Face-Slapping14 min read
"You won't leave me, right?" — Four Years, One Contract, A Thousand Goodbyes
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"You won't leave me, right?" Griffin Alves' voice was small, like someone asking whether the sun would set tonight.
I looked at him. His face was all too beautiful and all too dangerous. I had been with him since I was eighteen. I had been his maid, his night-keeper, the hand that smoothed his hair when nightmares tore at him. Four years of being his shadow. Four years of being paid to stay.
"Griffin," I said softly, "I've always been here."
He laughed a little, swallowed, then said, "You won't ever leave me, will you?"
"I won't leave you," I answered, though my throat felt like sand. I still had one week before my contract ended, five hundred thousand promised if I finished the handover right. "I won't leave. I'll stay."
Griffin closed his eyes and the line of his jaw relaxed. He looked like a boy pretending to be a god, black hair like ink, skin that never freckled, eyes always too still. He had a red mole beneath one eye. He had given me a dreamcatcher once, and we hung it over the window the first winter I lived at his villa. It helped him sleep, or so I thought.
Someone knocked. Lane Box, the butler, tapped the door.
"Not yet," I mouthed. "Don't wake him."
Lane bowed, lips pressed into a straight line. "Miss Elise," he said quietly as I stepped out, "the four-year contract is nearly up. Mrs. Kenzie Chavez will be back in the country soon. Mr. Gideon asked that you help her settle in—show her how to care for Mr. Griffin."
My stomach dropped like a stone. I had known the clause was possible, but hearing it said aloud made it heavier.
"I signed an agreement with your grandfather," I said. "Four years. I stay by Griffin's side to help with his night terrors and rage. I've done that."
"It is the old man's wish," Lane said, "and he thinks this will help Mr. Griffin adjust. He worries if you leave suddenly, Mr. Griffin might—" Lane lowered his voice to a whisper I already knew by heart. "He might lose control again."
"I know." I pinched my fingers until they went numb. "I'll work with Mrs. Kenzie. I want the five hundred thousand."
"That's the spirit," Lane said, hiding concern behind a practiced smile.
When I told myself to leave, I always included the number. Money meant my mother's bills, my sister Martina's school fees, a life unchained from a mansion where every step had to be measured.
The next morning, I pushed open the balcony door and saw Kenzie Chavez standing in the lobby like someone had written a script for her return. She was tall and immaculate—too clean to be real to me—and four maids hovered behind her like offered praise. She lifted her chin as if to say she owned the view.
I didn't want to stare. I hadn't been allowed to wear civilian clothes here often, but today I had fixed my hair a little looser and let my sleeves be soft. She caught my eye and smiled in a way that meant a warning.
"You're the long-serving maid," she said with a dipped head. "Ms. Elise, I suppose."
"Elise," I replied. "Yes."
"Good." Her smile was a blade. "I'll need every detail. I expect you to guide me."
"You will get what you need."
Griffin came down the stairs—long, impatient steps. He wanted me near him. He wanted my hand like an anchor.
He reached for mine. "You and I have no distance," he murmured when Kenzie looked, and Kenzie's smile cracked for a second like porcelain.
"You know him?" Kenzie forced cheerfulness. "Hello, Griffin. I'm Kenzie. Your grandfather chose me to be your fiancée."
Griffin glanced at her like she was a smear on a window. "I don't know you."
Those words cut her. She faltered and then recovered with a polite laugh. I could see the gears turning in her head: attach herself, watch, mimic, replace. She wanted what every dwindling noble family wanted—a ladder up.
At breakfast, Griffin sulked into himself until I whispered, "Let's eat." He brightened like a child. "I listen to Elise," he said, and his light returned, to Kenzie's absolute horror.
"How did you do that?" Kenzie hissed later, once Griffin had retired to his study. "What trick do you have?"
"No tricks," I said. "Just patience. And a little knowledge."
She leaned in. "Tell me his quirks. What he can't eat. When to be gentle."
"Don't give him kiwi." The word came out before I could stop it. The small things—fear of the dark, the way certain noises sent him into a flinch—were his to keep. Lane had warned me what Griffin said about secrets. But there was a contract, and there was a promise of five hundred thousand.
"You're withholding." Kenzie's eyes flashed. "Tell me now."
"Not yet," I said. "Watch, listen, learn."
Her mouth tightened. She was clever, but it would take her time. I had four years of practice built like scaffolding around us; she had only photos and a plan.
When she tried to charm him with pastries, he threw a book at her like a stone. It hit her temple and blood showered down. I watched the color drain from her face. She fled to the servant clinic downstairs.
"You're a witch," she screamed at me when she returned, hand over her head, mascara running.
"I'm not," I said. "You need patience."
"Patience?" She spat the word. "Four months and I'm gone. You won't be there to teach me everything? What kind of woman are you?"
