Vindicated

Emma~

Neither of us speaks as I plate the blueberry and oatmeal pancakes that I have baked us for breakfast. It’s an old recipe and the rainy weather calls for something sweeter this morning.

It’s something that I used to bake every Sunday back home, and I've forgotten how to batch it for only two people. It’s fair to say that there's a lot of leftover batter that has been moved on over to the freezer, and I wonder if the kids will want some if I decide to visit again later?

My anger has subsided somewhat since last night, and losing myself in my books has worked wonders for my mental state.

Their stories of adventure, love, and affection have given me a new lease of life, and knowing that they are only a page away gives me the strength I need to get up this morning.

One of them even has a villain similar to Orion. The love interest, like me, isn’t the type to roll over and accept his demands, and it helps me feel more reasonable in my reaction to all this.

The pancakes are the perfect rendition of a crispy cloud, which is something that I always aim for, and it helps that the equipment here is so pristine. No wonder the cook that was here that first night was so reluctant to leave. I'd be the same if this was what I got to work with every day.

But it is what I get to work with every day now, isn’t it?

It just needs some light in here, some greenery or color. After our blow-up last night, I'm not quite sure that I'm in the position to be asking for such things, so I wonder if I can settle on inviting some of the families around.

I could make some gingerbread for us all to decorate together with icing. If some of it happens to stain parts of this dark wallpaper, well, that would be a shame, but just the excuse I need to rip it all off.

I open my mouth to suggest it when Orion stands and turns to face me.

“There's an event happening in two weeks’ time. If you feel up to it, would you be able to prepare a menu for forty?” He asks as if this is a normal request for him to make of me, but I don't mind though, this is right up my street.

“Yes, of course, what sort of food?” I ask because I never like to assume that everything I'll be cooking is elaborate and expensive.

“It'll be higher-level family members, so whatever you think will work best. But Emma... you will be attending as my fiancée, so consider that you'll not be down in the trenches preparing it all yourself.” He warns, and with that leaves me to myself.

I scoff once I'm sure that I'm alone. Just because I'll be attending, doesn’t mean that I can't prepare it all. It just means that I'll have to give heating instructions and carry out a few trial runs with the team I'll be working with.

After all, I've attended several meals with my father back home; it was expected of me as the boss’ daughter. I'll just pretend not to have heard that little comment about being there as his fiancée. I don't want to take away from this perfect distraction.

Already ideas are coming to mind on the type of food that I can prepare for this meal. I want to find the perfect combination of high dining, while also making it easy for the kitchen staff to heat up in bulk. I don't exactly know what sort of skill set they'll have, so it's better to prepare for the worst.

I look around the kitchen, hoping for the equipment to speak to me and inspire the perfect dish out of thin air. But my eyes are caught on a small paper bag that has been placed on top of the spice rack, and it takes all of two seconds for my curiosity to get the better of me.

Walking over to it, I can’t help but smile when I get a glimpse of what’s inside. There are several colorful notebooks stacked together, paired with a vibrant collection of pens. The kind kids tend to pick up in discount shops in the shape of penguins or flamingos that are covered in feathers and glitter.

I used to use these all the time in college to cheer myself up a bit while under pressure, and it’s funny how memories like that can sneak up on you out of the blue.

On top of one of the books, there is a particularly elegant style of writing on the front page, and I pick it up to be able to read it better.

“With thoughts to our poor cleaners.”

It takes a second for me to be able to recall my hastily written message left on the counter yesterday with the flour, and I bite my lip when recalling that Orion and I aren’t the only people living in this place.

I’d forgotten all about the cleaners and staff, and if it wasn’t for the excitement of finally having something to write on in the kitchen, I’d have felt guilty all morning.

Instead, though, I have somewhere to jot all of my thoughts down, and if it isn’t too vain to hope, I want to blow his people away with my food when the time comes.

I am so much more than Orion’s fiancée, and they will remember my food for years to come if I can help it.