Fake It Till You Make It

7

Rushing from campus to the car had become a daily ritual for me. It was as if life had decided to pick up its pace just when I thought it couldn't get any busier. Deadlines loomed over me like storm clouds, and every second counted. And then I had my job that was almost an hour away, at Milan's mansion.

I fumbled with my backpack, grabbing textbooks and notes, shoving them into my bag with hasty precision. Thoughts raced through my mind, each one competing for my attention. There was a research paper due in two days, a presentation to prepare for, and work at Milan's place. Life was really hitting me in the face.

Finally, I got off campus and took off in a sprint towards the parking lot. My heart pounded with anxiety, knowing that I had to get to Milan's mansion on time.

As I drove through the busy streets, I couldn't help but wonder how I ended up in this whirlwind. Balancing school and work was a challenge I willingly took on, but it had become an overwhelming juggling act. The traffic didn't seem to be on my side either, as every red light and slow driver added to my mounting stress.

The serene hum of the engine and the open road ahead offered a momentary respite from the chaos of my life. I reached over to turn on the radio, hoping for some soothing tunes to calm my racing thoughts.

Today, I was planning on making Milan a special meal - a salad with mashed potatoes and teriyaki chicken.

As I pulled up in the driveway of the mansion, I neatly parked my car and brushed my hair with my hands before putting it in a messy bun. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, hoping I looked presentable despite the rush.

With a deep breath, I got out of the car and made my way to the grand entrance of the mansion. I was in happy mood, because I arrived just in time. But that happy mood slowly disappeared when my eye caught something that made me stop dead in my tracks. "What the hell?!" I whispered in disgust. On the kitchen table where I usually prepared meals, there lay a red lace thong.

Knowing that Milan had a reputation as a Casanova, I couldn't help but hope he'd keep his romantic escapades confined to the privacy of his room, especially not in the kitchen where I prepared meals. It was just a matter of personal hygiene.

I scrunched up my nose in disgust as I searched for hand gloves in the cabinets. The thought of handling that lace thong with my bare hands was enough to make me shiver. Finally, I found a pair of disposable gloves and hastily put them on. With deliberate care, I picked up the offending piece of lingerie and tossed it into the bin.

"Disgusting," I hissed under my breath as I removed the gloves and discarded them as well. The kitchen was my sanctuary, a place where I prepared healthy meals for Milan, and this intrusion was unwelcome.

As I began wiping the kitchen table clean, removing any trace of the bacteria that the mysterious thong might have carried, I heard footsteps approaching. My heart rate shot up, and I thought, "Is Milan home today?" His presence could complicate this already bizarre situation.

But when I turned around, it wasn't Milan who stood in the doorway. It was a woman – a tall, dark-haired woman who looked like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. My surprise deepened, and I couldn't help but scrutinize her, trying to understand what was happening.

"Who are you?" her voice cut through the silence, her tone carrying a hint of arrogance.

My bewilderment mirrored in my question. "Who are you?" I responded, my voice laced with confusion and a touch of defensiveness.

She smirked, a cocky grin that didn't sit well with me. "I'm the owner of this house," she declared with an air of self-assuredness.

My eyebrows furrowed, and I shook my head slightly. "I thought that was Mr. Vasilios," I replied, my voice tinged with skepticism.

The woman clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Well, I'm his girlfriend, so..."

Ah, it all made sense now. The puzzle pieces fell into place. "I'm his nutritionist," I offered, finally revealing my role in this strange tableau.

A look of realization crossed her face. "Oh, you're the one who makes all those fancy meals for him," she said, her tone softening slightly. "I've heard about you."

I nodded, still trying to process the bizarre situation. "Yes, that's me. I'm here to prepare his meals and ensure he maintains a healthy diet."

"Good for you," she said with a sly smile, her initial surprise at finding me in the kitchen apparently forgotten. She had a certain nonchalant attitude that I couldn't help but find intriguing, given the strange circumstances.

"Anyway, have you seen my thong perhaps?" She suddenly inquired, her tone casual as she glanced around the kitchen. "I can't find it in the bedroom."

So, that lace thong belonged to her. My eyebrows raised involuntarily as I processed this information. "Haven't seen anything," I replied, a lie slipping easily from my lips. I didn't want to get further embroiled in this odd situation.

Isabella furrowed her brows, clearly puzzled. "Weird, I thought it would be in the kitchen," she mused aloud. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll just wear one of his boxers." With that, she turned and headed back upstairs to the room, leaving me in the kitchen, shaking my head in disbelief.

I couldn't help but let out a deep sigh. This day had taken a turn I couldn't have anticipated. But now, it was time to focus on the task at hand – preparing Milan's meal. I washed my hands thoroughly and began chopping vegetables and marinating the chicken.

As I worked, I hummed a song under my breath, trying to regain a sense of normalcy amid the chaos. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the sizzling of chicken in the pan provided a comforting backdrop to my thoughts.

Once everything was cooked to perfection, I carefully placed each component of the meal into glass containers. The aroma of the teriyaki chicken and the sight of the vibrant salad were satisfying indicators that my efforts would be appreciated.

It was now time to clean up the kitchen and once it was spotless, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

Stepping out into the crisp evening air, I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. It had been a long day. On my way home I decided to make a quick stop at the grocery store. My own pantry had been looking a bit bare, and I figured it was as good a time as any to restock on essentials.

The grocery store was pleasantly quiet at this hour, with only a few shoppers meandering through the aisles. I grabbed a shopping cart and began filling it with items I knew I would need for the week ahead. Fresh vegetables, pasta, a couple of cuts of meat, and a selection of spices found their way into my cart.

As I perused the shelves for a jar of my favorite pasta sauce, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Startled, I pulled it out and saw a message notification from Milan.

Ms. Shadid

Salad is goat food. You just added potato and teriyaki chicken. Fancy goat food.

M.V

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