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—𝟎𝟎𝟕.- ᴀ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ɪɴ ʙᴀᴅ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴꜱ.    —

̶S̶e̶r̶a̶p̶h̶i̶n̶a̶

𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒂 ☄

      "𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒." I slide the box in front of him.

He just blinks at me.

For a moment, I wonder if he's going to pretend he doesn't understand what I'm talking about. If he'll brush it aside like it's nothing, like I'm nothing, the way people of his kind tend to do. But then his gaze flickers to the box, and something in his expression shifts. Not much, not enough for me to fully read, but enough to know that he wasn't expecting this.

"You don't want it," he repeats, slow, careful. As if testing the weight of the words on his tongue.

I shake my head. "No."

His fingers ghost over the lid of the box but don't open it. "Why?" He looks truly confused, as if I just told him I don't like water. 

A part of me wants to laugh. Why? As if there aren't a thousand reasons. I exhale sharply, pressing my palms flat against the surface between us, steadying myself.

The office is colder than usual. Not the temperature, but the atmosphere—something about the way the air settles thick and unmoving, the way the walls seem to press in just a little tighter than before. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, showcasing the city beyond, its lights bleeding into the dark like a thousand untold stories.

But inside, it's quiet. Just the sound of the clock ticking, of my own breath steadying as I gather the nerve to speak.

"Because it's not mine."

He scoffs. "That's the point of a gift. It becomes yours."

"Not this." I swallow, trying to keep my voice even. "Not when something like this could get me killed. Not when people will think I stole it. Not when—"

I stop myself before I say it. Before I say the truth that's been gnawing at me all night.

Not when I don't want to end up like that girl.

He watches me, waiting.

I press on. "Also, I'm team silver."

"What?"

"I prefer silver."

His brows furrow slightly, as if he doesn't see how that's relevant. "And?"

"And I don't like gold, I don't use gold things—"

"I guess not everyone has good taste," he interrupts, shaking his head, his voice filled with false disappointment. His fingers drum against the box. 

"It's not a joke."

"I'm not laughing. Why would it be a joke?"

I stare at him.

"But why would you give me this?" I challenge, crossing my arms. "And what would I even do with it? I barely have enough hair for it to be useful, and it's too extravagant."

"That's not—" He stops himself. His jaw tightens. "You're overthinking this."

"Am I?"

His silence is answer enough.

I just really don't want to end up like that girl.

I exhale sharply, pushing the box further toward him. "Just take it back."

His eyes flicker between the box and me. But then his hand moves, not toward the box, but toward me. Before I can flinch away, his fingers brush against the fabric of my pocket, where the hair clip had been tucked away before I retrieved the box. His touch is fleeting, impersonal, but it leaves a lingering heat against my skin.

"What girl?" he asks suddenly, confussed.

I freeze.

Did I say it out loud?

"What?"

"You said you don't want to end up like 'that girl.' " He says. "What girl?"

Shit.

I did.

I don't answer immediately. Because I don't know what the hell to say. 'Oh yes, you know, that girl you started giving gifts to and then one day disappeared. Nah, nothing important.'

"Does it matter?" I say instead, deflecting.

He raises an eyebrow, like he truly doesn't know what are we even talking about. "I mean, you're the one who brought it up. If it's relevant to this conversation, then yes."

I let out a breath, rubbing my temple. "Just some girl. Someone who got too much attention from the wrong person. And then—" I snap my fingers. "Gone. Like she never existed. But you know, gossips." Gossips...

Something shifts in his gaze, something almost too fast to catch. But it's there. And it makes my stomach twist.

"Is that what you think this is?" he asks, voice lower now, unreadable.

I should stay silent.

"It's what it looks like," I say instead. 

A long silence stretches between us. Then, finally, he exhales, pushing the box right back toward me. "Keep it."

I glare. "Did you even hear a word I just said?"

"Every single one."

"Then take. It. Back." I say. "Please, sir." I give him my nicest smile. 

He smirks, just slightly, in that infuriating way of his. "Make me."

My hands curl into fists at my sides. "I swear to god—"

"You don't swear to god."

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "Fine. You know what? I'll keep this stupid box. But don't be surprised if I sell it."

His smirk doesn't waver. If anything, it deepens. "You wouldn't dare."

I lift my chin. "Watch me."

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm some kind of puzzle he suddenly wants to solve. It makes me uneasy. Or maybe just irritated.

Mostly irritated.

"Well," he finally says, leaning back in his chair. "At least that would be more creative than throwing it in the trash."

"Oh, don't tempt me, sir." I clutch the box tighter, spinning on my heel. "I should get back to work. Since I'm obviously no longer needed—"

"Stop."

The command is soft but firm, freezing me mid-step.

I glance back warily. "What?"

His expression is unreadable again, but there's something... different. The amusement is still there, but it's edged with something else. Something almost hesitant.

"You are needed," he says, voice quieter now. "Unless you've suddenly lost interest in being employed."

I was actually never interested in working in the first place. 

But I don't say that. Instead, I tilt my head, giving him an overly polite smile. "Of course not, sir."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he can hear the sarcasm laced under the politeness.

