“I wasn’t going to risk being hungry and late.”
That startles a tiny snort from Nora, who stands by the window.
Beatrice gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
You sit.
For the next ten minutes, they ask questions with the precision of customs officers searching for contraband. Do you drink? No. Do you have relatives who might come asking for money? No more than most people. Can you lift a grown man with assistance? If shown properly. Are you squeamish? Only about unpaid electricity bills. Nora nearly chokes on her own breath at that one, but Beatrice just watches you, measuring.
Finally, she sets down her cup.
“There are things you need to understand before I take you upstairs,” she says. “Mr. Zárate was not always like this. Before the accident, he was difficult in the usual ways rich men often are. Confident. Driven. Impatient. Since the accident, he has become…” She searches for the word, then gives up on politeness. “Cruel.”
You absorb that without flinching.
“He insults people,” Beatrice continues. “He fires them for imagined slights. He hates being touched, though he cannot function without it. He resents pity more than anything in the world. If you cry in front of him, he’ll devour you alive.”
“I’m not much of a crier.”
Nora’s mouth twitches. “That remains to be seen.”
Beatrice stands. “Come then.”
You follow them upstairs.
The bedroom is enormous, but the first thing you notice is not the size. It is the stillness. Not ordinary quiet. The heavy, watchful stillness of a room where every object has learned to breathe around one person’s pain.
He is positioned near the windows in a motorized chair, looking out over the back lawn. Even from behind, he radiates authority. Broad shoulders under a charcoal shirt. Dark hair cut close at the sides. Hands resting uselessly on the armrests, elegant and still. Something about the angle of his neck and the rigid line of his spine suggests a man holding himself together through force alone.
“Mr. Zárate,” Beatrice says evenly, “this is Paloma Reyes. She’s here to interview.”
He does not turn right away.
When he finally does, the first thing that hits you is not his attractiveness, though that is impossible to ignore. It is the violence of his intelligence. His face is lean, severe, handsome in the way sharp things can be beautiful. But his eyes are what stop you. Dark, controlled, and exhausted clear through to the bone.
He looks at you once and decides he doesn’t like what he sees.
“No,” he says.
Beatrice folds her arms. “You haven’t spoken to her.”
“I don’t need to.” His gaze remains on you. “She looks frightened, poor, and underqualified. I’ve already had my fill of martyrs.”
You would like to say that you’re not frightened. Unfortunately, your knees have started disagreeing. So you choose the truest piece.
“I am poor,” you say. “But I’m not a martyr.”
One eyebrow lifts.
Beatrice says, “She came without hesitation.”
“That suggests desperation, not character.”
You should stay quiet. You know that. But there is something in his voice, in the polished cruelty of a man who has been drowning long enough to hate dry people, that pokes a hole right through your fear.
“With respect, sir,” you say, “desperation is character where I come from. It gets children fed.”
Nora makes a tiny sound and covers it with a cough. Beatrice goes very still. The man in the chair stares at you with sudden, sharpened interest, as if the furniture has unexpectedly spoken back.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Paloma Reyes.”
“And you think you can take care of me, Paloma Reyes?”
You meet his gaze. “I think I can do a job. Whether I can take care of you depends partly on whether you actually want to be taken care of.”
Beatrice closes her eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer for your common sense.
The room hangs there for one beat, then two.
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