MIKA
The soapy water clung to my hands as I scrubbed a plate, stacking it on top of the growing pile. My parents, Harry and Karla, stood beside me, handling the rest of the dishes. It felt surreal, us doing chores in a place like this. The mansion was pristine, almost cold, and the kitchen was no exception.
“I’ll finish this one,” my mother said, her tone a mix of faux warmth and impatience. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward Terrie, the head chef who was bustling about with the other staff. “Excuse me, Miss Terrie.”
Terrie glanced over, her hands moving quickly as she chopped vegetables. “What is it?”
“I was wondering,” my mother began, tilting her head just slightly to appear more innocent, “if I could cook one dish for my daughter Megan. It’s her favorite, and I t
