The following evening, the air in Antoinette's apartment was heavy with the smell of lemon polish and lingering resentment. Kellen stood in the kitchen, his posture perfect. He had arrived five minutes early.
Antoinette walked in. She was sober today, but her eyes were cold, hard chips of ice. She was holding a black garment bag. She shoved it into his chest.
"The tuxedo was for yesterday," she said. Her voice was crisp, academic. "Today, you serve a different function."
Kellen unzipped the bag. He stared. Inside was a black dress with white lace trim. A French Maid costume. It came with a headband that had small, white cat ears attached to it.
Kellen paused. His internal dignity let out a small, dying scream. He looked at the flimsy fabric. He looked at Antoinette. She was waiting for him to refuse. She was waiting for him to storm out so she could feel justified in her belief that everyone leaves.
"Is there a bonus for the ears?" Kellen asked. His face was a mask of professional curiosity.
Antoinette blinked. She hadn't expected that. She reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of bills. She threw them on the marble counter.
"Yes. Five hundred."
Kellen nodded. He took the bag and the cash. He walked to the bathroom.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The dress was tight across his chest. The skirt hit mid-thigh. He placed the cat ears on his head. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a joke.
"For Grandpa Artie," he whispered to his reflection.
He walked out. He didn't tug at the hem. He didn't hunch his shoulders. He walked with the same confident stride he used when wearing a suit.
Antoinette was sitting at the kitchen island. She looked him up and down, a sneer curling her lip.
"Cook dinner," she commanded. "Something French. And don't burn it."
Kellen moved to the stove. He tied an apron over the dress. He picked up a chef's knife. The weight of the handle felt good in his hand. He found an onion and began to chop.
Antoinette watched him. She expected clumsiness. She expected him to be a pretty boy with soft hands.
Kellen diced the onion with machine-gun speed. The blade moved in a blur, the tip never leaving the cutting board. Tap-tap-tap-tap. It was a rhythm he had learned in the back of a diner when he was sixteen, working off the books to pay for his foster brother's inhaler.
Antoinette stood up. She walked behind him. As he turned to the fridge, she stuck her foot out. It was subtle, a petty attempt to make him stumble.
Kellen saw the movement in his peripheral vision. He didn't look down. He simply adjusted his stride, stepping over her foot with the grace of a dancer. He balanced a tray of vegetables in one hand, not spilling a single pea.
"You're surprisingly graceful for a gigolo," she sneered.
"I aim to please, Ma'am," Kellen said. His voice was monotone.
He sautéed the chicken. He deglazed the pan with wine. The smell of Coq au Vin filled the kitchen, rich and savory. Antoinette's stomach growled. It was a loud, human sound that cut through her arrogance. She flushed.
Kellen plated the food. He arranged the chicken and vegetables with artistic precision, wiping the rim of the plate with a clean cloth. He set it before her.
She took a bite. She chewed slowly, trying to find a fault. Her eyes widened slightly. It was delicious. It was better than the restaurant she had gone to last week.
"It's too salty," she lied. She pushed the plate away.
"I will note that for next time," Kellen said. He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his apron and scribbled a fake note.
"Clean the floor," she said. "While I eat."
Kellen put the notebook away. He got a bucket and a rag. He got down on his hands and knees. The cold tile bit into his skin. He began to scrub. He focused on the pattern of the grout. He analyzed the brand of floor wax-it was cheap, likely supermarket brand, inconsistent with the rest of the apartment. A sign of neglect, he noted. A crack in her perfect facade.
Antoinette ate the "salty" food. She watched him crawl on the floor in the dress. She wanted to feel powerful. She wanted to feel like she was in control. But watching him work, seeing the focused, unembarrassed set of his jaw, she felt a strange frustration. He wasn't breaking. He wasn't humiliated. He was just... working.
She broke off a piece of crusty bread and dropped it on the floor.
"Oops," she said.
Kellen stopped scrubbing. He looked at the bread. He looked at her shoes-Manolo Blahniks. He picked up the bread.
"No trouble at all," he said.
He put the bread in his pocket and continued scrubbing. Antoinette gripped her fork until her knuckles turned white. She couldn't touch him. He was armored in indifference.
