Chapter 53 - The Art of Inconvenience 

It started with breakfast.

The chef prepared the usual—a beautifully plated meal of toast, eggs, and fruit, presented with meticulous care. But as soon as the plate was placed in front of her, Ayra wrinkled her nose.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” she said casually, pushing the plate away.

The maid hesitated. “Madam, this is what you requested yesterday.”

“Did I?” Ayra tilted her head, frowning. “I don’t remember. But I’m not in the mood for this today. Make me something else.”

The staff exchanged glances, but after a slight hesitation, the maid nodded. “Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, a fresh plate of food was brought to her. She picked at it, took a single bite, and sighed. “This is too salty. Can you make it again?”

The chef’s patience visibly thinned, but they couldn’t refuse her. She was Lucian’s wife, after all, and despite the slight disregard they had for her, their orders had been to serve her and make her comfortable.

But Ayra was just getting started. 

Breakfast the next day was much the same. 

Ayra sat at the grand dining table in her isolated house, absently tapping her fingers against the polished wood. The morning sunlight streamed in, casting a golden glow over the untouched breakfast spread before her. Omelet, fresh fruit, toast, and a steaming cup of tea—each dish prepared to perfection.

And yet, she didn’t take a single bite.

Instead, she pushed the plate an inch away, then another, before exhaling dramatically.

The maid standing nearby hesitated, watching Ayra’s nonverbal rejection perplexedly. Why was she sighing?

Ayra turned her gaze to the young maid, her voice laced with feigned disappointment.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” she murmured.

The maid stiffened. “Madam, I asked the kitchen to make it exactly as you requested.”

“Yes, well.” Ayra sighed, standing up. “Tell them to try again. I suddenly have a craving for something… French. A soufflé, maybe. And I want the fruit sliced thinner.”

“The soufflé will take some time—”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”

With that, she left the dining room, her silk robe trailing behind her, knowing full well that the kitchen staff would have to start over from scratch.

To the dismay of the servants, lunch was much the same. Ayra twirled a spoon between her fingers, staring at the third plate of food that had just been placed before her.

A fresh omelet, lightly browned, stuffed with cheese and herbs, just as she had requested.

Ayra cut a small piece, chewed once, and sighed dramatically again.

The maid standing beside her visibly tensed.

“What’s wrong, Madam?” she asked, her voice polite but clearly strained.

Ayra tilted her head, setting down her fork. “It’s… a little over-seasoned, don’t you think?”

The maid’s lips pressed together. “You asked for extra seasoning.”

“I changed my mind.”

The butler, standing a few feet away, closed his eyes briefly, inhaling as if summoning patience from the depths of his soul.

Ayra pushed the plate away. “I think I’d rather have pancakes. And a fruit salad. But not with pineapple.”

“We will prepare it at once,” the butler said stiffly, already signaling to the kitchen staff.

Thirty minutes later, a stack of perfectly golden pancakes and a bowl of pineapple-free fruit salad were placed before her.

Ayra picked up her fork, took a single bite, and then—another sigh.

The butler did not even wait for her to speak. “What is wrong this time?”

She shrugged. “Not in the mood for something sweet. Could I have eggs again?”

The silence in the room was deafening.

The maid clenched her fists. The butler’s jaw tightened.

And Ayra? Well, Ayra simply smiled.

Mere minutes later Ayra stood in her dressing room, surveying the mountain of gowns and outfits spread before her. Silk, lace, satin—every possible luxury fabric in every shade imaginable was piled onto the elegant chaise. Her father had showered her with a litany of dresses and it came in handy now. 

The two maids assisting her looked like they were on the verge of collapse.

“I don’t think any of these feel right,” Ayra murmured, running a finger over the fabric of a deep emerald dress.

“Madam,” one of the maids started carefully, “we have gone through the entire collection…”

“Yes,” Ayra mused, as if considering a great philosophical debate. “But none of them seem to fit my mood.”

She turned back to the towering wardrobes, tapping her chin.

“Maybe we should start over.”

The maids visibly deflated.

One of them let out the tiniest, imperceptible groan—but Ayra caught it.

She turned, her expression innocent. “Did you say something?”

The maid stiffened instantly. “No, Madam.”

Ayra nodded. “I thought so.”

For the next two hours, she had them try on outfit after outfit, demanding changes in accessories, shoes, the lighting in the room, even that other servants be called to stand as models. It was a nightmare; one only Ayra enjoyed. 

When she finally settled on a simple beige dress—the very first one she had tried on—the maids looked like they were ready to weep from exhaustion.

But the horror was only just beginning. 

......

It was well past midnight when Ayra rang the intercom.

A maid appeared at the door, half-asleep but forcing a polite expression. “Is there something you need, Madam?”

Ayra folded her arms. “Yes. These sheets are uncomfortable.”

The maid blinked, clearly trying to process. “Uncomfortable, Madam?”

“Yes. Too rough.”

The sheets were made of the finest cotton money could buy. But Ayra refused to budge.

“Please change them,” she said with a small, polite smile.

The maid, gritting her teeth, nodded and fetched a fresh set. She stripped the bed, replaced everything, and smoothed out the new bedding.

Ayra slid back in, wiggling slightly against the sheets, before letting out a displeased hum.

The maid froze mid-step, already anticipating the worst.

“…I think I preferred the first set,” Ayra murmured.

The maid’s eye twitched.

Silence stretched between them before the maid wordlessly grabbed the sheets and started over again.

This repeated three more times. And again. And again. 

By the fifth time, the maid stood stiffly at the bedside, hands clenched at her sides, barely able to mask her frustration.

Ayra yawned. “You look tired. Perhaps you should rest.”

She ran a hand along the sheets. 

"Hmm. Before that, just get me freshly laundered sheets from downstairs. I want to change them again."

The maid looked like she might explode.

As soon as Ayra finally settled in, utterly victorious, the maid stormed out—and Ayra could hear the muffled sound of her venting to someone in the hallway.

Ayra went to bed smiling.