Chapter 8 The Tragic Role
She let out a bitter laugh—this was her reality: a live-in lover, her life an absolute mess. If not for those compromising shots, she would’ve slammed the laptop shut and walked out long ago.
Her reply was blunt, “Fine.”
She didn’t want to spare that person another word—shame and hatred churning inside her. She wanted to destroy them, if only she knew who they were.
Alison expected hours of silence. She was just about to hit refresh a hundred times when the reply popped up almost immediately.
“Keep going.”
So that was the plan? Just stay by Jack’s side? Could it really be that easy? Doubt clawed at her.
She typed: “Three months as his lover, and you’ll delete the photos?”
No response.
Minutes dragged on.
The silence said it all: Probably not.
Which meant her role was more than just being his lover.
She refreshed her inbox again. And again. Finally she asked the question that haunt her: Who is Emily?
No reply. The silence this time felt deafening.
Her stomach growled. With a sigh, she closed the laptop, her only link to the blackmailer, and trudged toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. Clearly unused for ages.
The fridge offered a shriveled apple and a few eggs—past their prime, but still edible.
She ate the apple and fried two eggs, and felt the first flicker of energy in days.
After soaking the stained sheets, she grabbed her bag, and headed downstairs. She remembered there was a mid-sized supermarket nearby yesterday.
Alison returned loaded with essentials: noodles, veggies, rice.
No sooner had she unpacked than the phone rang.
She hesitated.
This was Jack’s place. Answering felt like crossing a line.
She let it ring.
Instead, she cleaned, did laundry, and prepped a simple dinner.
She cooked for one.
The kitchen’s pristine state made one thing clear: Jack never ate at home.
Just as she was about to eat, there was a knock on the door.
Her heart jumped; she set down her fork staring at the door.
Jack walked in. Not a handyman nor a stranger.
It was only their second meeting.
Memeories of last night made her instinctively step back, her heart pounding.
“M-Mr. Winston. You’re back.”
Jack glanced at her, his attention landed on the food on the table.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
He barked, as he strode to the table. “Dump it.”
“Wait...don’t!” Alison blurted, her voice trembling. She hated confronting him like this.
“Your cooking’s always garbage—either tasteless or burnt.” He grabbed the plates.
“Just try it! Please. It’s good, I swear.”
He leaned down and sniffed.
“Hmmm... Smells good.”
He pointed to the utensils, “May I?”
“Yes, please.”
Without another word, Jack grabbed the fork and took a bite. He chewed slowly, then wolfed down the rest like he hadn’t eaten for days.
When he finished, he shoved the empty bowl toward her.
“More.”
“Sure.” She forced a smile, hating how compliant she sounded, and retreated to the kitchen.
The fridge was nearly empty. She scraped together the last of the leftovers, barely half a bowl. It wouldn’t fill him, but it would have to do.
He devoured it again, not even looking at her—like she was just… a maid. When he finished, he held out the bowl again. “More. Please.”
Alison froze, gazing at the bowl.
She asked quietly, “How about I make noodles?”
“Nope.” He took another sip of broth, then complained, “I’m not a vegetarian. I want meat.”
Alison fidgeted, tugging at her shirt hem, unsure what to do.
“I’m talking to you—did you zone out?” The soup was delicate and well-seasoned, but her silence grated on him.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect you. I only cooked for one.” She hesitated, “I used the eggs in the fridge. They were still okay. I didn’t want to waste them.”
Jack’s grip loosened, and the spoon clattered into the bowl.
“You think I came back for food?” His eyes flashed.
“I called eight times and no one answered.” He glared, “I thought you were dead or poisoned by gas or something. Emily, why didn’t you pick up?”
She trembled. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was your friend’s call. It felt weird to answer.”
“Emily, no one has this number except me. Not even the staff. So if the phone rings, it’s me. From now on, answer it. Got it?”
“Y-yes,” she whispered, terrified.
Three months, she reminded herself. Just three months. Then freedom
“Go change your clothes.”
“Wait...what?”
He stepped closer. His cologne filled the space between them – sharpt and overpowering.
She sneezed.