.7.

Dinner tomorrow. 9PM.

Xaver Kirkgarde

THE CARD READ.

Chocolate brown stared at the bold dark cursive writing on the thick white paper and lips parted as hot liquid slipped in, scalding flesh. Sreya ignored the sting. Her eyes still on the card she'd found on her doorstep last night after she'd come back from work.

'Tomorrow' was today and it was 8PM. Presently, Sreya certainly did not possess the stance of someone going anywhere anytime soon. Seated in the kitchen, her arms were propped up on the kitchen counter by her elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Her waist-length sleek raven hair was damp with water, giving her the dazed effect of a wet female deity.

A black robe enclosed her slender frame, the faint outline of her curves visible beneath the dark fabric. The house was eerie quiet, the tick tock of her wall clock a dull sound against her ears.

She glanced at the card again, catching the words...

Dinner tomorrow. 9PM.

Curt. Straight to the point. Xaver wasn't asking, he was telling. He sounded like he was ordering a $2000 wristwatch when 'twas meant to be a humble request to have dinner with him. Sreya didn't like being told. She wasn't going to be a dog that comes running when summoned. She'd worked hard for her independence.

The clock chimed, her gaze shifted.

8:30PM

She thought of burning the card. She thought of writing back and telling him she'd rather have a jigsaw shoved up her asshole than have dinner with him. She thought of tearing the thick paper to pieces. She thought of going to bed. She thought of going to dinner with him.

A little gulp of her now lukewarm coffee was taken and the rest rushed down the drain at the sink. With a deep sigh, Sreya daintily shuffled through the kitchen, making good work of rinsing her cup and leaving it to drain. Switching the lights off, her legs begun to propel her towards her bedroom when she heard the doorbell.

The clock chimed.

9:00PM

Locking the sash to her robe tighter, she walked towards her front door, twisting the rich doorknob with a tired sigh. A middle aged man with a polite smile met her gaze. He seemed surprised to see her in a robe but the expression soon faded as he greeted her warmly. From his uniform, Sreya assumed he was a chauffeur. She wasn't wrong.

"Miss, Mr. Kirkgarde reques-"

She cut him off with a soft laughter and a sweet smile. "Yes. My apologies. Give me a minute. I won't be long".

Shutting the door, she gnashed her teeth as all the anger she'd felt when she'd first seen his amazingly beautiful writing splashed on paper came rushing back. Turning the light to the kitchen on, she snatched the card off the counter and walked back to the front door, automatically pasting another smile on her face.

"Give this to Mr. Kirkgarde", she shoved the white card to the chauffeur, "Tell him I'm declining the invite". And I hope the food twist his intestines so bad, he'd die from it. I pray it feels like menstrual pain. Or worse.

Moreover, invite was a wrong word to use considering the fact that it'd been an order. A question mark would have made a huge difference.

The middle aged man was either going to insist that she follow him or question her motives.... He looked like he was about to do both but he seemed to decide against it because he gave her a smile, bowed his thanks and took his leave.

Shutting the door, Sreya ascended the stairs to her bedroom, her robe vanishing as she slipped beneath the covers on her bed.

Bare breasts touched the cold sheets underneath and Sre almost purred, a wave of satisfaction washing over her. Minutes passed, and she was floating in that little cocoon between consciousness and unconsciousness. Her mind wedged in the dazed space between wakefulness and sleep as her body grew numb. On the verge of zoning out, Sreya's breathing was coming in smooth long-paced puffs when her phone began to ring, urging her back to reality.

Groaning, she buried her face in her pillow. The action a weak attempt to drown out the persistent ringing. It rung once. Twice. The third time, Sre cursed as she groped around for her phone, her face still submerged in her pillow. Fingers brushed a cold surface and she lifted her head, squinting at the bright light in the room as her eyes glanced at her screen

She never slept in the dark. Never.

The number wasn't a saved contact and her eyebrows creased into a frown. Curious.

Giving another moan, Sre swiped her thumb across and let out a sleepy, "Hello". Her head falling back unto her pillow in a lazy manner.

"Sreya?"

Kirkgarde. Sreya wished she'd ignored.

"Sreya Dronian. Who is this?" She feigned ignorance. Pretence was her forte.

"I don't believe in wasting time"

"Yours or mine?" Sreya raised a brow.

"Both", his voice was deep. And not the least bit annoyed. He took her rejection well.

"Find yourself another partner then".

"I'm not complaining about the current one. I happen to like this one, actually".

Sreya rolled unto her back, her eyes to the ceiling, her mind racing.

"She happens to not like you, Xaver". This was the most childish thing to say but she was so goddamn speechless.

"Sreya", he drawled impatiently, the urgency in his voice evident, "Dinner? Tomorrow?"

Now he's asking.

"Why?"

"For reasons that suit my personal purposes"

She rolled her eyes, "Well, No". She was being childish as hell.

"Just once. And I'll be out of your hair"

What? Daddy, I fucking want to you latched unto me. Be my lice.

"Business or pleasure?"

He hesitated.

"Both?" His voice was low now. A tingle passed down her spine, a slow humming buzz.

"I don't trust you, Kirkgarde".

"You shouldn't".

"Give me one reason to believe having dinner with you is worth it"

He paused again. Not because he didn't know what to say. He did know what to say. He just wanted it to sink in when he said it.

"Because you want to".

The truth of his answer threw Sre off a little bit. She didn't speak for the first five seconds.

"That doesn't matter".

"You won't regret it".

"I know. You don't look like someone who'd live a boring life".

"Appearances can be deceiving".

Sreya closed her eyes, "Dinner. The Plutarch. 8PM". Sometimes, a woman had to call the shots.

"The Plutarch it is. I'll come pick you up".

"Your chauffeur would do a better job", she murmured tiredly. The soft bed drawing her back to sleep.

He had the grace to laugh, "That statement is bound to get him fired".

"How kind", her eyes were still closed but her ears were still listening.

"So I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked uncertainly, like he felt she'd changed her mind.

She gave a soft laugh, "See you tomorrow, Kirkgarde".

She hoped she wouldn't regret it.