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Thanks to Lady Audentium, Invader Johnny, budgeri, Yasz1221, monsta, starwater09, Krisari, Gerren, JadeliketheGem, hrisi292, SweetestChick, Guest, Iblamepie, and KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun for reviewing last time! I appreciate you all so much. Your support and reviews are bright spots in dark days.

I hope you enjoy this next chapter!


Deliverance

Shot 57: Caution: Hot, Part 2


"And welcome back to the six o' clock news," said the sharply dressed woman on the TV. "I'm your host, Tiffany Snow. If you're just now tuning in, the well-known millionaire son of Mayor Masters—twenty-four-year-old Dan Masters—has suffered what could be a major setback to his career as a businessman and as the current Sexiest Man Alive."

On the screen appeared a picture of him—his handsome face sharp with a signature Masters smile.

"Earlier today, Dan Masters was involved in what appeared to be an attack from a scorned lover—but sources say that's not the whole story. Twenty-four-year-old Valerie Gray, a previously quiet citizen of Amity Park, was reported to have purposely burned Masters' face while serving him at Pop's Diner on 34th Street. My co-host, Lance Thunder, is at the scene. Lance?"

The camera switched to a handsome-looking man with blond hair and blue eyes. "Thanks, Tiffany. I'm here at Pop's Diner with some of the witnesses to the event, who say they saw Valerie Gray throw boiling hot coffee into Dan Masters' face. Most of them are adamant this was an intentional assault on Amity Park's favorite bachelor. But the twist is that Dan Masters himself doesn't think so. Earlier today, he contacted the news stations to confirm that it had been an accident, and that he wouldn't be pressing charges."

Tiffany Snow reappeared on screen. "And what about Valerie Gray?"

"We've been unable to reach her for comment, but diner regulars say Masters had been actively pursuing her over the last several days. If this was an accident, then something doesn't add up."

"And the extent of the damage to Dan Masters' beautiful face?"

"Witnesses say it's pretty extensive, with massive burning to the right side of his face. Amity Park General commented that it couldn't provide any information without violating government laws. Either way, I don't think we should expect to see him in public for several weeks. He could even be looking at a need for a plastic surgeon."

"Do you think this kind of physical incident could inspire his mysterious mother to appear out in the limelight to support her son?"

At that, Lance Thunder looked skeptical. "Our sources doubt it, Tiffany. If she's not appeared after twenty-four years, odds are that she won't turn up now."

Dan suddenly turned off the TV, disgruntled as he touched the bandage on his face. He could feel his cheeks heat as a storm of anger welled within him. He despised the carousel of media and how it so often invaded his life when he did not want it to.

"Fuck," he breathed in the wide expanse of his home office. He turned his head and caught his reflection in a decorative mirror, where he'd often preened over his own beauty.

Now, as he stared at himself, he felt an ongoing horror at the white bandage hiding his distorted features.

Dan looked away, almost afraid to stare at himself for long. For the first time since he was fourteen, he felt uncomfortable in his own skin—as if his mind and body were two separate entities stuck together in an unholy contract. This body was not the image of Dan Masters, who was supposed to be the Sexiest Man Alive.

His fist clenched, his anxiety giving way to his vengeful spirit.


It was near dinner time when Dan finally interrupted Valerie's vacuuming of the various parlor rooms. "Oh, Valerie dear!" his baritone voice echoed off the cathedral ceilings. There was a sadistic edge in him.

The woman immediately tensed, her fairly optimistic mood plummeting into something between fear and unbridled irritation. "I am not Valerie dear," she snapped loudly.

Her tormentor appeared from one of the great halls, carrying with him a small package. His face was still distorted by a large, white bandage. "The tailor so kindly dropped this off for you." He tossed it onto a nearby couch. "Just in time too. Although your work day is ending for now, I expect you to be wearing it first thing tomorrow."

Valerie stared at the offending package as if it were the devil. She knew it held some sort of terrible French maid contraption that, if she wanted Dan to continue leaving her alone, she would have to wear. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Ah, ah," he admonished. "You already agreed to the deal. Back out now, and I'll have even more reason to…keep my eye on you while you work."

A silence came over them then. Valerie measured the dark glee in every line of his body, and he measured the increasing fury in hers.

"And if I wear this thing," she said haltingly, "you won't bug me? Like, at all? Ever?"

"Within reason." He crossed his arms. "This is my house, after all."

She narrowed her eyes. "What qualifies as within reason?"

He hummed. "Checking to ensure you're not plotting my death more so than usual. Making sure you didn't get locked in one of rooms—the mansion has a mind of its own on occasion, and we have enough skeletons in the closet as it is."

"I'm sure you do," she snapped.

He raised his good brow. "So that is my deal. Unless you want me to watch you more?"

"No," she snapped quickly. A damnable blush began to pepper her face. "God no. It's just stupid. This whole thing is stupid."

The rich boy huffed in amusement. "Of course it is," he murmured to her, almost playful in his sadism. "Now that you've ruined my face forever, I have to get my daily satisfaction in more creative ways."

Valerie hissed, "Your face isn't ruined forever! Good grief, it's just a burn! It'll heal in like, a few weeks."

"It was second-degree, Valerie dear," he pressed. A demonic calculation still glinted from his eyes. "A debt of equivalent shame should be paid."

"I am not Valerie dear."

"But you are still the source of my misery." He leaned in a bit closer, searching her eyes with his singular one. "I do look forward to watching you bend over in that outfit."

This time, her face flared with a deep blush. "You're disgusting."

He tilted his head. "No," he murmured, his warm breath a breeze against her blushing face. His voice turned down with fury. "I'm just pissed off."


Later that night, back in the sanctity of her own run-down apartment, Valerie dared to open the package with her French maid outfit.

"Oh, what the hell is this," she cried to herself, lifting it up against herself.

The uniform was skimpy enough to belong to a stripper. The soft black silk cut low across her breasts and had a push-up wire to increase her cleavage. The skirt poofed out with layers of white lace and hit at the upper-thigh, meaning that bending over in any way would result in flashing someone.

Valerie's face was a horrified red as she turned the uniform over in her hands. She imagined Dan Masters leering at her from a distance, his hands suddenly groping her as she leaned over to pick something up—

She squeezed her eyes shut. "No," she whispered in genuine fear of what he would do. Her body tensed up in revulsion. She was not going to become some kind of semi-stripper, just for the hell of a cleaning job and avoiding a lawsuit. "No, no, no."

When she opened her eyes, she realized her sight was watery. She was clenching the silk uniform so tight that her knuckles had whitened. This was a panic attack. Surely, this was panic.

Valerie looked at herself in the mirror, searching her own watery eyes. When she blinked, tears streaked down her dark cheeks. "I need this job," she told herself. "I need this job."

If she refused, odds were that collections would take her every last possession and kick her father out of physical therapy. No one else would likely hire her. Her name had still been on the lips of every person on the city bus, most people still siding with Dan as the innocent victim of either a genuine assault or major incompetence. It'd been all she could do to hide her face.

The dejected woman smoothed the silk uniform against her skin. "I need this job," she said again, voice wavering.

Just then, her phone began to buzz with a call. She tensed for a moment, half-afraid that was her father and that he somehow already knew about the outfit in her hand. Then she saw who was really calling, and a small relief overcame her.

She picked up the phone and blinked away her tears. "Paulina?"

"Valerie?" said Paulina. Her voice was small. "Hey, are you still alive?"

Valerie sat down on her bed in exhaustion. "Yeah, I'm alive."

"You like, disappeared on me. Are you in another state or what?"

