The Perfect Listener

The next morning, I woke up married, employed, and trapped in a castle where the coffee tasted like burnt pennies.

At six-thirty, the butler delivered breakfast and a typed schedule titled:

LORD LUCIAN BLACKTHORN: DAILY CARE REQUIREMENTS

There were forty-three items.

I counted them twice.

“Forty-three? Does he expect me to care for him or calibrate a spaceship?”

“His lordship values consistency,” the butler said.

“His lordship values making people suffer.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re standing right there.”

“I am aware.”

He left before I could ask whether sarcasm counted as a breach of contract.

At seven, I rolled Lucian into the sunroom.

The curtains were shut despite the morning light. Every chair sat at an exact angle. Even the vase looked measured.

I checked the wheelchair.

“Thirty centimeters from the window. Brakes locked twice. Cushion centered.”

Lucian watched me from beneath lowered lashes.

I held up the schedule. He tapped the page, then pointed toward the silver measuring cup.

“Right. The water.”

I poured exactly half a glass. When I added a drop too much, his stare shifted to the line on the cup.

“That is not a meaningful amount.”

His expression did not change.

I poured some back.

“There. Happy?”

One small nod.

I hated how satisfying it was.

The list continued.

Medication at seven. Chilled blood, never warm. Six pills. Left leg supported before breakfast. Right hand wrapped if the curse made it cold. Curtains closed until sunset.

At the bottom, someone had added a final instruction in Lucian’s precise handwriting:

Do not hum.

I pointed at it. “You remembered yesterday?”

He gave me the same flat look he gave the crooked water line.

“This is personal.”

He reached for his glass.

“You have a medical condition called Musical Hostility.”

He ignored me so completely that I decided I had won.

By the fourth day, I knew more about Lucian’s body than I knew about most living people.

His left leg cramped first. His right hand cooled next. When the curse worsened, his jaw tightened and his breathing turned shallow.

That morning, his hand went cold while I sorted pills.

I dropped the bottle and reached for the emergency bell.

Lucian caught my wrist.

The touch stopped me.

He pointed at the clock, then shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded once.

I lowered my hand. “Fine. But if you collapse, I’m charging hazard pay.”

He rolled his eyes.

I loosened his collar, adjusted the blanket, and waited with one hand on his shoulder. When the spasm passed, his fingers relaxed.

He glanced at me.

“What?”

He picked up the notebook, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he tapped two fingers against the schedule and looked away.

“Of course I remembered,” I said. “It’s my job.”

His mouth tightened.

I had no idea why that answer annoyed him.

The estate provided meals, but I kept a jar of instant noodles hidden in my room. Poverty had taught me to distrust anything free. Anything free eventually arrived with a bill.

I skipped breakfast to buy soft support straps for Lucian’s legs.

The seamstress delivered them before noon and took one look at my frayed blouse.

“You should order something for yourself,” she said.

“Because he’s the one paying me.”

She glanced toward Lucian, who sat by the window, motionless except for his eyes.

I shrugged. “Professional standards.”

Lucian watched me count out the money.

Later, he found the untouched breakfast tray in my room. He looked at the tray, then at me.

“I’m not hungry.”

His eyebrows rose.

I pointed at the food. “That is a judgmental expression for a man who survives on chilled blood.”

He continued staring.

I grabbed one of his pastries and ate it in three bites.

“There. Problem solved.”

He waited until I swallowed the last bite before turning away.

The next afternoon, the wheelchair footrest dropped with a sharp clang.

Lucian’s shoulders jerked.

“Hold still.”

I examined the loose bracket. The screw was stripped, the metal bent, and the manufacturer had apparently designed the thing to be repaired by a sadist.

I fetched a screwdriver.

Lucian shook his head.

“I’m fixing it.”

He pointed toward the schedule.

“It’s not listed. Neither was your musical ban.”

I tightened the screw.

The footrest slipped again.

Lucian’s stare became severe.

“I’m almost done.”

It fell off completely.

I looked at the metal piece in my hand.

“Temporary setback.”

He closed his eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

I found an old leather belt in a storage closet, cut it into strips, and tied the footrest to the frame. It looked terrible.

It held.

I sat back on my heels, breathing hard.

“There. If it breaks, don’t sue me.”

Lucian looked at the repair, then at my blistered thumb.

He reached for the first-aid kit.

“I can handle it.”

He took the kit from the table, opened it, and placed it in my lap.

I frowned.

He pointed at my thumb.

“You want me to bandage it?”

He nodded.

I wrapped the blister while he watched.

“Don’t get sentimental. This still counts as work.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Fine. It counts as extremely well-paid work.”

That evening, I dragged a chair beside his bed and brought my noodles with me.

Lucian had his notebook open. I had a plastic fork and several years of poor decisions.

“You know why you’re the perfect listener?”

He looked at me.

“You can’t interrupt. You can’t repeat my secrets. And you can’t post them online.”

He tapped the notebook once, then left it closed.

“Exactly. A flawless audience.”

I told him about the college senior who mistook my love letter for a complaint and sent it to campus security.

I told him about the interview where I panicked so badly I burped in the manager’s face.

I told him about the cockroach that made me call the police at two in the morning. The dispatcher had asked whether I needed animal control.

Lucian’s face stayed still through all of it.

When I reached the part about my father’s debt, my voice thinned.

I stopped.

“That one isn’t funny.”

For a moment, Lucian’s hand rested on the notebook.

Then he turned it around.

You don’t have to make everything funny.

I stared at the sentence.

“That sounds dangerously close to emotional support.”

He flipped the page.

I’m charging extra.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

At eight, I closed my notebook.

“Four hours. Shift over.”

I stood and headed for the door.

Lucian reached toward me. His fingers stopped just short of my sleeve.

I glanced back.

“Is that extra service?”

He withdrew his hand and wrote:

You leave for money?

I looked at him, then at the envelope waiting with my first week’s pay.

“Obviously.”

I tucked it into my purse.

Lucian’s face remained still, but his fingers tightened around the pen.

For the first time, he looked less like a bored duke and more like a man who had just lost an argument he hadn’t known he was having.

I opened the door.

Behind me, his pen scratched across the page.

When I turned, he had written one final line.

Then stay. I’ll pay you.