The Second Option

I noticed everyone stopped moving the moment Hunter made a sudden motion. 

And as clinking cutleries cease, silence dominates the hall—so deafening even a pin drop can be heard.

The dining hall has a table big enough to fit eight households. Chandeliers overhead, their lights reflect off glass vases and the table’s golden top.

Dad Tad is by Dad Griffin’s left. They are quite far to see better, but I’m certain the former’s shifting in his seat as if waiting for a crack in time to lash out and have me dragged out of the hall.

“Big brother, did she spill something on you?” Saturn asks. Her glare’s nearly boring holes in my skin, sparks flying around her eyes that I’d be melting if I were plastic.

Hunter doesn’t respond. Instead, he shifts his stare from the bracelet to my face.

As we lock gazes, I find I’m looking into a deep-set eye of sage green, its aura spellbinding, magnetic…

The stud diamond glimmering on his thick left brow calls for my attention. But I’m rather engrossed in the intensity of this man’s stare. 

It’s driving a strange mix of feelings within me. Of want and… fear?

My heart’s beating fast, and I don’t know if it’s my body reacting to his presence or I’m SCARED of him. It could be the latter, as I’m inwardly screaming no more. The excitement has faded. I can’t even feel my fucking wrist.

Something’s different, more than I expected—far, far more.

There’s a sharp contrast in how he’s looking at me compared to before. Instead of the warm gaze that was his countenance, it’s a beguiling emptiness—a void I can’t touch.

Hunter’s eye is impassive, and his lips aren’t twitching.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and who exactly is this man? Why is his aura much different from the man I know, or could he be a frigging doppelganger?

“What are you doing, girl? Apologize to Hunter now,” Dad Tad chides before I shift my gaze to him. I’m seething inside and hoping it shows in my eyes. “You clearly offended him,” the man adds, only fueling the urge to dunk his smug bunny face into the wasabi bowl in his front when I catch the ‘I warned you’ lingering on his expression.

But I know better.

I wouldn’t want to escalate the situation, since the tension in the air has risen and Dad Griffin looks like he could throw punches at me any moment.

I confront Hunter with a questioning look. The man hasn't said a word. Is he just going to sit there and do nothing?

I promised to tell ya why, so this is it—the fucking thing about me I hate—I’m supposed to speak up; that was the plan. But the adrenaline has depleted. And I’m frozen… with shock, disbelief, hurt…

Now only an apology could surface. “I'm sorry, sir.”

I try to withdraw my hand, yet Hunter won’t let go. He continues to stare. I can’t even meet his gaze, as I have my head down, looking at where my other hand twists the flap of my skirt's pocket. 

When he finally releases me, I bow ninety degrees before I walk away.

I know I’ll probably regret it later—walking away—just like I do some other things I've done, and how I’ll regret more that’s to come.

Maybe I’ve missed a few things because my head’s hanging low, but the maids’ snickering as I stride past the chain isn’t one of those things.

Hunter's stare haunts me as I make for the servants' quarters; the life in his iris effaced, the way he didn’t bat his eyelid or make a crease on his expression. It was chill, and solid, with his facial muscles defined more.

I’ve never seen such a look on him before. It felt like a cold, dark hole absorbing my soul, even now as the images linger in my mind.

I can’t help but wonder who that is, because it isn’t my Hunter. 

We’ve been dating for a year and seven months. Five months before I submitted my report, I stumbled on a viral biking video of him unhelmeted for the first time.

I checked his profile, watched his videos, and fell hard.

Then I found myself in his DM three weeks later pouring my heart out. I was embarrassed at the time. But the thrill of Hunter’s reciprocated feelings surpassed others until the issue of a physical date began.

I didn’t think about it much. I thought I would be free to do as I pleased once I submitted my report, but fate had other plans.

One lie toppled another. And now I worry that it may be the reason for his strange behavior. If not that, he’s put off by me being a servant.

Some maids follow me to the servants' quarter with a sneer on their faces. And there’s the whispers that drive me insane.

I hate it—the sound of their voices. It’s like a clog in the mind that tends to eat up my brain cells, crawling like vines on every nook and cranny beneath my skin, spreading misery. Angst. More misery.

I try to ignore it as I make for my bunk and plop down on the lower bed, my face pressing against the pillow.

