Chapter Text
She wouldn’t stop talking.
Prisoner of table number six, Ransom sat trapped beside Sophia--Call me Sophie! —as his mother was deep in conversation with the girl’s father, a lucrative business exec she was desperate to network with. Apparently, the connections she stood to gain if she could simply get on this man’s good side were vast.
Normally, Ransom would’ve disregarded his Mom’s wishes, having walked away and not given her or the exec or his annoying daughter a second thought. Whatever desire Ransom used to have to please either his Mom or Dad had long since been forgotten, replaced by the ever-growing desire to spite either of them at any given chance.
However, in this particular instance, Ransom had been forced to take other things into consideration before acting on said spiteful impulses—namely, his Uncle Neil.
Because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Neil would be on him no sooner then he’d left the table, with his wide smile and his attaboys and his carelessly thrown arm overtop Ransom’s shoulders. Ransom would then find himself being promptly dragged into the center of the party by his uncle where the rest of the wedding party were busy dancing and drinking their celebrations for the newlyweds.
And despite however much it annoyed him that Neil was inadvertently controlling his actions by being his reason for staying seated, the alternative of leaving the table to be swept up into the very probable scenario on the dance floor was even more irksome to Ransom. And so, he stayed put, slouching with his elbows on the table as Sophia chattered on, apparently undeterred from his lack of engagement.
Eventually, as was the tradition of generations upon generations of men before him, Ransom tuned her out, silencing her prattling voice as his mind wandered, as it always did, to thoughts of his family.
The wedding had gone without a hitch.
The weather had been sunny and warm, the venue perfectly decorated. The wedding photos had been flawlessly posed for, all who were in them flashing endless sets of pearly whites towards the camera. He, along with his parents, had been in many of said photos, given that his Dad had been the best man, his Mom, the maid of honor. Ransom himself had been roped into being the ringbearer, ensuring that the whole wedding party aside from the bride’s parents had been entirely within the Thrombey family.
Go fucking figure, he mused. His family always found a way to overtake something when opportunity arose to do so.
Regardless, the ceremony had went as was planned too. The wedding party had proceeded down the aisle smoothly, with all couples eventually standing in their places at the front of the room. Now four-year-old Meg had done her job as flower girl dutifully to the many oohs and awws of the crowd, and Ransom had fulfilled his role too, given that the rings had been there for the bride and groom to exchange when the ceremony had reached that point. It went without saying that both the bride and groom had showed up for their big day, and when married, they had looked…pleased. Satisfied.
The groom—his Uncle Walt—had been smiling as his bride walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, the expression seemingly genuine. On the contrary, despite not having gotten a clear view of the bride’s face, intuition—and more than a fair share of cynicism—made it obvious to Ransom that the beaming glow one has when young and in love had been missing from this particular bride’s face.
Rather, her face had been pinched as she fixed a small, polite smile in place. Her jaw had been rigid when she’d kissed her husband for the first time, as was the rest of her body. Her happiness, Ransom knew, was as painted on as the thick makeup she wore.
He’d been expecting nothing else.
Because as was seemingly tradition in this family—the only break in said tradition being the eternally honeymooning Neil and Joni—this Thrombey couple had married for many reasons, and love was not the main one.
Others might be surprised at this, but Ransom was not. He knew that, at best, marriage provided a comfort for the two vowed into the arrangement. It provided a sense of security in knowing that there was someone waiting for you back home, promising that you were not alone, and that you’d never be without an arm to walk in on at any given social engagement. It was a fallback; a comfortable, convenient agreement for both parties involved.
That was what defined a good marriage.
A bad marriage, however, …
Ransom shifted his gaze back into focus, his sights landing on Linda. She was still in conversation with the executive a few paces away. Richard was harder to find, but eventually, he did. His Dad was standing half-hidden in a corner across the room, mid-conversation with a woman, blonde and bubbly, who looked at least ten years his minor. Ransom watched as his father’s hand snaked around the woman’s back, resting dangerously close to her ass. He saw the woman laugh at something his father said.
Ransom’s lips thinned, and he had to swallow back the bitterness that suddenly burned on his tongue.
A bad marriage was one in which he’d grown up a casualty of, a marriage that was just in the name, with no true effort having been put in it for years. A bad marriage was one where there was no longer any true feelings of solidarity or comfort, any semblance of such a partnership having been lost long ago.
It was this example of marriage that had turned Ransom against the very idea of such a thing—what was the point of getting married, or even being in a relationship for that matter, when it could become that? When newlyweds could eventually be reduced to bitter acquaintances? When there was nothing left anymore, when all of the feelings you’d once felt for the other had become stunted, apathetic, empty? So fucking empty.
