35. Chelsea

Chelsea

Throughout the entire time, I had been compelling myself to taste a few of the opulent foods adorning the table. It was not like I hated them. The core of my unease lay in the persistent gaze of the maid named Shopia. Her unwavering scrutiny had become an incessant presence, one that refused to be shaken off.

I requested her to join me for breakfast. She refrained from laying a finger upon anything, for she fears the disapproval it would surely elicit from Alastair. I encouraged her to sit down. She said the same thing. Really, everyone was scared to death by that man. I didn't pressurise her. I didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. But she was doing it to me instead. Her gaze, with its luminous brown irises, remained unwaveringly fixed upon the sensitive curve of my neck. Perhaps it was the allure of my neck.

Not being able to take it anymore, I ran a hand on my neck to distract her and cleared my throat. “You are not into women, are you?”

Our eyes locked, a silent co