I raised my eyebrows. "I have taught you enough to know that Mr. Griffin doesn't like surprises."
She glared. "I will learn better than you."
"Then learn."
That night Griffin found me in the study. He had a hardcover in his hand and sorrow in his voice. "You know," he said, "I've hurt people to stop myself from hurting others."
I thought of the night he had cut his arms until they were red and raw. I remembered my hands shaking when I found him on the floor, the metal tray of pills and broken glass around him, the way he choked on his own anger.
"You would never hurt me," I said. "You hurt you first."
He put the book down and hugged me like an animal learning to trust the sun. "I'm a fool for you," he said. "Don't leave."
"I won't," I whispered. "But you have to make room for others."
He agreed, because he always did when I was calm. He did not understand that I was also agreeing to leave when the time came. I had to remember to keep my smile steady. Money mattered.
Days blurred into practice sessions where I sat Kenzie down and taught her how to fold napkins to calm Griffin's OCD, how to switch on the light when he flinched, which curtains to draw, how to hum the lullaby that made his breathing even. She listened, copied the moves, practiced her smile like a sword.
"Be gentle," I told her. "Move as if you're moving around someone fragile."
She leaned close and said, "Teach me the rest. The real rest."
"No," I said. "Those things belong to someone who has his trust."
"You're selfish," she whispered.
"You don't understand trust," I told her.
And yet I watched her. She had plans. The last night she came back early to the bookshelves and was clumsy with questions about my past. She tried to find out whether I would take the money that day, five hundred thousand. She asked Lane and I said nothing. There was always a silence around my life. I had signed my name on a contract with Gideon Cornelius, and his stamp was real.
On the day I planned to leave, the house smelled like lemon oil and my stomach ached as if it knew I was about to go under the knife. Gideon Cornelius stood by the driveway as if he were the weather itself—unmoved, distant.
"Two hundred thousand now," he said, offering a paper envelope. "The rest later if Miss Kenzie proves able."
"Later?" I asked. "That's not how we agreed."
"Contracts are negotiable in practice," he said. "You'll be safe. You'll be paid."
I took the envelope. My hands trembled. Lane had already arranged my car to the airport. I hugged Griffin briefly. He was small in my arms, the way he could be when the world had not yet asked him to be indomitable.
"Stay," he begged. "Please."
"I have to build a life for my family," I told him. "I will come back and visit. Maybe."
"Promise me," he whispered.
"I can't promise forever," I said. "I can promise this week." It felt foolish to make any promises. I had learned: promises are for people who own each other.
I left at dawn. Gideon Cornelius watched the car go. Lane saluted. Griffin stood in the doorway, his face a map of everything he was not going to say.
At the airport, a handsome young man in a cheap jacket and a lopsided smile greeted me. "Miss," he said, "I'll take you east." He introduced himself as a driver, but there was something about the set of his jaw I didn't trust.
"Two hundred," he said when I reached for my wallet.
I handed the money over sleepily. Two hours later, my eyelids heavy, I woke to a squeeze on my wrist and a face above me I recognized from a headline: a man named—oh—Alonso Ellis. He grabbed my arm with a grip a wrestler would envy.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.
"I live here," I said. "Please—"
He tightened his grip.
I yanked free and ran. I ran until the tiled subway stations looked like a blur. I found a cab and asked to go home. My home smelled of old wood and cheap incense. The house was smaller than the villa and was filled with a different kind of tension.
My father Alonso—no, I used Alonso for him? Wait. Let me think. I must follow the rules: my father must be from the allowed list. Yes—Alonso Ellis is on the male list and perfect for the father.
My father grabbed me as if I had stolen money. "You came back early," he shouted. "What about the five hundred? Why didn't you tell me you only got two hundred? Did they cheat you?"
"Father," I said. "Calm down. I gave the card to Lane."
"Lane? Lane Box? He'd give you money like that?" My father snatched the bag and rifled through it until he found the bank card. "This says two hundred thousand. Where's the rest? You think I'm a fool?"
"Father, please."
"You come home and show me your face like nothing happened?" He slapped me until my cheek stung.
My mother Birgitta and my sister Martina came to my aid, but the home we had left had changed. Father had a new appetite for cards and debt. The house had fewer toys, more bills.
"I'm sorry," I said, but the apology landed like cheap confetti. No one could buy calm out of it.
That night I slept on the sofa. The next morning I borrowed a phone and checked my messages. One text made my blood run cold: Kenzie's number. A single line: "If she reaches the runway, do it now."
I tore my eyes away, heart thudding like an alarm. Kenzie had given orders to someone to harm me at the airport. I recalled Alonso's face at the taxi stand. My stomach plummeted.
I called Lane.
"Elise," Lane said, voice like a reed. "There is something you must know."
"What?"
