PlotlumeI'm a private nutritionist, and a contract has me stuck at the estate of Dorian Sterling, head of a vampire conglomerate.
Rumor said he was a moody, violent anorexic who could only stomach the finest human blood, and my field was a perfect match.
He pointed coldly at a table of premium blood bags, so I turned around and served him a pot of fiery spicy blood-tofu stew.
He smashed his wine glass in fury and demanded fresh prey, so I immediately ordered him a plate of stir-fried bullfrog.
His eyes went bloodshot and the veins bulged on his neck, but I figured he was just overheated and made him drink two whole jugs of bitter-melon juice.
Then one day, I came across a hot post on the estate's private gossip forum —
"HELP. The boss actually has a perfectly normal sense of taste and has been terrified of spicy food since he was twelve! Why does he keep going along with that little nutritionist's evil cooking?!"
I jumped in fright, hurriedly hauled my suitcase, and sprinted for the garage.
I'd barely touched the sports car's door handle when a pair of icy hands clamped onto my lower back.
"Sweetheart, I'm thinking of something different for my midnight snack tonight. You."
1
A pair of icy hands gripped my lower back.
Mr. Sterling's breath brushed against my ear, every word carrying a chill.
"Sweetheart, I'm thinking of something different for my midnight snack tonight. You."
My blood nearly froze solid in an instant.
I spun around and forced out my most professional, practiced smile.
"Mr. Sterling, that's not a funny joke."
I raised one finger, trying to take back control.
"Your symptoms clearly point to liver fire running too high. You need to clear heat and detoxify. I have freshly pressed celery and bitter-melon juice in the fridge. One glass and you'll feel the difference, guaranteed."
Mr. Sterling didn't answer.
He just looked at me with those bottomless eyes, showing no emotion at all, so calm it made my skin crawl.
The next second, he caught my wrist.
His grip was far too strong for a human, hard as an iron clamp.
Without a word, he steered me back toward the main house.
"Wait! My luggage!"
My limited-edition suitcase toppled over on the ground, its four wheels spinning uselessly in the air with a lonely little clicking sound.
Resisting was pointless.
He pulled the red Ferrari keys from my pocket, didn't even look, and tossed them over his shoulder.
"Plunk."
A faint splash, and they sank into the ornamental fountain pool nearby, cutting off every last thought of escape.
He marched me all the way through the cold marble hall, past one priceless, gloomy oil painting after another.
Finally he deposited me in the room I'd lived in for three months — no sunlight, ever, and curtains thick enough to stop artillery.
I stumbled and sat down hard on the soft, expensive rug.
He let go of me.
There was a faint red mark around my wrist, and it stung.
He stood over me, looking down, with the look a man gives something he owns.
Then he turned and slowly pushed the heavy oak door shut behind him.
"Click."
It sounded like my sentence being read.
I climbed to my feet, rubbing my wrist, and glared up at him.
"Dorian Sterling! This is unlawful confinement! I'll sue you into bankruptcy!"
My shout echoed through the empty room, sounding pathetically weak.
He finally spoke, the words forced out of his throat, dry and hoarse.
"Clause five of the contract."
He walked to the desk and picked up the parchment contract I'd signed, its gold lettering glimmering in the dim light.
"Until my anorexia is cured, Elara Vance, your time belongs to me."
He tossed the contract back onto the desk with a dull thud.
"Now. My personal nutritionist."
He took step after step toward me, his huge shadow swallowing me whole.
"Go prepare dinner."
2
Mr. Sterling jerked his chin toward the temperature-controlled wine cabinet by the wall.
Inside, there wasn't a single bottle of wine. Instead, rows of crimson medical blood bags, printed with complicated markings, were neatly stacked.
"Blood."
He spoke only that one word, the command leaving no room for argument.
I stood frozen in place, my mind racing.
Three months ago, a jaw-dropping contract had made me the private nutritionist of this vampire tycoon, with the job of treating his legendary "anorexia."
Rumor had it he drank only the finest human blood, but since I'd arrived, the menu had become spicy blood-tofu stew, Chongqing chili chicken, and Sichuan boiled fish in chili oil.
Every time he nearly lost his temper and wanted to kill someone, yet every time, he still ate it all.
I'd always believed my Eastern food therapy was working, until tonight, when I realized he'd been playing along with me all along.