Chapter 5: The First Dinner

The dining hall stretched endlessly before Ella, its polished mahogany table glittering with silverware, crystal glasses, and golden candlesticks. The glow from the chandelier bathed everything in warm light, but to Ella it felt cold, too extravagant, too unreal. She sat stiffly in the chair Richard’s housekeeper had shown her, her hands folded tightly in her lap as though any sudden movement might break something she couldn’t afford to replace.

The room was quiet—too quiet.

She could hear the tick of the ornate clock on the wall, the faint rustle of servants shifting at the edges of the room, and even the shallow rhythm of her own breathing. It felt as though the house itself was listening, waiting.

Ella jumped slightly when the double doors opened again. Richard entered, his presence filling the room before he even spoke. He had changed into a tailored navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to make him look both powerful and dangerously relaxed. His footsteps echoed against the marble floor, each one measured, deliberate.

Ella’s heart thudded in her chest.

He walked with the confidence of a man who owned not just the mansion but the world itself. His eyes found her immediately, pinning her to the chair, and the corners of his mouth curved upward in the faintest smile.

“Good,” he said, settling into the seat at the head of the table. His voice was calm, deep, yet commanding enough to silence the air. “You’re on time. I like that.”

Ella nodded but didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure what the right words were in this place. Silence felt safer, though even that seemed dangerous in his presence.

A servant appeared at her side, pouring wine into her glass. The dark red liquid caught the light, shimmering like blood in crystal. Ella reached out quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “No… no, thank you. I don’t drink.”

Richard’s eyebrow arched. “Don’t?” He swirled the wine in his own glass, the crimson liquid curling against the glass like silk. “Or won’t?”

She lowered her gaze, cheeks burning. “Can’t afford to,” she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop herself.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and low, yet tinged with something mocking. “Interesting.” He set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve piece by piece.

The servants began serving the first course—roasted lamb perfumed with herbs, steaming vegetables drizzled with butter, and bread still warm from the oven. The aroma filled the hall, stirring Ella’s hunger, but her nerves made it hard to lift her fork.

Richard noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“Eat, Ella.” His tone was smooth, but there was no mistaking the command beneath it.

She obeyed quickly, cutting a small piece of lamb. The flavor exploded on her tongue, rich and tender, nothing like the modest meals of garri and soup she had grown up with. But instead of joy, shame swept over her. She felt like an imposter in a world that didn’t belong to her. Every bite tasted of debt, of chains she could not see but already felt tightening.

Richard watched her every move. His gaze didn’t falter, and it made her uneasy, as though she were being weighed, measured, studied.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said suddenly.

Ella froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “About… myself?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Your family. Your childhood. Your dreams. I want to know everything.”

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable under the intensity of his stare. “There’s nothing much to tell. I… I grew up with my mother. We struggled. I never knew my father.”

Richard tilted his head, his eyes unreadable. “And your dreams?” His voice softened just enough to unsettle her.

Ella hesitated. Should she tell him? Would he laugh? Mock her? Yet something in his steady stare, in the weight of his silence, pulled the truth from her lips.

“I always wanted to finish school. Maybe become a teacher. I wanted… a simple life.”

Richard’s lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Simple.” He repeated the word as though it were something foreign, something distasteful. “You think small, Ella.”

Her cheeks burned. “It’s all I know.”

He tilted his head again, studying her like a collector examining a rare artifact. “That’s what fascinates me. Everyone I meet wants more—money, power, status. But you… you want less. It makes me curious.”

His words struck her strangely—half compliment, half insult. She didn’t know whether to feel proud or humiliated.

Dinner continued, course after course appearing before them like a banquet from another world. Yet to Ella, the food tasted of tension. Richard asked more questions—her favorite book, the things she feared, the places she longed to see. Each question felt like a spotlight shining into the private corners of her soul.

And he enjoyed her discomfort. She could see it in the slight smirk tugging at his lips, the way his eyes glimmered when she fumbled for an answer. Every hesitation seemed to delight him, every stammer a thread he tugged to unravel her further.

Finally, as dessert was cleared away—a plate of delicate pastries she could hardly touch—Richard leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze lingered on her, heavier than ever, pressing down until she could scarcely breathe.

“You know,” he said slowly, his tone both casual and deliberate, “I didn’t bring you here to be a maid.”

Ella’s breath caught. She stared at him, her chest tightening. “Then… why am I here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rose from his chair with unhurried grace, the soft rustle of fabric and the echo of his shoes filling the silence. He walked toward her, each step steady, each one pulling the air tighter around her.

Her pulse quickened, her palms damp against her lap. She wanted to shrink into the chair, to vanish.

He stopped beside her, so close she could feel the faint heat radiating from his body. He leaned down, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear, carrying the sharp scent of his cologne. His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried a dangerous weight.

“Because, Ella…” he said, his tone smooth and final, “I want you.”

Her fork clattered against the plate, her whole body trembling. She turned to look at him, but his face was unreadable—half shadow, half hunger.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

All she knew was that the mansion’s walls felt smaller now, as though closing in around her.

And Richard Williams had just made it clear: she wasn’t his maid.

She was his obsession.