Arranged: Bound By Contract (girlxintersex)

Chapter 8

Chapter 8
Stella POV

I boycotted my heels to the side about an hour ago, after eating. I didn't do too badly with the toast. And I found it mildly comforting that Mateo said it was nicely toasted. However, I would like to avoid lifting my fingers so frequently in the future.

I was searching for a bucket and a mop. The home and its interior design were basic. Everything was practically at our fingertips, except for the cleaning products it seems. I couldn't find the cleaning products, so as I looked about, I took a tour of the home.

Mateo was still her office, and I was relieved she didn't want anything extra the last time I forced checked on her.

My mind functioned in mysterious ways. It kept urging me to ascend the next flight of steps to see whether she was well. Every time, she would give me a thumbs up.

I halted at the intersection of the corridor that descends to distinct areas of the home. It was long and thin, with the same colored eggshell pattern as upstairs. It has only one solitary door. However, there was no light source in this area of the home, giving it an ominous vibe. I believe that every house has at least one room with an unsettling aura. I just knew it led to the basement, where the cleaning supplies were most likely stored.

I mustered up my chest in a gallant but dumb fashion. I should've asked Matteo, but from the last irritating glare she gave me, I assumed she wouldn't assist me. As my feet wandered along the floorboard, it echoed off the wall. I believe I should beautify it.

I gazed at the naked wall. I'll probably have to hire a house designer to give the place a more welcoming atmosphere. I didn't know what to place in the hallway, which appeared to be a passage to a jail cell. The air felt heavier, and my simple breathing echoed. When I got to the door and turned the silver knob, it didn't budge. It was a lock. Mateo will almost certainly be annoyed.


I raced out of the corridor and trembled as I looked back. I find myself mounting the stairway again. It wasn't so awful since I didn't have the weight of coffee and bread to bring up.

The liquid that settled just right at the door hadn't moved an inch, and I'd say it was bothering me. I entered the office. The receptacle meant to catch the shredded paper was full, with a few fragments strewn around erratically. Perhaps I'm exaggerating.

"I want the key to the basement."

I looked across at her as she quickly typed on her computer. "May I ask why?"

"Cleaning supplies."

"In the garage." Given she was hear a week ago, getting stuff ready to make my life a living hell, she knew where everything were. Maybe she should be the maid.

"Oh,"

"It is almost dinnertime," she said, her towering figure slightly stooped over the keyboard.

But, in an instant, she straightened her back, stretched her hand in the air like a Prada cat, and then resumed typing.

"I can't cook."

The fridge was stacked high with food when I last glanced in there. Not a single snack in the pantry; only culinary stuff. I aim to snacking. I occasionally consume heavier foods like spaghetti. But a girl has to keep slim in case a zombie apocalypse occurs—I can't fight or wield a gun, but I can outrun the undead.

"Since dinner is in two hours, I would start now, if I was you. A cookbook is on the top shelf of the pantry. Get useful."

I didn't get useful. I wasn't her damn bunny, I won't hop and jump when she told me to. "I'm not sure what you're getting out of having me labor like a slave, but it won't work for you. I can't cook." In a serious tone, I reiterated.

"Learn to cook. Shoo."

She typed with one hand, then shooed me out of her office. However, the wave of hand did not'shoo' me away, and I remained there, giving her a heart attack gaze. Nonetheless, she continued to type away with vigor.

She whispered the words she had typed under her breath. I observed her fingers striking at the key, and the sound it emits is pleasing to the ear.

I moved over to her desk. Through the huge desk aperture, I could see her long legs hopping intently.

"You're still here. Why?"

"I do not know how to cook."

"It isn't hard. Simply follow the recipe and you'll be on your way."

"Why don't you employ a group of cooks, cleaners, and helpers for your task?"

"Because I got you." She responded as though she had them all lined up. As if she knew what questions I would ask.

"I'm not sure how to get done anything."

"You learned?"

"Will you send me to school to learn how to become a wife?"


She looked up, as the inquiry appeared to catch her off guard. Her silver eyes were easier to look at. They look stunning now. I wouldn't tell how long it took before I irritated her with my 'never back down' attitude.

"No," She types a few more phrases before leaning back and resting her elbow on the handle. "Because you are not my wife."

"Then you shouldn't expect me to do these things." When she said it, I couldn't quite put my finger on why it made me feel something. Perhaps it was the tone with which she expressed it. I really didn't want to be merged with her. This was all a business that I wasn't profiting from, at least not yet.

"You have a lot of money; pay someone to do these things."

"And have you lay around, waiting for the ten years to pass, to simply collect ten million bucks and leave me?" Her eyes radiated emotion. One I don't know very well, but I understand. I knew she lived a lonely life—it wasn't my concern. It wasn't my fault she let her ego do the talking, and now no woman can tolerate her. If they do, it will be a one-night stand in complete darkness, eyes closed and ears covered.

"That is the bargain. That's the entire purpose of an arranged marriage."

"I expect something from it."

"What? Wanting to see me cook for you? And to clean your floors."

"Exactly. So, get started with the supper."

I let out a frustrated squeal. I simply couldn't comprehend her. Her eyes went from being sparkling with baby silver to darkening with ego in an instant. I was itching from the inside out to hit her.

"Remind me what you want to eat?" I didn't recalled her telling me in the first place.

"I want a salad. I'd like to mix it with some sour cream ranch dressing. I don't want my salad leaves to be drenched in it, and I don't want my baked chicken to be dry and taste like cardboard."

"Okay," I said drily.

"And season the chicken."

I rolled my eyes as I left her office. As I closed the door, my gaze fell on the damp floorboard.