Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Guests
Matthew slowly set his glass of Scotch down on the edge of a marble side table. The soft clink of glass on stone sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"You haven't eaten," Matthew said. It wasn't a question. His gaze shifted from Jenna’s tight, defensive posture down to the little girl, whose eyes were still fixed on the silver dome covering the rolls.
"We have food at home, sir," Jenna lied instinctively, her pride rising up like a shield. She couldn't admit that "home" meant an apartment where the heat had been turned off six hours ago, and where the only thing in the refrigerator was a carton of expired milk and a single brown egg. "We are here to do our job. We will finish the main hallway and leave immediately."
"Mommy..." Daisy tugged at Jenna’s jacket, her honesty completely unbothered by adult pride. "The fridge is empty. You said we were going to have cereal when we got back."
Jenna closed her eyes for a brief second, feeling a sting of absolute defeat behind her eyelids. She squeezed Daisy's hand, unable to say another word.
Matthew walked slowly toward the table. His movements were unhurried, almost hesitant, as if he were walking on thin ice. He pulled out the heavy mahogany chair at the head of the table—the chair meant for him—and then pulled out two more adjacent to it.
"Sit down," Matthew said calmly.
Jenna stepped back, shaking her head quickly. "No, Mr. Hail. That isn't allowed. Clean Express has strict policies about client interactions. If Mr. Vance finds out—"
"I own the company that owns Clean Express," Matthew interrupted, his tone devoid of arrogance, stating it merely as an absolute fact. "Sit down, Mrs. Carter. That food is going to go cold, and I have no intention of eating it alone."
Jenna hesitated, her feet glued to the floor. She looked down at her mud-stained work boots, at the bucket of gray soapy water sitting on his immaculate floor, and then at her daughter. Daisy was looking up at her with eyes full of desperate hope.
"Is it... really okay, Mommy?" Daisy whispered, her voice barely audible.
Jenna looked back at Matthew Hail. The billionaire wasn't looking at them with pity or contempt; his face was a mask of quiet contemplation, almost as if he were waiting for permission himself.
Slowly, reluctantly, Jenna set the mop against the wall. She led Daisy to the table, helping her small daughter up onto the tall leather chair. The contrast was agonizing: Daisy’s faded lavender coat and worn canvas shoes against the buttery leather and dark polished wood of a chair worth thousands of dollars. Jenna sat down next to her, keeping her back straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap, feeling utterly out of place.
Matthew reached out and pulled the silver cloches off the serving trays one by one.
Underneath lay a feast that looked like a painting: a golden roasted capon seasoned with rosemary, glazed carrots glistening with honey, roasted fingerling potatoes, and a bowl of fresh bread that filled the immediate space with a heavenly heat.
Daisy let out a soft, involuntary gasp. "It’s so pretty..."
"Take whatever you want," Matthew said, pushing the tray of bread closer to the little girl.
Daisy looked at her mother first, waiting for the crucial signal. Jenna gave a tiny, almost invisible nod. Only then did Daisy reach out with two hands, picking up a warm roll as if it were made of fragile glass. She brought it to her mouth, bit into the soft buttered bread, and closed her eyes in pure bliss.
Matthew watched the child eat. A strange, unfamiliar warmth seemed to pass over his cold features, lingering for a moment before he turned his attention to Jenna.
"Why are you working on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Carter?" he asked quietly, taking a small piece of chicken for himself.
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"Because bills don't stop for holidays, Mr. Hail," Jenna replied softly, her tone steady, though her hands still trembled slightly as she took a potato for herself. "And because when you're all your child has, you don't have the luxury of taking a day off."
Matthew stared into his glass, the golden liquid reflecting the light of the chandelier. "No," he murmured, almost to himself. "I suppose you don't."