His eyes flitted back to his Dad. Richard’s hand was firmly on the woman’s ass now, a gesture that he at least had the decency to try and hide from clear sight by shifting his body in front of hers. Or maybe he just did it so he could roam his hands more freely over the rest of her too.
Ransom wasn’t stupid. He knew about sex. He was a thirteen-year-old boy, after all—of course he knew about sex. Between the talk he heard at school from the other boys about the developing bodies of their female classmates and the Playboys he’d found of his Dad’s, he knew a lot about the opposite sex, even if they didn’t yet interest him.
They had, however, begun to show interest in him. Puberty had hit Ransom harder than most boys his age; he’d shot up drastically in height, his voice was no longer one of a little boy’s, and the scrawny limbs of his pre-adolescence had begun to fill in with long, lean muscle. He was quickly becoming the class heartthrob, the epicenter in which many a tween girl’s daydreams revolved around, and he, unused to all of the effortlessly gained attention, hadn’t yet decided how to respond to it.
Ransom, if he had to guess, would say that that was part of Sophia’s chattiness now. Slanting his eyes her way, he took notice of her slight flush and wringing hands, both of which bellied her easy demeanor. She was nervous.
She liked him.
Ransom fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, she did.
Distracting himself, his attention once again shifted back to his Mom. As he watched her easy smile and forced charm, he thought about a question he had wondered about many times before.
Why hadn’t she left his Dad?
When it came to his Richard, at least, the reason was obvious: money. His parents had a prenup; Richard wouldn’t be getting a dime of Thrombey money from the divorce.
But with his Mom…why? Why hadn’t she just gotten a fucking divorce already and have been done with it? Linda was many things, but she wasn’t stupid—his Mom had to know about Richard’s shameless behavior with other women (his Dad’s latest conquest and him having coincidentally disappeared from sight). So why? Why had she stayed? It didn’t make any sense.
The irony of the situation struck him then, of how laughably grim it was for him to be wondering why one couple hadn’t gotten divorced the day of another’s wedding.
Unexpectedly, the thought did pull a bark of a laugh from him, jarring him back into the present.
The laugh was harsh, as were the reasons behind it. The sound reverberated enough that the exec startled, shifting towards where the nasty sound had come from before Linda set a quelling hand on his arm. Seconds later, she shot him a look over her one padded shoulder. Though brief, the interpretation of it was clear—don’t fuck this up for me.
He didn’t bother containing his eyeroll this time, and before he knew what he was doing, his spiteful impulses had won over and his middle finger was extended firmly towards his Mom’s back.
At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, Ransom remembered that he was not without witness.
He shifted his attention back towards Sophia, who he sent a nasty look of his own. He’d learned how to do so from the best, and the effect was immediate. Her faced paled, her already huge eyes widening even more as they remained steadily fixed on the rude gesture he was carelessly holding up. Ransom almost laughed again.
“Finally,” he drawled, venom laced in between his thoughtless words. “I was starting to think you’d never shut up.”
Throwing caution to the wind, he stood, his chair scraping against the polished floor as Sophia’s face shifted rapidly from surprise, to shock, and then, ultimately, to hurt.
Whatever.
Fuck her. Fuck his Mom. Fuck this whole damn family and this stupid goddamn marriage.
He was done pretending to enjoy that girl’s company. He was done pretending to be okay with doing his Mom, even begrudgingly, a favor. He was done pretending that he was happy being here at this wedding. For God’s sake, he didn’t even fucking like his Uncle Walt.
Ransom stormed off, his expression thunderous, as he headed for anywhere that looked like an escape.
But because things never go to plan for him, as soon as he’d found his way out of the main reception hall, his reason for staying seated as long as he had smacked him in the face.
Literally.
It was with a stinging left cheek, and the shock of having been fucking hit by a member of his family for the first time in his life, that Ransom looked up into the stormy expression of his Uncle Neil.
His Uncle looked downright murderous.
“How dare you speak to that girl—how dare you speak to anyone like that? Have you lost your mind, Ransom? What has gotten into you?” Neil kept speaking, but his reprimands ran together into an angry blur. Ransom was still reeling from being hit, actually hit, by his uncle. The hit itself stung, sure, but it was nothing compared to other blows he’d received before. No, his reaction wasn’t because of the pain itself, but rather because of the person who had inflicted it.
Because Neil…he had tried, repeatedly, to be closer to Ransom over the last few years, to get to know him. Whether it was because he felt guilty over the idyllic family life he had that Ransom sorely didn’t, or because of some other misplaced desire to be a father figure to his nephew, Neil had wanted to get to know him. He had noticed him in a family where Ransom was invisible, and in return, Ransom had pushed him away.
He hadn’t wanted Neil’s pity. He still didn’t. But, he suddenly realized that he didn’t want his anger either or his uncle’s infuriating disappointment either.
