I bite my upper lip, trying not to laugh. No matter how annoying she is right now, it’s hard not to find it funny. And when, after a quick moment, she finally starts to do what she dragged me here for, I almost feel devastated that our banter is coming to an end. Arguing with her is my favorite pastime.
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”
I shake my head, realizing just how absurd this whole situation is. “What will I say?” I ask skeptically. “That I helped my wife pee?”
“I’m not your wife,” she fires back quickly.
“Yet,” I correct. “But you will be. Get ready for it, baby girl.”
She turns her head away without a word, clearly realizing it’s pointless to argue with me.
She’s lost again, and I can’t help but feel triumphant.
Istruggle to open my swollen, tear-stained eyes as Marietta, our housekeeper, walks into my room, filling the air with her citrus-and-cinnamon perfume. Each morning, she follows her routine of placing my coffee on the table and opening the curtains to let in the light.
“Morning, Venetia,” she half-whispers, leaning closer to set the small cup of aromatic drink on my nightstand. “Hey, what is it?”
It’s only when she asks that I realize I’m crying. Hot, salty tears seep through my trembling lashes, melting the glue that keeps my eyes shut. I cried myself to sleep last night and barely managed an hour of rest. Usually, I don’t allow myself to breakdown like this, but with the new life my dad has imposed on me, I feel like I’m barely holding on.
Marietta places her hand on my cheek, the warmth of her soft skin a stark contrast to my icy, mask-tight face. I can feel how dehydrated my skin is, the roughness of it, and the new breakouts that have appeared from neglect. I came home utterly exhausted and didn’t bother to wash my face properly. Now, I feel like a mummy with remnants of foundation clinging to my skin.
“Venetia, baby,” she coos, and somehow, I muster the strength to raise my hand and place it on hers. The contact with someone who sounds like she genuinely cares for me lights me up, and a smile tries to break through the strain of my skin, causing more discomfort.
“I just—” I trail off, and her other hand gently wipes away the tears that keep flowing. I don’t even realize I’m crying—it’s happening on autopilot. “I don’t want to go anywhere today. I want to stay home.”
I’ve always been someone who dislikes change. This new life with West and all the meetings we have to attend is draining me. I know how to pretend—I’ve been doing it my entire life—but now it feels like my mind and body are at their breaking point. Inside, I’m screaming for help, begging for someone to save me, fully aware of my reality.
Nobody will come. Nobody will rescue me from the dragons perched atop the roof of my cage-like castle. I was born to be under other people’s thumbs, to obey and yield, never to rule.
“Oh, honey,” Marietta’s gentle voice cuts through my sorrow as she leans in, her familiar perfume growing stronger. “Come here.”
Without waiting for my response, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me into the tightest hug I’ve ever felt. I bury my nose in her red hair and inhale the comforting scent.
Marietta has been with me since my first husband, and we quickly became friends. He was a harsh man, constantly overloading her with work and reminding her she was ‘just a housekeeper’. My pleas for him to act like a decent human being often ended with a punch to my eye, and she kept pleading with me to stop doing that, telling me that she was okay. After his death, I took her under my wing, and our friendship grew stronger.
She’s the only person who doesn’t blame me for my feelings, not even when I snap and fall apart like now. Sometimes, it just happens—moments I can’t control—when I wake up with no desire to get out of bed. All I want is to go back to sleep and stay there until I feel better. It might last a few hours, a day, or even weeks. When my mother was alive, she’d call me lazy and ungrateful, shaming me for always feeling this way. Now, my dad has taken over, and every time he notices I’m starting to feel like this again, he unleashes a storm of words that do nothing to help.
So, yeah. As pathetic as it might sound, my housekeeper is the only person who doesn’t blame me for how I feel.
“It’ll get better, okay?” she says, her hands rubbing soothing circles on my back. “I promise.”
But I know it won’t. Recent events have proven that—every time I catch a glimpse of peace, something drags me back down into a bottomless pit of misery.
When she pulls back, my lips tremble, and a wave of nausea rises in my throat, forming a thick lump. I shiver, goosebumps prickling my skin despite the warmth in the room.
My half-open eyes take in her perfectly made-up face and hair, a sting of shame cutting through my haze. I know how I look—my hair is a tangled mess, my face swollen and red, streaked with unwashed makeup and glitter, and my lips areparched. The pajama I’m wearing clings to my skin with sweat, and I can sense the odor seeping from the fabric.
I feel fucking disgusting.
“Here, take this,” she says calmly, handing me the steaming cup, the warm air brushing my face and gently waking me up.
Reluctantly, I bring it to my lips and take a sip, savoring the sweet taste. Marietta has always prided herself on making the best coffee in the world. “Thank you,” I whisper, and she smiles, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “My social battery has run out. I need a few days to recharge,” I explain, forcing an awkward laugh.
Normally, I could spend the entire day working, and just one movie night by myself would be enough to refresh me for the next day. Now, it takes so much more than that. I have no desire to watch or do anything.
I just want to sleep.
“I understand, baby,” she says. “But some things just need to be done. Lying in bed and thinking about how you don’t want to do them won’t help. You need to face the difficulties, and then you’ll be proud of yourself—proud that you overcame them.”
