Wayne Burns began lecturing: “Aunt Winifred, you’re too thin. You need to eat more meat. Being picky is a bad habit. My dad is really fast and thorough at deboning fish-you won’t choke on any bones.” Come to think of it, his dad had never been this careful when deboning fish for him.
Winifred Dawson was left speechless. Before she could react, Leland Burns placed another piece of fish in her bowl.
His hands moved swiftly, stripping the bones from a whole crucian carp with precision. His expression was focused, as if he were conducting an important experiment.
Deboning, serving… watching Winifred eat, Leland worked with practiced ease, as though he’d found some strange satisfaction in it.
By the time he’d deboned three fish and piled the meat into Winifred’s bowl, her initial reluctance had faded. She ate bite after bite, reflexively accepting each piece he offered.
These subtle changes were the most dangerous.
After finishing three fish and two bowls of soup, Winifred was stuffed. If not for propriety, she might have let out a satisfied burp.
When lunch ended, she stood to clear the table, but Leland was faster, stacking the plates neatly. He seemed to have “forgotten” about making her do the dishes.
“Mr. Burns, let me wash them-”
Leland didn’t respond, but Wayne, still in his high chair, chimed in: “Aunt Winifred, just let him do it. Don’t interrupt. A woman’s hands are for skincare, not chores.”
Winifred was stunned. This kid was sharp beyond his years-where had he even picked up such a line?
“Aunt Winifred, help me down.”
Distracted, Winifred had no choice but to tend to the boy first.
By the time she set him down, Leland had already cleared the table and taken the dishes to the kitchen. He didn’t call for her or the maids-he just washed them himself.
Once again, Winifred’s “servant” role felt more like being a pampered guest.
She had a chauffeur, didn’t cook, and ate meals prepared by Leland himself. Who else had it this good?
Deciding to address the elephant in the room, she asked, “Mr. Burns, will I be paid? I originally applied for a receptionist job with a design firm-$3, 000 a month, plus benefits.”
He kept scrubbing a plate. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”
Wayne, now sprawled on the sofa with Shawn, remarked, “Aunt Winifred, your cooking’s as good as Dad’s.”
She couldn’t lie. “It was your dad. I didn’t cook. I’m terrible at it.”
“I knew it! Dad’s the best, but he’s usually too busy to cook for us. He only does it for you. He must really like you. Guys who can’t cook these days won’t find wives, you know. Dad’s just sparing you the work.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. He doesn’t like me.” The last thing she needed was rumors.
“He gave you all the fish-isn’t that liking you? What else counts?”
Winifred froze. What did “like” even mean?
She still couldn’t figure Leland out. Sometimes he treated her terribly, other times… well, he deboned her fish. Made her lunch but did the dishes himself.
Wayne’s words planted a dangerous idea: that Leland was pursuing her. He seemed to know she loved crucian carp, patiently picking out every bone, serving her while ignoring the kids.
But who “pursued” someone like this? With his moods, his threats, his refusal to say a single kind word?
“You’re too young to understand ‘like.'”
Wayne puffed up proudly. “Of course I do! I like Dad, my brother, and you. There are lots of kinds-like moths to flames, dogs to their owners. Dad likes you. His cooking’s the best, but he barely does it at home. Shawn and I love fish too, but today? He only cared about you. Aunt Winifred, liking isn’t about seeing-it’s about feeling.”
Winifred never thought she’d be schooled on love by a four-year-old. And worse, she couldn’t argue.
The boys knew better than anyone how much Leland liked Winifred.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have stayed single all these years. Wouldn’t have stared at their mother’s photo for hours. Wouldn’t have filled a room with her portraits. But they couldn’t tell Winifred that yet.
Uncomfortable, she shifted. Things with Leland were awkward enough without Wayne’s declaration. The idea made her scalp prickle, a strange unease rising. She wanted to bolt.
Something told her Leland wouldn’t let her go after a hundred days. A verbal promise felt flimsy.
So when he returned from the kitchen, she cornered him. “Can we talk in the study?”
Curious, Leland agreed. Inside, he watched her fidget.
“What is it?”
“I just want to confirm-you said if I take care of your kids for a hundred days, you’ll let me go. Clean slate. Was that true?”
Leland hated her bringing this up. He grunted.
“So after today, 98 left.”
She was counting. Like she couldn’t wait to leave.
He smirked inwardly. We’ll see about that.
“Is that all?”
“Mr. Burns, I’d feel better with a written agreement.”
“Fine.” The study had everything they needed. No lawyers-this was just for her peace of mind.
Leland drafted a contract without consulting her, printed it, and slid it across the desk. “Sign.”
Winifred blinked at the speed. She scanned each clause.
The document was a masterpiece of exploitation. Not a single fair term-just a list of demands.
She might as well have been an imperial eunuch, Leland the tyrant. At his beck and call, stripped of rights.
“What if I break it?”
“The consequences would be… unpleasant. Best follow it, Miss Dawson. You asked for this.” Leaning back, legs crossed, he watched her, eyes glinting.
She’d wanted proof he’d release her in a hundred days. Not fifty clauses shackling her freedom.
But she had no power to demand changes. The contract spelled out the timeframe-plus a trap: breaking any term added ten days.
Pointing at it, she asked, “Can we remove this?”