And it was that, that disappointment he found as Neil literally and figuratively looked down on him, that was the push he needed to shove his fledgling hurt aside and hide it beneath anger, his default setting. His defense.
“Oh, fuck off, Neil! You’re not my father—!” he spat, squaring his shoulders as he looked straight up at his uncle, who didn’t stand nearly as tall over him as he’d used too.
Ransom was raging now, all bared teeth and flushed face, and he was blinded by it. So blinded by it, in fact, that he didn’t notice the determined figure of Linda approaching from behind, equally angry at Ransom for having blown any chance she might’ve had with the executive by his nasty outburst at his daughter.
But, Ransom didn’t notice her. He was too focused on Neil. Disappointed, patronizing, wannabe father-figure Neil who was definitely not his father, “—because if you were, you’d be off fucking the blonde whore he left with!”
His words splintered the tension around him, replacing it with another that was worse than its predecessor.
It was with a shuddering inhale that Linda made her presence known.
Ransom froze at the sound, and then like the coward he knew he was, he shoved past his uncle and ran.
~
Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted. In a tic Ransom knew you weren’t aware of, your tongue darted out, wetting your lower lip in a motion that lasted barely a second.
And yet, he noticed it.
Fuck, he noticed it.
It couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, the length of the silent standoff between you and him, but it could’ve been hours for all Ransom knew. He took full advantage of having you so plainly before him, unobscured by anything but the clothes you wore, which he easily imagined you without.
He still felt anger when he looked at you, resentment too. Bitterness. But now, there was something else, something undeniable.
Desire.
There was something about you that was so appealing, so attractive, despite—or maybe because of—his other feelings toward you. Ransom had known his fair share of beautiful women, but you—you were markedly different from them in a way he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t a specific attribute he could pinpoint, but rather…a quality. Yes, a quality. One he hadn’t encountered before that he now saw in you. It was blinding in its intensity, threatening even.
He hated feeling threatened.
And so, he hated you.
And sooner or later, he’d ensure that the feeling was mutual.
If it isn’t already, Ransom mused, his eyes lazily finding their way back up to the icy expression you were looking at him with.
Your disbelief had morphed into something frigidly defensive, your arms having raised to cross protectively over your chest.
Ransom realized, belatedly, that he’d been staring at you in silence for too long. And so, he reluctantly forced himself out from the trance he’d found himself in, moving a step closer to you as he prepared to speak.
The air buzzed, fraught with a nervous energy at his action. He swore the air on his arms stood on edge. The sensation caught him off guard, distracting him so that, once again, you spoke first.
Your words were a knife to the energy he knew you must’ve felt too. They effectively killed the moment.
“What is this, Ransom?”
But, oh, was that anger he heard in your voice?
How fucking delightful.
He wanted more of it, and so he pushed, like he always does. “Seeing as you work for me now, I’d appreciate it if you called me ‘Mr. Drysdale.’ Seems more appropriate.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, he hastened to add, “Or you could always call me ‘Sir.’” Ransom would love for you to call him ‘Sir.’
Something resembling indignation flashed on your face, but to his disappointment, it dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared. He watched your face shutter before his eyes, eliminating all of that lovely emotion that had adorned your features only moments prior. It’s frustrating, how in control of yourself you were.
“Look,” you began. “I don’t know if this is some kind of sick joke, but I want answers. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he answered with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.
“My boss said I was hired by a Hugh Drysdale—”
“Hugh Ransom Drysdale,” he cut in. “Everyone calls me by my middle name.” Except the help, but you’re the exception to that.
Your eyes narrowed. “And you…you want me to clean for you?”
Smirking, he replied, “That was what I hired you for, wasn’t it?”
Your face mirrored none of his enjoyment at the situation. Instead, if anything, you looked even more wary, even more concerned. If he didn’t know any better, Ransom would’ve sworn that you were scared of him. And that was not what he was going for.
“I don’t like this,” you murmured suddenly. “I don’t like this.”
He watched as you snatched your still-dripping rubber gloves from off your hands, stuffing them into your purse from where it sat on his kitchen island.
“What are you doing?” Ransom asked, his words now cautious now. He wanted to provoke you, maybe intimidate you, but not scare you. Certainly not enough to scare you off.
He didn’t want you to leave.
And so, of course, the next words you said spoke were, “I’m leaving.” Offering no further explanation, you grabbed your phone as you added, “I’m not doing this.”
No. No.
You’re not fucking leaving.
“No, wait!” he said, and fuck, in his desperation it sounded less like a plea and more of command. He cringed at the sight of your quickening departure. He followed you, his normally sharp tongue dulled into uselessness over worry of scaring you further.
