“Independent,” she corrected, moving the slices of dough to a baking sheet. “You’re not known because you were in a movie or because of what family you are from. People will remember you because in every stolen picture, when you don’t notice the photogs and it’s just you and Jacob, you look at him like you could care less about any of the fame or money. You look like a woman in love.” She slid the sheet in the oven. “With people famous for being famous and so many fake relationships for publicity’s sake that makes you worth remembering. You’re real—and anyone with two eyes can see that you and Jacob are real.” She wiped the flour on her apron. “And anyone that says anything negative is just stupid.”
Her words made pride bloom in my chest, and tears rose in my throat. I knew she was young, but her words were as deep and resounding as anything my grandmother ever said when I went to her, finally opening up about the bullying I endured as a kid.
“Don’t listen to a single word, you hear? I won’t patronize you by saying they’re jealous, or that words don’t hurt, Leila. I will tell you that you’ve got a light inside you that won’t go out unless you let them put it out.”
I opened my mouth to tell Blanka just how sweet her words were, but a croak came out when I looked to the left and realized we were not alone.
Isabella stood in the doorway, dark eyes burning like lasers. I was surprised Blanka and I did not burst into flames.
Isabella’s hair was slicked into a tight bun on top of her head, making her cheekbones as intense as her bottomless eyes. Her button down, black shirt was tailored and professional, tucked into ebony colored wide leg trousers. Stiletto heels clicked on the floor as she sauntered toward us.
She looks like she’s going to a funeral. I gulped. Our funeral.
“What is going on here?” Her eyes swept across the counter and froze on us.
My jaw twitched when I realized it was not us. She was zeroed in on Blanka.
The sunniness that beamed from Blanka dimmed, turning her into a ghost of her former self.
She was terrified of Isabella.
“Uh,” Blanka stammered, her voice low and nervous. “I was j-just—”
“Speak up, girl,” Isabella snarled, nostrils flaring. “And look at me when you address me. I’m not a speck on the floor.”
I stepped forward, anger of my own making silence impossible. “You don’t have to talk to her like—”
“I’m her boss?” Isabella cut in, still not looking at me. Burning holes into Blanka’s face. “I am her boss. Aren’t I, Blanka?”
“Yes ma’am,” Blanka said quietly.
She was disappearing into herself, and it made me want to save her; tell Isabella to get off her high horse before I knocked her from it. An uncomfortable truth kept me quiet. While I had no idea that Isabella was in charge of Blanka, I knew that Jacob was in charge of the house—and the last time I tried to take on Isabella, Jacob reminded me that she was in charge of what went on in the house. End of story.
Isabella clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “What time were you supposed to get breakfast to Mr. Whitmore and his guest?”
Oh, here we go with that word again.
“At—” Blanka stopped, shooting her gaze at the clock on the wall. Her face crumbled. “I didn’t realize—”
“Don’t bother,” Isabella butted in. “After you finish preparing the tardy meal, you are free to go.”
Blanka glanced at me, her blue eyes swimming before they returned to Isabella. Or Isabella’s back, since the brutal woman was halfway to the door.
“F-Free to go?” Blanka called after her.
Isabella stopped, casting a final, smoldering glare at Blanka. “You’re fired.”
She dropped the bomb and left us to deal with the fallout. My mouth hung open in shock. Horror.
Tears streamed down Blanka’s face as she obeyed, going back to fixing breakfast.
Say something...anything!
“She can’t do that,” I said weakly, standing awkwardly beside the stove. “You lost track of time because of me.”
Blanka did not say a word, pouring the egg mixture into the skillet. The sizzle cut me to the bone.
What was left to say?
I had cost Blanka her job.
Chapter Eight
I paced back and forth in front of the door to Jacob's study. I remembered the first time I had made my way to this room, nerves bunched in my stomach because I was not sure what to expect. It was the first time I had fully submitted; the study leading to the special room he had created for a very specific purpose: kink.
We had not returned to the study since. It was the door to Jacob's world. A world where Saint Andrews crosses stood against the wall, four poster beds took on a whole new meaning, and toy chests were filled with chains and whips instead of dolls and fire trucks.
Well, I was back in his study—but not for erotic reasons.
Jacob, Blanka, and Isabella were brought together when I made a last ditch effort to circumvent Isabella's overreaction earlier that morning. I just could not let Blanka be fired for something that was my fault. Or something as silly as running a little late with breakfast.
I paused mid-pace in front of the door, the word ‘guest’ drawing me in. I scanned the room like there would be eyes in the shadows; watching as I leaned toward the wooden door, ears peeled for any further developments.
There was a string of indiscernible words, but even muffled I knew that it was Isabella—and she was pissed.
I pulled back, glaring at the closed door like there was no barrier. I wished I did not have to tattle on Isabella, but she left me no choice. When I was a kid and the teachers showed up right after a confrontation, hurt still all over my face and tears flooding my eyes, I would keep my mouth shut. I would look past the teacher to the bullies, fear flashing in their narrowed gaze—and then I would lie and tell the teacher’s I was okay.
I fought my own battles, with quips and worst case with my fists. As much as I wished I could have blocked the kitchen doorway and demanded that Isabella give Blanka another shot, I was not her employer. I did not even have a place on the chain of command. So I could have swallowed the guilt and let Isabella get away with it, or I could go to the boss.
I frowned, my ear practically glued to the door. The boss that apparently has nothing to say! In fact, the whole room was silent.
I took a step back, just in case the conversation was done, and they were about to exit.
“Mr. Whitmore...apologize...” Blanka’s voice cut through the quiet and I let out a sigh of relief. There was no way Jacob could let her go when he sees how earnest she was, and I told him it was my fault, right?