Mixed feelings swirl within me—sadness, frustration, guilt, and fucking anger. Even the queasy sensation in my stomach feels as if it’s taunting, much like the maids.

“Did you see her push his plate?” One asks with a snigger. I’m struggling to recall her name when the other chuckles.

“Yeah, I damn well did. Sneaky bastard!”

“What was she even thinking?” The first girl goes again. Right! Name’s Yivlen with the nasty facial expressions. Her voice brims with disdain, its venom spritzing on me, lording over my lungs as my heart pounds incessantly.

“She was probably hoping he'd fall in love with her,” the third girl titters, stirring the spice in the conversation when she adds, “She thinks too highly of her miserable self.”

Overwhelmed by the situation, I excuse myself to the bathroom and shut the door before pressing my ear against it.

Yivlen’s voice comes muffled. “Look at her dressed like that too.”

“I know, right?”

“She must have forgotten that coating shite with vanilla doesn’t hide its stink.”

The girls hoot with laughter. Its daunting sound causes me to shuffle back in distress. 

My legs don’t hold me longer. And I find myself plopping onto the WC seat cover.

Some of these girls had previously served me. Yivlen I could recognize. Even though I hadn't mistreated them deliberately, they automatically labeled me a villain when I joined their ranks.

I can only conclude that they harbored resentment toward me from the beginning for reasons known only to them.

“That was quite embarrassing,” Yivlen says between her chuckles. “I wonder how she's feeling.”

“To hell with that! Who cares how the jackass feels? She thinks she’s superior and here’s what she gets.”

A scoff passes through my lips as I lean forward with my elbows on my thighs. 

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be bothered by these futile chinwags. However, it relates to Hunter—the one person I thought was my only solace after strenuous days with the Whites.

“Heidi!” Madam Kwakye's raspy voice booms from the hallway as she approaches.

In the stern housekeeper's presence, no one dares to make a sound for fear of facing her wrath; often in the form of harsh words or, worse yet, a flying hot pan across the face.

She won’t catch me sitting here looking devastated. That’d only be more problematic. And no one wants problems now, do they? 

As I quickly stand and reach for the door, it flies open, nearly knocking me out if pounds of flesh hadn’t come between us. 

Colliding against Madam Kwakye has me reeling backward. It hurts, but what hurts more is the blow that gets me on the cheek. 

I feel like my teeth could’ve fallen out from the blow. All of them. Or maybe none. I mean, what else would have bitten my tongue and caused this pain that’s spreading through my mouth― No, my face.

I’m back on the seat cover. Only this time not on my own. 

My feet are slipping from under me and I can’t control them. Even if I did now, it’s too late since I’ve already hit my head on the flush tank while crashing to the floor.

I struggle to find balance on the slippery surface with my hands. I want to get on my feet, as Madam Kwakye’s solid posture over the door is frightening, and more so when I’m way beneath her.

Standing up would give me a better chance at fewer injuries, that’s if I can stop my hands from continuously gliding whenever I try to stand.

It happens in a split moment when the older woman pulls my hair and hauls me up. She’s strong and inhumane and could battle a bunch of boxers with raw punches, kicks, and aggressive attacks of bad breaths.

As she grapples to prevent me from slipping again, there’s a collision of grunts, thudding—occasionally sliding—feet, and elbows hitting the wall in the struggle.

Her face contorts for her first words. “I have some pretty lovely plans for you the next time you break the servants’ rule, Heidi. Do you get me?” She hollers. A foul breath of garlic and fish sauce charges into my nose.

I try to turn away from the smell. But what’s Madam Kwakye without her violence? 

Her strong grip finds my top as well as my bra before she pulls. Hard, fast, even painful on my poor breast. 

She lets the ripped materials fall to the floor, eyeing my bare chest as she says sternly, “Now take off the other rags and meet me in the kitchen.” 

Then she stomps out without closing the bathroom door behind her, just as she doesn’t bother for the room door anyway.

The girls clap and roll in the aisles while I watch them.

“Arseholes!” I grumble as I walk to the room, disregarding how my breasts are moving like living trophies on my chest. 

I take out my uniform before returning to the bathroom.

If only I’d been forewarned about the consequences of my choice, I may have opted for the second option.