Valerie then, reluctantly, admitted what all had transpired since she'd run to the hospital, wiping her eyes of tears and trying to stop the waver in her voice.

Paulina, to her credit, kept quiet to the end before she gave a soft squeal. "He kissed you in the alley?!"

Valerie face-faulted. "Oh my god. It was just—"

"—On the cheek, I know," Paulina cut in excitedly, "but do you know what this means? He still likes you, chica. He still likes you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she managed to deadpan. "How the hell is that a good thing? He's making me wear some kind of stripper get up to get off on making me feel like shit."

"Honey," Paulina huffed in her ear, "it doesn't matter what he's asking you to do. Get back in his favor—flaunt your stuff—and we could still get a hand on his cash. You know?"

Valerie wiped her eyes. "I'm not following," she said flatly.

"You got a hot body," Paulina said, her voice carrying a hint of calculation. "And he knows it. So…use it against him. And even if he is a jerk, then we'll at least get money out of it." The phone shuffled on her end.

"Dammit, Paulina, I'm not a prostitute or a stripper. I'm not gonna sell out just for money."

"I would," she declared proudly. "You've never tasted the finer things like me, chica. You don't know what you're missing, not having to burn yourself on soup or ask, 'Do you want fries with that?'" A dreamy, wistful tone overtook her. "Instead, it's drinking fine wines, tanning on a yacht…feeling like a queen…being worshipped…"

Valerie toyed with one of the strings on the uniform's corset, feeling even more uncomfortable. She'd never had a past like Paulina's. "Then you can be the stripper, and I'll ask people about fries."

The other woman huffed in amusement. "You're missing the point. It's Dan Masters. If you can snag him, that means I could get part of my old life back. And you could actually get a life. I mean, even if it's just some jewelry, we could split the cash and—"

Paulina's family had been relatively well off in the past. But then her father had been convicted of several embezzlement cases, and they'd lost everything. Ever since, Paulina had become attached to the concept of a rich knight to save her from the common life.

Valerie's eyes narrowed. "—By gold digging? You want me to dig on Dan Masters, after everything that's happened?"

"You don't have to marry him," Paulina pressed. "He's just looking for a little fun. No one tangoes with him and expects it to last forever." A sudden, jealous edge cut into her voice. "So that's why you gotta milk it while you can."

Valerie pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment, staring at it in a daze. Then, softly, she admitted, "I don't care how rich he is. He makes me feel like shit."

And before Paulina could protest, Valerie hung up.

She inhaled shakily as she stared at the French maid uniform—and what would be the beginning of her bleak future. Then, a sneaky idea began to take form in her mind. "But I'm not gonna let him make me feel like shit," she murmured to herself, her voice growing with a new strength. "Not without a fight."


The next morning, Valerie arrived early at the Masters mansion to change into her outfit—she certainly wasn't going to wear it on the city bus—as well as grab her new list of orders from Vlad before he left.

Curiously, on the list he gave her was the quickly scrawled note, Avoid the west wing today please.

"What in the world does that mean," she muttered under her breath, this time entirely curious as to why she was supposed to avoid it.

But then Dan emerged shirtless from said wing, wearing running shorts and earbuds in preparation for exercise. He sleepily yawned, his hair still in a tangled bunch. The right side of his face was still hidden behind an unsightly bandage, splotches of skin down his neck and chest still a bit red.

Within five seconds, he caught sight of her.

His blue eye widened.

The sleep disappeared from him, replaced with a genuine mirth. His thin lips stretched wide into a smile of white teeth. "What is this," he managed to say in amusement, waving a hand at her.

Valerie was certainly wearing her skimpy uniform—over a high turtleneck shirt and baggy jeans. A tie-dye bandana held back her hair, her ensemble clashing in the worst of ways. On her feet, instead of strappy stilettoes, were old sneakers with mud splattered up the heels.

"I'm wearing your stupid uniform," she snapped lightly. "With a few modifications of my own."

He huffed again, struggling to fight down his smile. "You're not supposed to wear anything underneath it."

The lines of her body began to soften with the sight of his amusement, and a merrier kind of mischief glinted from her eyes. Her voice raised into a song. "Wasn't part of the deal."

The loophole left him without words for another minute or two as he stared at her. For the first time, he forgot about the state of his face in favor of soaking in the ridiculous image that was Valerie Gray.

He turned away, tilting his head to push an earbud into his ear. "You're ruining my fun, you know," he complained dramatically. "The whole point was to embarrass you. Instead, I worry what people will say of me if you answer the door like that."

"That's sort of the point."

"You're not even embarrassed to walk around looking like an escapee from an insane asylum?"

She smiled. "Not if it means embarrassing you more."

He huffed. "I'm sure." He slid his eye to her once more, shaking his head. "Fine, you win for now. I'm going out to try and unsee this. Try not to burn down the house while I'm gone."

"I'll be sure to flood it!" she called out with dark joy.

The enigmatic Dan Masters rolled his eyes as he turned on his music to drown out her presence, heading for the door outside. But there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and it did not seem to cease.

Valerie watched him as he left, curiously eyeing the sharp muscles of his naked torso. Down one shoulder blade was a silver scar.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder, as if sensing her stare.

Valerie looked down at her list. Her heart raced at almost being caught staring at him. Sweep and mop the entryways in the east wing, said the list.

Dan's presence disappeared like a wisp down the hall.

She breathed a sigh in relief.


In time, Valerie was sweeping the tiles in the east wing. The mansion had seemed monstrous from the outside, but its insides spanned for eternity in every direction. The hallways were tiled with ceramic murals, the dark walls boasting hundreds of years of accumulated family wealth—portraits of ancestors in gold frames—old swords and priceless works of art—

She wiped her dirty hands on her uniform's once-pristine little apron, taking pleasure in how its lacey outline seemed to wilt under real work. And then she looked back to the west wing.

The cathedral ceilings were dimly lit, the windows all still shut. It did not seem all that different than her first day.

Avoid the west wing today please.

"But why?" she dared to wonder aloud. She looked around. Despite Vlad's kindness to her, she struggled to obey such secretive orders, especially given his initial agreement that she would clean the entire mansion. Maybe they were renovating? Or maybe that wing was even more haunted than usual? (Not to say she necessarily believed in ghosts, but if she were to be working alongside some, she much preferred to get the surprise out of the way.)

She gripped her broom a bit tighter and pressed her lips together. Then, she slowly abandoned her post to move toward the west wing. At a certain level, she knew it contained most of Dan's private rooms and offices, so it was best not to be caught snooping.

Oddly enough, most of the first doors were open—leading to small libraries and trophy rooms. But then she came across a closed door in the middle of the hall. She tilted her head, noting the odd way the door did not hang correctly on its frame.

Valerie dared to open the door in curiosity and stepped into the room. Her full lips dropped open in shock, and her grip on the broom nearly slipped. "What the…?"

It looked to once be another trophy room, but it was in shambles. One of the displays had been pushed to the ground, with shining fragments of glass in an explosion on the floor. The wire frames of the display were bent from the force of the fall. Valerie looked down in unease as she ventured forward. Photos had been torn from the wall. The decorative mirrors had been cracked with something hard. One of the window curtains had been pulled down, its beam jutting uneasily from the wall.

"Jesus," Valerie breathed, feeling a chill down her spine. She leaned down to pick up one of the broken chunks of a golden trophy. –Man Alive, it said, with last year's date in italics beneath the title. Near it were the shreds of a professional photo of one Dan Masters. It reminded her of the magazine shot used to announce his title as—

"—Sexiest Man Alive," she murmured, putting two and two together.

