POV Keith
Snap.
The door clicks shut and I heave a sigh of relief. I rest my back against it and drop my head.
I don't hate you. This is the first time I"ve even thought these words and I am stunned by this revelation.
I don't hate Ella. I look around at this subpar room that is likely going to be my home for the foreseeable future and blow out a breath. Not only do I not hate her, but I am man enough to acknowledge that I might have been unfair to her.
I walk to my desk and pick up the reports I've been working on. My shoulders drop as I realize I've been avoiding running into her for days now to avoid exactly this confrontation. It's exactly what my mother said she would do.
"Son," mom calls me, but hesitates, "Something Eliana mentioned has been bothering me for a while. She said that Ella tries to evoke sympathy by pretending to be pitiable and pathetic; that she has been doing this for years in outsider company, to the point her parents stopped taking her to social events. I know you both will be living in close quarters, and I hope you don't get taken in. "
She stops again before continuing, "It will be bad enough when Kenneth starts sympathising with her. Don't let her fool you too."
Yes, what I witnessed outside was all an act. Has to be.
Are you sure you don't just want to believe that? A tiny voice whispers before I squash it with ruthless efficiency, born of training with my mother to be heir of Ingram Tech since years past.
I continue reading through reports, trying to squash this burgeoning voice of guilt that seems determined to make me the villain.
My mind drifts to the second night in this house, when I stepped in around 4 am, to make sure I don't run into her.
I freeze as I see the mop of chestnut hair peek over the massive couch.
Click.
I wince as the door clicks shut, convinced she'll pounce on me. She doesn't so much as twitch. I tiptoe in and cautiously walk past her, sure she must be asleep. I'm halfway to my room when I chance a glance at her and stop short.
Her head rests on the back, eyes closed and lips shaped into a moue. I'm sure she was sitting cross-legged at some point before drifting off.
I step closer before I even realise what I'm doing. I stop next to her, unsure why I'm even there.
I take her in. Her face is devoid of any makeup. She has surprisingly long lashes, and they curl beautifully. I catch the circles under her eyes, dark enough to not be new. Her lips part slightly, and an unexpected thought jolts me—how soft they look.
I glance away, flushed, when I spot the book she's still holding.
A management textbook. Huh. Why would she be reading that?
I shake my head, and decide 4 am is not the time to find out. I look at her face again, and she looks so young. No guile, no schemes, just innocence.
I sigh and head back to my room, not sure I like what I'm feeling.
I snap the folder I'm holding shut.
Does it matter that when she isn't trying to look like a witch from the 50s she is actually pretty?
That her genuine joy at seeing me at our marriage meeting still makes my heart leap?
No. No, it doesn't. It cannot, if I want to take Ingram Tech and end this farce of a marriage with a woman I don't like. Or hate, apparently.
—---------------------------------------------------------
I toss the hairdryer onto the counter and run my hand through hair, again. It's dry now. If I blow-dry any further, I might just blow it away completely. I ball my fists at my side.
It's barely 6 am and I hear her puttering around the kitchen. She was up even before me today, which was surprising.
I haven't had a proper night's sleep in days and I'm really starting to feel it. My hands twitch and I feel irritation rise at the smallest of things. My heart pounds uneasily, and I'm breaking out in cold sweats.
That is not a good state to be in when I have to cross swords not only with Grandpa, but Aunt Imogene as well. I'm not sure why, but I feel nervous to step out.
Our last conversation echoes in my ears, and I feel uneasy at the thought of having to continue it. It's another thing I have no energy to deal with.
Are you afraid of that wisp of a girl? I ask myself.
No, of course not! I deny with a vehemence that surprises me. I just don't want to deal with her fake drama. I'm sure she'll want to know what I meant by my words last night. And, if I'm truly unlucky, there'll be tears.
I suppress a shudder, straighten my back and steel myself. Keith Ingram is afraid of nothing and no one!
