Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 9

The butler, whose name was Mr. Jennings, led me up the floating marble staircase and down a long, sunlit corridor in the east wing. The guest suite he assigned to me was larger than the entire downstairs of my family’s house. It had a king-sized bed wrapped in crisp white linens, a private bathroom made of grey slate, and a balcony overlooking a manicured rose garden.

"Your bag has been placed in the closet, Miss Sylvia," Mr. Jennings said with a polite bow. "Lunch will be served at one o'clock in the formal dining room. If you require anything before then, please press the service button by the door."

"Thank you, Mr. Jennings," I whispered, feeling completely out of place standing on the plush, cream-coloured rug in my faded t-shirt.

Once he closed the door, I collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was incredibly soft, contouring to my aching body like a cloud. For the first time in eighteen years, there was no yelling, no slamming doors, and no fear of a hand wrapping into my hair. My head still throbbed slightly from the night before, but the quiet of the room acted like a balm. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, the digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 PM.

Panic instantly jolted me upright. I had slept right through lunch. In Richard's house, missing a designated time meant starving for the rest of the day. My stomach roared with an empty, hollow ache, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten a real meal in over thirty hours.

I washed my face quickly in the slate bathroom and crept out into the hallway. The mansion was completely silent, the staff seemingly moving like ghosts through the massive corridors. I navigated my way back down to the ground floor, my feet guiding me toward the back of the estate, following the faint, unmistakable architectural layout that usually led to a kitchen.

I pushed open a heavy, frosted glass door at the end of a corridor, and my breath caught entirely in my throat.

It wasn't just a kitchen. It was a culinary masterpiece [results: 0.6.21].

Sprawling countertops made of seamless, dark quartz stretched out across the room. A massive, eight-burner professional French range stood against the wall, crowned by a gleaming copper hood. There were sub-zero refrigerators hidden behind matching wood panels, rows of pristine copper cookware hanging from a ceiling rack, and a glass-fronted pantry stocked with ingredients I had only ever read about in high-end cookbooks—truffle oils, aged balsamic vinegars from Modena, rare spices, and fresh herbs growing under automated UV lights.

It was a paradise. A sanctuary.

I walked into the center of the room, my fingers trembling as I lightly traced the edge of the smooth quartz island. There was no one here. The estate's private chef must have already finished cleaning up after the lunch service.

My hunger flared, sharp and demanding. I didn't want to ring Mr. Jennings and admit I had overslept, and I certainly didn't want to look weak in front of Valerian Vance.

*I'll just make something small,* I thought, my heart racing with a thrill of forbidden excitement. *A simple omelet. I’ll clean up before anyone notices.*

I opened one of the massive refrigerators. Inside was a carton of fresh, organic duck eggs, a block of aged white cheddar, and a bundle of fresh chives. I grabbed a small, perfectly weighted copper skillet from the rack, placing it on the induction burner. It heated up instantly, silent and precise.

I cracked two duck eggs into a glass bowl. My movements became fluid, the familiar rhythm erasing my anxiety. I whisked the eggs with a pinch of sea salt until they were perfectly frothy, then dropped a pat of European cultured butter into the hot skillet. It sizzled softly, releasing a rich, nutty aroma that filled the empty kitchen.

I poured the eggs in, using a rubber spatula to gently draw the curds from the outside in, keeping the heat low. I grated a fine dusting of the sharp white cheddar over the center, then finely minced a handful of chives, scattering them like emeralds across the golden surface. With a deft flick of my wrist—a movement I had practiced thousands of times in my head but had never been allowed to execute—I rolled the omelet into a flawless, pale-yellow cylinder. No browning. Perfectly smooth.

I slid it onto a white porcelain plate, breathing in the rich, comforting scent. For the first time all day, I felt a spark of pure, unadulterated joy.

I grabbed a fork, eager to take my very first bite of food that I had actually cooked myself.

"Is it standard practice for my guests to forage in the servant quarters?"

The low, velvety voice sliced through the quiet kitchen like a blade.

I spun around so fast the fork slipped from my hand, clattering loudly against the quartz counter. Standing in the doorway, his charcoal suit jacket gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, was Valerian Vance. His silver-gray eyes were locked onto me, his expression completely unreadable as he leaned against the door

frame, his long arms crossed over his chest.