As she looked around, she began to notice the entire room had been a collection of honors from fan magazines and various pop culture organizations. All of it had been Dan's.

And all of it was in ruins.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck raised up as she heard an uneven breath—a shadow flickering from behind. She turned around to see a sweat-soaked Dan, his naked chest still heaving with the breath of a long run, his dark hair matted against his temples. "What," he snarled out, voice quietly, "are you doing here."

Valerie froze, with the broken trophy still in her hand. "I, uh—"

Whatever amusement that had been on Dan's face earlier was completely gone, his face devoid of any emotion beyond that of hysteric fury. The ends of his hair seemed to almost to lift up as his powerful muscles tensed. "—Dammit, you are not supposed to be in here. These are my rooms. My private rooms."

For a second, Valerie feared for her safety. She back stepped. "You did this last night?"

His fist clenched. "That is not your concern." A blush of embarrassment colored his fury—embarrassment that not only his father but now Valerie knew of his lapse in sanity.

"Not my concern?" she demanded cautiously. Paulina had warned her of Dan's tantrums. She did not necessarily want to see one in action, if this room was the aftermath. "I'm supposed to be cleaning up this house, and here you are, majorly wrecking it. Look at all the glass everywhere."

Dan's face twisted in pain, and the bandage over his injured eye crinkled.

"Daniel!" Vlad begged, reaching out to him. His voice, normally so calm, was strained in fright. He flinched at the sound of breaking glass. "Daniel, please! Stop this!"

"Are you incapable of following directions?" he demanded. "You were told to sweep the east wing, not the west. My father made that clear to you, did he not?"

She sputtered for a response. "So what?" she challenged. "Were you just gonna keep this room a disaster and not tell anyone? Why the hell did you do this?"

He stood in the silence, his ruined face bare of its bandage. "On TV," he rasped between heavy breaths, "They asked whether even a mother could love this new face of mine." His strong hands tightened on the handle of the baseball bat. An unsteady, furious laugh came over him. "Can you believe that?"

Vlad stepped forward cautiously. "That was a very cruel thing of them to say," he agreed.

Suddenly, Dan swung the bat into another display case—glass shattered everywhere. He had not cried since infancy, so pain manifested as anger. It was easier that way. "They are mocking me," he snarled. "Already threatening to take away my titles, saying I can't hold it if I look like a freak." He hit the display case again, and the metal bent.

"I want you to think about what you're doing right now," Vlad pleaded. "You haven't had an episode in such a long time—"

He looked up at his father and narrowed his good eye to a slit. "—I'm not having an episode," he hissed. "I just want their shit out of my life."

Dan searched Valerie's eyes, then looked away. "It doesn't matter why I did it," he muttered. "As if you would understand."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Uh, it does matter. You're way more messed up than you let on, dude."

His face flushed in an increasing shame and fury. "And why would you care?" he challenged, voice in a rough mock. "Don't tell me you go for the broken types. Suddenly attracted to me now that you see a bleeding heart in need of redemption?"

She sputtered, "I'm not! I just—Jesus, man. I wanna know if I'm even safe here with you."

The odd confession left a sour line upon Dan's lips. It made his face darken in even worse ways. "So you are afraid of me now," he dared to say. "Is that it?"

A silence passed between them. Valerie narrowed her eyes as she tightened her grip on her broom. "Should I be?"

The strange boy seemed to hesitate at the question. The beads of sweat from his temple ran down his clenched jaw as he stood there, suddenly looking young and cornered and afraid—mostly of himself. "Just. Get out of this room," he said, voice hoarse with emotion.

Then he disappeared from the threshold, slipping away as if he were a ghost.


Valerie, again, refused to follow directions.

A while later, a fully dressed and bathed Dan found her still in that ruined room. She was picking up the broken pieces of glass and tossing them into a trash can, her French maid uniform still flaring out over her baggy clothes.

"What are you still doing here?" he demanded.

She raised her head, catching his dark, displeased eye. "Oh, don't worry," she called out dryly. "I'm leaving all the shredded photos and trophy pieces. I'm just picking up the glass so no one cuts themselves in here." The odd thing about her work was that, out of all the things in the room, she noticed Dan's anger had been mostly concentrated on his own image.

The man leaned against the threshold. He wore jeans and a simple gray shirt. His dark hair hung in wet locks down his neck, curling at the ends. But he'd taken off the bandage on his face, revealing the blistered and swollen burn across his eye and temple. "You," he said, "don't listen."

Her face flamed to even look at his injury. It felt as if he were rubbing her mistake in her face. Which he probably was. "Oh?"

"I told you to leave this room."

"Yeah?" she retorted. "So that some poor house worker can walk into this shit-fest and get hurt? Where the hell is the rest of your help, anyway?"

Dan tilted his head. "They transformed into dancing cups and dishes upon your arrival."

"…That's not funny."

"Neither is your incessant defiance of orders."

She raised a brow at that. "Oh, come on. You laughed at my uniform earlier, so don't keep holding that against me."

He looked uncomfortable in his own skin as he watched her move in that ridiculous outfit. "And...you are not cleaning this for my sake?"

"No," she retorted. "Although I don't wanna be cleaning this by myself." She pointed to a second trash can. "Why don't you help me pick up your own mess."

Dan's handsome face stretched at the demand, mostly on an instinct to irritate her. "Hn. If I help, I'll simply undo all of your work."

She pointed a finger at him. "Don't you dare. I'm already getting blisters trying to clean up after you."

He leaned forward a bit, and the sunlight shined off his ruined side of his face. "Well, then. In that case…misery loves company."

And for the first time in his life, Dan accepted someone else's order. He knelt down beside Valerie, dutifully pulling the second trash can closer.

"—Ah, ah," she said, throwing a pair of extra rubber gloves at him. "I am not taking you to the hospital because you stabbed yourself with glass. Put those on first."

The swelling around his burned eye had gone down, but he still could not open it. His singular open eye focused hard on her. "Are you mother-henning me?"

"No, I just don't want you to accuse me of physically injuring you more."

An uncomfortable silence wavered between them at that. It was strange as well— neither of them had ever managed to be silent in the other's presence. The injuries on both sides meant they had history that neither one was necessarily proud of. Then he huffed as he grabbed a pair of the gloves. "Well. I am still angry with you about my face."

"Really?" she deadpanned, waving a hand at the room. "I couldn't tell. You threw a temper tantrum with a baseball bat."

He kneeled down and picked up a torn side of an old photograph. "…This wasn't all because of you."

She paused.

The handsome man pressed his lips together as he stared at the old photograph of himself at the top of the world. In the height of glory. "You already thought me a monster," he murmured. "I just was…not prepared for the rest of the world to think so."

Valerie returned to picking up glass, half-afraid that she would ruin Dan's contemplative mood. "What does that mean? No one's even seen your face yet."

He suddenly ripped the photo again. "They didn't have to," he murmured. "Last night's news coverage turned me into a Phantom of the Opera wannabe." The turn of his voice suggested vulnerability—that he was genuinely upset at his new public image.

The emotion in his voice disrupted Valerie's understanding of Dan as a terrible human being, and it made her backpedal. It was too much to think of him as a human being. Who felt real emotions. Who could feel pain and embarrassment.

Afraid of what would happen if she thought too much, she tried to resort to the safer space of their usual banter. She gave him a hard, unimpressed look. "…Just so you know, I really don't go for the dark and broken type of guy either."

His eye flickered to hers, a small spark of merriment rising in him. "Damn. And I was trying so hard to test that theory."

