Chapter 85

As Evelyn disappeared up the stairs, leaving the wreckage of the culinary duel behind, Williams stood alone in the center of the vast kitchen, flour dusting her dark silk clothes like a four-year-old’s careless experiment.

“Who do you think I am?” A silent scream echoed within her. She was a surgeon, a tyrant, a woman of absolute authority. Not some little housewife who could be brought to her knees.

She turned to the stainless steel of a nearby refrigerator door, which served as a fragmented mirror.

As she stared at it, another version of her own voice hissed back:

You lost.

Williams shut her eyes. “Don’t make it worse,” she murmured, the plea directed at the phantom reflection.

She looked out the window. Her perimeter guards were still posted, solid silhouettes against the fading light. Then she turned back to the catastrophic mess of the kitchen. Against her will, she started cleaning.

At first, she cleaned like she fought, with violent swipes and short breaths. But the longer she scrubbed, the more something in her slowed and softened.

She began wiping the counter with care, searching corners, straightening objects, aligning everything until it felt right. The longer she repeated the action, the stronger this faint sense of déjà vu prickled her. It had to be clean. Then suddenly, a sharp flash struck her: she was doing the same action years ago in a dazzlingly white, refrigerated room. The memory was too brief and too painful. She held her hand instinctively to her head. Then, with a finger, she touched a liquid dripping from her nose. It was blood.

From somewhere in her mind, the voice returned:

Williams, it’s clean, just like your image. Now come out.

“Yes,” she whispered, but the assent was to the reality of the command, not the ghost of the past.

“I must regain control,” she ordered herself, the phrase a mantra against chaos. Once the kitchen was spotless, sterilized down to the molecular level, she rushed to the master suite.

She had to resume her life.

She had to be the Doctor.

There was no way she would let that rebel meet her while she was dressed and dirty like a house servant.

She hurried to the bath with her phone and dialed Makizal’s number.

“Madam?”

“In two days, I’m resuming duty.”

“Do you need any service?” Makizal’s voice was neutral.

“Yes. Give me a report.”

“The journalist is still in custody. Polo is handling the rest. The lawyer, Yada, hasn’t contacted us again. It’s quiet.”

“Good.” She ended the call, her grip tight on the receiver.

Control is back.

But another name pierced her thoughts.

Her mother.

She dialed.

“Williams, how are you, my daughter?” Miss Kai’s voice was strained, worried.

“Everything’s fine. I’ve decided to stop seeing Adeline.” Williams’s voice was cold and decisive, laced with defiant authority.

“Williams, we talked about this! You need—”

“No, that’s enough. I’m not a child anymore. The hospital is already mine. And from now on, I decide. Perhaps it’s time for you to use Adeline’s services.”

Miss Kai listened, shocked into stunned silence by the sudden cruelty.

“I will resume duty in two days, and I’ll be there for our dinner if that’s not a problem for you.”

“No,” Miss Kai replied, her voice pained and heavy with hurt. “Could I come see you if you’re not feeling up to it? You don’t have to come. I would understand.”

“I’ll be there, I said.” Williams hung up, cutting off the painful connection.

Once the phone was put down, she stepped out of the bath, rinsing her body of the day’s humiliation. She was mid-dress, a silk slip falling over her hips, when the door opened with a sudden, careless click.

Evelyn stood there, freshly showered, wearing a simple but alluring cotton dress, her hair damp.

“I’m dressing!” Williams snapped, snatching her robe.

“I’ve seen more bodies than you can imagine, Doctor,” Evelyn retorted, her eyes meeting Williams’s with a provocative challenge.

“You are not a doctor, so I presume those are conquests. Except I am not one, so turn around before it costs you points.”

“The deal is over, Doctor,” Evelyn reminded her, stepping into the room, her gaze steady, “and you must serve me.”

Williams stared at her. The sudden memory of the failed Tarte Tatin flooded her with mortification.

“So, hurry up.” Evelyn’s look was patient, slightly mocking. “I’m waiting.”

Williams, driven by the unbreakable contract of her own pride, finally finished dressing and descended the grand staircase.

