Lorenzo wore a serious expression as he tore open a huge bag of salt, emptying its contents into a bowl along with other ingredients he needed for his witch-repelling ritual. Then, he proceeded to scatter the mixture in every nook and cranny of his house.
He diligently followed every instruction the supposed Witch-hunting Guru had listed on the internet
If this worked, ninety-nine percent of his problems would be solved.
Using the mixture, Lorenzo traced a circle around his bed before retrieving a cross and a bottle of holy water from his dresser drawer which were blessed by the Pope himself—or so did the vendor claim.
He'd paid a fortune for those items and a small part of him knew he was scammed, but. . . he was desperate.
He hung the cross like a wreath on his bedroom door, splashed some of the holy water here and there, and anointed his forehead.
TIME TO SLEEP!
It wasn't long before Lorenzo heard the soft creaking sound of the door opening.
He vaulted to his feet, positioning himself in a boxing stance. His lights were always on so it was easy to spot the Blonde Maleficent entering his room in all her eminent wickedness.
"You've got to be joking," Xanthe drawled softly, her eyes scanning the room in disbelief. "Do you actually believe salts and spices ward off witches?" She shook her head. "I thought you were smart. I must've overestimated you."
Lorenzo exhaled in defeat, letting his fists drop to his side. There goes his effort, time, and money.
"It was worth the try." He plopped back on the bed, covering himself with the duvet. "Can you let me sleep for at least five minutes before you start wreaking havoc on my house? I desperately need to sleep."
"Of course. . ." He heard her voice from the doorway. Then, all of a sudden, she was whispering in his ear. "As long as you hand me my journal."
Even with his eyes closed, he could tell she was on his bed. Though he wasn't sure how she'd made it there in a split second.
At this point, nothing surprised him anymore.
But he was pissed. . . and sleep deprived.
Lorenzo straightened to a sitting position, facing her squarely. "Listen up, you annoying piece of shit! I'll say this for the umpteenth time. I DON'T HAVE YOUR DAMN JOURNAL! Never seen it, never touched it, never came across it. Why the fuck won't you leave me alone?!"
Xanthe remained still, staring back at him. Hard and unwavering. It was obvious she didn't believe a word that came out of his mouth.
"Fine!" She said flatly before sliding off the bed. "I see you've made your choice." A sly smile curled her lips. "Torture it is then."
A single snap of her fingers was all it took for her to send every light bulb in his room shattering to smithereens.
"Oh, come on! Not the lights again." Lorenzo panicked at the sudden darkness as he scurried to the nightstand to retrieve his phone.
As he fumbled to turn on the light of his phone, Xanthe chuckled deep in her throat, mocking him ruthlessly. "I noticed your servants are absent. Did they abandon you? Ha-ha-ha. A very wise decision, I must say. They don't deserve to suffer alongside you." She gave a dramatic pause and then continued in a low dangerous voice. "It's just you and me now. . . you wretched excuse of a man."
And once again, the chaos began. . .
* * * *
[The Next Day of TORTURE...]
Lorenzo was tired of looking like a lunatic trying to explain to Walton why his house looked like a war zone every morning.
In fact, he was tired of EVERYTHING at that point.
He hasn't slept in days. . . And it was starting to tell on him. BADLY!
He needed a solution. STAT.
Hire a professional to find her journal? Offer something she couldn't refuse? Grovel?
ANYTHING!
He was willing to do anything to stop that witch from torturing him.
He couldn't keep living this way. Not when he had an important contract signing meeting tomorrow.
Tomorrow was going to be a big day for him. He had to appear sharp, focused, and so-not-sleep-deprived when he met Sheikh Hassan.
Maybe staying at a hotel for the night would be best. But then again, that woman was crazy. What if she tracked him down there as well? And more people began to think he was nuts?
He couldn't take that risk.
Despair crept into the cracks of his body, mind, and soul as he returned home from work once again. For obvious reasons, he didn't want to be there at all.
However, his face soon lit up when he noticed his house wasn't empty today. He had a familiar visitor— Mrs. Jenkins, the Staniforth family's housekeeper.
He'd never been this happy to see anyone in his life. He almost ran into her embrace like a child. Which sort of made sense, given the fact she'd been with the Staniforth Family even before he was born.
"Mrs. Jenks!" Lorenzo muttered lazily, shuffling into the kitchen where the older woman was stocking the fridge with an assortment of mouthwatering delicacies. "How long have you been here?"
"Not so long!" Mrs. Jenkins replied casually before her hawk-like gaze swept over him from head to toe. She frowned. "What's the matter with you, Lorenzo? You look like death!"
Lorenzo sighed inwardly. Trust Mrs. Jenkins to always state the obvious.
He offered a weak smile. "Oh, you know me, Mrs. Jenkins," he said, lowering himself into a nearby kitchen chair. "Just working a bit too hard."
That WASN'T a total lie!
She unfurrowed her brows and continued stacking the fridge. "Try not to overwork yourself, Lorenzo. You're no good to anyone if you're sick. . .or DEAD!"
Lorenzo chuckled under his breath. He knew she was concerned, but just like every twisted member of the Staniforth household, she had a weird way of showing it.
"You need to be healthy," she went on. "VERY HEALTHY. If you plan on getting married and having a bunch of little adorable Lorenzos running around."
Usually, he would have given her a sarcastic rejoinder regarding his interest in commitment, or the lack of it. But he was too exhausted to even keep his eyes open.
"Why do you keep bringing me food, Mrs. Jenks?" he asked through a yawn. "I mean, I have a cook and you know that."
Ever since Lorenzo moved out of his family's mansion, Mrs. Jenkins made it her life's mission to arrive at his doorstep, twice a week, loaded with freshly cooked meals.
"Because, my dear Lorenzo, I know you can't resist my cooking." Mrs. Jenkins teased him, casting a playful glance over her shoulder. "You've been so spoiled by cooking that no store-bought food or Michigan Star Chef would do."
Well, he couldn't deny that.
"It's Michelin, Mrs. Jenks. Not Michigan."
"Whatever!"
When she was done stuffing the fridge, Mrs. Jenkins retrieved her tote bag from the kitchen table before closing the distance between them.
"I have to hurry back to the mansion to put Pixie to bed or that kid is gonna spend the night on her phone." She reached for his shoulder, squeezing it fondly. "Remember to eat what I brought, Lorenzo. And for goodness' sake, take care of yourself."
Lorenzo nodded. "Thanks, Mrs. Jenkins," he murmured, gently patting her weathered hand resting on his shoulder. "And thanks for the food, as always."
Just as Mrs. Jenkins reached the doorway, she suddenly stopped in her tracks. "Oh, that reminds me!" She exclaimed before walking back to Lorenzo. "I have something for you. . ."