Chapter 6
666words
I was chopping vegetables for dinner, knife moving in precise, practiced motions.
Cynthia clicked in on her designer heels, her expensive perfume clashing with the cooking aromas. She delicately covered her nose. "Smells divine. Need any help?"
Before I could respond, she laughed lightly. "Oh, but I'm hopeless with knives and cooking. Our housekeeper always handled these things."
My knife stilled mid-chop.
"Oh, you probably don't know," she added with calculated casualness, "during my years abroad, Loki hired the most wonderful housekeeper for me. She was quite like you, actually—excellent in the kitchen."
My spine turned to steel.
During those same years, Loki had told me countless times: "The company's swamped, babe. I can't be there for you right now. Don't be upset."
Loki appeared in the doorway.
His eyes didn't even register me, going straight to Cynthia. "Cindy, these tasks aren't for your hands. Go entertain my mother. Alice has this covered."
"But won't poor Alice be overwhelmed alone?" she asked with mock concern.
"She's used to it," Loki replied with a dismissive smile. "It's what she does best."
Cynthia smiled sweetly. "You're right. Mrs. Dalton chops vegetables so expertly. I'd only be in the way."
She glided out, leaving her perfume hanging in the air.
The kitchen door swung shut. The heat from the stove pressed against my face like invisible hands around my throat.
Only then did Loki acknowledge me. "You remember Cindy's dietary restrictions, right? Don't screw up again."
I kept chopping, saying nothing.
"Don't act sullen," he stepped closer, voice dropping to a chill. "Besides cooking, what exactly are your skills? Just do your job, know your place, and I'll treat you decently."
He stared me down. "And don't mention divorce again. Where would you go? You have no degree, no work history. You'd be on the streets within a week."
"Whatever dignity you possess comes from the Dalton name. You should be grateful."
Perhaps sensing he'd gone too far, his voice softened slightly. "Cynthia... holds a special place in my heart. As long as you don't cause trouble, I'll make sure you're well provided for."
I looked at him, suddenly seeing my pathetic reflection in his eyes. Did he really think I married him for financial security?
If love was gone, what reason remained to stay?
Taking my silence for submission, he nodded. "Make dinner good," he ordered, and walked out.
That evening, I prepared a feast—every dish carefully chosen to please their palates.
They devoured it with obvious pleasure.
Loki raised his glass in toast to his parents. Cynthia dabbed soup from his tie with a napkin. The family laughed and talked as if I weren't there.
Not once did anyone invite me to join them at the table.
They were accustomed to me hovering nearby—refilling glasses, clearing plates, wiping spills.
I no longer cared.
Because this was the last meal I would ever prepare for them.
I'd once loved cooking—the rhythm of chopping vegetables, the alchemy of flavors. It let me pretend I was normal, that my marriage was real, that my bloody past was just a nightmare.
I never imagined my passion would be reduced to "besides cooking, what else can you do?" in my husband's sneering voice.
While they enjoyed their "family dinner," I slipped away unnoticed.
At the corridor's end, the night pressed against the windows like black ink.
I leaned against the wall and checked my phone. A new message waited: Be certain. Return now, and you may never be free again.
I stared at the word "free" until it blurred.
Then I looked back at the house that had devoured my youth.
Five years with Loki—from campus "charity case" to envied Cinderella to grieving mother to glorified maid.
Always apologizing, always forgiving, running in circles until I'd worn myself to nothing.
I'd been exhausted for years.
I typed one final message to Loki: I don't want you anymore, Loki.
