Chapter 7: The Forbidden Snack
The master bedroom was too quiet after dark. The silk sheets, which had felt luxurious that first night, now seemed to smother. Every rustle echoed. Jimena lay staring at the ornate ceiling rose, seeing not plaster but Silvia’s hands smoothing lace over her skin. The memory was a physical imprint, a warmth that had cooled into a persistent itch.
She threw the duvet back. The lace negligee from the morning was draped over a chair, a pale ghost in the moonlight. She’d changed into a plain cotton nightgown after Silvia left, but even that felt like a concession. She needed water. Something to wash the feeling away.
The mansion at night was a different creature. The grand staircase yawned into darkness, the polished floors reflecting slivers of streetlight from high windows like cold, narrow rivers. She padded barefoot, the chill seeping into her soles. The kitchen was a cavern of stainless steel and marble, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
But the light was on in the pantry.
A weak, yellow glow spilled from the half-open door, cutting a trapezoid across the kitchen floor. Jimena paused, her hand on the cool fridge handle. Maybe she should just go back. Her throat was parched.
She heard the soft clink of glass on wood.
Curiosity, or perhaps the ingrained obedience Silvia was cultivating, pulled her forward. She peeked around the doorframe.
The pantry was deep and shadowy, shelves crammed with jars of peaches, plums, and cherries suspended in syrup. The air was thick with the smell of sugar and dust. Silvia sat on a lone wooden chair in the center of the narrow space, still in her day clothes, a half-empty glass of red wine in her hand. She wasn’t reading. She was just sitting, staring at the wall of preserves, as if conducting a silent inventory.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Silvia asked, without turning. Her voice was low, softened by the wine.
Jimena jumped. “I… I was just thirsty.”
“Come in.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was an expectation.
Jimena stepped into the pantry. The floorboard creaked. The space was so small her bare arm almost brushed a shelf. The single bulb above Silvia’s head flickered, making the shadows of the jarred fruit writhe.
Silvia finally looked at her. Her eyes traveled from Jimena’s sleep-tousled curls, down the simple cotton nightgown, lingering where the fabric fell between her breasts. “That old thing is more fitting for a child,” she remarked. “After the beauty you wore this morning, it seems a regression.”
Jimena said nothing. She focused on a jar of strawberries, their red turned black in the dim light.
“Sit on the counter,” Silvia said, nodding to the clear space beside a ceramic bowl of fresh fruit.
“The counter?”
“It’s just us. And you’re too far away.” Silvia took a slow sip of wine. “Indulge me.”
Jimena hoisted herself up. The wood was cold and grainy against her thighs. She felt exposed, perched there, with Silvia’s gaze level with her torso. The nightgown felt terribly thin.
“Open your mouth,” Silvia said softly.
Jimena froze.
Silvia reached into the bowl, her fingers selecting a single, perfect strawberry. She held it by its stem, the ripe flesh a stark blood-red against her pale fingers. “You need sweetness. To help you sleep.”
“I can—”
“Open.”
Jimena’s lips parted. Silvia leaned forward, the wine on her breath a sharp, fermented note. She brought the berry to Jimena’s mouth, pressing it gently against her bottom lip until the juice seeped out. Jimena took it, the flavor bursting, tart and sweet. She chewed, the sound loud in the quiet.
A drop of juice escaped, tracing a path down her chin.
“Messy girl,” Silvia murmured. There was no anger. It was a coo. She reached up, her thumb sweeping slowly across Jimena’s chin, catching the sticky trail. Jimena flinched at the touch, but Silvia held her gaze, a faint smile on her lips. Then, deliberately, Silvia brought her thumb to her own mouth and sucked the juice clean off.
Jimena’s heart hammered against her ribs. The act was intimate, obscene. It stole the air from the cramped room.
“See?” Silvia whispered. “Sweet.” Her eyes were dark pools, fixed on Jimena’s. “It’s warm in here. All these preserves. Stifling.”
Jimena could only nod, her mouth still full of pulp.
“Unbutton the top of your nightgown. Just the first two. To cool off.”
The command hung in the sugary air. It was a test. After the strawberry, after the thumb in her mouth, this was the next, logical, terrible step. The memory of the morning’s lace adjustment flashed—the feeling of those hands on her, under the pretense of help. This was the same, but nakedly transactional.
“Silvia, I…”
“You’re flushed, dear. You need air on your skin. It’s a medical fact.” Silvia’s tone was light, conversational, but her eyes weren’t. They were insistent, hungry. She took another sip of wine, waiting.
Jimena’s hands trembled as she raised them. The cotton was soft, worn. The first button was small. Her fingernails slipped. The pop of it coming free was a gunshot in the silence. A sliver of her chest appeared, scattered with faint freckles.
The second button. Her fingers were clumsy. She wanted to cry, or scream, or run. But where? This woman owned the walls around her, the roof over her, the bed she slept in. She had brought her breakfast. She had given her beautiful lace. She was just being caring.
The second button gave way.
The nightgown fell open, revealing the soft, freckled swell of her cleavage, the deep shadow between her breasts. The air in the pantry was warm, but it felt like a violation against her exposed skin.
Silvia didn’t move from her chair. She didn’t need to. Her eyes did all the touching. They traced the newly revealed lines, the constellations of moles, the rise and fall of Jimena’s rapid breath. She drank the sight in the way she’d drunk the wine—slowly, savoring every detail.
“Better?” Silvia asked, her voice a husky thing.
Jimena couldn’t speak. She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion.
“Good.” Silvia finished her wine in one long swallow. “You should go back to bed now. Try to sleep.”
It was a dismissal. A release. Jimena scrambled off the counter, her fingers fumbling to redo the buttons. They wouldn’t obey. She clutched the fabric closed instead and hurried from the pantry, from the sweet, rotting smell and the flickering light.
She didn’t get a glass of water. She ran upstairs, her heart a frantic bird in her throat. She locked the master bedroom door—a click that felt futile, childish—and leaned against it, gasping.
Down in the dark pantry, Silvia remained on her chair. She picked up another strawberry, rolling it between her fingers, smiling at the wall of jars, each one a captured piece of summer. She had tasted the juice. She had seen the skin. The preservation had begun.