Between Us

Chapter Five - Silk Pajamas

After showering for over thirty minutes, I felt a strange mix of guilt and indifference. On one hand, I knew I was using far more water than I should have, but on the other, I couldn't bring myself to care. Arabella and Charles certainly wouldn't mind. In fact, they seemed to want me to indulge in every luxury they could provide. I let the steam envelop me, reminding myself how nice it was to have access to clean, warm water—something I hadn't had the privilege of enjoying in a long time.

The bathroom was filled with high-end products, all unopened, as if they had been placed there just for me. I used them without hesitation. The lavender-scented shampoo, the expensive soap, the delicate body wash—it was overwhelming how well-catered this all felt, like I was stepping into a life I didn't recognize.

I emerged from the shower smelling fresh and clean, feeling more like a stranger in my own skin. Drying myself off, I applied the body oil Arabella had insisted I buy earlier. "It's amazing," she had promised, "your skin will thank you." She was right. My skin already felt smoother than it had in years. I slipped into one of the new outfits she'd picked for me—a silk pajama set that felt absurdly expensive against my skin. The tag had read $1,000. For pajamas. I still couldn't wrap my head around it.

As I descended the grand staircase, the scent of fresh basil and ripe tomatoes hit me, stirring something inside. My mouth watered. A home-cooked meal—finally. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had one. I hummed softly, anticipation growing. Just yesterday, I had been terrified that if the interview with them went poorly, I might not survive. Yet here I was, descending into the lavish foyer of a mansion I could now call home.

Arabella was slicing bread when I entered the kitchen, her movements graceful, while Charles stood at the stove, carefully tending to a bubbling pot of pasta sauce. I could barely contain myself. I wanted to dig into the food, but I forced myself to wait. I didn't want to seem too desperate, even though it had been three days since I'd eaten.

"Poppy, baby, go ahead and sit in the dining room," Arabella said sweetly, her smile warm but a little too rehearsed. The pet names—'baby,' 'sweetheart'—they used them so easily, but they left me feeling uneasy, like I was playing a part in some story I hadn't been fully let in on. Would I ever feel comfortable enough to call them anything back? Babe, sweetie, love—none of those words felt natural in my mouth, not yet. I don't know how they could.
I nodded and made my way to the dining room.

The table stretched across the room, twelve chairs in total. I wondered if a couple of two truly needed that many seats. I took one at random, feeling small and out of place in this enormous, dimly lit room. The hunger gnawing at my stomach made it hard to sit still.

Four long minutes passed before Charles entered, balancing three plates expertly on his forearms. "Here you go," he said with a casual smile as he handed me my plate. I could feel the weight of his presence as he set down the plates for himself and Arabella.

She followed shortly after, carrying a cutting board piled with freshly sliced bread and utensils. The table was quickly set, yet something felt off—too perfect, too orchestrated.

The three of us sat down, and for a moment, the only sound was the clinking of forks against porcelain. I tried to focus on the food—the rich, homemade sauce, the fresh bread—but there was tension in the air that I couldn't ignore. Was it me? Was I the one creating this invisible barrier?

Arabella finally broke the silence. "So, Poppy, tell us more about yourself. Yesterday was all about us, but we'd love to hear more about you. What was life like before you found us?" Her voice was smooth, inviting, but there was an undertone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I swallowed hard, not wanting to speak, especially when I was so hungry. But they were watching me, waiting. I cleared my throat, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "Um, I grew up in Canada," I began awkwardly. "Moved here for work about five years ago. I was really work-motivated for a long time, which is probably why I don't have a lot of friends..." I laughed, but the sound was hollow, forced. I wasn't sure they wanted to hear about me being such a hard worker, as that's not what they're looking for. I need to lie. "But, uh, I quit my job last year. It just wasn't what I wanted anymore. I've been picking up odd jobs here and there since then, but... yeah, work's not really my thing." I forced another laugh, hoping I sounded like the kind of carefree person they wanted.

They both chuckled along, but their eyes never left mine. "Well," Charles said, "you won't have to worry about that anymore." There was something final in his tone, something that made me uneasy.

I continued, telling them bits of my childhood. How I had grown up in foster care, never staying in one home for long. I glossed over the worst of it—escaping from an abusive boyfriend, sleeping in motels, living out of my car—but they seemed fascinated by every word. They listened with polite nods and encouraging smiles, though their curiosity felt a little too intense, as if they were savoring every detail.

It wasn't until Arabella asked her next question that I felt a sharp jolt of discomfort. "So, Poppy," she said casually, her fork still in her hand, "are you naughty? What kind of sex do you like?"

I nearly choked on my last bite of pasta. I hadn't expected such a blunt question from someone who appeared so refined. My heart raced as I wiped my mouth, scrambling to compose myself. "Um, I guess I can be... naughty, in the right environment," I replied awkwardly, hoping that would suffice. "I like normal sex, I suppose..."

I regretted it the second it left my mouth. Normal wasn't what they were after. They had made that abundantly clear during our first meeting.

"Actually," I stammered, "I'm a little shy, but... I like it rough. Missionary is boring—I like to be thrown around, that sort of thing. And, uh, I love oral." I smiled weakly, praying my answer was what they wanted to hear.

Charles reached across the table and placed his hand over Arabella's, his smile slow and deliberate. "Lovely," he said in a low voice.

Arabella smiled back at me, her eyes glinting. "I think we're going to get along just fine," she purred.

After dinner, I tried to help them clean up, eager to prove my worth in some small way, but they refused. "This week is all about you," Arabella said, brushing off my offer. "We want you to feel at home, to relax. No need to worry about mundane tasks like cleaning."

I retreated to the "temporary" room they had set up for me, half-expecting them to follow me upstairs and press further, even trying to initiate sex with me. But they didn't. Before I left the kitchen, they had assured me that nothing would be forced—that intimacy would come when I was ready. Still, there was a weight to their words that left me feeling anxious.

Lying on the luxurious bed, I tried to push the anxiety aside. At least they weren't sex-crazed, at least not yet. I fell asleep quickly, for the first time in years feeling peaceful, without the constant fear of waking up to more hardship. For now, I was safe—though part of me wondered how long that would last.