She found Evelyn sitting regally at the vast dining room table. Reluctantly, Williams began to serve the golden, perfect Tarte Tatin, placing the plate before Evelyn with meticulous, rigid movements.

“That’s good. Now give me some water to drink.”

Williams fetched the crystal carafe and served it. “Here.”

“Thank you. That’s nice. Now serve yourself and sit down.”

“I am not hungry.”

“I wasn’t asking. Serve yourself.”

Williams prepared her own dish and sat opposite Evelyn, staring at her like a lioness confined in a cage, ready to devour the keeper.

“You messed up your recipe because you didn’t put in baking soda,” Evelyn stated plainly, cutting into the golden crust.

“I followed the recipe.”

“Sometimes the written thing doesn’t work. You adjust.”

“So, I won?” Williams asked, deadpan.

“You lost,” Evelyn replied, taking a bite.

Williams pressed her lips together.

“Whiskey?” Evelyn offered.

“No, thank. But as for you, you can’t drink, you’re pregnant.”

Evelyn’s gaze flickered at her stomach, then back at Williams, a wave of discomfort washing over her. Williams, however, was in surgeon mode, analytical and distant.

“At this stage, it’s normal for you to vomit,” she said, her voice flat as she began listing symptoms with clinical detachment. “Firstly, the nausea and vomiting are caused by hormonal changes. Some women only feel it in the morning, but it can actually happen at any time. Secondly, you might start feeling unusually tired. Your body is using a lot of energy right now. Thirdly, your breasts may feel sore or heavy. You may also notice heightened sensitivity to smells, and you might have mood swings or food aversions.”

Evelyn put down her plate, observing the mechanical, precise way Williams spoke while eating, a deep frown settling on her face.

After a long silence: “Are you a gynecologist?”

“Nevertheless, I know.”

“When I leave, I’ll see the gynecologist myself.” Evelyn smiled, the statement now a devastating reality check.

“As for me,” Williams added, her voice dropping, heavy with forced finality, “I’m resuming duty in two days.” She stood up abruptly, the expression on her face deeply pained, almost desperate. “You can pack your bag and leave starting today. Thank you for the whiskey.”

She turned to leave. But Evelyn instantly rose, reaching across the table to grab her hand. “Why don’t you rest before going back to work?”

“I don’t have time to waste,” Williams told her, but her hand, though stiff, did not violently pull away.

“Then do me a favor, please. Eat with me. This is our last meal.”

Williams paused, studying the hand that held hers, the hand of the rebel, the servant, the opponent, and now the unexpected companion. She accepted. She sat down.

They ate together quietly and mechanically.

The meal tasted like nothing to Williams.

And strangely, it tasted like nothing to Evelyn, too.

In two days, they would separate. No more slavery.

For Evelyn, the separation was inevitable. She had lived her most beautiful, strange moments here. The day she set foot outside this villa, she would go far away from this city, leaving behind everything she had built: Yada, Kannika, Jack, the orphanage. She was going back to a solitude that had predominated much of her life.

But what she didn’t know was that her presence had also been a terrible, defining revelation for Williams. She realized that during this time, when she was incapacitated, if Evelyn hadn’t been there, she would have suffered alone in her flesh and her mind.

Nobody would’ve touched her shoulder.

Nobody would’ve dragged her out of hallucinations.

Nobody would’ve challenged her or softened her.

Now this house, which she had viewed as her golden cocoon of absolute control, had become a gilded cage that would turn into a cemetery after Evelyn’s departure.

“I’m going to prepare some documents,” Williams said, her voice hollow.

Evelyn nodded, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Williams moved to her office. She sat down and began to organize her documents, opening and reading them one by one, but she struggled violently to stay focused.

Every line she read blurred into Evelyn’s face.

Her voice.

Her presence in the kitchen.

Her touch on her wrist.

Then—

“Williams, come eat!”

She looked up sharply.

Evelyn stood at the door.

“I just ate…” She had barely spoken the words when the image vanished, the sudden clarity of the empty doorway crushing the illusion. She was utterly alone in her office. Evelyn was in the dining room, or perhaps already in the slave quarters, preparing for her final exit. The delirium was back, worse than before.

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