Page 7 of Cinderella and the Daddy
"And I said I'm not hungry." I don't move from my spot on the floor. "What are you going to do, force-feed me?"
He crosses the room in three strides, grabs my arm, and pulls me to my feet. Not rough, but not gentle either. "Don't test me."
I want to dig my heels in again, but something in his voice tells me I've pushed as far as I'm going to get today. I let him guide me out of the room and down a hallway lined with expensive-looking art.
The dining room is straight out of a magazine. A massive table that could seat twelve, but only two places are set, at opposite ends, like we're negotiating a peace treaty. Candles flicker in a straight line down the center of the table.
It feels a little over the top.
I slide into the chair he indicates, my outfit looking ridiculous amidst the luxury. A woman I didn't see before sets a plate in front of me. Steak, perfectly cooked. Roasted vegetables. Some kind of potato thing that smells incredible.
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.
I skipped lunch today.
Nothing new there.
Luka moves to sit at the head of the table. I wait and watch as he picks up his fork and knife. I really want to say something, but the steak smells so damn good.
I need my strength to fight. That means I need to eat.
I dig in. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten steak.
I can’t help but moan when the meat practically melts in my mouth. I take another bite, and then another.
And then, I feel him staring at me.
I realize I’m stuffing my face.
Humiliation floods through me. I’m acting like I did twenty years ago. An image of me literally starving before my social worker rescued me from the first foster family. She took me to McDonald’s. I ate three Big Macs. I went from emaciated to fat in the span of a year.
Food was used to torture me.
It’s taken me a long time to develop a healthy relationship with food in my life. To realize it isn’t always a weapon or a control tactic.
It took even longer to lose the weight and learn how to eat right.
I reach for the napkin and dab at my mouth, hyperaware of every movement. My shoulders tense, waiting for it—the comment about my appetite, the look of disgust, the subtle push of the plate away from me. Drew's voice echoes in my head:"Jesus, Cindy, you eat like a starved dog."
Luka stares at me for a long second. I see him catalog everything—the way I hunched over my plate protectively, how quickly I ate, and the defensive set of my jaw. His eyes narrow slightly, but not with disgust. It's recognition.
"When did you last eat?" His voice is neutral, careful.
"Breakfast." The lie comes automatically.
"Yesterday's breakfast." It's not a question. He knows. Somehow, he knows. "Maria," he calls without looking away from me. "Bring bread. And water."
The housekeeper appears like magic, setting down a basket of warm rolls and a pitcher of water with lemon slices floating like pale moons.
"Eat slower," he says, returning to his own meal. "You'll make yourself sick."
There's no judgment in it. Just fact. Like he's been where I am—so hungry that your body forgets how to process abundance. I force myself to slow down, to taste instead of just swallow. The bread is still warm, soft as clouds. I've never had bread this good.
It should be awkward, this silence between captor and captive. Instead, it feels like understanding.
I hate that some part of me relaxes in a way I haven't in longer than I can remember.
"So," I say finally, setting down my fork. "What's happening here? I appreciate the meal, but can I go now?"
