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Even if she isn't privy to the details and doesn't know me, I stand to my full five-foot-two-inch height and angle my head. "So he can wear one, and I can't?" I scoff. "That's right… I'm here because of how I look, what I can give him, and nothing else. I have no feelings or say as to what I can be called or wear. For the record, I'm not here because I want to be here. I was forced to be here…" I shake my head, knowing this is pointless. "You know what, never mind. Call me whatever you want, and if you don't want to tell me your name, that is fine too. Now show me to my prison cell. It won't be the first."
I glance at the door, my jaw set tight, wondering why I bother to be civil. I hope it will lead to some semblance of respect between two people living in the same world who don’t have control. I’ve always respected the working class. I believe it is an art to serve others day in and day out.
She opens the door, and I walk inside, expecting a single bed and a dresser, but I'm shocked at the room's opulence.
I expected modern simplicity like the rest of the house, not rich opulence. The king-sized bed is framed with redwood that matches the floors. I wonder if it is recycled wood because there is no way they would allow it to be cut from trees and brought onto the island. It goes against the rules of preserving the planet.Square screens are mounted on each wall by the nightstands, not hiding the modern conveniences. The bed is already turned down, like in the Regency novels I’ve read. The room feels warm and inviting, not cold and simplistic.
"Mrs. Cross designed this room. It was her favorite room in the entire house. It is only natural that this will be your room from now on."
I nod, not wanting to ruin the moment by responding. I also want to bask in it a bit longer. The room is perfect.
"I will come get you for breakfast at eight o’clock in the morning." When I turn to say thank you, she is gone, closing the door with a resounding click.
After placing my books neatly inside the wood nightstand, I remove the shawl that made me look like I was wearing a long dress. I remain dressed in the black top with plain boots and pants made of neoprene that fit like a second skin.
Checking the time on the screen, I see it's already ten o’clock. I decide to check all the drawers and look around the room for any clues about Mrs. Cross. She must have left something behind if she designed the space.
After another hour of checking all the drawers, behind the bed, under the bed, and in the modern bathroom, I give up. There is nothing. The room is empty except for the furniture.
In the morning, I hear a knock on the door. I check the time and notice I overslept. It's quarter past eleven.Shit.When I open the door, I notice a tray of fruit and yogurt on the floor with a glass of water and granola.
I peer down the hallway left and right, but it's empty. Not a soul. Like the person who dropped off the tray disappeared into thin air. I can't even thank them. I take the tray and shut the door behind me.
After finishing my breakfast and freshening up, I decide to wear another neoprene suit in black to go exploring, hoping the rest of the staff is friendlier. There is also the fact that I haven't seen the man of the house. In a way, I'm glad he hasn't shown up. It gives me time to get used to my surroundings and accept the reality. I have to marry the masked man.
Taking the tray, I open the door, hoping I can find the kitchen. I don't expect to be waited on. Back home, I wasn't the type to leave my clothes on the floor and wait for someone to pick them up like they were slaves.
I return to the landing where both hallways meet and figure the kitchen will be on the first floor. I find the kitchen after crossing the dining area, noticing someone sat at the head of the table because dirty plates are left to be picked up. It must have been him.
He didn’t bother summoning me like I expected, but I have to remember that this isn't a love match. I'm here for a purpose––his purpose—but you can learn a lot about a person's surroundings. The way they live in their personal space.
I turn once the automated kitchen door slides shut, looking around at the ultra-modern white kitchen and black floors. Every room seems different in this house. It feels like a time warp—the past and then the present.
"Can I help you?"
I turn to my left, and an older woman with a white jacket and black pants looks at me like I'm lost.
"I was looking for the sink to wash the plates?" I ask, holding the tray stacked with dirty dishes.
She steps forward with a confused expression marring her face, causing the corner of her eyes to crinkle. I'm sure no one has ever come to the kitchen to ask that question unless they work here.
"You must be…"
"Yes, I am," I rush out. "These need to be washed, and I was looking for the sink."
She rushes forward to take the tray. "I'll take those."
I step back. "That's alright. I can wash them."
She stares at me or rather at my mask. "You're not–"
"Where I come from, the cook doesn't wash the dishes," I lie.
I read that in a book. Everyone knows rich people don't wash their own dishes, but I do. Back home, I would help the staff around the house. I wanted to know what it felt like to cook, clean, and wash your own things. In some of the novels I read, the wives would cook and clean for their husbands and take care of the children. Things used to be that way in the past before the tech war, where civilization changed and people adopted technology to do all their work, not realizing it was a way for the government to control them.
She walks over to a counter and presses a button. The counter opens, and a sink is below. "You can place them there, and the machine will do the rest."
I lean in, placing the tray on the smooth surface of the white counter. "Fancy," I mutter.
