NIRELLE - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

I do not wait for Lucien's reply before I storm out of the living room. I am so grateful that I had paid attention while coming down; I was able to identify my room. As soon as I got into the room, I changed and lay on the bed. The bedspread was soft, the kind you want to bury your body into and stay there for a few hours, but the feeling against my skin was brutal. It’s comfortable, but in a way that feels wrong—unfamiliar. And I hate unfamiliar. My face hurts, and I wish I had waited to get some painkillers first, but if I had stayed, I was worried he would force me to agree with Mae.
I close my eyes so I stop creating scenarios in my mind, and I only wake up with my forehead lined in sweat from the dream I had just had. The hand under my gown felt so vivid that I had to jerk up from the bed. I looked around the dark room until my eyes fell on the digital clock in the room.
My heart was racing, and it was worse because of the unfamiliarity of the room. I take off the blanket from myself and climb out of the bed. I open the door that leads to the balcony outside and step onto it, allowing the night breeze to touch my skin. It's been a while since I had a dream like that.
Enoch forcing his way on me and being triumphant in the end, the feeling of disgust I usually feel afterwards, overwhelmed me. I shake the thought out of my mind. "I have overcome that now," I murmur to myself, hoping that I am strong enough to believe it even though it all feels weird. I sit on the swing chair and sway from front to back gently, trying to rock myself back to sleep.
My body clock wakes me up at five thirty am sharp. It had been a routine for me since I fought Enoch that night. Every morning I wake up at the earliest hour of the morning, and I don't go to bed until late at night. I sat on the swing where I had fallen asleep; I had a better sleep out on the hard swing than on the fluffy bed.
I do not know what I am supposed to do, but I fear that I would be cast out if I do not do what I am supposed to do. I stand up and enter the closet, looking for something that can be suitable to wear around the house. Once I find it, I slip it on and pack my hair into a high bun, securing it so it does not fall when I move around. I wash my face and put lotion on it to prevent it from drying off. When I touch my face, the pain from the bruises surges through my body, but it is not something I haven't handled before.
I find my way to the dining table and stand in the empty house. If I make a sound now, I am sure it would echo throughout the entire house. I open the door at the corner of the room, and it leads me to the kitchen.
When my mom and I moved to the Thamore mansion, I had always thought of how rich Enoch was, but nothing in the Thamore mansion could compare to the sophisticated devices lined up in the kitchen here. I begin to search the drawers. I have no idea what it is I am looking for, but anything that can help me prepare my special batch of pancakes. The house was spotless, which meant that I did not need to do any cleaning. I could not sit on my hands and do nothing, so the only logical thing to do was to prepare breakfast for everyone in the house, even though I was unsure of how many people were in the house.
I am midway with my frying when the woman from yesterday steps into the kitchen. She looks scared to see the lights on, and then when her eyes stop on me, horror climbs her face. The kind you give when someone has committed an unimaginable sin.
"Mrs. Vexley," she says in hushed tones as she rushes to me. Before I can tell what is going on, the spatula is out of my hand, and I have been safely pushed from the front of the stovetop.
"What is going on?" The words flow in confusion and horror now. It seemed as if she had just prevented an accident with the way she sighed.
"You are cooking," she said as if she realised what was going on.
"I am."
"You are not allowed to cook," she said, and I gasped because I was not sure what she meant. "You are Mr. Vexley's wife, which means we are to serve you; we can't allow you to do any manual labour by yourself."
"What?" That was news to me. Now that I think of it, I had never truly seen my mom do any manual labour; I had been the only one doing it, but somehow it stuck with me; it felt right. "But these are only some pancakes; I thought of making some to share with everyone here. "It's the only way I can say thank you for the bed," I add the last part in a whisper because even though it sounded nice, I knew it was wrong.
It was my husband's house; I should not be grateful for a bed, but still I was, even though I could barely lie in it all night.
"If Mr. Vexley gets to know that I made you cook or even allowed you to cook, then I might lose my job." She sounded serious, and her expression made me know that she was not joking at all.
"But I was awake, and it is not a big deal." I pick one of the pancakes and tear into it before pushing it to her face. "Here, you can taste it," I say in case she is worried I am a terrible cook. "I made it well," I add.
"It's about that; you are just not allowed to cook," she said, and I knew there was no arguing with her on that.
"Then what on earth am I allowed to do?"