But You Cant Cook

After Richard had left, I sat down, my mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The silence of the room felt deafening, amplifying the turmoil within me. Why would a woman harbor so much hatred for her husband

I thought about my own past life, how I had always longed for the attention and affection of my husband, Anthony. The memories flooded back, bittersweet and poignant.

Anthony and I had married under circumstances that were far from ideal. Our union was arranged by our families, and while I had hoped for love to blossom, it had never quite happened. I was not from a wealthy family, but I was left with a substantial inheritance. My husband had married me with the intention of gaining control of this inheritance. This bitter truth had come to light before the horrifying incident when my stepsister and Anthony had pushed me off the cliff.

My life had been marked by struggle and rejection. I had always carried a scar on my face, a disfigurement that had marred my self-esteem and social interactions. This scar was a constant reminder of my perceived inadequacies and the cruel jokes of others, especially my stepsister. She had always ridiculed me, using my scar as a weapon to undermine my confidence. Her beauty and charm were everything I lacked, and she never missed an opportunity to flaunt it.

Seeing Anthony with her had always been a dagger to my heart. The intimate moments they shared, the stolen glances, and the whispered conversations had driven me to the brink of despair. Whenever I confronted Anthony about his infidelity, he would respond with violence, beating me into submission. The pain was not just physical; it was emotional and psychological, eroding my sense of self-worth.

As I sat there, lost in my thoughts, I suddenly felt a kick in my stomach. Startled, I looked down and realized the undeniable truth. "Oh, I'm pregnant," I whispered to myself, placing a hand on my swollen belly. I made a silent prayer to God and asked for this not to be a dream.

After the silent prayer, I decided to explore the house, wanting to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Not knowing whom to call upon for help, I relied on my instincts and retraced the path I had taken earlier. I walked down the stairs, through the corridor, and started observing the various rooms.

I found a library, its shelves filled with books of all genres, creating an atmosphere of knowledge and tranquility. I also discovered the guest room, neatly arranged and welcoming, along with several other rooms, each holding its own unique charm and purpose. The house was vast and filled with luxurious décor.

After my sightseeing tour, I eventually made my way back downstairs. There, I saw my son's nanny, who was busily scribbling something on a piece of paper. Curious and seeking interaction, I approached her and gently tapped her on the shoulder. She nearly jumped out of her skin, her reaction one of sheer fright. I looked at her, puzzled by her fear.

"Can you please take me to the kitchen? I want to make something for my son," I asked, my voice calm and gentle.

The woman stared at me, confusion etched on her face. "But you have never cooked before," she replied, her voice trembling slightly.

"Yes, I guess I can now," I responded, attempting to reassure her.

Reluctantly, she shook her head and gestured for me to follow. "This way, ma'am," she said, leading me down the hallway to the kitchen.

Once we arrived, she stood by the entrance, watching me intently. I decided to prepare a simple meal of toast and eggs. As I worked, I could feel her eyes on me, filled with surprise and suspicion. It was clear that my presence in the kitchen was not a normal, like something that had never happened before.

I turned to look at her, noticing the way she eyed me warily, as if she expected me to do something drastic or dangerous. Despite her distrust, I continued with my task, determined to show her that I could handle this small, domestic chore.

The kitchen was a modern marvel, equipped with the latest appliances and an abundance of ingredients. I quickly found everything I needed and began cooking. The process was surprisingly soothing, the repetitive motions and familiar scents grounding me in the present moment.

As the aroma of freshly cooked food filled the air, the nanny's expression softened slightly. She still watched me closely, but there was a hint of curiosity mingled with her suspicion. I finished preparing the meal and plated it neatly, feeling a small sense of accomplishment.

"Would you like to try some?" I offered, hoping to bridge the gap between us with a gesture of kindness.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, her eyes flicking between the plate and my face. "Thank you, ma'am," she said softly, taking a small bite. Her eyes widened in surprise, and I could see her trying to reconcile this new version of me with the one she had known before.

As I stood there, waiting for her reaction, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new.

She took a bite, her eyes widening in surprise. "Ma'am, how did you learn to cook? You never even knew how to boil an egg," she said, astonishment clear in her voice.

I smiled, feeling a strange mix of amusement and bewilderment. "I really have no idea. It's as if I woke up with some kind of superpowers or something," I replied, laughing softly at the absurdity of it all.

Knowing fully well that the kitchen was my place of solace in my past life I guess cooking actually helped me in this present life which I was grateful for

After the nanny had been served, she quickly excused herself to call my son. He came running from his playroom downstairs, his small feet pounding against the steps.

"Don't run on the stairs, sweetheart," I called out, my voice tinged with concern.

Once my son was seated and happily munching on his meal, I turned to the nanny, who was already halfway through her own plate. "Do you know where my husband might be?" I asked.

With her mouth still full, she mumbled, "He's probably in his study."

"Where is the study?" I pressed, eager to find him despite the unease gnawing at my insides.

The nanny pointed towards a dark pathway down the hall. "Just follow that way, ma'am. It's the first door you see."

Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and walked towards the indicated path. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, shadows dancing on the walls. With every step, the sense of foreboding grew, but I knew I had to do this. Finally, I stopped in front of the first door, as the nanny had instructed.

I stood there for a moment, gathering my courage, before gently knocking on the door.