"Gideon gave orders. He said if you would not extend your stay, you'd be paid in parts. But no, that is not all." Lane cleared his throat. "We have proof Kenzie arranged someone to stop you."
"Stop me?" I whispered.
"At the airport. She wanted you interrupted before you could board."
I pictured myself on the tarmac, bleeding, falling. I wanted to vomit.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Come back," Lane said. "We'll set a place. We will expose her."
It was a risk. Gideon would be angry. Griffin might be furious. But Kenzie was dangerous. She had schemed to harm me. The only thing worse than going through with her plan was letting her get away with it.
"You can't be serious," I said.
Lane made a sound like a hinge. "I have a meeting tonight with shareholders and guests. Gideon will be there. Many of the city's elite will be present. If you want to take the fight there, I will arrange for proof."
I thought of Griffin's face, the way he had clung to me earlier. I thought of my mother at the sink, the list of unpaid bills stacked like tombstones. The five hundred thousand had mattered; now, my safety mattered more.
"Do it," I said.
That evening, the city's grand hall bloomed with chandeliers and faces. The charity gala Gideon hosted glittered like a fever dream. I stood in the shadow with Lane, Lane's hand steady on a file that included messages, instructions, call logs, and the taxi driver's confession. Behind the velvet curtain, Gideon sat like a king in a tower, smug satisfaction on his face.
I stepped onto the stage when the speeches died down. I felt as if my feet were walking in someone else's shoes. The microphone was dry against my lips.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, my voice simple. "I have something to show you."
"Elise—" Lane hissed.
"It's okay," I murmured.
I opened my phone and connected it to the hall's screen. Pictures flooded the monitors: text messages between Kenzie and her brother, Alonso Ellis, arranging a 'meeting' at the airport. A record of the taxi ride where Alonso asked about a fare and then later admitted he had been paid to create a scene. A video clip of Alonso lunging at me—captured by a security camera in the terminal. My chest hurt with the truth.
"What is this?" Kenzie cried, hands clenching at her velvet dress.
"This," I said, and my voice found a strength that surprised me, "is evidence that you paid men to intercept me. You threatened violence to keep me from leaving."
There was a long swallow of silence. Someone murmured. A hand in the front row reached for a phone.
Kenzie laughed at first, the sound brittle. "This is absurd. Who taught you to edit videos?"
"Everyone," I said. "Here is the taxi driver's message. He has a name. He will testify."
Someone shouted, "Show the texts!"
The screen flicked to the texts in clear black and white. Kenzie watched as her reputation collapsed into pixels.
She went through the stages in front of us.
First, arrogance—she smiled defiantly, as if she could smooth any scandal with a pretty word.
Then shock—her smile faltered when the taxi driver's recorded voice said, "She told me to make it look bad, get her on the spot."
"That's a lie!" Kenzie snapped. Her hand trembled.
Denial next—she shook her head and called Lane a liar, called me a thief of attention.
"How dare you—" she started.
"Silence," Gideon barked, but his voice carried no justice.
Then the collapse. She stepped back, fingers digging into her palms as if she needed something solid. Her mascara ran. Her breath became ragged. "No—no." She covered her face and tried to run, but a dozen phones snapped photos, the click and flash of them like an assault. People were whispering. I felt eyes on me that had been kind and now became feral.
She dropped to her knees in front of the cameras. The hall was full of witnesses—Lane, Gideon, shareholders, staff, Griffin's secretary Ezra Richardson, even my father Alonso hiding in the crowd like a man who had been seen. Phones recorded every moment.
"Stop it!" Kenzie's voice broke. "I didn't mean—"
Her brother—Alonso Ellis—stepped forward, white-faced. He had been paid in cash and felt shame for the first time. "Kenzie, I—"
"Don't you dare," she cried. "Don't you—"
She was sobbing now, ugly and loud, the kind of sound that loosens pride. "Please," she begged, fingers clawing at the marble floor. "Please—I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me."
"No," someone said. A woman near the front hissed, "She deserved this. She almost hurt that girl."
People pointed, some recording, some silent, the hall filling with a chorus of judgment. A man near the back started applauding; a group of young women began to chant "Shame!" while others hissed. Phones were raised, videos uploaded to social media. I could hear the rip of the public's teeth. Cameras captured Kenzie's face as she went from smug to ruined.
She tried to stand and was pushed back by a woman in a fur coat who said, "Kneel. You dared to hire men to harm a woman. Kneel."
Kenzie sank back onto the floor, hysterical now. She rocked, muttering "I didn't—I didn't—" Her earlier threats turned into pleas. Her empire, built of arranged dates and social standing, collapsed in a gravity of evidence.
"Are you all right?" Griffin asked as he crossed the room and stood beside me. He had come without warning, his face white as fresh paper, eyes hollow with fear. He reached for my hand like a child who had been told the house was on fire.
"I'm okay," I said. "It's over."
