What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Tate McRae - chaotic.
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IT'S BEEN TEN DAYS since Mr. Ash made me kneel and beg for a piece of paper he tore up afterward. Ten days of scheming, plotting the perfect revenge...and finally settling on—
"What are you using that for, Ina?" Jerry's voice yanks me out of my thoughts. I don't think I'll ever get used to how good it feels when he calls me that.
"Huh?" I blink down at the bottle of itching powder in my hand, my mind having taken a wicked detour.
"You asked me to get you itching powder," he says, the sink tap hissing behind him. "You didn't say what for." His small biceps flex as he wipes down the dishes we just used.
We're in the kitchen now. I'm perched on the island, elbows propped up, inspecting the petty little bottle I had Jerry smuggle in—since leaving the estate is about as realistic as a unicorn sighting, thanks to him.
Jerry, my unlikely partner in crime, is elbow-deep in soap suds, washing dishes like it's second nature. He offered to take over after seeing me half-dead from scrubbing endless bathrooms. The sweat soaking my clothes? All me. No humiliating water incidents with Mr. Ash this time.
"I'm pranking someone," I say vaguely, praying he doesn't push.
My master plan? Spike Mr. Arsehole's lotion with itching powder. Genius, I know. That's the best my flu-riddled, sleep-starved brain could come up with after a rough morning of puking and regretting my entire existence. Cognac is the devil. Sure, I regret drinking it—but not as much as I regret how the memory of my boss stopped me from going all the way with Jason.
Thankfully, Jerry doesn't press. He just shakes his head, mutters something I miss, and keeps scrubbing. His silence speaks volumes—he knows exactly who I'm plotting against. Let's face it, my life currently revolves around only two people: Jerry and him. And Jerry's safe from my wrath. For now.
I know the revenge plan's dumb. A little quirky. But nothing on Google sounded more satisfying. Maybe I'm still drunk. Maybe I just suck at revenge.
Leaning back in the cool hush of the kitchen, I replay the last ten scorching days. If not for the sporadic rain showers—three blessed ones—I might've melted. Honestly, I wish Mr. Arsehole had left me out in the rain on one of these days. I doubt I'd have caught the flu if he had. The same flu that felt like a near-death trip I somehow survived, thanks to NyQuil and the sweet nurse in the infirmary.
Jerry's been my MVP. Took out the trash, snuck Mr. Ash's laundry to the laundromat, prepped my veggies, even lent me his phone. I repay him with Nigerian snacks he devours when he thinks I'm not watching.
"Jerry," I call, standing from my stool. "I'm heading back to my place. Got things to sort out."
"Sure, Ina," he says, nodding as his locs bounce. "I'll finish up here and head out too."
