My Love (Bwwm)

**Chapter 4: A Morning of Intrigue**

I awoke to the soft light filtering through the curtains, gently warming my face as I lay in bed. It was another day in Artie's mansion, a place of enigma and secrets that I had yet to fully unravel. My duties had become a routine, and I began my day with the intention of preparing breakfast for Artie as I always did.

As I made my way to the kitchen, I couldn't help but wonder about the man who inhabited this grand estate. He was a puzzle, an enigmatic figure who seldom spoke and often left me to my own devices. His bedroom, a space I rarely touched, was exceptionally clean, and I couldn't help but notice that the entire house was well-maintained, particularly for a man. It struck me that I could likely avoid cleaning for a month, and Artie might not even notice.

I paused, pondering why Artie had hired me in the first place. It seemed a paradox that a man of his means would require the services of a domestic worker. I shook my head, pushing the thought away, and continued my journey to the kitchen. The thought of unraveling Artie's mysteries was a dangerous one.

Arriving in the kitchen, I decided to prepare a breakfast for myself, as Artie was nowhere to be found. I moved about the kitchen, clad in my undergarments, savoring the rare moments of solitude and self-indulgence.

As I savored a bite of my breakfast, I was startled by a sudden knock at the door. I quickly donned a robe and answered it, revealing a tall, impeccably dressed black man who stood before me. He was a sight to behold, his presence commanding and confident.

Floyd's tailored clothes caught my attention. His suit was of the finest material, exquisitely tailored to his form. It bore the mark of a man who was well-acquainted with luxury and wealth. His shoes were polished to a shine, and a pocket watch dangled from a chain that only the most affluent could afford.

I couldn't help but notice his attire, which was far more refined than what was typical for a black man in the 1920s. It was evident that he had climbed the social ladder and attained a level of prosperity beyond the norm. I thought of Mr. Charles and assumed that this man was yet another "associate" of Artie's, drawn into the web of enigmatic dealings.

The man handed me a heavy box, and I realized that I couldn't lift it on my own. He effortlessly shouldered the burden, following me into the house.

Man: "I know Artie likes them dark, but to let you stay the night... that's new."

His words were laced with insinuation, and my face flushed with indignation.

Dorothy: "Excuse me, sir, but I am not one of Artie's... associates."

The man, whose name he revealed to be Floyd, immediately apologized for his assumption and inquired about my name. I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as I reluctantly shared my name.

Floyd: "I'm glad to hear that, miss. I'd hate to be the villain who steals you away."

His words were both charming and crude, and he tilted his expensive-looking hat before taking his leave, leaving me without the breakfast I had been enjoying.

I sat there, stunned and bewildered by the brief encounter with Floyd. Artie had explicitly instructed me not to engage with him, and I had broken that rule. The remnants of his presence lingered in the room, making me wonder if Artie would ever find out about our exchange.

As I contemplated the peculiar situation, I recalled the cruel words of a childhood crush in Louisiana who had told me that my skin was too dark. Those words had left a lasting mark on my self-esteem, making me question my own beauty. Despite Floyd's flattering words, I couldn't help but suspect he was lying to me.

The memories of Charlotte's and Floyd's insinuations about Artie's preferences for black women played in my mind like a dissonant melody. The truth was elusive, and the more I thought about it, the more uncertain I became.

Determined to clear my mind, I decided to use the mansion's pool. It was a part of the estate I had never seen Artie use, and I considered it an opportunity to find solace and clarity. I thought back to the days when my father had taught me to swim in the river near our house in Louisiana, a bittersweet memory that lingered in my heart.
Amid the confusion and intrigue, my thoughts drifted to my mother. I remembered the sweet tea she used to make for my father and me after we returned from the river. It was a simple gesture, a moment of familial love and comfort. I missed her terribly, and the memories of our time together filled me with a profound longing.

I slipped into the cool water, allowing it to envelop me, the weight of my thoughts dissipating with each moment. I closed my eyes and submerged, the silence of the pool drowning out the cacophony of my mind.

But just as I began to lose myself in the soothing embrace of the water, a splash interrupted my reverie. I surfaced quickly, startled, only to find Artie swimming toward me with a sense of urgency.