Chapter 6: The Price of Cornbread

That night, to talk me into making him skillet cornbread, the young lord broke his own rule and came to my room. The air between us was thick with old habits.

He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. But I saw the hunger in his eyes, the craving he couldn’t hide. He was never any good at hiding it from me.

This time, I didn’t stay silent as I had when Cassie came to claim kinship. I straightened my back and met him head-on.

I met his gaze head-on, refusing to be cowed. If he wanted something from me, he’d have to pay the price. No more favors for free.

I made my demand: I wanted the young lord to sleep with me. My words hung in the air, heavy as thunder.

My voice was steady, my eyes unblinking. I watched the color drain from his face, satisfaction blooming in my chest. He wasn’t expecting that.

He was shocked. His mouth opened and closed, tripping over excuses for himself. He looked like he wanted to run.

He stammered, searching for words, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand. I’d heard enough.

I’d expected his reaction, and said bluntly, "Every time I make you that damned skillet cornbread, it hits me—my face ages ten years overnight. Every woman loves to look pretty. I beg you, let me feel like a woman one more time before all my youth is gone…" The words trembled but I forced them out.

My voice broke. I let him see the pain, the desperation, the years of longing I’d kept bottled up. For once, I didn’t hide.

Tears streamed down my face as I took off my blouse in front of him. My hands shook, but I didn’t stop.

The fabric pooled at my feet, my skin pale and mottled under the harsh light. I stood there, exposed and trembling, daring him to look away. I refused to shrink.

The young lord, as if seeing something filthy, quickly covered his eyes: "Absolutely not!" He backed away, panic in every line of his body.

His voice was sharp, panicked, as if he’d seen a ghost. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, hands clamped over his face.

I pried his hands away, forcing him to look at my ugly, aging body. My grip was steady, and I made sure he saw every wrinkle.

My grip was firm, my eyes unflinching. I wanted him to see me, to really see what he’d done to me. I wouldn’t let him look away.

Feigning innocence, I said, "Ethan, I’ve already hit menopause. What are you so afraid of?" My voice was light, almost teasing.

My tone was light, almost teasing, but underneath it was a challenge. I wouldn’t let him hide behind excuses. I was done with that.

Luckily, he saw my determination. He knew I wouldn’t back down.

He hesitated, torn between disgust and desire. In the end, the craving for cornbread tipped the scales. He gave in.

For the sake of that skillet cornbread he craved so badly, he reluctantly joined me in bed. The mattress groaned beneath us.

He moved stiffly, eyes averted, as if he could pretend it wasn’t happening. I closed my eyes, pretending it was enough. It never was.

That night, I made sure to stack the pillows high. A fortress between us.

I arranged them just so, creating a barrier between us. It was the only comfort I allowed myself.

The young lord looked displeased. His lips pressed into a thin line.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but didn’t protest. He knew better than to argue with me when I’d made up my mind.

I just said it would be more comfortable, nothing more. The lie tasted sour in my mouth.

He grunted, settling in beside me, his body tense and unyielding. The space between us felt colder than ever.

Afterward, he was so disgusted he showered five times, terrified of picking up the smell of old age from me. The water ran and ran.

I heard the water running for over an hour, the scent of his expensive soap drifting down the hallway. When he finally emerged, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He walked past me like I was a stranger.

I lay on the bed, pretending to sleep, sneering to myself. My mouth twisted in the dark.

Inside, I was laughing—a bitter, hollow sound. He thought he could wash me away, but some things never come clean.

Did he really think he didn’t reek of age himself? The thought made me want to spit.

He clung to his youth like a drowning man, but I saw the cracks, the fear in his eyes every time he looked in the mirror. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

He forgot—I didn’t.

I remembered everything. Every promise, every lie, every moment we’d shared. And I knew, deep down, that time would catch up to us both, no matter how hard we tried to outrun it.

The house keeps its own ledger.