The kitchen of Damien's mansion had never felt so alive.
For weeks, it had been nothing more than a gleaming, silent monument to excess — cold silver appliances, spotless marble counters, cabinets stocked with food I never dared to touch unless instructed. The place had always felt… untouchable, much like the man who owned it.
But tonight, it pulsed with energy.
The air was thick with the smell of flour, oil, and spices, layered with smoke from something burnt and sweet. Laughter spilled like wine, loud and unrestrained, bouncing off the tiled walls. Pans clattered. Someone shrieked when dough stuck to her hair. Another swore when hot oil splattered her apron.
And in the middle of it all stood me.
Evelyn Rothwell. Not the pawn, not the carefully polished doll Damien paraded when he wished to remind the world he owned me. Just… me.
My hand throbbed beneath its bandage, but I ignored it, clutching the wooden spoon with my good hand as I stirred the bubbling mixture in front of me. It wasn't perfect. My chopping was uneven, and I'd spilled half the flour on the floor earlier. But it was mine. And the women around me — the maids, the cooks, the staff — treated me not with suspicion, but with camaraderie.
"Don't burn it, Evelyn!" cried Lila, the youngest maid, her voice pitched with dramatic urgency. "If you ruin it, we'll all starve!"
I rolled my eyes, fighting a smile. "One meal won't kill you, Lila."
"Speak for yourself." She wrinkled her nose, stirring her own pot that looked more like swamp water than soup. "If this is what survival tastes like, death is kinder."
That set the others off again, laughter rippling through the air until even I couldn't hold mine back. It came bubbling up, startling in its force, because it felt foreign and yet so… good.
It had been so long since I laughed like this.
---
The Judgment Begins
By the time the cooking was declared "done," the kitchen looked like a battlefield. Flour dusted the floor, sauce splattered the counter, and crumbs trailed everywhere. Martha, the head maid, stood at the center with arms folded and the expression of a stern judge.
"Right," she said with mock gravity. "Time to judge. And remember — we must taste everything. No matter how suspicious."
The room buzzed with anticipation.
The first dish was Lila's infamous soup. It was ladled into bowls, the steam rising with a scent that made my stomach twist uneasily. Burnt onions mixed with something sharp — garlic? Pepper? Whatever it was, it was aggressive.
Lila, to her credit, presented it with pride. "I call it 'Survival Stew.'"
"More like 'Death in a Bowl,'" someone muttered, and we all laughed.
Still, Martha lifted her spoon with dignity, blew gently, and took a sip.
The transformation on her face was instant. Her eyes widened, her throat bobbed, and then she sputtered, coughing violently as she reached for her water.
"By the heavens—!" she croaked. "Lila, are you trying to assassinate us?"
The kitchen exploded in laughter.
"Assassination by soup," I managed between giggles, my stomach aching from how hard I laughed. "That's a new method."
"Points for creativity!" another chimed in.
Poor Lila buried her face in her apron, laughing even harder. "It wasn't that bad!"
"Oh, it was," Martha wheezed, still fanning her mouth.
Next came a cake — or what was supposed to be a cake. The middle had collapsed completely, leaving a crater in the center. When Martha cut into it, the knife sank with a squelch, and the gooey middle oozed out like molten lava.
A collective gasp echoed.
"Is it alive?" someone whispered.
"No, but it's armed and dangerous," another shot back, and we were gone again, laughing until tears blurred our vision.
When the spoon was finally dipped into the mess and tasted, the response was another round of choking.
"This one," Martha declared solemnly, "is a crime against sugar."
---
My Dish
At last, my turn came.
I placed my plate of fritters on the counter, suddenly nervous under their collective eyes. They weren't perfect. Some were too crispy, others oddly shaped. But they were golden and fragrant, a memory from a past life I rarely allowed myself to touch.
The maids tasted them one by one, and to my surprise, they hummed approvingly.
"Oh, this is good."
"Crispy but soft inside."
"I could eat a whole plate."
My face heated, and I ducked my head, embarrassed. "They're just… ordinary."
"Ordinary?" Martha gasped theatrically. "Blasphemy. This is the dish of queens."
Before I could protest, Lila darted away and returned with a folded napkin. She twisted it into a crude crown and plopped it onto my head.
"Behold!" she announced. "Evelyn, Queen of the Kitchen!"
Applause thundered, playful and warm. My cheeks burned hotter, but I laughed — really laughed, until my eyes stung with tears.
For once, I wasn't the pawn, the trapped girl, the possession. I was simply… Evelyn.
And that realization ached more than my bandaged hand.
---
The Suspicion
Hours later, after the dishes had been cleaned and the laughter faded into quieter conversations, I lingered by the counter, sipping water. The paper crown still perched crookedly on my head, though I'd forgotten about it.
The others bickered cheerfully about who had "cheated" in the voting. Lila insisted she deserved extra points for originality, despite nearly poisoning us.
I smiled faintly at their banter… until a chill crawled across my skin.
It was sudden, sharp — that prickle at the back of my neck, the tightening of my chest. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
My smile faltered. The glass trembled in my hand.
I set it down slowly and scanned the room. The wide kitchen windows showed only the dark stretch of garden outside. The polished appliances reflected distorted shapes, nothing unusual. And yet…
I knew this feeling. Too well.
It was the same suffocating awareness I always had whenever Damien was near. That invisible thread that tied me to his gaze, to his presence.
But he wasn't here. He was abroad. Far away. The maid had told me three weeks in Beijing. He couldn't possibly—
I shook my head, muttering under my breath, "You're imagining things."
Still, the feeling clung like smoke. Every laugh that rose around me sounded distant. Every glance over my shoulder was sharp, desperate.
And when I caught my own reflection in the window — pale, tense, eyes darting like prey — I hated what I saw.
Because even in his absence, he haunted me.
---
The Crown at Night
Back in my room, the house had grown quiet. I placed the folded napkin crown carefully on my nightstand, smoothing the edges as if it were porcelain. It was ridiculous, childish, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
Lying back against the pillows, I closed my eyes. The exhaustion in my bones pulled me toward sleep, but the smile from earlier lingered.
For the first time in months, I had felt… normal. Human.
Maybe these three weeks would be a reprieve. Maybe, in his absence, I could piece myself together.
But as I drifted off, unease slithered into my chest.
Because deep down, I couldn't shake the truth.
It didn't feel like Damien was gone.
It felt like he was watching. Always watching.
And the most terrifying part wasn't the fear that thought stirred…
It was the tiny, shameful flicker of comfort I felt because of it.
---