasn’t finished with mine, it didn’t matter, he took it anyway. He returned to the kitchen to fetch the next course.
Cauldron drank his wine.
Hugo returned with the mixed salads then departed once more.
Cauldron never acknowledged what I’d said.
“Has he ever tried to rectify things between you?”
A quiet breath escaped his lips, a manifestation of his annoyance. But he never ignored me, never put a stop to the interrogation. “Yes.”
“And you shut him down?”
He turned his head and regarded me, his eyes issuing a silent warning. “I don’t appreciate your judgment.”
“I’m not casting judgment. I’m just asking.”
“No, I don’t entertain his apologies. He’s a father to Grave, but he’s an enemy to me.”
“I imagine he truly loved your mother if he always favored you.”
“Hard to believe when he remarried so quickly.”
“I thought he remarried because he knocked up Grave’s mother?”
He grabbed his fork and started to eat, as if stalling just so he wouldn’t receive any more questions. “It’s not 1812. He didn’t need to marry her. Look where that got him. That gold-digging whore tried to kill his firstborn.”
Cauldron painted a striking picture, and that was when I realized he’d felt love only for a very short period of time, until he was three. The rest of the time, it was just betrayals stacked upon betrayals. No wonder he was so pissed off. No wonder he preferred the company of women who cost money.
“Do you ever think about…letting bygones be bygones?”
“What do you think?” He continued to eat, his eyes elsewhere.
“You said revenge is all you know, but the satisfaction is temporary. Maybe you should try something else.”
He finished his salad, letting the silence simmer.
That told me the conversation had been exhausted.
Hugo appeared and took the plates again, bringing the main course a moment later, a whitefish with peanut sauce. Living in a house where the food was always gourmet and appeared out of thin air was a privilege. Too bad it still felt like a prison.
We ate in silence. He seemed to be in a foul mood from the line of questioning.
“What will you do?” he asked. “After I kill Grave?”
My fork sliced into the tender meat until it broke off in flakes. With my eyes on my food, I thought of the question I hadn’t asked myself. “Grave paid me good money. It’s stashed away in my bank. I guess I’ll buy an apartment in Paris…get a job…try an online dating app.”
“And you think that’s how you’ll find your husband?” he asked, his voice slightly incredulous.
“That’s how people do things nowadays.”
With hostile silence, he ate his dinner.