Chapter 3 3

Viola.

After finishing my shower, I stepped out and headed toward the dressing room to change into proper clothes. But then I stopped and thought, No-I'm not going to bother getting fully dressed right now. I'll just go downstairs wearing this bathrobe. He's expecting me for lunch anyway, so I'll show up in the bathrobe and see how he reacts.

The maid waiting outside the bathroom saw me heading for the stairs and immediately tried to stop me. She looked worried and said something like, "Miss, please, let me help you get dressed properly first." But I looked down at the floor, avoiding her eyes. It was tough on her-she seemed really uncomfortable and unsure what to do-but I said firmly, "It doesn't matter. I have to do this. There needs to be some consequences if I want to get what I want."

I ignored her and started walking down the stairs in just the bathrobe. The hem was short, barely reaching mid-thigh, and everyone in the hallway and on the landing stared at me. Suddenly, from the dining room below, I heard him yelling in a loud, commanding voice: "All the staff-eyes on the floor! Eyes on the floor right now!" I still had underwear on underneath, but coming down the stairs from above, the angle made it look revealing. Still, nothing was actually showing. I kept walking anyway, head held high, pretending I didn't notice the stares.

I reached the dining area where lunch was already set up on the long table. Fancy plates, silverware, and food that smelled expensive were arranged perfectly. He was sitting at the head of the table like always, and Mom was next to him. He looked up, saw me in the robe, and his face twisted in disbelief.

"Were you raised on the streets by thugs or what?" he asked, his tone sharp and mocking.

"Why?" I asked back coolly, still standing instead of sitting.

He leaned back in his chair. "Does a respectable girl come down to lunch in a bathrobe?"

"I'm not respectable," I shot back without hesitation. "If you don't like it, kick me out. If you don't like it, divorce Mom."

Mom spoke up quickly, her voice soft and nervous. "No, and I don't mind. Why would I? Even if you were completely naked, it'd be fine-you're still a kid."

He kept calling me a "kid" over and over, clearly trying to annoy me and make me feel small. "Fine," I said flatly, finally sitting down across from them.

At the table, Mom sat quietly, and he was in the big chair-like a king on a throne. He really owned the place; you could feel it in the air. He acted like royalty, like everything and everyone belonged to him.

Suddenly, he reached over and pulled Mom onto his lap right in front of me. I stared at them, shocked. "What are you doing?" I asked.

Mom's face turned bright red with embarrassment. "Not in front of the girl," she said quickly, trying to slide off.

He held her in place and laughed a little. "You say she's grown up-well, she needs to know you're my wife, and we're on our honeymoon. We can do anything, anytime. But I'm not doing anything with you right now-I just want to feed you."

Of course, I was fuming inside from all the anger and tension that had been building up. It was so provocative, so in-my-face. I couldn't stand it.

I buried my face in the food and just ate, even though some of it I didn't like at all. I was so annoyed and upset that I started complaining out loud. "This food is terrible!" I said, then threw the plate aside on purpose. The soup spilled across the floor in a messy splash. I knew I was being really rude to the staff and the chefs who had worked hard on it, but I had to do it. I needed to make him uncomfortable, to push back in any way I could.

He looked at the mess without blinking, then said coolly to the staff, "Replace it for her. Get her another plate right now." He turned back to me. "Is something bothering you?"

He was ice-cold, showing no emotions, no heart at all. He just drank his wine like nothing had happened. Of course, I'd done it on purpose-spilling from underneath the table, making a scene. What could I say? He still thought I was just a little girl he could control.

She was older than his mom, for goodness' sake.

I was hurting Mom with my words, even though I didn't mean to-it just came out in the heat of the moment. "How old are you, anyway?" I asked him. "You know Mom's about 40."

He replied coolly, not even fazed. "I'm 32. What do you want?"

"Yeah," I said, pushing harder. "What do you even like about her?"

When I saw Mom starting to cry-tears falling silently down her cheeks-I shut up immediately. Oh no, I didn't mean to hurt her like that. He must have some reason to marry someone older than him, but right then,n I didn't care to figure it out.

He hit the table hard with his big hands, making the plates rattle. "Enough!" he shouted. "You're hurting your mom, not me."

I found myself quiet for once. I got up from the chair. "I'm done eating," I said flatly. "I'm going to my room to rest before the party." But as I passed by them on my way out, I saw his hand already playing with her under the table, squeezinaske he owned her. Under my breath, I muttered, "This shameless man-does he really want to be intimate with her? Even on the dining table?"

As I walked away slowly, trying to look calm, I glanced back one last time. He cleared everything off the table with one sweep of his arm-plates, glasses, food crashing to the floor. Then he laid Mom down right on the table like it was a bed. He sat between her legs, pushed her skirt up, and started touching her intimately from underneath. She was enjoying it so much, moaning softly, her hands in his hair.

I found myself running up the stairs as fast as I could, heart pounding, face burning.

Was he really being intimate with her like that? How shameless! How could they do this with people around? I felt sick, angry, and embarrassed-all at once. I just wanted to get to my room and lock the door behind me.