"Aw, did you wreck this room and cry tears just to bond with me?"

His sarcasm was dry. "…Of course."


As the day passed, Valerie concluded that Dan was genuinely afraid of what others would say of his appearance. He skittishly turned away from every mirror and clenched his fist in anxiety every time his phone rang. His still-swollen eye meant he could not see out of it and therefore bumped into or knocked things over, then attempted to pretend such clumsiness hadn't happened. But for her—the shock was already over. She could stare at his burned, blistered face and not give away any sense of disgust. She did not always laugh when he reached for something and accidentally knocked it over.

At the very least, the task of cleaning up his tantrum had burned away a good portion of the day, and now she was madly attempting to make up for lost time. She'd returned to mopping the east wing's entryways, sweat bulleting down her temples, but she'd managed to mop only one foyer so far. There were seven more entryways to go, and all of them were covered in a film of dust.

"Crazy rich people," she grumbled under her breath. She wiped the sweat off her face, grimacing at how her hands still ached from holding the mop. Serving had made her arms stronger, but her hands had lost valuable callouses. At this point, she really was going to have blisters by the end of the day. "Who the hell needs eight entryways for one part of the house?"

Suddenly, a dry, male voice said, "They're fire exits."

Valerie flinched and looked up.

From out of the shadows of the north wing materialized Dan Masters once again, texting on his phone.

"I thought you said you weren't gonna bug me, huh?" she snapped.

His thin lips stretched as he looked up. "Ah, that was not our deal now, was it? I simply agreed to not add to your work list or bother you more than necessary."

"For the record, entertaining you is not on the list," she hissed.

The sunlight from a nearby window shined on the ruined side of face, illuminating him as some unholy angel. It distorted his smile. "And yet you talk to yourself out loud, which I do find entertaining. And distracting from my own work, I must say."

She blushed a little harder, this time out of embarrassment. "What the hell, are you spying on me while I work?"

His blue eyes landed upon her hands, the dark skin of her palms now reddened from her labors. "I am answering a question you posited to the walls," he murmured.

"So you are spying on me," she hissed. "Dammit, just go away."

Dan crossed his arms as he leaned against a pillar. "Oh, but we were just starting to get along," he complained dramatically. "And in my ongoing moments of weakness, I need a pick-me-up. Looking at you in that ridiculous outfit gives me enjoyment."

Valerie had mostly forgotten about her French maid outfit, which now carried the mar of dirt and wrinkles. Her eye twitched as she looked down at herself, feeling gross. "You can't possibly think this is attractive."

He huffed in amusement. "Let's just say you've forced me to lower my standards, given my ruined face."

She face-faulted. "Oh gee, thanks a lot."

He leaned forward, tilting his head. "Actually—you have me curious about something. You dislike the tall, dark, and handsome type—which is me, obviously. You also have no heart for the dark and broken soul in need of redemption. What kind of guy is your type?"

Valerie froze. "What?"

"Your ideal man. Humor me."

She flung the mop a bit to send a few water droplets his way. "The opposite of you."

He gave her a flat look. "I am being serious."

"So am I," she pressed. "You're a jerk who treats everyone like shit. You kicked me out of my house and then expected me to date you. You have all the money in the world to fix your face, and you throw a tantrum about a two-week setback in your life?" She scrubbed the floor hard with the mop. "You're just a spoiled brat. But you probably don't want to hear that, do you."

He stiffened a bit. "No," he said, the humor in him gone. "That's not what I want to hear."

"Yeah? Well, maybe you need to," Valerie muttered.

It fell silent between them as she mopped the tiles, diligent and thorough in her work.

His anger with her faded quickly, as it was in that moment Dan realized why he was still somewhat attracted to her. She was unpredictable and honest. A hot light he could not help but fly toward despite the heat of her anger. She was not some bottom-feeder bimbo who would do whatever he wanted. She got her hands dirty for honest reasons.

He crossed his arms. "Then pray tell what the opposite of me is."

Valerie didn't look up at him, but her face tinged red with a blush. "Uh, how about a guy who's responsible and respectful? Who actually helps people?"

"So a Mr. Philanthropist."

"Yes," she nodded firmly. "And he'd never blackmail me into wearing a French maid outfit."

Dan closed his eyes and sighed. "Oh, Valerie," he said in disgust. "Your dream boy sounds so boring. I couldn't possibly pretend to be such a saint, even if I wanted to."

Valerie snorted. "Good. That means I'm safe."


Later that evening, Mayor Vlad Masters returned from the courthouse, looking tired. A lock of his silver hair had fallen from his signature ponytail, and he pulled off his outer jacket with a sigh.

Valerie was still sitting in the middle of the living room—a half-eaten apple on a plate beside her while she folded some freshly washed dishtowels. "Good evening, Mayor Masters," she called out, a glint of glee in her voice.

The older man looked up at her and began to crack an amused smile, still entirely unused to her odd uniform. "Good evening, my dear. Tell me, how did my wayward son take your alterations to such a uniform?"

"Oh, he hates it."

Vlad's smile stretched wider. "Very good. I'm sure he'll benefit from your well-placed indignation at his demands, which seem to have become wilder lately." He looked around for Dan, speaking of the boy—and then noticed that a certain door in the west wing was open. His smile faltered as he began to walk toward the offending room, only to realize that it had been swept, the broken display case taken out, and the glass and shredded pictures piled into trashcans.

Soon enough, the older man returned to her, a bit of a frightened, haunted look in him. "Valerie?" he called in concern. "…Did you go into the west wing today?"

She nodded, a bit of guilt tightening her face. "I know you said not to, but—"

"—Does my son know? Did he see you?"

"Yeah. I made him help me pick up the mess."

Vlad rubbed his temples in a worry. "Oh, my dear. You were not to see that, and he was supposed to clean up his own mess, by himself. I do hope he didn't frighten you."

She paused in her work, hesitantly eyeing the father, then looking around to ensure Dan was not yet around. "Does he…rage like that that often?"

The man sighed, "He's always had a temper—not usually to this degree."

In that moment, Valerie beheld the mayor in a new light. For as nonchalant as Vlad appeared, she was beginning to see that his and Dan's life was not so charmed as the magazines suggested. "What's wrong with him?" she asked softly. "I mean, aside from being a spoiled, misogynistic pain in the ass?"

Vlad hesitated for a time as he loosened his tie. He gave a noise of tired amusement. "A million-dollar question. He's been terribly vindictive since he was fourteen."

The woman began to return to her work, half-tempted to ask more about Dan. But she did not want to seem too curious about him, or she feared Vlad would perceive it as either fear or genuine concern—neither of which she had for Dan.

Vlad's eyes searched her in curiosity, noting the odd pattern of emotions on her face. "Why do you ask? Do you feel unsafe here, my dear?"

She did not look up at him, instead opting to intently stare at the dish towel she was folding. "No," she said honestly. "But I wanna know what I'm really dealing with here."

Then his gaze landed upon Valerie's half-eaten apple, and he said, "Perhaps that is a conversation to save for dinner, when you're not busy."

Valerie blinked. "Um, this is my dinner."

A great gap appeared between them as Vlad stared at her in shock. "Just an apple for dinner? Is that all you've been eating while you're here?"

She tightened her grip on one of the dish towels. "I mean, it was on the counter—I've got some frozen dinners back at home—"

Vlad nearly face-palmed. "—That boy was supposed to ensure you're eating," he muttered. "Good grief." He pulled out his phone from his pocket and began dialing a number. "This is entirely unacceptable. I'm sure you're starving."