I exit my room and enter the kitchen, to be greeted by the mouth watering aroma of warm pancakes and a smile that lit up her face. I feel my heart skip a beat, and I feel a pit opening in my stomach.
"Perfect timing. I made breakfast. Come quickly, the pancakes are just off the stove."
I frown as she grabs my arm and leads me to a chair at the table. Before I can voice my protest, a chair has been pulled out and she is gently pushing me into the seat. I look around to find the cook absent from her duties.
"Where is Joan?"
She pauses. "I gave her the day off." She seems to struggle with the weight of her confession as she hurriedly mumbles, "Her back's been acting up for days now, and she's been pushing herself with all the work she's doing here. Since we were going to be away at Grandpa's for the better part of the day, I thought it would be best to allow her to rest the whole weekend."
She looks pained, like she is waiting for punishment. My eyes widen, and I feel a warmth sneak into my chest, something I haven't experienced in what feels like a lifetime.
She couldn't possibly know that I employed Joan, and that not even mom knows of her continued presence in my life. Joan is my secret in this entire chaotic scheme that's running.
My mind flashes back to the rainy night 12 years ago, when the thunder crashing through the night sky had me shaking in fear.
Tears stream down my face and my heart pounds so hard I feel an ache start to develop in my ribs. The memory of the day I nearly drowned is always worse on a rainy day, but today, it's especially terrifying. Perhaps it's because today is the anniversary.
I want so much to hug mom and dad, but they won't come. And if they did, a hug is the last thing I would receive.
"Never show your fear, son. Not to me, or to anyone else," her voice echoes in my ears. "You and I are surrounded by hyenas who will tear us apart at the first sign. And I will never allow for this weakness."
I feel sadness join the fear, as I remember how distant mom became if I displayed anything she considered weakness.
She never raised a hand, or her voice, and yet her distance and disappointment cut us deeper than a cane ever could.
Crash! Bang!
The thunder booms, I flinch hard, and bump the water jug causing it to slip and fall.
CRASH!
The light in the passageway switches on. If mom or dad find out that I've been crying in fear, there'll be hell to pay.
I scramble in panic and try to stop my tears.
The door opens and I see Joan — our housekeeper's — face peek in, concern etched into every feature.
"Keith?"
The instant she spots my teary face, she rushes into the room and hugs me. I cry harder that night than I've ever cried, and she held me the whole time. She smelled of sweat, and a floral floor cleaner yet I've never felt warmer. She cooed, and rubbed my back, saying, "It'll all be okay, you are such a brave child," over and over and over again.
I don't remember when I fell asleep, but when I woke up the next day, the sun was out and all evidence of my horror was erased.
My parents never found out about that night, I am forever in Joan's debt for treating me like the child I was, and comforting me when I needed it the most.
Joan has been retired for years — due in fact to the back in question — but she recently reached out to me, said she needed the work, and I instantly hired her.
That Ella was considerate to Joan lifts my opinion of her like nothing else might have.
I turn to my pancakes and take a bite, expecting them to taste average at best.
A taste bomb explodes in my mouth and angels sing in the background. The sweet pancakes melt in my mouth, and I swear these are the best pancakes I've ever eaten.
"Mmmmmm," I can't stop myself from moaning. A flush stings my cheeks at having given away such emotion, but the honest delight on her face lifts some of my embarrassment. Her entire body sings with joy.
"I love cooking. I learnt to make these pancakes during college. Cooking was the only leisure I allowed myself." She grins as she says this, no artifice on her face, no regret or resentment, only open honesty.
I frown, and a lump forms in my throat. I heard differently.
Even if she was only trying to stage Eliana, completing a 4 year degree in 2 years is no joke. I feel doubt creep in as I remember all the things I've been told about Ella's past.
As I witness Ella diligently cooking the pancakes, humming along, I am starting to question all the things about Ella I've heard and all the things I'm coming to realise.
Who is Ella really?