Chapter 3
1128 Words
Zayne’s POV
I thought that would be the end of it. Deliver pizza, get insulted by someone who thinks she's great and above everyone, even her so-called success there's a back story behind it, walk out and never return. But life has a twisted sense of humor.
The next morning, Tony called me into his office. He didn’t even look up from his crossword puzzle when he said, “You’ve been assigned to someone special. Permanent delivery.”
I blinked. “What do you mean permanent?”
He finally looked at me, face half amused, half sorry. “Mildred Jewels. She called this morning. Requested you personally.”
I felt my heart drop like a stone. “Is this a joke?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘I want the i***t from yesterday. The one with the dumb look and the clumsy hands. Make sure he delivers all my meals. I enjoy watching mediocrity attempt usefulness.’”
I stared at him, unable to speak.
Tony shrugged. “Can’t say no to a big spender, kid. You’re on Mildred duty now.”
Just like that, I was her personal pizza boy. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she felt like it. Sometimes at midnight. Sometimes twice an hour. And it wasn’t just food she ordered—it was torment.
I arrived five minutes early. She made me wait thirty minutes outside her office door, then opened it with a fake gasp.
“Oh, you’re still here?” she said, feigning surprise. “I assumed you'd run off crying like a toddler who spilled his milk.”
I clenched my jaw and handed her the bag.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she sniffed the air.
“You sting of poverty. Is that your signature scent?”
“Here’s your pizza,” I said, holding it out again.
She took it this time, then immediately dropped it onto the marble floor.
“Oops,” she said, voice flat. “Pick it up.”
I bent down slowly, heat crawling up my neck. She watched with a smile so smug it could curdle cream.
“You know, your face reminds me of expired yogurt. All that effort to look smooth, but still tragic.”
Even before I knew it, she made me sing happy birthday to her chihuahua. I stood there holding a meat lover's box while she recorded me on her phone.
“Louder,” she said. “Come on, pizza boy, put your back into it. My dog has better vocal range than you.”
The video ended with her laughing so hard she nearly fell off her velvet chaise.
After a long day of being insulted and humiliated only for being poor.
She called at 2am.
“Yes?” I croaked into the phone.
“Why do you sound like you’re dying? I need my four-cheese calzone. Now.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
She paused. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize being poor came with sleep privileges. Should I call someone who wants to keep their job?”
I rolled out of bed.
The next morning, she didn’t even order food. She just called to complain.
“You delivered yesterday’s box upside down,” she said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t argue. You breathe too loudly to be right about anything.”
I bit my tongue. Hard.
She sighed dramatically. “You know, I once stepped in dog poop that had more charm than you. At least it didn’t talk back.”
It didn’t stop.
She called me names like “budget disappointment,” “low-rent Romeo,” and “walking Wi-Fi dead zone.”
“You’re like a screensaver,” she said one day. “Bland, unnecessary, and only shows up when no one else is around.”
I wanted to scream. Throw the pizza in her face. Tell her who I really was. Tell her I was Zayne Effing Kingsley, heir to the Kingsley fortune. That I could buy and sell her entire jewelry line in one breath.
But I didn’t.
Because deep down, some part of me was fascinated.
Not with her cruelty. God, no. But with how she carried it like armor. Behind every insult, there was a hint of pain. Or maybe I imagined it.
Still, it didn’t justify the madness. And the fact that she looked down on people, which is what I hated most.
I was delivering a triple pepperoni with extra garlic. I stepped into her office and, as usual, she didn’t even look up.
“Late,” she said.
“I’m three minutes early.”
“And still, it’s not soon enough. What are you trying to do, impress me with your mediocrity?”
I set the box on her desk.
She poked at it like it might bite her.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use soap or just tears of disappointment?”
My eyes twitched.
“You know,” she said, tapping a manicured nail against the table, “you remind me of my ex-boyfriend’s pet turtle. Slow, dull, and always hiding in a shell of excuses.”
“I’ll be going now,” I said.
She stood. Walked toward me. Close. Too close.
“You’re not going anywhere. I need you to walk my dog.”
“Walk your... what?”
“He hates the leash. Maybe he’ll bite you. I’d pay to see that.”
“I’m not a dog walker.”
She leaned in, eyes glittering like diamonds dipped in venom.
“You’re whatever I say you are. You don’t belong in this world, Ryan. You’re the stain we hide under rugs. The backup dancer in a play you weren’t even invited to.”
I stared at her.
Something in me cracked.
But I still didn’t say a word.
I turned, walked out with my head high, even if my pride was crawling.
Back in the elevator, I looked at my reflection.
Same cheap cap. Same fake name. Same broken silence.
I was getting fed up with this, but I can't give up. I believe there's love without power, wealth and fame.
Or was my dad right? True love comes after power?
This is just day 2 of 7.
I can't give up easily.
That night, lying on my thin mattress, I stared at the ceiling, replaying the day's events. Each insult, each command, etched deeper into my psyche. But I reminded myself of my goal: to find genuine love, to prove to my father—and to myself—that it existed.
Even if it meant enduring Mildred's torment a little longer.
I wasn't enjoying the torments, I was only hoping to find something I had built all these years.
- Writer