Valerie blinked at the odd level of concern in the man, to whom she owed thousands of dollars in debt. "No, really, I can't afford to—"

"—Nonsense," he waved off her concern. "As long as you're a part of this house, our food is your food."

Soon enough, specially catered food arrived at the door—which Vlad so graciously answered in hopes of keeping the oddly dressed Valerie away from a public eye. He'd ordered some kind of excessively expensive foreign meal after Valerie had told him she didn't care what he ordered and that yes, she did eat meat.

Valerie found herself staring at the mass of boxes in the kitchen, feeling out of place and ridiculous against the suave air of Vlad Masters. "What…is all of this stuff?"

He hummed, handing her a plate. "Curry dishes. I do hope you don't mind spice."

The poor woman grabbed onto the plate, her eyes still wide. The food was hot, specially prepared, and didn't come from a microwave or cardboard box from the store. She swallowed hard, realizing that she must have looked silly to Vlad. "Uh, of course. Spice, right. I like spice."

He smiled, his light eyes softening. "Very good. Take what you like—I ordered plenty."

As she tentatively spooned curried chicken and what looked to be some kind of grain—quinoa, Vlad clarified for her later—the man added, "And I really should pay you extra for helping to clean up Dan's tantrum. I'm terribly sorry again."

Her voice was still distant with awe, "I think the food makes up for it."

The tired father eyed her, not convinced. "And he really didn't…give you a hard time or frighten you? At all?"

Suddenly, Dan seemed to materialize from the darkness, his baritone voice dry as he leaned against the threshold into the kitchen. His aristocratic nose lifted in interest of the smell of food. "Talking about me behind my back?" he mocked. "Why, father. What tales have you spun about me?"

Vlad's voice was a bit more casual. "Only the truth, my son. That you're a bit of a beast beneath that skin of yours."

Dan's visible eyebrow—he'd replaced his bandage—scrunched, and his eye narrowed. "I do hope that is a reference to my famed prowess in bed."

The father rolled his eyes. "On the contrary, dear boy, your manners are a disgrace. Talking of such lewd things in front of a lady, really."

Dan pointed at Valerie. "That is no lady. Look at her."

Vlad gave him a look instead. "Yes, Valerie is a lady, regardless of your schemes to otherwise diminish her."

"Amen to that," Valerie muttered under her breath, curiously watching the father and son banter. It was rare to see Dan not worshipped.

The boy huffed and kicked off the threshold. "Oh, stop showing off," he muttered. "You're just trying to butter her up so she'll spy on me for you."

Vlad appeared offended. "When have I ever—?"

"—Walker. Nicolai." Dan grabbed one of the boxes for himself and pulled a fork out from a drawer. He spun it in his hands, eyeing his father. "You're always trying to set people against me. And it's irritating."

The father put a hand to his heart. "I'm simply fearful of what you'll become if you don't have a reminder about the concept of morality from time to time."

Valerie leaned against the counter, munching on curry chicken. Her voice was muffled. "Wait, who's Walker and Nicolai?"

At this point, Dan and Vlad had sat down at the dinner table, despite their argument. It seemed they bickered frequently enough to accept it as standard conversation. Vlad clarified, "Other employees of ours. Don't worry—I'm sure you'll run into them at some point or another while working here. They run security."

Dan pointed his fork at his father in accusation. "Stop trying to get buddy-buddy with her."

"Why?" Valerie cut in, almost playful in her desire to piss the boy off. She set her plate beside Vlad's and sat down beside him, primly straightening out her French maid skirt. "Afraid I'll like him more than you?"

The father smiled. "Why, Valerie. You're too kind."

"And you're not a jerk," she said, voice sweet as she stared pointedly at Dan.

The younger man gaped openly at them as they bantered. Despite the undignified bandage across his face, he managed to lift his chin. "I'll have you know," he declared, "father's own secretary wears a uniform similar to yours—we're not so different."

Vlad huffed. "Oh, please. Desiree wore that get-up once for attention. It was not by my demand."

"You certainly did not complain," Dan accused.

Vlad stroked his goatee. A superior, pleased smile graced his thin lips. "… Why would I, when she did it of her own free will, hmm?"


Over the next few days, a new kind of war waged between Dan and Val, in which their weapons became words and tricks, and their battles were pranks. The French maid outfit, it seemed, was only the beginning. Dan delighted in her aversions and creativity, and she delighted in defying him.

Upon lewdly commenting about the size of her breasts, Dan found his razor taped to the ceiling with duct tape—with his favorite shirt crumpled between two flower pots by the outside pool. Someone had drunk the last of his favorite protein shake, and he was fairly certain that Valerie had done it purely to spite him.

By day three, he began to miss her presence when she left for the evening, his mind consumed by playing out their interactions on a chessboard—attempting to outsmart and outsnark her.

In return for drinking his protein shake, he'd hidden the vacuum, which forced her on day four to hunt for it all across the property while he watched in dark glee, only for her to "accidentally" vacuum up his phone. She'd been terribly angry at how far he'd set her back in her cleaning duties. Her anger had been impressive.

Dan supposed that Valerie seeing the remains of his tantrum had done something. He could no longer brag of himself as a perfect being. In ways, that took the pressure off of him. For once, he began to relax and simply enjoy their game, curious of this woman who knew exactly how messed up he was and yet still dared to challenge him.

He supposed his father's demand for nightly family dinners had done something to domesticate them all.

On the morning of day five, he was back at Amity Park General Hospital, sitting upon an examination table. Nurse Karma Jones peered at his injury. "You're healing now," she murmured, poking gently at one of the scabs at the corner of his eye. "No infections—that's good. You've been putting on that cream?"

"What do you think," he snapped, but his voice was distracted. He was thinking of how to best give Valerie a heart attack upon his return. Perhaps he would buy fake blood packets and smear them over his face. Valerie would likely panic and fawn over him until—

"—Are you even listening to me?" the nurse cut into his thoughts, waving her hand in front of his face. "I asked another question."

"What question," he asked back distractedly, half-proud of the image in his mind of a concerned Valerie, who would probably smack him upon realizing his ruse. The thought was exhilarating. The pain would be worth it, to know the extent that her helpful nature perhaps still extended even to him.

The nurse began to gently clean the side of his face, which had blistered around the edge of his deepest wound. "I was asking, what's got you smiling, huh?"

Dan's voice was still a bit distracted. "Nothing," he said.

"You're still stuck on that Valerie girl?"

"I did not say it was Valerie."

"You didn't say it was not Valerie."

Dan narrowed his eyes as the nurse worked. The woman had a knowing little smile across her burned lips. "And what does that mean?"

Karma hummed. "You look like you're in love."

His face twitched in pain as she gently patted some ointment onto his temple. "I am not," he declared indignantly.

She smiled fully this time. "You're blushing."

His face had begun to heat. "This is irritation. With you."

"Uh huh. Sure."

He pulled away from her. "Dammit, I am not in love, I'm pissed off and planning my next revenge plot."

Karma gave him an unconvinced look. "Fine line. But In that case," she said nonchalantly, "you might want to answer your phone. It looks like something you won't want to miss."

On the table beside the chair, Dan's phone flashed silently with a text from VALERIE.

Still at hospital? the text asked. Within seconds, another text appeared. Make sure my dad made it to therapy?

Dan turned to the phone and peered at the messages.

Suddenly, all of his delightful thoughts spiraled down into disgruntlement. "What?" he complained, face-faulting. "I am not some errand boy." A green streak of jealous ripped through him at the thought that Valerie had his personal cell phone number—a coveted treasure to most—and that she dared to make such lowly demands with it.

