I don't know, I'm just…. Completely off-balance some days. Some days I feel like I can handle everything, and some days, this job...this entire house...makes me feel like I'm on the verge of losing my mind.
The past few days had gone by in this crazy, repetitive loop. I wake up, make breakfast, follow the manual to the dot, clean like a perfectionist's dream, and then leave tiny notes on the counters, the stove, the fridge...basically anywhere I could think of. It's my little rebellion, my way of saying, "I'm the chef here. Yes, you're the boss, but I still exist in this kitchen."
Of course, Mr Perfectionist...Mr. Nicholas Knight himself never fails to respond. Not verbally, most of the time. No, he comes in, adjusts something here, moves something there, sometimes leaves a note back. Always instructing and always observing. Always… controlling.
A few days ago, I carried flowers into the kitchen to lighten the mood. Nothing. He glanced at them, picked up a stray dish towel, and left. Another day, I left a small bundle of handwritten notes, cute little sticky notes with reminders, tips, and… well, a little sass hidden in there.
The look on his face when he read them? Priceless. I didn't see it directly, of course. I just found the notes back in a neat pile, corners perfectly aligned, everything spotless as if nothing had ever existed.
Then there was the balloon episode. Honestly, who brings balloons into someone's kitchen? Me. And again, the reaction was… nothing—pure Nicholas. No words. Just adjustments, corrections, and the air of someone silently judging every ounce of my being.
And yet, I kept doing it. Keep leaving notes. Because I couldn't help myself.
Today, I thought, why not go big? If he loves ordering everyone around, maybe it's time he experiences a little of my instruction. Hundreds of sticky notes. I had a plan, and I was going to execute it with absolute precision. I wanted him to understand one thing: I may cook for him, but I'm not just some robot following his every command blindly. I had opinions. I had a style. I had a voice, even if he didn't want to hear it.
I spent the morning carefully arranging the sticky notes across the kitchen. On the counters. On the stove. In the fridge. On the spice rack. On the oven handle. Every place a chef might look. Each note had tiny instructions, little reminders, sometimes funny quips, sometimes helpful hacks about the dishes he liked. And yes, there were a few sarcastic ones too.
I stepped back and looked at my handiwork. Hundreds of tiny squares of colour yelling, "This is how it should be done, sir!"
Satisfied, I put on my earphones, let my favourite playlist fill the kitchen, and went about preparing the day's meal. I was proud. Very proud.
I was just arranging the sticky notes across the counters, humming softly to myself, when I heard the door click behind me. Great, I thought...another distraction.
And then she appeared. The cleaner who had been hired just before me, the one who had been trying to survive in this madhouse of rules. Her face was… well, angry, flustered, borderline exasperated.
She marched up to me, hands on her hips, and muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear, "Congrats… congrats to you for keeping up with all these rules… but I can't anymore. I'm done. I'm leaving."
And just like that, she spun around and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
I just stood there, frozen for a second, a mix of surprise and amusement washing over me. Wow. That was… sudden. And dramatic. But at the same time, kind of validating? If she couldn't handle it, maybe I really was cut out for this chaos...at least for now.
I shook my head, muttering under my breath, "Ugh… rich people and their ridiculous rules. F*ck this man."
Then I turned back to my kitchen battlefield, a little more determined, a little more… ready. If she couldn't survive the rules, I'd just have to be smarter about it.
I sighed, putting down my knife, taking off my earphones. Time to check in with Ms Cora. I had a question, something I needed clarity on. But before I could even open my mouth, she cut me off.
"Not now, Ms Emma. I have to go find a new cleaner," she said briskly, walking past me.
And then, on a random impulse...I don't know why it came to my mind...I blurted out, "Ms Cora… can you hire me as a cleaner too?"
She stopped, turning to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"
"I mean," I continued quickly, "I'm a student. Yes. But…on a Mid-Sem break. I can handle both cooking and cleaning. Instead of hiring someone else, wasting money… You can just let me do it. Maybe even a little raise? Just a suggestion."
Cora looked at me for a long moment. I could almost see the gears turning in her head. Finally, she said, "Hmm… can you do that?"
"Absolutely," I said confidently. "No problem. I know the rules. I'll just follow the manual, clean, cook… and be done on time. Easy."
She looked at me, shaking her head slightly, then nodded. "Fine. The manual is there. You know the rules. Clean the house. Leave once done. I'll give you a raise."
I nearly jumped in excitement. "Thank you! Yes! I can do that!"
She gave a small smile and then glanced at her watch. "But… you weren't supposed to come today. Mr Knight isn't home."
I frowned, confused. "What? No one told me that."
She shrugged slightly. "He said he'd let you know himself. Anyway… you can leave. Don't make a habit of showing up unannounced."
And just like that, she was gone.
I stood there in the middle of the kitchen, blinking. What the hell… is this man torturing me? Sticky notes, manuals, rules… and now, apparently, he even dictated when I could appear in the kitchen.
I gritted my teeth, muttering under my breath, "Ugh… Nicholas Knight. You're impossible."
But then I shook my head, pulling myself together. I had a job. A good job. Money to help with Tessa's fees, to pay the rent, groceries, and maybe a little fun money for myself. That meant keeping my head down, cooking, cleaning, and surviving the chaos that was the mansion.
I glanced at the sticky notes still clinging to the counters, colourful and bold. This is my tiny rebellion, I thought. Let him see a little order… my order. My way.
I smiled faintly, adjusting my apron. "Alright," I whispered. "You want perfection? You'll get it. But on my terms, too, Mr Knight. Let's see how long you can ignore these notes."
And with that, secretly, a little thrill of defiance in my chest.