Widow Margaret

The small teacup was an inherited piece. It clinked gently as her guest stirred with a sterling spoon, another heirloom.

"I see you went for the formal treatment," he smiled.

Nervously, Margaret smoothed imaginary wrinkles in her evening dress. She'd never worn it out of the house; a little black number bought for the late husband's business dinners. She put it on sometimes, just to mourn lost opportunities to dress up.  She rarely mourned the man long gone.

"Tell me about your late husband." His smile was gone, but amusement animated his expressive face. A well-trimmed beard framed angular jaw. Just a dash of salt danced with the pepper of his facial hair, appearing again at the temples. He could have been forty, or he could have been seventy. If seventy, he carried it like a Hollywood superstar.  If he was forty, it was the perfect balance of having lived a reckless youth that turned wiser with age. Completing his likeness to Hollywood royalty, his confidence and charm reminded her of Clooney. A boy and a man, and all the more handsome for it.

She startled at his demand, taken aback. He liked his little games, having already known about her husband.  He knew the pain of loss was still fresh, even if years old.

"What would you like to know?" Her voice almost didn't shake.

"Sir." He spoke it casually, as he began to sip his tea.

She blushed. "What would you like to know, sir?"

"Are these fig newtons?" He gestured at the polished silver tray she'd sat out for today's meeting.

"They're apple."

"Like Eve?" He chuckled, taking one and nibbling.

"I suppose so, sir. Do you like them?" She hazarded a shy smile.

"They're delightful, Maggie. And so are you!" His rich baritone lifted her spirits with the praise, and her smile broadened. "But stop stalling."

"He was a bastard, sir. A right bastard. But he's all I had."

"Go on."

"When you asked me, all those years ago, and I said yes, I thought things would get better."

"Well, now, Maggie. Let's keep this about him, not us. Focus."

Turning a deep shade of crimson, she fidgeted with the hemline of her dress that had stayed closeted since being purchased. "He beat me, sir. He called me names, claimed I was broken because I was barren. I gave him no heirs, and I gave him no pleasure, he said to me. Almost every day."

"Even on the day that you killed him?" He said it with a smile, sitting down his teacup. "This was excellent tea, Maggie. I have to say, I think the secret is your heavy cream."

Her heart stopped.

"I didn't kill him, sir. You did."

Silence filled the little living room of her one-bedroom walk-up. It was all she could afford, after the estate was settled. The house in Brent had been the first thing to go, so now she had a flat in Harrow.

She was the first to break under the deafening quiet.

"Would you like some more tea, sir?"

"I'd like you to admit it, Maggie. Confess."

"But...sir. Sir, I didn't lift a hand against him! You know that!" She clutched the hem in both fists.

He laughed. "Maggie, why did you call this meeting with me?"

"I'd like to renegotiate terms." She shocked herself by not stammering.

His eyes widened in genuine amusement, and he leaned back on the small sofa. Gesturing to her to continue, he listened.

"When we last spoke, you told me I could be free. You let me believe that you had the solution to my problems. You swore that no man would ever raise another hand to me."

"And, Maggie, has a man raised a hand to you since our conversation?"

"No, sir, that's just it. No man has so much as touched me since Harry...died."

"That's a shame, Maggie. You're a lovely woman." As he complimented her, he placed a hand on her knee.  He gave a friendly, if slightly flirtatious, shake.

Her heart skipped a beat at the touch.

"You promised me freedom, but look at where I am. I'm nearly living in squalor, sir!"

"Ah, Maggie. You rule here. This is yours. Your domain. You are the master of everything around us. Is that not enough?" He grinned, and she found his wink disquieting.

"I'm grateful for what I have, but, sir, I used to have so much more."

"And you were forsaken, Maggie. Unappreciated. Undervalued. Abused. Disrespected and disillusioned. So you cast off your chains and chose to fly!" He laughed, delighting in the retelling of an old tale.

"But, sir, all I've done is fall."

He grew serious, and the dark look that clouded his face scared her more than a little.

"You chose to jump. Some of us were thrown. Be grateful for the time you have left. You still have much life to live, and it could be worse. Far worse. You'll know soon enough how well you have it here."

It could have been her imagination, but she was relatively sure she could see wisps of steam rising from his skin.

"So our agreement, then..." she trailed off, surprised she had the courage to speak at all in the face of his flared temper.

"It stands. As written. I've kept my end, to the letter."

"What of a man?"

He regarded her from across the couch.

"I told you they'd never raise a hand to you again."

"But I didn't realize that meant I'd never be touched for the rest of my life!"

He smirked.

"Maggie. You can have a night with me."

Her heart stopped. Longing, fear, disgust, hope, dread, and lust all competed within her, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe.

She whispered, "At what cost?"

She knew it wasn't her imagination when his eyes briefly glowed red, then returned to normal.

"It's already in the contract, my sweet. You really should read the fine print."