Page 37 of Mafia And Maid

I still remember her words: “You must have done something to upset him. Can’t you even do this one thing right? Don’t ruin things for your father—he married you off to Grayden to help their business relationship, not to wreck it.”

And the second time, her reaction was even worse when I told her that Grayden had beaten me after I refused to have sex with him when he was drunk: “Did you think that your marriage was just going to be about wearing pretty dresses and spending all of Grayden’s money? Of course, he expects to have marital relations with you. Don’t ever bring such a vulgar topic up again.”

I still shudder when I remember her sneers at me. Her blame. Her disgust that I was her daughter.

But after what happened at the salon, another thought skitters through my mind: maybe, just maybe, I’m not to blame for everything that’s happened...

***

I’m holding a notepad and paper to make a shopping list as I stand in the pantry. I should be writing, but instead, my senses are drawn to the far shelf, looking for just a little snack to keep me going until dinner. I'll just get something like a rice cake—that'll be fine because it's something that won’t upset my perpetual diet.

But then I see them, sitting there innocently on the shelf.Lemon sponge cupcakes.

Automatically, my mouth waters just thinking about them, especially imagining the soft spongy cake melting on my tongue.

I tell myself to walk away, firmly shut the pantry door behind me, and find something else to do.

But my feet stay rooted to the ground. My hand reaches out as if it has a mind of its own. I pick up the box and crack open the lid. Just a sniff of their delicious scent will be enough to tide me over...

As soon as the lemon and sweetness waft up, my resolve crumbles. I’ll just have one. It's just so I can satisfy my sudden craving for something sweet, and it'll mean that I stop obsessing about food for the rest of the day.

Itake the first bite of deliciousness, and that's when I know I’m in trouble. The cake is soft, moist, and has the perfect balance of tart and sweet. The frosting is perfect with its creamy texture, and before I know it, the first cupcake is gone. I stare at the empty rippled paper in my hand, feeling the guilt start to creep in. I should stop now.

But I don’t.

I reach for another cupcake, my hand trembling slightly as I peel it from the paper. The second one disappears even faster than the first. I know I should stop. I know I’ll regret this later. The pull is too strong, the need too intense.

My heart is racing with the third cupcake, my body going into a sugar high. And the addictive taste makes me snatch a fourth cupcake, barely tasting it as I shove it into my mouth.

When I've finished all four cupcakes, I'm left staring at the empty paper scattered on the shelf in front of me and feel a tsunami wave of self-loathing come crashing down, taking with it some of the pleasure I've just felt.

How could I let this happen again? How could I be so weak and so greedy? My stomach churns, and it's not just from the cupcakes but also from the sickening realization that I’ve failed myself once more. This week, I'd been doing so well, counting every calorie, sticking to my plan, and being strong. But all that hard work is undone in the space of a couple of minutes.

I'm left wanting to cry and scream at the same time. But instead, I just stand there and look at the crumpled paper cups in front of me as I feel utterly disgusted with myself. I’ve always been the fat one, the girl who couldn’t say no, and I’ve proven it once again.

I wish I could turn back time, just go back a few minutes so that I could choose the right path and undo the damage I’ve done, but I can’t.

Tomorrow, I’ll start over. I’ll be good again, I tell myself. But today, the bitter taste of regret lingers, and I can’t escape it.

***

Marco comes into the kitchen about an hour before I expect the brothers home.

“You’re early,” I blurtout in panic. “I was just about to start on dinner, but I thought it didn’t have to be ready until 8 p.m.”

“I’m not early,” he growls.

I swallow the knot in my throat. “But—”

“Rosa, explain to me why your cooking is so shit.”

My stomach drops.

And I can’t catch my breath as his gaze lasers into me.

Deep down, I should have known this moment was coming.

I’m standing in his grand kitchen and trying to find the right words to get me out of this. But my mind is racing. Even the pots and pans seem to glare at me—as if they, too, are disappointed.