Chapter 9 Chapter 9: Punishment in Perfect Order
I made my way back toward the kitchen, the quiet of Sir Senior Veyra’s wing slowly giving way to the familiar pulse of the house. By the time I reached the service corridor, the calm I’d borrowed upstairs had already started to slip away. I pushed through the swinging doors, and the kitchen swallowed me whole—heat, noise, motion all crashing over me at once like I’d stepped into another world entirely.
Chef Lorenzo was at the center of it, exactly where he always was, barking orders in rapid Italian while stirring a pot with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. “Attento! Don’t walk like blind man!” he shouted at Marco, who nearly collided with a tray of plates. Rosa was laughing as she chopped herbs flying everywhere. Someone cursed when a pan hit the floor. It was loud, messy, and alive. Lorenzo spotted me almost immediately.
“Ah! Sera!” he called, relief flashing across his face. “You back tell me—everything okay?”
“Yes, Chef,” I said, stepping closer so he could hear me over the chaos. “Sir Senior Veyra had his breakfast. And his medicines. He finished everything.”
Lorenzo exhaled dramatically, crossing himself with flour-dusted fingers. “Grazie a Dio,” he muttered. “This morning, eh… it tried to kill me.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough. “He said something? He complain? The oatmeal too thick? Too thin?”
“No,” I said quickly. “He thanked me.”
Lorenzo blinked, then broke into a wide, genuine smile. “He thank you?” he repeated, like it was something rare and precious. “You see, eh? He is good man. Old, but good.” He reached out and patted my arm briefly before pulling back to shout at Marco again. “Marco! If you overcook that fish, I swear—!” Then back to me, softer, “You did well, ragazza. Very well.”
The kitchen surged around us, voices overlapping in Italian and broken English, pots banging, orders being called out for the night’s dinner. Rosa leaned over, wiping her hands on her apron. “So? He eat?” she asked.
“Yes,” I nodded.
She grinned. “Then Chef stops panicking for five minutes.”
Lorenzo scoffed. “Impossible,” he said, but there was warmth in it.
I lingered near the prep counter, pretending to straighten a stack of clean plates while my eyes kept drifting back to Rosa. She was moving fast now, shoulders tight, knife flashing as she worked through a pile of vegetables like they’d personally offended her. The kitchen was louder than ever—orders being called, pans striking metal, Italian spilling from Chef Lorenzo in rapid bursts—but the question pressing on my chest refused to be drowned out.
“Rosa,” I said finally, leaning closer so only she could hear me, “did Elara ask for me while I was gone?”
Rosa didn’t answer right away. She finished what she was doing, slid the chopped vegetables into a waiting bowl, then set the knife down. When she looked at me, her expression said everything before her words did.
“Yes,” she said. “She was asking for you.” My stomach sank immediately. Rosa glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to listen. “She came down by herself, which is never a good sign.”
“She came down?” I asked, my voice barely steady. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the heat pressing in on my skin.
“Yeah,” Rosa said. “Right before she went to the salon.” She shook her head slightly. “She was already irritated, and then finding out you weren’t where she expected you to be? That didn’t help.”
I swallowed hard. “What kind of mood was she in?”
Rosa let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “The sharp kind,” she said. “The kind where she smiles but her eyes don’t. She asked where you were, and when I said you’d been sent upstairs, she went very still.” Rosa mimicked the motion, her shoulders stiffening. “That’s when you know someone’s in trouble.”
My fingers curled into the edge of the counter. “Did she say anything else?”
“She said she’d deal with it later,” Rosa replied.
I nodded, forcing myself to breathe. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.
“Anytime,” Rosa replied. “Just… be careful when she gets back. Today already feels off.”
A tight knot formed in my chest as I stepped away from the noise of the kitchen and reached into the pocket of my skirt. My fingers closed around the familiar shape of my old Nokia phone, the plastic edges worn smooth with time. I hadn’t checked it since before the service lift, and something about the weight of it now made my pulse quicken. I flipped it open, the small screen lighting up slowly, and my breath caught when I saw the notifications stacked one after another. Elara. Elara. Elara. Every message timestamped within minutes of each other.
The first message was blunt.
Where are you.
The second came almost immediately after.
You were told to remain in my wing this morning.
By the third, the words cut deeper.
Do not test my patience, Sera. I don’t tolerate being ignored.
My thumb hovered over the keypad, but I didn’t reply. Replying never helped when she was already like this.
Then I scrolled—and my stomach dropped and the list appeared—and it was long.
It filled the screen and spilled onto the next, line after line of tasks written without mercy or pause.
1, Rearrange all my gowns by color—dark to light and team every silk piece again, even the ones already done.
2, Separate evening dresses from cocktail dresses and check every hem.
I swallowed hard, my eyes moving quickly, already calculating how long it would take. Elara loved tasks that consumed time, tasks that left no room to breathe.
The list kept going.
3, Line up my heels by height and shade and clean every sole also polish the black pairs twice and do replace the heel caps if they’re worn. I want you to match each pair to the correct gown and set them aside.
My jaw tightened. This wasn’t about preparation. It was punishment disguised as order. And another screen.
4, Reorganize my jewelry—diamonds first, then emeralds, then everything else and do untangle every necklace. Clean each piece and replace the velvet liners in the trays. I want the emerald set displayed, centered, and facing forward.
I could almost hear her voice saying it, like she wasn’t deliberately making my day impossible. But still more. C
5, Clean my room completely. Dust the frames. Wipe every surface. Vacuum the carpet twice. Change the bed linens. Make sure the room smells right—not too floral. Adjust the curtains. Reorder my vanity drawers. Throw out anything I don’t like the look of.
My chest felt tight as I read, my thumb slowing like it hoped the list might end if I didn’t scream.