The nurse watched him mild amusement. "Maybe you should help her out."

"Help her out?" he repeated in irritation. "With her father, that boorish old coot who thinks he's better than me and orders me around? No—I know where Valerie gets it now, and I will not subject myself to that family's ridiculous sense of moral righteousness."

Karma pulled back, her voice nearly a song. "You know, Valerie would like you more if you checked on her father."


A short while later, Dan tersely knocked on Damon's door. "Old man," he called roughly. "Old man—you are not in the therapy room, so I assume you are still in here."

There was a pause of time, and then Damon Gray's suspicious voice said, "…The Masters boy?"

Dan huffed. "What do you think? Valerie is too busy working on your behalf." He opened the door with little warning and gave the man a dark look, noting the way the father was still in bed and not yet even dressed for a therapy session. "So here I am, the bleeding heart of mercy to help her check on you—and here you are, lazing about on her hard-earned dime."

Damon had a book in his lap, his flannel pajamas still peeking out from beneath his robe. "I'm not lazing about," he retorted shortly. He looked up at Dan, and then paused. "The nurses haven't come to help me yet."

The younger man looked perturbed. "Your therapist is standing around waiting for you." He looked up at the clock, having to narrow his eye because his other was still hidden beneath a bandage. "At this rate, you will miss your own session."

"Ha," said the father, looking back down at his book. There was an odd strain in his voice. "As if you care."

The two of them were an odd pair, Damon with his eye path and Dan with his bandaging. Dan seemed uncomfortable as he considered again that this man had lost his sight and his arm in disgustingly honorable ways.

Dan stepped forward, acting more petulant to hide his curiosity. "If those are old war wounds, then why are you still such a drain on your own daughter, hmm?"

Damon's gnarled hand tightened upon his book. The insult had struck a little too close for comfort. "A factory accident," he said shortly. "I can't walk."

"And why have you not called for your nurses to help you get to therapy?"

The father's knuckled began to whiten from his grip. "I did," he said, narrowing his good eye at the boy. "But they haven't come yet. You're just fishing for trouble, and I won't have it."

Dan pressed a hand to his heart mockingly. "Your daughter so lovingly requested my assistance, as it appears you require the additional motivation. I am simply fulfilling her request."

Despite his spoiled tone, the younger man seemed genuinely insistent upon him getting to therapy. Damon found that odd. "If she's so busy working," he said slowly, "then that makes me think you're not treating her right, up there on Snobby Rich Lane."

The boy scoffed in disbelief, almost insulted. "Have you not spoken to her recently? Our employees have excellent work benefits."

"Being propositioned by the employer for sex is not considered a benefit," Damon snapped. "I'll have you know I am very uncomfortable with this arrangement of yours."

Dan crossed his arms. "Then it is a good thing you're not in control of her decisions," he said. "Or you might have been kicked out of this sorry excuse for rehab. As it stands, I am now indirectly paying for your miserable ass to be here. You should be thankful."

Damon's wrinkled face began to flush unnaturally—perhaps in shame and anger. "I'd rather rot in a chair than have my daughter work under you," he said tightly.

"Oh, please. She keeps me about as miserable as you do." He looked back up at the clock. "And you're wasting an expensive therapy session by waiting on your nurse."

Dan looked back at the man, who seemed much older and ashamed in that moment.

Damon closed his book and said, "I don't know if you're here just to make me miserable. But you've got a lot to learn about how the real world works. And when you're not spoiled millionaire, you gotta wait your turn."


Back at the mansion, Valerie was dusting Vlad's office while the man worked at his desk. She still wore her ridiculous French maid outfit over top a ratty t-shirt, but by now the ruse had become old, and the uniform itself annoyingly restricted her movements, with one of the shoulder seams already ripped.

(She noticed the smaller irritations whenever Dan was gone.)

Just then, her eyebrows furrowed as she saw a small object tucked far in the back of a display shelf—tilted off the edge against the wall. She raised her long arm and stuck out her tongue to reach it. A smooth, metallic feel struck her fingertips. She tried again.

"Having problems, my dear?" came Vlad's distracted voice.

"There's something—in the back here—" Her fingers touched the metal again. The object moved. It seemed circular, but most of its body was hidden behind a trophy.

When her fingers fell, they brushed against a smooth silk material— like a ribbon. She pulled on it in curiosity, and then the metal object clanged softly as it fell on its side. A small triumph overcame her as she pulled the mysterious object out.

It was a medal, like an award. But it was different.

She turned the thing back and forth in her hands, noting the way the metal gleamed oddly—as if it were an element that she had never seen before. It felt terribly alien and looked like a large gear from a clock. On it, the initials CW intertwined around each other.

"What's this from?" she asked Vlad.

The man looked up. An uncharacteristic tension line appeared between his eyes, as if he were attempting to withhold great emotion. His voice was a strained laugh. "Oh, it's just an old bauble of mine. From a friend."

Valerie's full lips twitched in humor. "A medal from a friend? Never heard of that one before." She tapped the object. "And what is this made of? It's so smooth. And kinda…glowy?"

Vlad, for the first time, seemed almost irritated. "A rare element. Now why not set it back down, would you, dear? As you can see, I am very busy with work."

The tone of his voice almost immediately inspired a blush of embarrassment upon Valerie's face—she was used to Vlad indulging her. "Uh, right. Sorry." She ran her fingers over the edges of the medallion, the edges of which had ten notches like a gear. Only a few of the notches seemed to glow. Perhaps it was all her imagination.

She carefully set the medallion back down, feeling sheepish that she was so ignorant of the strange things rich people could have laying around.

At that moment, Dan arrived. He slammed open the door, his thick hair flying like flames about his face from the force of his actions. He seemed entirely disgruntled as his singular eye searched out Valerie, then called out snidely, "Your delightful father made it to therapy."

His tone raised her hackles, and instead of feeling grateful, she narrowed her eyes to slits. "You make it sound like you did something so difficult."

It was then she realized Dan's face was flushed red.

He snarled, "He is an old fool who thinks me some—some beast locking you up here, when I am in the fact the one paying for his own damn bills. You Grays are all the same. My mercy is unappreciated."

And then he slammed the door shut.

The wayward heir of the Masters empire then nearly stomped his way to the vast porch outside, where a peaceful Olympic-sized pool stretched out amongst the shrubbery and green trees. He tore the bandage from his face in fury, allowing the open air and sunlight to strike against his ruined skin. "That stupid, condescending, thinks he's better than me—"

Dan huffed, even as he felt the unsettling in his stomach. It seemed all anyone wanted to do was make him feel small.

He was beginning to feel it working, especially when he'd complained of his slow-healing eye while Damon struggled to get off the bed with the nurse's help. Something had felt petty then. Dan had never felt petty or stupid. Not since—

There was an unsettling in his stomach, that perhaps Damon was right. Perhaps Valerie was right.

In that moment, Dan felt so entirely disconnected from himself that he did not even feel the wind or sun against his face. He tried to breathe but felt his lungs were frozen. This life wasn't his—it wasn't his—it wasn't his—

Valerie appeared then, opening the door to the back in a frustrated push. "What the hell," she called out to him. The door swung shut behind her. "All I did was ask you to check on my dad while you were out. You're acting like I made you go to war or eat underwear or something."

Dan turned around, his sharp eyes staring into hers. She had a tight, displeased line thinning her lips, with one of her strong hands set on her hip, where her ridiculous French maid skirt flared out from the poof of lace. It'd been over two days since they'd had a serious argument. "You wouldn't understand," he said petulantly. He turned his face away from her, as if shamed.