"Good," he says, exhaling like he's already exhausted by me. "Because I have a new task for you."

I frown slightly. "For the event next week?"

"Yes."

I nod, still confused. "But I thought I was already assigned to help prepare for it. All the staff is involved."

"This is different."

I hesitate. Different is never good. Different is the reason people disappear in this world.

I straighten my shoulders. "In what way?"

He studies me for a second, like he's debating how much to say, and then, with an almost casual air, he asks, "You speak French, don't you?"

I freeze.

My grip tightens around the box in my hands. "I... I—why would you think that?"

His lips twitch, almost like he was expecting me to deflect. "Because I overheard you speaking it."

I clench my jaw.

Great. Just great. So much for keeping that little fact to myself.

I clear my throat. "I—I know some French."

He lifts a brow. "I would say fluent enough to argue in it."

Damn it.

I school my features into something neutral. "That was a personal matter, sir."

"Which you handled quite passionately," he muses, looking entirely too entertained. "You're fluent."

I shift on my feet. "I suppose yes."

"Good." He leans forward. "Then you'll be my interpreter for the event."

I blink.

I must have misheard.

"I—I'm sorry, sir?"

He gives me a pointed look, as if daring me to make him repeat himself.

I inhale slowly. "I mean—of course, sir, but... wouldn't it be more appropriate to hire a professional?"

"I do have one."

Oh.

Oh?

"Then why do you need me?"

He leans back in his chair, as if this conversation is already boring him. "French delegates will be attending. Certain conversations will require discretion. I'd rather not trust an outsider with them."

I feel my stomach sink.

I've done everything possible to keep my head down. To stay in the background, just another faceless worker among dozens in this house. And now he wants me by his side. Translating. Talking to rich people. 

Being useful.

Being watched.

I lift my chin, keeping my tone carefully neutral. "So you trust me, then?"

He smirks. "Not particularly."

I scoff. "Flattering."

"It's not about trust," he continues. "It's about control. I know where you work. I know where you sleep. If something goes wrong, I know exactly where to find you."

I stare at him. "Wow, that's... incredibly reassuring, sir."

His smirk deepens. "I thought so."

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. "And if I refuse?"

His brows lift in mock surprise. "Are you?"

I press my lips together. I can't refuse. And he knows it.

So instead, I sigh dramatically and place a hand over my heart. "It would be an honor to be your personal dictionary, sir."

"Interpreter."

"Same thing."

"Not at all."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You know, sir, you should be more appreciative. I could just... conveniently mistranslate everything you say."

He gives me a slow, unimpressed look. "And I could conveniently fire you."

I huff. "Fine." I pause, then add, "But I expect hazard pay."

"Hazard pay?" He leans forward slightly, intrigued.

"Yes. My contract does not stipulate any translation services."

"What contract?" Ah, right. I don't have one. Well, I had to try. 

A laugh escapes him, quiet but real. It makes something strange twist in my chest.

"You'll survive," he says.

I sigh like this is the biggest burden of my life. I don't trust myself to say anything else.

He watches me for a moment longer, eyes glinting with something I can't quite place. Then, just as I shift my weight, ready to leave, he says it—so casually I almost miss it.

"By the way, the new haircut looks good on you."

I freeze.

I blink at him, caught completely off guard. That... was unexpected. And worse, I have no idea what to do with it. My first instinct is to check for sarcasm, but his expression remains unreadable—if anything, there's an almost lazy certainty in his voice, like he's stating a fact rather than offering a compliment.

I don't know why, but that makes it worse.

"Uhm. Thanks." It comes out more like a question than anything else, and I hate that. Also, the whole point of this haircut was that he didn't like it. So what the hell?

His smirk flickers, just slightly. "You're welcome."

I straighten my posture, determined to recover some ground. "I should—"

"Come back later."

I stop mid-sentence, frowning. "What?"

His gaze is steady, unwavering. "My office. Later."

That's it. No explanation. No elaboration.

I narrow my eyes at him. "For?"

"You'll find out."

Of course I will. Because that's not ominous at all.

I inhale sharply, weighing my options—which, let's be honest, are nonexistent—and finally exhale, long and slow. "Sure."

He nods once, satisfied. "Good. Now your free to go."

I scowl, clutching the box tighter as I turn away. "You're incredibly lucky I need this job," I whisper to myself.

"I know." Damn his perfect hearing. 

Smug bastard.

I decide to ignore the entire situation as I ignore the way my pulse thrums a little too fast.

Later. His office. No details.

Yeah, this is definitely not going to end well.

"I didn't even know you could speak French," Aya says as she blinks at me, surprised. 

"Well it's actually my first language, but I barely speak it anymore," I say, playing with the box, throwing it and catching it in the air. "I have no one to speak French with."

"Hello? Me?"

"Wait, what?" I look at her, surprised and confused. "You speak French?"

"Well of course I do," she says naturally. "It was mandatory in my school. You know, since you colonized us and everything."

"I'm Canadian." Well, actually, Seraphina is Canadian, and Sofia is French. 

