Chapter 176/Playing the Submissive Maid

Chapter 176: 176/Playing the Submissive Maid

Chapter 176:

Stephanie’s POV

A blinding, scalding fury boiled in my chest, threatening to violently rupture my veins. Yet, I forced down my ragged breath with immense effort, nodding my head in absolute helplessness and defeat. I was in no position, nor did I possess the raw power, to stubbornly challenge a tyrant who held the rope to my gallows, tightening the noose around my neck with every passing second. Letting out a bitter, heavy sigh, I followed the maid’s lead into the massive kitchen, which practically blinded the eyes with its polished black marble countertops and state-of-the-art appliances.

The maid pointed to the fresh ingredients meticulously arranged across the island. "Everything is set and prepared here, Miss Miller. The Master prefers his coffee completely black, heavy, and strictly without a single grain of sugar. And he wants his eggs scrambled with rare wild herbs."

I stood before the counter, my limbs locking up with a rigid, freezing dread.

Picking up the metal knife with a hand that shook like a leaf in the wind, I began chopping some vegetables. My mind was swarming with dark, suffocating thoughts to the point where I almost sliced my own finger off due to sheer distraction and panic. Vincent never pulled a stunt without a calculated reason.

Forcing my ass to cook for him in his private estate and completely wasting my solitary day off was nothing more than a filthy, sadistic tactic to humiliate me—a brutal reminder at every microsecond that I was merely a puppet in his hands, his to control however the fuck he pleased.

I spent nearly twenty grueling minutes floating carefully between the hot skillet and the espresso machine, my breath heavy and completely rattled. When the dish was fully prepared, I poured the scalding, dark coffee, its thick steam rising to instantly choke the air with a potent aroma as intense as his own personality. I arranged everything with agonizing care on an elegant wooden tray, my fingers gripping the edges with absolute violence to violently stop it from shaking or dropping from the sheer terror wired into my hands.

Stepping out of the kitchen, I walked with slow, calculated strides toward the main living room. The exact microsecond I crossed the threshold into the massive space, my feet locked to the floor as if struck by a lethal bolt of lightning. The hot mug of coffee nearly tipped over to burn my skin off.

Vincent was lounging with absolute, dominating majesty on a luxurious leather sofa. He was wrapped in a long, dark silk bathrobe that left his broad, rock-solid chest completely and provocatively exposed to grate on my nerves. The damp strands of his dark blonde hair were still dripping from a recent shower, sending cold droplets down his massive shoulders.

In his hand, he held a premium Cuban cigar, its thick gray smoke tinting the entire room with a heavy, suffocating scent.

He turned his head toward me with agonizingly slow, calculated precision, a toxic, arrogant smirk cutting across his dry lips. With a piercing, hawk-like gaze, he boldly scanned my face and clothes before locking his sharp eyes directly onto the trembling tray between my palms.

"You look absolutely perfect playing the part of a submissive maid, Mrs. Volkov," he drawled, his deep, gravelly baritone sending a freezing shiver straight down my spine.

I pushed my feet forward heavily, the pathetic rattling of the porcelain cups against the tray completely exposing my terror with every step.

I lowered it onto the glass coffee table in front of him with extreme caution, immediately taking several long strides backward. I preferred standing with rigid limbs across the room over being anywhere near his suffocating space or his breathing. Interlocking my fingers tightly to stop the shaking, I forced my voice to sound as grounded and courageous as possible. "I brought your breakfast exactly as you demanded. Is there any other goddamn work you want me to do?"

He took a slow, highly deliberate sip of the black coffee, setting the cup down with a subtle nod of mock satisfaction designed to aggressively spark my anger. Picking up a silver fork, he tasted a small piece of the herbed eggs, chewing with agonizing slowness while his cruel blue eyes never left a single detail of my face. He was clearly feeding his sadism, getting entirely high off the visible anxiety and tension I was throwing off.

He boldly blew a thick cloud of cigar smoke straight into my face, his voice calm, melodious, yet dripping with pure malice. "Sit down first, Miss Miller, and stop rushing the sequence of events. I don’t give a shit about having a conversation with someone hovering over my head like a goddamn bodyguard."

I swallowed hard, a scalding lump of anxiety scraping against my throat. Forced entirely against my will, I cautiously lowered my ass onto the absolute edge of the armchair directly opposite him, keeping a massive, safe distance between us. I narrowed my eyes, my voice tight and highly guarded. "I’m listening. Go ahead."

He leaned his entire broad back against the cushions with absolute ease, interlocking his fingers with a lethal detachment as his eyes drilled into me. "The breakfast isn’t bad. I actually quite like it. You have skilled hands."

*Seriously?!* Had this lunatic actually summoned me with such frantic, threatening madness on my solitary day off just to discuss a goddamn breakfast and how it managed to please his high-and-mighty palate?!

My fingers balled into tight fists, my nails digging so hard into my palms they almost broke the skin. I clipped out, trying to violently choke down the humiliating tremble in my voice, "Since I personally prepared your breakfast and it managed to please you, can I please go the home now?"

He tilted his head with a slow, measured stroke, his mesmerizing yet terrifying eyes analyzing the contours of my face with a provocative chill. "Do you have some pressing, urgent appointment waiting out there that simply cannot be delayed, Miss Miller?" he mocked softly.