Scared

Irene's heart pounded against her chest, threatening to burst out at any moment. 

She placed a trembling hand on her chest, feeling the intense thumping, a physical manifestation of her fear. She desperately tried to steady her breath. This man, this dangerous man, was far more menacing than the entire Jones family combined. Her own homely apartment, once a safe haven untouched by the Jones family or anyone from her past, was now infiltrated by his presence. The fact that he had the audacity to give her orders, orders that did nothing to lift her spirits, only added to her discontent.

Irene was not just disturbed; she was deeply unsettled. She longed to take control, to assert her power over him. But could she really do it?

"Shit!" she cursed silently, her body relaxing slightly as she realised she was momentarily away from him. She knew she had to cook something for him. To hasten his departure from her life.

Such a headache! Irene splashed water on her face, trying to gather her thoughts as she surveyed the limited ingredients in her kitchen. She couldn't bring herself to ask if he even ate. That was not a question she could risk posing while trying to escape his clutches. How could she go back now and inquire about his food preferences?

Spotting some leftover noodles and meat, Irene considered making spaghetti. Cooking had become a necessity for her when she lived with the Jones family, even the maids didn't care if she ate. From a young age, she had honed her cooking skills, becoming proficient in the art. Now, living alone, her culinary prowess was a valuable asset. Besides, in her restrictive gown, manoeuvring was difficult, and spaghetti seemed like the best option. She hastily tied her hair into a messy bun and began chopping and preparing the ingredients.

"Come on, Irene, hurry up, so you can show him who's boss," Irene mumbled, a small smile breaking through the sadness etched on her face. How strange her thoughts were, imagining herself overpowering him when it was evident that he held all the power.

"Do it quickly, Irene," she suddenly heard Theodore's voice, sending shivers down her spine. Meeting him just twice had been enough to inflict a lifetime of trauma upon her.

She turned her head towards the sound and saw Theodore standing at the entrance, sporting his smug smile, revelling in the control he had over her.

"Stop staring at me and focus on the food you're cooking. If I don't like it, you'll pay the price," Theodore threatened, clearly bored with the drabness of the apartment's pale walls.

Why was his wife living in such a place? Yet, she seemed content here, her unwavering attention fixed on the cooking process, oblivious to his presence.

Irene's face displayed an unusual calmness in this humble kitchen, a calmness that Theodore never expected to witness on someone's face amidst such poverty.

"Of course," Irene responded, jolting from her thoughts, refocusing on the unfinished spaghetti.

Why did he have to come into the kitchen? Wasn't he sitting in the living room? And why did he insist on coming here?

He demanded food, and she had come to fulfil his request. Perhaps he believed she would poison him, hence his intrusion.

Irene struggled to concentrate, feeling his eyes fixed upon her. She appreciated the fact that he kept his distance, but his mere presence unnerved her as she attempted to cook. Having already threatened her, he added further pressure.

She had faith in her cooking skills, but she doubted whether they would meet his standards. Everything she possessed was cheap, including the ingredients. The Myers family, with their silver spoons, must be accustomed to food prepared by five-star chefs. How could she possibly create a dish that would satisfy his refined palate?

It was no simple task, and the mounting pressure of his proximity and relentless threats made it even more challenging. She longed for him to leave the kitchen so she could cook without distraction or fear.

Irene wanted to express this sentiment, but she was afraid of provoking him further. Who knew what might trigger his anger?

"Can you hear me? I'm hungry, and you better hurry up. You offered to do everything as an apology, so why the delay?" Theodore's smile tightened. Though he couldn't see her face, her anxious movements were enough to irk him.

Irene seethed with anger at his incessant nagging. Couldn't he see she was human? Cooking took time, and she couldn't rush when she was putting her utmost effort into creating something edible. This spaghetti was the quickest option available to her, as she lacked other ingredients. She was relieved she didn't have ready-made noodles; he would surely despise them.

Things were getting messier by the minute.

"Why are you so disorganised? Work properly," Theodore commanded, his impatience palpable. He couldn't tolerate waiting; after all, his wife was preparing his meal—an entirely new experience for him.

He had never been a patient person, and since their first encounter, Irene had continually tested his patience. He disliked her attempts to defy him. Perhaps she was trying, but not in the way he desired.

Theodore began approaching her, his footsteps echoing through the kitchen. Irene's body tensed at the sound, bracing itself for his proximity.

His wife, adorned in a wedding gown, cooking for him, elicited a strange sensation within him.