Sylvain stirred awake. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and checked his phone beside him. His eyes widened when he saw it was already noon.
Sylvain had slept late after crying himself to stupor in the bathroom the night before. He didn't even bother to think of how he had ended up back in bed when he clearly remembered collapsing on the cold tile floor.
Panic surged through him as he scrambled out of the sheets and rushed from the guest room in a haste, heart pounding with dread at what Silas might say about his oversleeping.
The moment he stepped into the open living area, he froze. Silas casually sitting on the dining chair, putting on a light gray sweater over a fitted black t-shirt. He looked relaxed in a way Sylvain rarely saw—hair slightly tousled, a glossy magazine held loosely in one hand while the other adjusted the hem of his sweater.
On the long dining table sat a sumptuous breakfast spread: crispy bacon, fresh buttered toast, scrambled eggs with herbs, a colorful salad dotted with creamy dressing, sliced fruit, and a silver pot of steaming coffee.
The rich aromas filled the penthouse, savory and inviting, completely at odds with the burnt disaster Sylvain had created the night before.
Silas didn't look up immediately. He simply flipped a page in the magazine and said in a calm, commanding tone, "Sit."
Sylvain's knees buckled instantly. He dropped to the floor instead, kneeling quickly with his head bowed low in submission. "I'm sorry," he blurted, voice trembling with genuine fear. "I'm so sorry for not waking up early. I should have prepared your meal. I overslept and… and I failed again. Please forgive me."
Silas gave him only a short, indifferent glance before returning his attention to the magazine. "I won't repeat myself. Sit."
The words left no room for argument.
Sylvain's stomach twisted painfully, but he pushed himself up on shaky legs and lowered himself into the dining chair opposite Silas.
He kept peeking nervously at the other man from under his lashes, trying to read the mood behind that composed expression, terrified of what fresh humiliation the morning might bring.
"Serve me," Silas ordered without looking up from the magazine.
Sylvain's hands trembled as he reached for the serving utensils. In his nervousness, he clumsily placed only small portions onto Silas's plate: three strips of bacon, one single slice of toast, and a modest spoonful of salad. He poured coffee into a porcelain mug, careful not to spill a drop, and slid the plate and mug toward Silas with downcast eyes.
Silas finally set the magazine aside. He looked at the meager portions on his plate and let out a low, amused chuckle. "Gullible. Why didn't you ask what I wanted first before dishing out the meal? You just assumed and served like a nervous little servant."
Heat flooded Sylvain's face, burning from his neck to his ears. "I'm sorry… I'm really sorry. I didn't know—"
Silas's voice sharpened with clear warning. "Do not apologize repeatedly, or you won't like the morning activities I have planned for you."
Sylvain's mouth snapped shut immediately, the rest of his apologies dying on his tongue. He sat rigidly in the chair, waiting with bated breath.
Silas picked up his fork. "Feed me."
Sylvain hesitated only a fraction of a second before scooping a small forkful of salad and lifting it toward Silas's mouth. Silas accepted it, chewing slowly while his dark eyes remained fixed on Sylvain's face. A tiny smear of creamy dressing lingered at the corner of Silas's lips.
"Clean it," he said quietly.
Sylvain reached for a napkin with shaky fingers and gently wiped the stain away. Then, without being told again, he began feeding Silas the rest of the small portions—offering careful bites of bacon, toast, and salad until only a little remained on the plate.
The act felt strangely intimate and deeply humiliating at the same time. Every time Silas's lips closed around the fork, Sylvain's stomach tightened with a confusing mix of fear and unwanted awareness.
When the plate was nearly empty, Silas set the fork down with a soft clink. "Eat the rest and clean up the plates."
Sylvain obeyed without protest, quickly dishing out some food and finishing the remaining food on the plate. He cleared the table, stacking dishes and wiping the surface with careful, efficient movements. His hands still shook slightly as he loaded the dishwasher.
A few minutes later, Silas reappeared, now dressed in fitted polo shirt, tailored trousers, and polished shoes suitable for golf. A sleek golf bag rested easily over his shoulder, clubs gleaming inside. He looked every inch the powerful, composed man he was.
"Clean up the house properly," Silas instructed, voice casual but firm. "A woman will be coming to the penthouse later today to teach you how to cook. You clearly need the lessons."
Embarrassment flooded Sylvain's face, hot and immediate. He lowered his head, unable to meet Silas's eyes. "Thank you… I promise I'll do better."
As Silas turned and began walking toward the door, he paused at the threshold and added over his shoulder, tone deceptively light, "Prepare yourself for me tonight. I'll need to release some stress after my game."
The rest of Sylvain's response stuck in his throat. Words of acknowledgment or protest refused to form. He could only stare at Silas's retreating back as the man left the penthouse, the door closing with a soft, final click behind him.
Sylvain remained frozen in place for several long seconds, the luxurious space suddenly feeling smaller and more confining than ever.
He finally moved toward the sink to finish cleaning, the clink of plates and cutlery sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet penthouse.