The woman narrowed her gaze. "Oh, I think I do. You're just pissed that we see what you really are."

His strong fist flinched, and he ground out, "Don't pretend to know me. Neither you nor your beloved father know me."

"I know you better than most people," Valerie snapped, crossing her arms. "You know I do."

Dan did not bother to face her, even as the sun hid behind the clouds. "Did you tell him about the room?" he demanded, his voice even in a mass attempt to hide his true emotions.

A silence crossed them. Then Valerie said softly, "I didn't tell anyone. Not even my dad. He just…worries."

The lines of Dan's body relaxed a little, the apprehension leaving his shoulders. He did not know how to express his thoughts about one Damon Gray. "And the…outfit? Did you complain to him about that?"

Valerie tilted her heard in curiosity of this strange man. "I don't need my dad to protect me. Why do you care, anyway? You afraid he's gonna spill how much of a dick you are to the press?"

He turned around then. "No," he said defensively. But he lost words then, unable to explain how small he felt about everything—as if the universe were turning against him. "Just—I do not want you to wear it anymore. The uniform." There was an uncomfortable tension still in his set jaw as he said, "You don't…have to wear it. If you don't want to."

The woman uncrossed her arms in surprise, her eyes widening. "What?"

"You look stupid in it," he snapped, his face flushing in embarrassment at the bending of his will. "That's all."

Valerie said nothing for a time, searching his eyes. "Is it?"

Dan cleared his throat, unable to hold her gaze. "You hate that dress," he said slowly. "And I don't need another reminder of what I am." And then he walked past her, the air between them buzzing with an odd electricity.

It raised the hair on the back of Valerie's neck as she watched him disappear back into the grand house. For a time, she remained standing there in the cool summer breeze. His cologne—crisp like winter—hung in the air.

And then slowly, a softening smile stretched her full lips. "Well, well."


The next morning, Valerie arrived at the mansion wearing an orange shirt and jeans, with a matching headband to hold back her thick curls. The outfit was far closer to her usual state of dress and gave her an extra sense of comfort as she walked down the great halls of the Masters mansion—which, by now, was beginning to feel like a second home.

She didn't want to think about what that meant. He'd been abrasive with her the previous evening for several hours before he finally had relaxed back into their usual banter, almost fondly complaining of her and father. Perhaps, she wondered, seeing how others lived had been good for him.

As she entered the kitchen, she saw a dark mass sitting at the counter. It was a half-asleep Dan, who had tiredly leaned his head against the counter, his thick hair spilling about his face. He wore no bandage over his burned eye, the scabs having turned dark with healing.

"Oh, look, it's Sleeping Beauty," she teased dryly, raising a brow at his disheveled appearance. He still wore an old sleep shirt and long pajama pants. His hair did not even look combed.

"Valerie," he complained in horror. "This is a terrible day. A most rotten day of a morning."

"…Why's that?"

"I've not had sex in a week."

She rolled her eyes as she hung her purse on a coat rack. "You big baby, a ton of people go way longer than that, and they're fine."

He whined again. It was a pathetic sound. "But it's the only time I feel alive."

"Suck it up," she retorted. "You went how many years of your life before you had sex?"

His voice was muffled against the counter as he hid his face in misery. "But I know what I'm missing now. I see no point in living if I can't feel good."

"Oh my god," she muttered under her breath, her face tinging a bit red at the topic. "Why are you even telling me this."

Dan hesitated. "…Could you—?"

"—No."

He lifted his head off the counter indignantly. "I didn't even ask you yet."

"You don't have to ask me." She turned on the sink faucet with a bit more force than necessary, washing her hands as she stared at the small pile of dishes from the night before. "I'm not having sex with you just so you can get your quota in."

His thin lips flattened. He laid his head back down on the counter and continued to moan.

Valerie wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned around, narrowing her eyes. "Don't you have a hobby besides sex and making people miserable?"

His voice was petulant. "Those are my two favorite hobbies."

"Anything else?"

Dan paused. He figured Valerie would not find attending social parties to seduce hot women as a viable hobby. "Making money," he said slowly.

"Uh, making money is how you make people miserable. Try again."

He gave her a sour look. "Exercising."

She began to smile in wicked delight. "Oh, good! Exercising. Why don't you go and get your ass running outside, then. I can start my work, and you can stop bothering me."

At that point, Vlad came in, yawning and readjusting his tie. "Good morning, all," he said, eyeing his son and the way his head was planted against the table. "What's his problem?"

Dan's voice was still muffled. "Withdrawal," he complained a bit louder, his petulance even worse from Valerie's snark. "Seven days without a woman to warm my bed."

Valerie turned around in a huff. "Oh, I give up."

Vlad smoothed his tie and then gently patted Dan on the back. "Cheer up, old boy. Your great-grandfather used to say, 'Always leave yourself wanting for something.' He thought it healthy to be deprived."

Dan moaned. "That is a terrible piece of advice. Here I am, attempting to win Valerie's sympathy vote—and you're ruining it."

"You didn't need help ruining that," Valerie muttered under her breath as she opened the large dishwasher to begin cleaning.

The father chuckled as he grabbed a banana from the overflowing bowl of fruit. "At least you are looking better today, Daniel?"

The younger man sat up, miserably setting his chin in his hand. "What does it matter. Like this, I can't even attend a business meeting without garnering pity and disgust."

"That is simply not true," Vlad argued. A spark of concern wormed its way into him in curiosity of the defeat in Dan's voice. He was unsure if he'd heard such in over ten years. "Why, you are looking much better. In a few more days, those scabs might be fully healed over."

"Leaving permanent scars on my skin," Dan pressed, sliding his narrowed eyes to his father. He self-consciously hid the mass of red, inflamed skin behind his hand. "Don't be so cheery this early."

Vlad's lips thinned into a frown. "And don't be such a downer. It's nothing money can't fix. Your injuries even brought the lovely Miss Gray in our lives. Think of that."

The woman in question turned around with a sharp retort on her tongue, but then she noticed Dan's dark blue eyes staring up at her with an uncharacteristic hopelessness. She hesitated.

Dan looked away, then pushed off on the counter and stood up. "And what a dream that has been," he snapped.

That did it. Valerie snapped right back, flicking him with dish water from the sink, "You're no dream boat either."

His face twisted in disgust at the soap and droplets of water that struck his arm and sleeve. At least the water was cold this time, which was a great improvement over his last encounter with Valerie and liquids. "Oh," he warned, his voice dropping into a deep irritation, "do not tempt me to hide your cleaning products again."

"You do that, and I'll throw away every damn protein shake in the house."

There was a lilt of mischief in her voice. Dan looked up at her in surprise, his own eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Are you baiting me into another battle?"

She leaned forward, feeling more comfortable with this odd Dan. "You better believe it, buddy."

He dared himself to learn forward as well, planting his strong hands on the counter. "Do I hear excitement in your voice?"

Valerie batted her eyelashes. "You know how much I enjoy pissing you off," she said sweetly. A little smile stretched her lips.

This time, a matching smile stretched Dan's lips. His irritation and self-pity melted slightly in delight of her. His preoccupation with his loneliness bled away. "The feeling is mutual."

Vlad watched them both curiously.


It wasn't until later that Dan realized the level of trouble his own father had been scheming in the meantime. Vlad returned home from the court house around five in the evening, looking entirely too chipper to be a mayor of a largely indebted town.

"Oh, my son!" he called jovially, his voice echoing off the ceiling. "My wonderful, adoring son—I have a surprise for you."

