Arranged: Bound By Contract (girlxintersex)

Chapter 7

Chapter 7
Stella POV


I stared at the 6'2 demon striding up the stairs until she went inside her office. Even though she was out of sight, I could feel her ego still wafting around the room.

I couldn't take my gaze away because I couldn't believe I had to kneel for nothing. She's such a little bitch. The glass pitcher was half-filled with coffee. I glanced at the buttons and noticed the one that stopped the machine from operating.

I went to the cabinet and grabbed a black mug. It has a price sticker on it. $2000. $2,000 for a fucking mug. I was born into luxury, yet I don't recall my parents spending that much money on a mug. It had to be a glitch.
I opened the closet again and took out a couple mugs. Only if they are the same price. That is ridiculous. I couldn't envision myself standing in this kitchen, apron on, cooking. My skin crawled when I had to bring her coffee. My skin crawls simply thinking about becoming a maid, whether in a dream or in real life.

I grab the tray and set the coffee on it. As I carefully moved out of the kitchen, I came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. How could I transport it up there without spilling it? My hands began to tremble, and some droplet spilled.

"One step at a time." Perhaps by the time I got to the top, the coffee would be cold.

I take one step at a time, but halfway up the Mount Everest steps, my hands feel heavy and my ankles feel like they're going to give up. My perspiration began to form small beads, and my face started to itch.

This is simply horrible.

I grabbed the tray harder; the rising steam of the coffee didn't help much, because I knew if it spilled, I'd be burnt.

As I moved cautiously, I could hear my weak muscles whimpering and pleading with me to stop.

Come on four more steps, and I'll be at the top.

"One," I growled. It felt like I was walking up a mountain with a weight on my back. The railing was there, but I couldn't grab it. "Two," I took another step. I let out a sigh, my breath wafting the vapor from the coffee. "Three," I could see down the corridor. The door was closed. Just fantastic. It wasn't the ideal time to notice a pool of water just outside the visiting restroom door, but I did. What happened?

"Four!" I yelled loudly. I let out a long out sigh and dropped my body against the wall, causing a bit more coffee to pour over on the silver tray.

By the time I was scheduled to walk, my knees felt like they had been severed, and I lurched to the door, spilling the coffee again. There was more coffee in the tray than the cup.

"Mateo!" I called. "Open that darn door!" I moved my head in the direction of the puddle. The dazzling sun had a splash on it, and it did not seem like clear crystal water. As if she had urinated there.
Did she purposefully pee there? What a ridiculous question. Of course, she purposefully left her bodily fluids there. She is horrible.

"OPEN THE DOOR! The fuckin' coffee!" My words echoed off the egg shell wall.


She answered the door but did not take the cup of coffee. She returned to the chair, ensuring that her long legs lay across the edge of the desk. The desk looks drastically different than it did this morning, with everything scattered over. A few papers on the wooden floor catch my eye, as if she purposefully disorganized her workspace. Or was she this messy?

I wasn't dirty at home. It wasn't my aim to give my personal maid a lot of work. She cleans my room on a monthly basis and washes laundry every weekend. I'd make sure to tip her and everything. I wasn't a bitch, unlike Mateo.

The office felt bigger than I recalled this morning. She snapped her long fingers, jolting me out of my anxious thoughts. I'll need to clean everything. I know I do, even if I denied it and threw a tantrum.

"What is this?" I murmured softly, feeling terrible for my strained tiny fingers. I spread them out like the foot of stars in the sky. They look just wonderful. I got them done every month, and now they'll have to mix with whatever liquid I spotted in the hallway and this disorganized office.

"You did not stir my coffee."

"I did," I lied, but also realized that I hadn't thought to mix with the golden spoon.

"It doesn't taste stir."

How do you know it wasn't "stir"? I could feel my thoughts cracking wide open as I struggled not to snap at her. I don't believe I can handle another reminder that my father's business was in her hands, and she could snap it shut and smash it.

"I stirred it?"

She put the cup down on the tray. And leaned back in. Her feet appeared back on the desk. The way the desk groaned told me it was frustrated with her. "Allow me to teach you the technique of preparing coffee."

My stomach growled impolitely, and I focused on it rather than her.

The last time I ate was yesterday at the so-called wedding celebration. I'll call it basically one seal day I haven't eaten, and now she wants to teach me on "the art of preparing coffee."

When I glanced up, I ignored my stomach's craving for food and listened to her. She glared at my stomach.

"I want toast with butter. Avoid very moist butter as it may cause the toast to get mushy. I want to hear a crunch when I bite into it.

She leaned forwards, and the desk groaned again. She picked up the mug and took a drink, her face contorted in distaste, and to my astonishment, I smiled.


Her tongue protrudes as if she wanted the disgusting flavor of unstirred coffee to be inhaled. "Bland," she says. I simply knew she was going to be a convoluted storyline in my life, which I didn't need. Her tongue slipped back inside.

"I do not want my toast to be excessively dark or light."

Oh my gosh, mommy! This woman wants too much.

"So, what is the ideal toast?" She talks about toast as if it were a piece of meat.

"You stare persistently on it."

"Persistently?"

"You see how the heat affects it."

"I do not know how to cook toast."

She laughed. She laughed so hard that her chair shook and her eyes wet. However, I was getting hungrier by the minute.

The time flew swiftly, and I knew my fingers would have to work hard to keep this workspace neat. The Cuckoo clock, situated over the paper shredder machine, indicated that the time wasn't working in my advantage.

"You don't cook toast. You put it in the toaster, and it somewhat bakes. So I suppose it's a dry cooking method."

"I don't care; I don't know how to do it?"

"There is a toaster. I purchased everything for you to utilize."

"I'll try," I said. The only reason I'd want to make it flawless was because I was going to partake, and I didn't want to bite into nasty burnt toast.

I pick up the tray, which has dark brownish spilled coffee slushing around.

"Remember, do not burn it." She taunted, and I could hear her take a big gulp of her coffee over my shoulder. I prudently ignored her.