Chapter 95 - NINETY FIVE

Chapter 95: Chapter NINETY FIVE

ANGEL

Celine arrived two days later. Strawberry blonde hair in a neat bun. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and beautiful too.

The hair was the first problem. Strawberry blonde. The exact shade that made my stomach curdle because it reminded me of a specific person who I’d also hated. Camilla.

There was no other resemblance but it made me despise her even deeper than I would have.

"Good morning, Miss Angel. I’m Celine. Mrs. Martha sent me to—"

"I know who you are." I didn’t look up from my phone.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in one of Vincenzo’s shirts, my legs tucked under me. My hair was a tangled mess because I’d spent the morning being fucked awake and hadn’t bothered with a brush.

I hadn’t put on underwear either. The shirt barely covered my thighs and Vincenzo’s cum was still sticky between them.

My house. My kitchen. My daddy’s table. She could deal with it.

She moved around the kitchen to prepare breakfast, probably unaware of the heated glare I threw at her.

She opened cabinets with that unfamiliar hesitation of someone learning a new space. But everything she touched irritated me — she didn’t belong here.

This was Mrs. Martha’s kitchen. And mine.

She made toast, eggs and orange juice. I picked up the toast and took one bite. I didn’t bother with chewing before setting it down.

"Ugh."

"Is something wrong, Miss Angel?"

"Is something wrong?" I repeated, mimicking her polite tone. "This tastes like trash, it doesn’t have cinnamon!"

Celine’s smile held but something behind it wobbled. "I wasn’t told about..."

"Mrs. Martha puts cinnamon on my toast. And butter on both sides. Not one side. Both." I pushed the plate toward her.

"If you can’t even prepare breakfast, what are you even good for?"

"I’m so sorry, Miss Angel. I’ll make another one right—"

"And these eggs." I poked one with my fork. The yolk was solid. I held it up so she could see. "Do you see this? It’s a rock. Mrs. Martha’s eggs have the yolk still runny. I like dipping my toast in it. How am I supposed to dip my toast in a rock, Celine?"

"Of course, I’ll redo it,"

"Also—" I cut her off, picking up the orange juice and taking a sip just to wrinkle my nose.

"Did you add sugar to this? Why is it so sweet?"

"No, Miss Angel. I squeezed it fresh,"

"Are these even real oranges? Everything tastes horrible,"

The juice was fine, everything was. But I felt like making it difficult for her, if I had my way, she could quit after this meal.

"I will prepare everything again," Her lips were flat, her gaze hardened with barely controlled restraint. The fact that she disliked me too made me gleeful, at least in this way I won’t feel bad for whatever I had to do to her.

A small, mean warmth flooded my chest.

I was about to open my mouth again when I noticed something. She was wearing makeup. Not much — but enough. Mascara darkening her lashes. A tinted something on her lips that made them pinker than any housekeeper’s lips needed to be at seven in the morning.

"Are you wearing lipstick?" I asked.

Celine turned from the counter. "It’s just a tinted balm—"

"Take it off."

Her chin lifted, her eyes flashing with disbelief, the anger seeping through. "It’s basic grooming, Miss Angel. Don’t be such a..."

"Such a what?" I mocked when she stopped herself. The unfinished word hung between us and I could taste it. I knew exactly what she’d been about to say. "This is a house, not a club. You’re here to cook and clean." I tilted my head, studying her face with narrowed eyes.

"Unless you’re trying to seduce your boss? Is that what the lipstick is for? Trying to look pretty for my father?"

The words hit her and I watched them land with smug excitement. Her face went red and furiously offended.

"I am not trying to seduce anyone," she gritted. "He said you were difficult, I didn’t think you’d be such a brat,"

"What did you say?"

Brat?

My body burned at those words, there was just one person who used to call me that. The word scraped against something raw inside me, something buried and ugly that I didn’t want touched.

How dare she.

"I’m asking you to repeat what you said!" I spat, but her silence greeted me much to my anger. She’d turned back to the counter, her spine stiff, her hands moving across the surface like she was trying to keep them busy so they wouldn’t ball into fists.

"Coward!" I hissed, "You can’t even stand behind your own insult."

That was when I heard Vincenzo’s footsteps on

the stairs.

He walked into the kitchen. His bare chest was the first thing I noticed. He was shirtless except for his sleep pants that slung low on his hips, bare feet on the tile.

His hair was still damp from the shower, water sitting on his shoulders, trailing in thin lines down his chest. The morning light caught the ridges of his stomach, the broad spread of his shoulders, the line of dark hair that disappeared below his waistband.

My eyes lingered on him the way they always did. That automatic, hungry pull. Mine.

He walked to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He took a sip before coming to the table, pulled out his chair, and sat down across from me.

I sat stiffly, wondering if he’d overheard the arguments. His face gave nothing away. It never did when he wanted it blank.

"Morning," he said to me, then he glanced at Celine. "Everything going alright?"

Celine turned from the counter. She opened her mouth and I expected the professional ’yes sir’ that Martha would have given.

That wasn’t what came out.

"I’m afraid I’ve upset your daughter, sir." Her voice was softer now, a slight tremble like she was trying hard not to cry. "The breakfast wasn’t to her liking. I’m very sorry — I wasn’t given specific instructions and I think I’ve made her angry. I’ll do better, I promise."

She said it looking at Vincenzo with those wide, apologetic eyes. Like she was a kicked puppy and I was the boot.

My blood went ice cold. That was supposed to be my part.

I was the vulnerable one who needed protecting. That was my move — the trembling voice, the wet eyes, the soft apology that made Vincenzo’s protective instincts flare. I owned that. It was mine.

What the hell was she doing?

Vincenzo’s eyes moved from Celine to me. And they narrowed in a way that made my throat tight.

"What’s wrong with the meal?" he asked, his tone low. I could almost already hear the warning in it, like he’d already assumed I was at fault without even listening to me.

I stared at him, then at the bitch, who was standing by the counter with her wounded expression.

She had made herself the victim and me the villain and now my own daddy was looking at me like I was the problem.

"What’s wrong with the meal?" I repeated, my voice shaking. It was not from hurt. Rather, it was from rage. Pure, boiling, uncontainable rage at this woman who had been in my house for twenty minutes and was already running to my father like a child tattling to a teacher.

I looked down at the plate still on the table. The toast without cinnamon. The rock-hard eggs. The too-sweet juice.

picked up the plate and threw it at the floor.

The ceramic exploded on the tile — eggs and toast and shards scattering everywhere. The sound was sharp and violent and satisfying in a way that I felt in my teeth.

"Angel!" Vincenzo growled out the warning, but I didn’t care.

The orange juice followed — I grabbed the glass and hurled it down. It shattered next to the plate, juice splashing across the tile, across Celine’s shoes, darkening the hem of her pants. She flinched backward, her eyes wide and I sneered at the sight.

Now she looked how she was supposed to look. Scared. Not acting like me.

"It’s trash!" I shouted. "All of it! The toast is trash, the eggs are trash, the juice is trash, and SHE—" I pointed at Celine, my finger trembling with fury, "—is trash! She can’t cook, she can’t follow simple instructions, and the second I say anything she runs crying to you like I’m the bad guy!"

The kitchen went silent after my outburst, then Vincenzo’s voice came.

"Angel. Get up!" His tone was sharp, totally nothing like the coaxing voice that had whispered nasty things in my ears an hour ago. "Clean that mess." His eyes were stern, holding no warmth.

I looked at him like he’d asked me to jump from a cliff. "You’re kidding."

"Do I look like I’m kidding?"