Dan did not look up from his desk, where he sat with a pen between his teeth as he calculated the interest he'd gained from some of his riskier investments. The risk was what made it fun. "Hnn?" he said distractedly.

"It's something to get you back on your feet in the real world, instead of cooped up here," Vlad declared.

That caught his attention. Dan's sharp eyes looked away from the computer—he'd made a good million from his investment—and stared expectantly at his father.

Vlad planted a paper on the desk, eyebrow raised in merriment. "People feel that we Masters are not as…philanthropic as we should be. So, to remedy that situation, I've entered you as a participant, as well as myself, at a most important event."

Dan's eyes narrowed. Then he tentatively grabbed for the table and over the text. He suddenly spat out his pen in disgust and fear. "Eligible bachelor auction?" he mumbled under his breath. A cold water stormed down his spine in foreboding. "Audiences will bid for a participating bachelor, and the highest bidder wins a date with that bachelor?"

"It's to help the poor people of Amity Park," Vlad pressed. "Look at the organizations and shelters that've come together to sponsor the event. Very high class. Very public reputation management for our businesses and this town."

The young man stared up at his father in shock. "I am injured," he snarled. His eyes were wild as his face began to heat in fear. "Look at me. This isn't—you cannot possibly be—?"

"—Oh, I am." Vlad stole the paper from Dan's hands. "It's in a week, so you still have time to heal. I bet you'll still fetch a good price with the women of society. You'll make their hearts bleed."

An undignified noise escaped him. "What? No." His baritone voice hardened. "No. Absolutely not."

Vlad placed his reading glasses over his eyes and moved the paper so he could better read it. "Don't be so dramatic. You look fine now."

"I do not," he snarled. "Your women of society will think me a sick joke like this."

The father hummed. "You are not so fearful of Valerie looking at you?"

He waved his hand. "Because she's not them," Dan hissed indignantly. "She doesn't give a damn what I look like."

Vlad looked almost concerned. "Well, I certainly can't pull you out now. I already sent in your entrance fee and told the press. I'd hate to reverse my position and dash the hopes of all those organizations helping the poor people you set out on the street."

Dan stood up from his desk, looking entirely panicked. "Oh, that is low," he snarled. "You just want to make me a laughing stock—or, or some strange way of gaining a sympathy vote for our business. That's all this is."

"Perhaps I just want my antisocial son to give back to the community—and meet some women who can see past the scars," Vlad shrugged. "Think of your injury as bimbo repellant. You're far better off this way, I think."

"That is not your motivation," Dan's eyes narrowed to slits. His face had flushed red in embarrassment. "Dammit, my wellbeing is never your motivation."

The father huffed. "Just this morning, you moped for a companion, yes? There are so many birds we can kill with this stone. I am simply trying to help you."

Dan's mind raced. "No," he said. "I am not going to play your game. I am not going to stand on that stage and watch no one bid for me."

He suddenly pulled away from the desk, snatching the paper out of Vlad's hands.

Vlad leaned forward, watching his son. "What are you doing?"

Dan retorted, "Saving myself from being a laughing stock." And then he disappeared down the hall.


Valerie was in the kitchen once more, this time trying her hand at baking cookies for her father—and perhaps a few for Vlad and Dan, who were unfortunately growing on her. She had scratched her cheek and had flour smeared across her dark skin and sleeves. At that moment, she was leaned over, eyes narrowed at the digital controls for the oven. "Now where the fuck is the preheat button?" she muttered.

Just then, footsteps echoed from one of the halls, along with Dan's panicked call, "Valerie?" He appeared in the threshold, his eyes scanning for her. They lit with almost relief at the sight of her. "Oh good, you have not left yet."

"I'm busy," she called.

"And I am in need of your assistance," he declared.

"I can't find the preheat button," she complained. "Help me first."

Silently, he appeared at her side and with a quick glance, pressed one of the unmarked buttons. The oven gave a jaunty beep, with numbers appearing on a screen. "Tell me what you want it set at."

Valerie raised a brow and crossed her arms, saying, "Three-twenty-five."

Dan punched in the numbers as he said, "Now. I am ready to beg for your help with something. My father, in his infinite idiocy, has signed me away to some bachelor auction."

"…bachelor auction?" she repeated hesitantly. She moved to grab her bowl of cookie dough and the scoop on the other counter.

"Yes, yes," he waved distractedly. "It's where they drag the rich and famous—like myself—out onto an auction floor. And a gaggle of rich women then bid on a date for the victim of their choice." He ran a frazzled hand through his hair. "I've done it before. It was a nightmare."

Valerie waved her scoop in the air, face twisting. "Wait. So back up. You're selling yourself for a night?"

"For charity," he sniffed in disgust. "And I'm not selling myself; it is a date for the night."

"So you're selling yourself for a night," she repeated with a deadpan. "Knowing you."

He rolled his eyes. "The last time, my date was a fangirl who had a shrine of me in her closet. It was very unattractive. I almost did not escape with my clothes, and I wish to never experience that again."

Valerie's full lips stretched. "Aww, poor baby." She turned to scooping out the dough onto a baking sheet. "So what's your problem this time?"

Dan leaned against the counter, looking desperate. "These women are expecting perfection, which I no longer am. They will not bid for me, and I will stand upon that stage as a sad pawn of my father's, which I cannot bear." He widened his eyes a bit, as if attempting to look innocent. "…Come to the auction and bid on me."

"…What?" She looked up from her work, perturbed.

He hardly blinked. "I need you to come to the bachelor auction and bid on me. I will provide you with the funds to do so. Then at least I can leave with some dignity."

Her face twisted. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I swear to you, I am not."

"Why the hell are you asking me?" Despite her best efforts, a small blush stretched across her cheeks. She tried to hide it by focusing hard on her work. "Don't you have your fangirls or whatever?"

"You are the only woman I know who has more to worry about than looks," he pressed. "I will even pay you a higher salary that weekend. It'll be just like getting overtime."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "You don't look that bad."

"And I don't look good enough for these kinds of events. Just think about how much more money you'll make. While saving your own class of people, even. Think of the homeless children. People like your father."

She paused. "…When is this stupid event anyway?"

He pushed the paper at her. "The thirtieth."

"People could recognize me as the coffee attacker, you know," she said, voice dry.

Dan gave her a look. "No one would recognize you if you dressed up."

She felt a sense of foreboding for a moment as she stared down at the paper. It was printed on an expensive card stock with gold lettering—likely the most expensive piece of paper she'd ever encountered. True to Dan's word, she recognized many of the organizations sponsoring the event. They were all known for running soup kitchens and shelters, some of which her and her father had visited. "I feel like I'm supposed to be doing something that night," she said distantly.

He looked desperate. "I trust no one but you," he said. "Valerie, please. I will burn every French maid outfit in this house if you agree to buy me out that night and save me from the humiliating schemes of my father."

She paused for only a second. Then she held out her floury hand. "Deal."


A/N: Hi, everyone! What a ride the last month and a half has been. I hope everyone who has been affected by recent natural disasters is safe and okay. I'm not sure if the world's trying to fall apart or what, but it just seems like things are getting crazier.

Apologies for a slightly late upload as a result of real-life events. (I was not affected by the disasters, but have had some significant things happening in my life, including a final exam, a sick family member, and hosting a bridal shower and bachelorette party for a friend. Keeping busy!)

Despite that, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment of the semi-beauty and the beast human!AU. I've had a lot of fun continuing to work out its plot, especially after watching the Disney live action movie of Beauty and the Beast for the first time.

Please review with your thoughts, questions, constructive criticisms, and ideas! Thank you!