Your Loyal Servant

(8) What Are You Doing Here?

And on that fourth day . . . I still wasn't used to coming downstairs to a man in an apron, making breakfast for me. Was this what married life was like? Probably, but without all the "ma'am" and "mistress" and bowing—that was a bit of a turn-off.

And on that fourth day . . . I managed to both piss him off and hurt him when I sat at the table and insisted, "You don't have to do this for me every morning."

His eyes locked onto mine, as hard as ice. He replied, "Of course I do." He placed the pancakes in front of me, accompanied by a glass of orange juice—that must have been the chosen drink of breakfast.

"No, you don't," I asserted, my expression just as stubborn as his. "I'm perfectly fine with just milk and cereal."

The corner of his mouth twitched as he refrained from smirking. He asked, "Would you prefer I prepare that for you instead?"

I sent him a glare. "I'm saying, I can make it by myself. I don't need these lavish meals, and I certainly don't need a personal cook."

His mouth flattened into a tight line and he gave me a sideways glance. He stated, "If I cannot make you a simple meal, then I am not worthy to serve you."

Rolling my eyes, I tried again. "I don't need someone to make my meals for me, okay?"

He whipped around to face me, and once more the sweet schoolboy had vanished. He demanded, his voice level, "Then what would you like me to do? If I cannot make your meals, what do you prefer I do?"

Abruptly, I rose from the chair and sent a murderous glare in his direction, but he didn't cower at its force. I told him, voice at a yell, "Nothing!"

He took several steps towards me, and I had to raise my eyes to lock my gaze onto his. The creases in his forehead had altered his innocent appearance. He pointed out evenly, "I am your servant, Rosalind Orrie. I exist to perform your will. Most people live their lives dreaming of such things, wishing they had someone to do everything for them. But you actually have someone at your feet, willing to do anything for you, and you toss them away. I don't understand."

"No," I agreed, "I guess you wouldn't understand. You've had your entire life planned out for you. Every step you've taken has been dictated. From day one, all you've ever known is how to bow down to everyone and obey everyone's wishes. You have no idea how to think for yourself."

The pain my words had inflicted was clear by the look in his eyes, but his eyebrows were drawn over his eyes and his jaw was clenched—I thought his patience would snap. But instead, he took a few steps backwards and looked straight at me. In a controlled tone, he instructed, "Eat your breakfast. I'll leave you so you can eat alone. When you're done, leave your dishes there—I'll take care of them." And he left the house.

I took a deep breath and sank down into the seat—arguing so early in the morning had expended a lot of energy. Resting my head in my hand, I used the other to cut the pancakes with a fork, and ate in silence.

Yeah, I felt bad for yelling at him like that, but he was such a stubborn ass, he brought it on himself. Why couldn't he see the life that existed beyond serving me? Why couldn't he understand that there was so much more to life than this? Was it so hard to grasp the fact that I just wanted my life to return to normal? Why did it hurt him so much to hear me say I didn't want a servant? He may not have understood where I was coming from, but I was just as lost.

When I walked outside, I glanced about—he was nowhere in sight. I wondered where he had disappeared to, but I decided I didn't care. Blasting my music through my earphones, I hopped onto my bike and sped away.