"Ugh," Anne groaned, dramatically clutching her stomach as she took a single whiff of the eggs. "I think I'm going to throw up."
I blinked. "What?"
She waved a hand like I'd just offered her poison. "The eggs. The smell. It's revolting."
Of course it is. Why does she always have to do this? Is she pregnant?
"They're organic," I reminded her, trying not to grit my teeth. "Gluten-free toast, just like you wanted. Chamomile tea steeped exactly five minutes."
Anne wrinkled her nose. "It doesn't matter. I've changed my mind. I want something else. Maybe… soup?"
"Soup?" I echoed, deadpan. "At seven in the morning?"
She narrowed her eyes at me like I was the irrational one. "Yes. Is that a problem?"
I held her gaze for a long second. Then, with all the inner strength of a warrior who'd survived foster care, social rejection, and a pervert named Jim—I smiled tightly and picked up the tray.
"No problem at all."
She turned her attention to her phone while I marched back toward the kitchen, heels of my house slippers squeaking faintly against the marble floor. As soon as I pushed the swinging door open and was sure she couldn't hear me, I let out the biggest, most exhausted groan of the century.
"Soup," I muttered, slamming the tray down onto the counter. "At seven freaking a.m. Next she'll be asking for sushi and wine."
I grabbed a clean pot and filled it with filtered water, placing it on the stove with a loud clang. My movements were sharp, deliberate, the irritation in every gesture evident. I opened the fridge, stared at the contents like they'd personally wronged me, and finally pulled out the ingredients for her favorite butternut squash soup. She didn't deserve it, but if I didn't make it, she'd go on one of her dramatic hunger strikes and blame me for "ruining her day."
Two years I've been in this house. Two whole years of eggs that were too runny, toast that was too crisp, teacups that weren't dainty enough, and requests that changed with her every mood swing.
It wasn't like I hadn't worked jobs like this before. After Prisca helped me escape the Harpers' house, I worked for almost anyone who would hire me. Motels, offices, private homes. I cleaned toilets in gas stations. I mopped floors in greasy diners where the cooks thought "handsy" was a personality trait. I folded laundry, scrubbed sinks, and sometimes left with nothing but a stale sandwich as payment. It was all humiliating. All exhausting. But I survived. Because I had no choice.
Then came Anne.
It was Prisca who saw the job posting. "Reputable businesswoman in Ontario seeks live-in housekeeper with experience. Discretion required. Excellent pay."
"Discretion required," Prisca had read out loud, squinting at the flyer. "That means she's probably got drama. But you need the money."
And I did. As much as I hated the idea of leaving her—my rock, my family—I couldn't ignore the opportunity. I called the number, sent my references, did a Zoom interview where Anne barely looked at me, and two days later, I was on a bus to Ontario.
That was two years ago.
I'd thought Anne might be different. Rich, yes. Demanding, of course. But different. A woman who had worked her way to the top, who might actually understand what it meant to struggle. To want more.
Turns out, Anne was just… Anne.
She was the kind of woman who demanded perfection because she couldn't control anything else in her life. Her job stressed her out, her love life was chaotic (as I now personally knew), and she projected every ounce of insecurity onto those around her.
Her clothes were designer, but never tailored right. Her hair was always freshly dyed, but her roots showed. She'd complain about someone's grammar in one breath and mispronounce "coq au vin" in the next. She was a walking contradiction.
But she paid on time. Gave me my own room. Never physically hurt me.
And after everything I'd been through, that felt like a win.
Still didn't mean I didn't fantasize about throwing a raw egg at her head sometimes.
I chopped onions and squash with a little too much aggression, my knife smacking against the cutting board like it owed me money. The scent of caramelized onion soon replaced the chamomile in the air, and I stirred the pot with practiced ease.
"Soup," I muttered again. "Next time maybe she'll want steak tartare at sunrise."
I added the broth, the cream, the seasonings. Let it simmer.
My eyes drifted toward the kitchen window, catching the soft sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. Outside, the morning looked peaceful. Birds chirped. The wind rustled the trees gently. The world kept spinning.
I thought of Jake, my night in shining armour. I am a lover girl, I never thought I would fascinate about a man the way I've fascinated about Jake in the last two years. I never thought of any other man in this way, except General Choi though, and he is my father so it's okay to think of him and try to picture memories.
I've never been infatuated or fallen in love. I use to think I had no emotions when Prisca laughed at me for having no man in my life even with my beauty.
It is not deliberate. I guess I had never met a man that suit my taste.
Prisca brought it to my notice that I was attracted to Jake because he was a military man just like my father, General Choi.
I thought about it and concluded that it is partially true. I liked Jake very much because of his profession but that is not all. I liked him because he is hot, sexy, manly, admirable, defensive and rich.
I have alot of savings and I'm not poor but, I wouldn't settle for a man who doesn't have what it takes to care for me.
I'm not a gold digger though.