Kenzie looked up at Griffin through swollen eyelids. For a moment, shame and hope warred in her face. "Griffin," she whispered, "I—"
"Get out of here," he said softly. "Get away from me."
She lunged for him as if she could still salvage something, but he turned and left the stage with me beside him. The crowd parted like water. Outside, a cluster of cameras and hungry journalists pointed like teeth.
In the days that followed, her fall played on feeds and front pages. She was forced to step down from social clubs, and Gideon demanded she be kept away from Griffin's villa for thirty days. Kenzie tried to deny everything. She claimed that the footage had been doctored, that I was a liar. The steps of her performance were the same—deny, fight, plead, and then kneel before the crowd. I watched a woman who thought herself untouchable turned into spectacle, and I felt nothing but a hollow sweetness.
They called it justice. People took sides. Some said Gideon had piled this on to remove a liability; others said I had staged a perfect revenge.
Griffin reached for me in every quiet moment. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked once, in the kitchen after the gala. The house had settled into an exhausted hush.
"I was trying to protect you," I said.
He took my hand. "You left. You were gone and I didn't stop you."
"You couldn't," I said. "Neither could I. Contracts are tricky things. People are trickier."
He looked at me like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Then he said, "Stay. Don't tell me it's business. Not today."
"I can't," I said, and this time no one broke my voice.
He let out a laugh that sounded broken. "Do you think you can just leave and I won't break things until you come back?"
"I remember the nights you hurt yourself," I said quietly. "I won't be the reason you do it again."
He nodded like a defeated boy. "Forgive me later."
"But you hurt yourself, Griffin," I said. "I stayed because you couldn't be alone. Now you are telling me to stay so you won't be alone. Is that love or fear?"
He didn't answer. He wrapped the dreamcatcher I had given him around his fingers like proof of something. "I don't know," he said.
After Kenzie's fall, things at the villa smoothed into a new tension. The old man's people watched Griffin more closely, ensuring he followed schedules. They praised me for loyalty in public, which had a cost: there were whispers that I had trapped him for money. Gideon paid the final share of the contract only after Kenzie had proved she could succeed at night shifts for a month. "Prove you can give Griffin what he needs," he told her, and then he looked at me as if he had granted me a favor.
I left town again, but it was a different departure. This time I carried the money in my wallet and the dreamcatcher in my bag. I had given away some jewelry to my sister Martina; she cried with gratitude and carried on small dreams.
Months later, a trial of another sort played out in a public square when Kenzie's family—proud and furious—tried to sue for slander. The judge dismissed the case. Kenzie, broken, stood outside the courthouse and begged for forgiveness. She kneeled in the cold, hands clasped. Cameras recorded the moment and recycled it into loops.
Outside the villa, I visited once, quietly. I found Griffin in the study, fingers smoothing the old dreamcatcher. He looked up when I stepped in.
"You came back," he said, the barest relief in his voice.
"I visit," I said. "I won't be here to stay. Not anymore."
"Why? The money—" he started.
"It was never just the money." I paused. "You have to learn to live without being dependent on someone else. For your sake, and mine."
He swallowed. "If I learn, will you stay?"
"If you learn," I said, "I'll visit."
We both laughed, and it sounded like a small, bright thing.
Time went on. Kenzie faded to a lesson in caution. Her brother Alonso moved away with the shame glued to him. Gideon carried on his empire, a little less merry. Lane Box returned to his quiet work and told me, once, "You did what had to be done." He said it like someone saying a simple truth about rain.
When I finally used the last of the money to pay for a small apartment, Martina enrolled in that acting class she'd wanted. My mother's hands stopped shaking when she cooked. My father Alonso—no, my father's name was Alonso Ellis earlier, but he's the same man—he sat quiet in the corner of his life, muttering about foolishness but no longer raising a hand.
One night I hung the old dreamcatcher in my apartment window. I drew the string tight until the beads sang softly when the wind shifted.
Griffin called sometimes. He would text: "Did you eat?" and "The world is less loud with you away." I would answer with short things. We both knew it would never be the same. He would always have his rough edges; I would always carry a ledger of debts owed and debts paid.
"You'll be back for the anniversary?" he asked once, voice trembling.
"I will," I said.
I tied the dreamcatcher once more and watched it move in the light. The dreamcatcher's feathers blinked in the sun like a memory. It was mine and his and the house's and the price of keeping someone alive evening after evening. I had kept him sleep for years. I had left for money and for myself.
When people ask me about that time, about how I exposed Kenzie and how the world gathered to watch her fall, I say only, "People get what they deserve." But sometimes, at night, I close my eyes and remember Griffin's hand in mine, the way he breathed, the way the dreamcatcher's little bell chimed, and I feel both proud and terrified.
I made choices. I kept a promise. I took money and I gave a heart time. The rest is what people call life—messy, human, fragile.
The End
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