First Meeting

The repetitive chant echoed in my mind like a haunting melody - "Kill him... Kill him... Kill him..." Yet, I maintained my formal posture, offering a genuine smile on the face of the person I secretly wished I could slap with the notarial seal. Bald, odorous, and possibly an opportunist, it boggled my mind how someone could be as dense as this individual.

For ten months, I've diligently served as a secretary in a prestigious law firm. In that time, I earned the trust of clients and my boss, who entrusted me with various crucial tasks. However, today was a severe test of my patience. While patience was one of my best skills, it was reaching its limits.

I had painstakingly explained all the legal intricacies to this person, but it seemed like nothing was getting through. I had passed him on to my boss, who, too, was growing increasingly irritated by the man's lack of comprehension. It felt as though he wanted us to bend the rules and ignore the law in his favor.

His case involved a deed of partitions. His deceased mother was among the co-owners of their grandparents' estate, and the law mandated equal shares for all heirs. Yet, he insisted on his mother receiving three times more than the others. I had scheduled meetings with all heirs, as Attorney Lazarus Smith had advised, but he refused to provide their contact numbers, an act that raised suspicions about his hidden agenda.

As the tension escalated, the clash between legal principles and the man's outrageous demands pushed me to the edge. 

"Sir Rowen, you're next," I announced, signaling toward the attorney's office. As he made his way inside, I finally released a breath, dispelling the irritation that had built up. Turning my attention to my next clients, I found myself greeted by the delightful presence of Mr. and Mrs. Fabregas, a couple who had weathered the storms of life for an impressive seventy-five years.

"Good morning, Miss Clement," Mr. Fabregas acknowledged with a warm smile. Their enduring love story always warmed my heart, a rare gem in a world that often seemed fleeting and transient.

Returning the greeting with genuine enthusiasm, I inquired, "How are your days?"

"Oh, it's fine, but a bit of a problem," Mr. Fabregas admitted, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Our children are demanding their share in our property. It's as if they want us to be gone already, which breaks our hearts. We can't blame them; they're our children, and we've always felt responsible for helping them. However, there's a point where it becomes too much."

In the ten months I had worked at the firm, I had become intimately familiar with the Fabregas' story. The couple had five children, all in their twenties. Despite facing financial struggles, Mr. and Mrs. Fabregas sacrificed to provide the best education for their offspring. Remarkably, upon graduation, their children had not been burdened with any financial obligations.

Now in their old age, the Fabregas couple could no longer work and had decided to sell portions of their land. This decision had ignited a fierce dispute with their children, who claimed ownership of the property and contested the sale in court. However, the legal system had ruled in favor of the Fabregas couple, recognizing the property as their conjugal asset. 

The complexity of the Fabregas family dynamics tugged at my heartstrings. While many parents viewed their children as a retirement plan, the Fabregas couple had never expected their offspring to become their financial support. Despite the hardships they endured in providing unwavering support, the children seemed oblivious to their parents' sacrifices. On the flip side, the Fabregas couple refrained from holding their children accountable, convinced that being parents absolved them of such responsibility.

"Children nowadays," I mused aloud, unable to hide my empathy for the Fabregas couple. "Let me guess, you're selling another portion of property again?"

Mrs. Fabregas confirmed with a nod, handing over their Transfer Certificate of Title. "Yes, please. The buyer will be here any time soon. Can you make a draft right now so when he arrives, he can read it and sign it?"

I smiled at their request, familiar with their routine. "Sometimes I wonder how many properties you have in Clifford."

The couple exchanged a genuine smile. "It's all hard work," Mr. Fabregas replied.

"This time, our buyer will purchase the whole lot in that area," Mrs. Fabregas added.

As the couple eagerly awaited their buyer, I began crafting the sales draft, leaving the buyer's name blank for the moment.

"He's here," Mrs. Fabregas announced. The arrival of the buyer introduced a tall man, standing at perhaps 6'3". His eyes were a striking shade of maroon, his dark hair slicked back with a widow's peak. There was an enigmatic aura about him, emanating cunning, wit, and seductive power that set an unusual tone for the meeting. 

"Intimidating," I mused in my mind as I observed the man before me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fabregas, I'm sorry for the wait. I got caught up with the scenery; your town is truly magnificent," the man declared, his deep voice resonating in the room. A subtle whiff of men's perfume reached my nose—neither overpowering nor toxic, but a perfect blend that could make heads turn.

"It's alright, dear. We take pride in our town, and hearing such compliments only fuels our determination to make it flourish," Mrs. Fabregas replied, nodding approvingly. Then, she turned her head towards me, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. I recognized that smile; she was trying to set me up again.

"Remember the young lady I was telling you about?" Mrs. Fabregas asked, her eyes fixed on me. The mischievous smile persisted, signaling her intentions. I braced myself; I knew she was about to try and play matchmaker once more.

"Of course, it must be her, then," the man responded, his gaze shifting to me.

Mrs. Fabregas seized the opportunity, announcing, "This is our lovely secretary, Ms. Astrid Clemente. She's still single and ready to mingle." I cringed inwardly; I despised when someone tried to force matters that I had no interest in.

"Lovely to meet you, Mr...?" I inquired, offering a polite but pretentious smile, determined to maintain my professional composure despite the unwarranted intrusion into my personal life.

"Sean Riddle," he introduced himself, extending his hand. I reciprocated with a gesture for a handshake, but instead, he grasped my hand like a true gentleman and brought it to his lips. The warmth of his touch almost made me recoil, but I restrained myself, resisting the urge to pull away. Suppressing my discomfort, I resisted reaching for the alcohol conveniently placed nearby.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fabregas, as much as I'd love to know your buyer, we still have a few things that must be done, and the attorney is waiting inside," I informed them, opening the door to my boss's office.

"Of course," the Fabregas couple replied, exchanging mischievous smiles. I sighed inwardly, relieved that my interactions with them didn't extend beyond the professional realm. Before I could close the door, my eyes briefly met Sean's. At that moment, a vague intuition whispered that he might be more dangerous than he appeared. Yet, I acknowledged that wealth often carried its risks, and a man of means could be potentially hazardous. 

As five o'clock struck, signaling the end of my office hours, I bid farewell to my boss, who drove off in his flashy 4x4 pickup truck—a peculiar choice for a man in his sixties, but one of the eccentricities I found endearing about him. I tidied up the office before locking up, opting to ride my scooter home.

Navigating the streets, I couldn't help but notice posters of missing persons plastered everywhere. My gaze lingered on one poster, a face from my past – a former high school teacher. Ignoring the eerie feeling, I arrived at my two-story Victorian house, an inheritance from my grandparents. It stood in solitary silence, as I was the sole occupant, except for Mrs. Dingley, who occasionally visited for cleaning.

Dropping my bag on the queen-sized bed, I descended to the kitchen for a warm cup of water. Then, I made my way to the basement. The space was vast, hiding various secrets. Pushing a seemingly ordinary torch, a secret door revealed itself, leading to a tunnel, which in turn led to yet another basement. My footsteps echoed, accompanied by the faint drip of water.

As I approached the final door, a large, metallic entrance awaited. I swung it open, exposing a room filled with torture equipment. And there he was – my victim, my former teacher, confined in a cell, wrapped in a barbed wire, bloody and naked. 

"Good evening, teacher," I greeted him, my voice void of warmth. This, indeed, was the real me.