Living Like a Mouse? How About a Lion?

Stirring the Pot

The dining room had finally settled back into a fragile silence, but don't let that fool you—it was the kind of silence that comes right before a storm. And believe me, this was going to be one heck of a storm. I could feel it brewing.

Sitting at the table, I glanced down at my ridiculous child-sized cutlery, which looked more appropriate for a toddler than for a noblewoman. I stabbed a piece of meat with the tiny fork, pretending I was not annoyed beyond words. But then, Reynold, sitting across from me, just had to open his mouth.

Cue the peanut gallery.

"Cute little fork you've got there, Penny," he drawled, his grin all too smug. "Very... you."

Oh, here we go. 

Someone's feeling bold tonight.

I didn't even bother responding right away. Instead, I took another bite, chewing slowly while Reynold's smirk grew, his eyes twinkling with that infuriating amusement. Meanwhile, Derrick, seated to the Duke's right, just frowned, clearly unimpressed by Reynold's antics.

"Really suits you," Reynold added, leaning back in his chair. "Like you're a princess who's never left the nursery."

I rolled my eyes and gave him a saccharine smile, dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, you're right, Reynold. It's absolutely perfect for the royal baby in the family. Should I get a bib to match?"

Derrick muttered something under his breath about decorum, but we all knew he wasn't going to do anything about it. And frankly, neither was I. This was just another day in the twisted little game we played at this dinner table. The difference tonight? The Duke was watching closely.

But not closely enough... yet.

Suddenly, the door to the dining room swung open, and the female head chef entered, carrying a new plate for the Duke. She looked nervous—rightfully so, given how her last attempt at feeding His Grace had gone—but she managed to keep her composure as she approached him.

"Your Grace," she said with a slight bow, setting the plate in front of him, "I've prepared this personally to ensure it meets your satisfaction."

The Duke barely glanced at her, still fuming silently over the earlier fiasco. But it was Reynold, of course, who couldn't resist poking the bear.

"Are we sure it's not too salty this time?" he said, his tone dripping with faux concern. "Wouldn't want Father to have to switch plates again. That would be... awkward."

The chef's face paled, and her eyes flicked nervously to the Duke, whose expression had now turned to stone. Derrick shot Reynold a look that could've burned a hole in the wall.

"Reynold," Derrick hissed, voice low but threatening, "enough."

"Oh, come on, Derrick," Reynold replied, clearly not fazed in the slightest. "Can't a man make a joke at the dinner table? We are family, after all. We should have some fun once in a while, right?"

Fun? 

This is their idea of fun?

 No wonder this family is so dysfunctional.

The Duke, however, wasn't in the mood for Reynold's theatrics. His eyes, which had been focused on the food, now slid over to the cutlery in front of me. Slowly, as if he were piecing together a puzzle he hadn't noticed before, his gaze sharpened.

Ah... Finally, he sees it.

The Duke's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing as he took in the absurdly tiny fork and knife I was using. Then, as if something had just clicked in his mind, he looked up sharply at the chef.

"Why," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "is my daughter still using children's cutlery?"

The entire room seemed to freeze. The chef blinked in shock, as though she hadn't even noticed the absurdity herself until just now. She opened her mouth, probably to stammer out some excuse, but the Duke wasn't finished.

"Do you think," he continued, his voice growing louder with every word, "that my daughter—the daughter of a Duke—is some child to be mocked at her own dinner table?"

The chef's face turned as white as the tablecloth. Reynold's smirk faded a little, while Derrick watched with wide eyes. As for me? I sat back and chewed my food, inwardly smirking. Finally, someone else was in the hot seat, and it wasn't me.

Honestly, I should've brought popcorn.

The Duke was furious now, practically vibrating with anger as he stood up from his chair, slamming his hands on the table. "Explain to me," he demanded, glaring at the chef, "why my daughter has been served like this! Do you think this is acceptable?"

"Y-Your Grace, I—"

"And the food!" he interrupted, not giving her a chance to speak. "Why is her plate always too salty? Are you deliberately trying to humiliate her? Do you think this is how you treat the noble blood of the Eckhart family?"

The chef, shaking like a leaf, tried to explain, but no one was listening to her. The Duke was in full-blown rage mode now, and there was no stopping him. I could see Reynold's face shift from amusement to something more serious—he hadn't expected the Duke to explode like this. Frankly, neither had I.

Whoops. Looks like Reynold accidentally hit a nerve.

"I will not tolerate this level of incompetence in my household!" the Duke roared, his voice echoing off the walls. "You will rectify this immediately, or you can consider yourself out of a job by morning."

The chef bowed low, practically falling over herself to apologize before she rushed out of the room, clearly intent on fixing this disaster. As she left, the tension in the room remained thick, and all eyes turned back to me and my... childish cutlery.

Reynold, ever the provocateur, finally broke the silence with a sly grin. "Looks like Father finally noticed the baby spoons, huh?"

The Duke shot him a warning glare, his temper barely in check, and I couldn't help but snicker a little. The look on Reynold's face was priceless.

Honestly, I should be mad about the cutlery thing, but watching them squirm is way more fun.

Just as I thought the drama was over, the female chef returned, bringing in a new plate of food for the Duke. She set it down as quickly and quietly as possible, but the poor woman was shaking so badly that the silverware rattled. She shot me a brief glance—one that clearly said, please don't get me fired—before hurrying out of the room again.

Eh, no promises.

I turned back to my food, savoring every bite, while Reynold, clearly not done stirring the pot, made a show of examining his own cutlery. "Well, now that we've settled that, should we talk about why Penelope still hasn't been given proper plates either?"

The Duke shot him another glare, but it was too late—the damage had been done. Derrick, who had been unusually quiet during all of this, finally stood up, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape.

"Reynold," Derrick growled, his temper clearly frayed, "if you say one more thing—"

"What? You'll throw me out?" Reynold shot back, standing as well. "Go ahead. This entire family's already a joke."

Cue the explosion in three... two... one...

The Duke slammed his hand on the table once more, making everyone jump. "That is enough!" he thundered. "This is not the time for your childish games!"

Both brothers fell silent, though Reynold still wore that maddening smirk. Derrick, on the other hand, looked ready to rip him apart. Meanwhile, I calmly finished my meal, content to watch the chaos unfold around me.

I really should've brought popcorn.