Chapter 7 Monica's Scheme
GENESIS
“Stop fiddling with your food and eat,” he commanded, his voice low, deep, and sharp enough to make me startle. He was sitting uncomfortably close to me on the adjacent stool, right by the counter.
I froze. The meal looked absolutely delectable—pasta glistening with sauce, meatballs browned to perfection, bread steaming gently—but the thought of eating more than my “allotted share” made my stomach twist in fear. I didn’t want punishment. I couldn’t afford it. Not here. Not now.
“Go ahead, take more,” he urged, his tone deceptively calm. I twirled the spaghetti around my fork, hesitating before lifting it to my lips. Every bite felt like stepping into a trap. I swallowed quickly, praying I didn’t upset him, even though moments ago he had appeared kind, almost… gentle. I knew better. People like him hid the monstrous side beneath a polished surface. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
“Do you want me to feed you?” His voice, low and icy, made me flinch. I shook my head, gripping the fork tighter. Another bite. My stomach growled despite my nerves.
“That’s not enough. Why won’t you listen?” Frustration cut through his words, and my throat tightened. Tears pricked my eyes—I couldn’t eat any more, and my body rebelled.
“Why are you crying?” His voice snapped sharply. I hadn’t even realized the tears had begun falling. My hands trembled. I hunched over my plate, bracing for the inevitable anger, the strike, the punishment I was certain would come.
Instead, he shrugged. “Honestly, why should I care? Just eat however you want.” I stayed silent, staring at the plate, my tears dropping onto the pasta.
He repeated it, slower this time. “I said, eat however you want.” The chair creaked as he shifted, the faint sound unnerving in the silence. Then, nothing. I opened my eyes carefully. The living room was quiet. Television flickered softly, papers rustled—he was there, just… gone.
Why had he left? The lack of reaction unsettled me. I reluctantly focused on my meal, taking five more bites of pasta and one careful bite of meatball, finishing with a gulp of cold juice. It was refreshing, better than anything I had before, yet guilt clawed at me for feeling even a hint of enjoyment.
I carried the plates to the sink, neatly packing the leftovers for tomorrow, then started washing the dishes. The unfamiliar washing machine nearby intimidated me. Monica never let me touch the one at home. I vaguely remembered it disappearing one morning, sold without explanation. I never dared ask why.
“What are you doing?” The low voice behind me startled me so badly I dropped the glass plate, shattering it across the floor. My heart jumped.
I looked up, and there he was. So close I hadn’t heard him approach. Fear slammed into me—I scrambled to my knees, gathering the shards. Punishment, I thought. Surely now, he would show me his true self.
Instead, he bent down. “I’m not going to hurt you. Stop that and get up; you’ll cut yourself.” His hand grasped mine firmly, guiding me away from the shards. My pulse raced. I froze, instinctively shielding my face as he gently removed my hand from my head.
He pulled me to my feet, careful but brisk. I stumbled slightly, stepping on a sharp fragment. Pain shot through my foot, a silent gasp escaping me.
“Damn it,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the tiny red droplets staining the pristine tiles. My chest tightened.
“This is what happens when you don’t listen. Come on, let’s get that checked out,” he said, pulling me forward. My legs shook.
Then, unexpectedly, he scooped me up in his arms, holding me like a bride. My heart raced.
“Am I supposed to care for a wife or a child?” he muttered, a mix of frustration and concern in his voice. He set me on the counter, lifting my injured leg to inspect it. A first aid kit appeared from the top shelf with a loud thud, making me flinch.
His hands were surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound. I stole glances at him through wet strands of hair, confusion twisting inside me. He seemed annoyed, yet he restrained himself. Why? What was his motive?
Could this be part of Monica’s scheme?
As he wrapped the injury carefully, I noticed the small movements he made—the way his jaw tightened, the controlled patience in his hands, the way his green eyes softened when they met mine briefly. He wasn’t just a man of authority. He was unpredictable, and yet… there was a glimmer of something else. Something I didn’t understand.
The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and antiseptic. I could hear my own heartbeat, rapid and loud in the silence between us. He exhaled sharply, surveying me with a mixture of irritation and care, and I realized I had no choice but to trust him, at least a little.
This was only the beginning. Every act, every gesture, every small intervention from him carried meaning I couldn’t decipher yet—but one thing was certain: I was caught in his world now, fragile and fearful, and I had no idea how to navigate it.