He’s not used to asking for something, he’s used to demanding it. Soft words of persuasion aren’t his forte. In most cases, what Ransom wants—especially if what he wants involves a woman—is given to him with little to no resistance.
But, that was clearly not the case here. Money wasn’t making you stay, and the charm that worked on other women was not working either. Besides that, he already knew that you had no interest in trying to change him, to save this rich, but oh so damaged playboy that other women had known was good on the inside.
Ransom was no fool. He had lead many a girl on by manipulating her savior complex. He’d come to know just how to put their ill-fated beliefs of being different from all the other girls he’d slept with to good use. Their determination to find the good in him had inevitably lead to what Ransom had wanted all along: they’d all ended up spreading their legs for him.
But that tactic would obviously not work with you; you had no interest in trying to ‘save’ him. You just accepted him at face value. You accepted him as the asshole he was.
And so, if that tactic was obviously out of play here, and neither his money nor any other strategy he used to get what he wanted from a girl was working, then he was out of options. He’d known he was signing up for a challenge with you, but he hadn’t realized just how much of a challenge you’d turn out to be.
And it was because of this realization, because of his desperation to get you to stay, that Ransom did something he hadn’t done in a long time—he begged.
“Please!” he bit out, surprising even himself with the admission. At your blink-and-you’ll miss-it slowing of pace, he said the word again, “Please. Just wait. I can explain.”
Your hand was now on his front door, but you’re turned so that you’re half facing him as you contemplate what to do. By your expression, your decision still looked made up, but your hesitation is all the encouragement Ransom needed to continue arguing his case.
“Just sit down a moment. We can talk about this.”
“No,” your reply was immediate. You shook your head. “No. This is too weird. I’m leaving.”
“Please!” he again begged, disappointing himself once more at the strategy he’d been forced to lower himself to. “Let’s just talk—”
“Talk about what? Talk about how the creepy guy I met at a bar somehow found out where I worked and just casually offered to pay triple the amount of money I was making before just so I would come and work for him? In his own house, no less? No. It seemed odd before, and now that I know who you are, it’s just creepy. I’m not stupid. I’m out of here.”
“No, please—” there’s that fucking word again, “—I just wanted to apologize!”
He’s full of surprises today, apparently. But, despite not meaning to choose that lie in particular, you’ve again paused, so it must’ve worked somewhat.
“What?”
Don’t fuck this up. “I couldn’t get you out of my head.” Good going.
Ransom quickly tried again. “I mean, I-I felt bad for how I treated you. You were right. I was a dick.”
“No argument there,” you answered, arms still crossed. But, you were still standing there, which was something.
“So, when I was looking for a cleaner and happened upon you,” he continued, making up his story as he went. “I knew I had to try and make it up to you somehow. What better way to do that than with money?”
Did you believe the lie? Admittedly, it was a good lie; not too simple, not too elaborate. It looked like you did. Because despite the caution that still clouded your features, your arms were now at your sides, your stance clearly less defensive than before.
“It’s a lot of money,” you said simply.
To you, it is, he thought. To him, it’s nothing. But you didn’t have to know that.
“I had a lot to make up for,” he reiterated, and fuck, is he laying it on too thick?
Ransom looked at you expectantly for your next move.
Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t fucking leave—
You sighed, and after a moment, let go of the doorknob.
“Look,” you began, your voice calm and steady. It’s the same voice you had in the bar, and hearing it again is oddly soothing, despite the smooth apathy of it being a quality that Ransom detests. “What you’re offering…it’s a lot. Really, it is. And I’m really grateful for what you’re willing to pay me. You don’t know how much I am.” Given his knowledge of your financial situation, he does, but Ransom wisely remained silent. “But, I don’t trust you. Hell, I don’t even like you. The only reason that I’m considering staying on long-term is the money. I want to be up front about that. Whatever you’d been hoping for in the bar, it’s not going to happen. Ever. Understood?”
We’ll see about that. “Understood.”
“Good.” You nodded. “Well…in that case, I’m going to get back to work, I guess. Um…I’ll see you around—"
“Wait.” You did, albeit reluctantly. “I offered you a full-time position. Your boss rejected it immediately, saying you’d never accept. If this all about the money for you, then why won’t you work full time?”
The question had bothered him ever since your boss had first told him the answer. Ransom had never done well with being denied something, and he was quickly discovering that when it came to you, he’s even worse at it. Being told no to having you here at the fullest was in no small terms irritating.
You’re slow to respond, obviously cautious about revealing anything to him. “I have another cleaning job. One that I refuse to give up.”
With that, you turned, leaving him to silently work over all of the unanswered questions that still surround you.
But, to his surprise—and great annoyance—there was one question above all that stuck out to him.
Ransom has never been one to beg.
So, why was he so willing to beg for you?
The answer to that isn’t one he’s willing to admit.