The moment I stepped into the kitchen with the binder in hand, Cora Ma'am looked me over with her usual sharp gaze.
"Now, Ms. Emma," she began, her tone brisk but not unkind, "Mr. Knight comes home by seven in the evening. So you should have his meal ready accordingly. He wants dinner served at 7:15 exactly. Make your preparations with that in mind, okay?"
I nodded quickly, my stomach twisting nervously. "Yes, ma'am. I understand."
She continued, flipping through a thick sheet of paper from the binder. "This list here is the meal plan. You will strictly follow this. No substitutions according to your taste.
If he wants a few changes, he will let you know directly. And Ms Emma…" Her eyes softened slightly,
"this list must be adhered to exactly. No exceptions. Do you get it?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, my voice firmer now, though inside I was buzzing with a mix of nerves and excitement.
She looked at me, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "We've also provided a shopping list. Don't take anything from the main kitchen fridge for yourself. If you want something to eat, there is a separate quarter for that. Understood?"
"Understood, ma'am. Everything is perfect. I get it," I said quickly, trying not to seem intimidated.
Her lips twitched. "Good. Follow these rules, and you'll do fine. Most cooks don't last. Some quit the first day, some are fired within a month. Mr. Knight doesn't tolerate carelessness. Once a meal is done, clean and arrange everything exactly as it should be. Do not move anything around. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am. Don't worry, I understand my duties. I won't disappoint."
"Hmm. Good. Then you are ready to begin. Good luck, Ms Emma." She handed me the meal plan and shopping list, then turned sharply and left, probably for another part of the mansion.
I exhaled slowly and let myself smile. Finally. I was here. In a real kitchen. A professional environment. My heart was racing, not with fear, but with anticipation.
I plugged in my earphones, letting my favourite playlist fill the air around me. Music always had this magical ability to make the world feel less intimidating, to slow my heartbeat and sharpen my focus.
As I started moving around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and setting up the pans, I felt alive. This was my element. The smells, the rhythm of the knife on the cutting board, the warmth of the oven—it was all comforting.
I hummed along with my songs as I worked, arranging ingredients, measuring flour and sugar meticulously, even though my instincts wanted to just throw them together. This time, the rules came first. Mr Knight's rules. No improvisation. No shortcuts.
Once the meals were prepped, carefully plated, and covered, I moved around the kitchen, tidying things up and checking everything twice. My curiosity started getting the better of me, as it usually did. I let my eyes wander.
And then I saw it.
A portrait.
Framed in gold, mounted high on the wall opposite the stove. It was of an old man with sharp features and piercing eyes, dressed in a crisp suit, standing tall and confident. A faint shadow of a smile played on his lips, but it was the kind of smile that didn't really reach the eyes. It was calculated. Commanding.
My heart skipped.
"Hmm…" I muttered under my breath. "So this must be Mr Knight."
I couldn't stop my gaze from lingering on the portrait. There was something about it that felt… intimidating. And yet, fascinating.
I laughed quietly to myself, a mix of nerves and sarcasm bubbling up. "Sorry, Uncle Knight," I whispered. "Just looking at you from afar, don't mind me."
I shook my head, still staring at the portrait. God, this man must be a maniac. Hanging his own portrait. How self-obsessed can you be?
The thought made me snort. Rich people, right? Always dramatic, always larger than life. I could already feel the tension building in my chest just thinking about meeting him. What if he was arrogant? Controlling? Impossible to please?
Ugh. God help me. I really, really did not want to meet someone like that.
Shaking off the anxiety, I returned to my duties. I moved around the kitchen, cleaning, polishing, and rearranging every single utensil and pan. I even double-checked the fridge, making sure nothing was out of place. Cora Ma'am's words about strict rules echoed in my head. Do not move anything. Follow the list. No improvisation.
I couldn't help myself from smiling slightly. Even though I knew the rules were tight, the idea of cooking for someone like Mr. Knight was thrilling. It wasn't just a job. It was an opportunity. A challenge. And I liked challenges.
I glanced at the clock. 6:30 PM. Just enough time to relax for a bit before the storm.
I leaned against the counter, letting my fingers trace the edge of the marble. My mind raced with scenarios. Would he be polite? Cold? Would he critique everything I did? Would he even taste the food?
I sighed, trying to calm myself. I had survived worse. Professor Harding. Late buses. Endless assignments. I could do this. I had to do this.
Time ticked slowly. 6:45. I moved to check the oven, adjusting the temperature slightly. The smell of the cooking food filled the kitchen. It smelled perfect. Just the way it was supposed to.
7:00 PM. My heart thumped in my chest.
I set the final plates, neatly arranged according to the instruction manual. Everything polished, everything in its place. I stepped back, surveying my work. Everything was perfect.
And then I froze.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
The engine stopped. Doors opened. Footsteps on the stone path.
I could hear them clearly. Heavy, confident. Deliberate.
Mr. Knight.
My chest tightened. My palms felt clammy. My legs wanted to give out. And yet… a small, rebellious part of me thrilled at the challenge. This was it. The moment I'd been preparing for.
I straightened my apron, took a deep breath, and silently whispered, "Okay, Emma. Don't screw this up."