"I don't see the difference, French is French." Aya watches me toss the box up again, her gaze tracking its movement like it personally offends her. "But, like... why wouldn't you tell me this?"

I catch the box and shrug. "I don't know. It never came up?"

She scoffs. "Never came up? Never came up? " She gestures wildly. "We have talked about EVERYTHING, and not once did you think to mention, 'Oh hey, by the way, I speak fluent French'?"

I throw the box up again. "Correct."

Aya smacks my arm, and I almost drop it.

"Hey!" I glare at her, but she just crosses her arms.

"No, you hey! Do you know how cool that is? Do you know how much we could've been annoying people by whispering in French together?" She gasps. "Do you know how many secrets we could've kept from creepy old men? Or nosy co-workers? Or Mrs. Patel from the kitchen?"

I wince. "Okay, first of all, Mrs. Patel hears everything no matter what language you're speaking."

"Yeah, that's fair."

"Second of all, I wasn't exactly hiding it, I just—" I pause, twirling the box in my hands. "—never really saw the importance in it. I mean, why would I be announcing to everyone that I speak another language they most probably don't understand either?" I look at the ceiling. "Which reminds me, I really should start practicing my Arabic. Yesterday one of the gardeners on the afternoon shift said something to me, and I just nodded. For some reason he got very excited and kept winking and smiling at me every time he would see me."

"Which one? The one with curly hair or the bald one?"

"The bald one."

She winces. "Imagine you just agreed to take his shift. I think that's the most terrifying option."

I press my lips together. "Yeah, no. I can't take on more jobs. Barbie was on drugs."

Aya tilts her head, half laughing. "And yet here you are. The boss's new personal pocket translator."

I groan, throwing myself back onto the bed. "Don't remind me."

"Oh no, we are definitely talking about this." She plops down next to me, eyes gleaming. "So. He just casually tells you that you're gonna be his translator? Like, what was the tone? Was it 'I have a task for you' serious? Or was it 'I need you to do something but also I enjoy watching you suffer' smug?"

I let out a long, suffering sigh. "Option B. Definitely option B."

Aya claps her hands together. "Amazing. So he's enjoying this."

"I knew you were going to enjoy this too much."

"Oh, absolutely." She grins. "But, okay, let's analyze this for a second."

I roll my eyes. "Oh god, here we go."

"No, listen, listen." She leans in like we're conspiring. "He has a professional translator. A real one. One who probably has an actual degree or whatever."

"Uh-huh."

"But instead, he picks you. The maid who he casually makes his personal maid even though you insulted him, and thereby almost condemned yourself to a certain execution."

I open my mouth. Pause. Close it.

Aya gasps, pointing at me. "Oh my god. You didn't even think about that, did you? "

"Shut up," I mutter.

"No, because this is very interesting." She wiggles her fingers in the air like she's connecting dots on an imaginary conspiracy board. "Like, logically, it makes no sense. He could have just had you working in the background like you should. But no. He chooses you."

I groan. "Aya."

"No, because he—" She stops abruptly. Eyes widen. "Wait."

"What?"

She grabs my wrist dramatically. "And he also gave you the gift!"

I blink.

She points at the box.

Oh. Right.

I lift it slightly. "Uh. Technically."

"Wait, what did he say? Did he say specifically it was a gift?"

I think for a few seconds. "I mean I tried giving it back, he asked why, I told him that it wasn't mine, blah blah. And then he said, and I quote: 'That's the point of a gift. It becomes yours.' So...yeah, I suppose."

Aya screeches.

I slap a hand over her mouth. "Aya!"

She muffles something against my palm before prying my hand away. "No, because—this—do you understand what this means? "

"That I have a really expensive hair clip and no hair?"

"No, you idiot! " She grabs my shoulders and shakes me. "He's interested in you. This is rich people's way of demonstrating interest in someone they fancy!"

"I think that word is forbidden for this century, upgrade yourself."

"Focus! I'm being serious."

I scowl. "You're making this a much bigger deal than it is."

"I'm making this exactly the correct amount of deal!" She releases me, eyes still gleaming with mischief. "Oh, this is juicy."

"It is not juicy."

She waggles her brows. "Sooo...wait, let's recap. Start from the beginning. What was his expression when he gave it to you? Was it all 'Take this and shut up' or was it 'I'm pretending this is a casual gift but actually, I thought really hard about it' ?"

I groan, shoving her away. "You are insufferable."

"That's not an answer." She leans in again. "Okay, but seriously. You don't find this even a little weird?"

"Of course I do!" I gesture wildly. "That's why I tried to give it back! " I sigh. "And he said, and I quote, 'Make me.' "

Aya gasps.

"Oh my god."

"No." I hold up a hand. "Do not start."

"But—"

"Nope."

"I—"

"I will smother you with this box."

She gasps, clutching her chest. "Such violence! And here I thought French was the language of love."

I give her a deadpan look. "I hate you."

She grins. "No, you don't."

I groan, flopping onto the couch again. "Why do I even talk to you?"

"Because I'm your best friend, I'm incredibly charming, and I help you overanalyze your weird, slow-burn situationship with your boss."

I throw a pillow at her