You’re not the lady of the house, you’re the servant.
Emma, dear, just a little more of this wonderful ladys salad, Margaret Whitakers voice was sweet as jam but cut like hot Tabasco, searing with false kindness.
I nodded without a word, taking the almostempty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Jamess thirdcousin aunt, gave me a look of irritation the kind you cast at a buzzing fly that has been circling for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen silently, trying to be invisible. Today was Jamess birthday, or rather his family was celebrating a birthday in my flatthe flat I pay for.
Laughter rippled from the lounge in staccato burststhe booming bass of Uncle John, the sharp bark of his wife. Above it all, Margarets confident, almost commanding tone. My husband was probably in a corner, smiling tightly and nodding shyly.
I filled the bowl, topping it with a sprig of dill. My hands moved on autopilot, and only one number spun in my mind: twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final email confirmation, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden, staring at my phone. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptsboiled down to a single figure on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you hiding? Margaret snapped. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back to the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre so slow, Emma, the aunt drawled, pushing her plate aside. Like a turtle.
James flinched but stayed silent. He hated a scene.
I set the salad down. Margaret, adjusting the perfect arrangement, shouted so everyone could hear:
Not everyone can be spry. Office work isnt housework. You sit at a computer there and go home. Here you must think, hustle, manage.
She swept the room with a triumphant glance. Everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass I knocked a fork off the table. It clattered to the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone froze. All eyes turned from the fork to me.
Margaret laughed, loud, cruel, venomous.
See? I told you! Your hands are claws.
She turned to the woman beside her, voice still sharp, and added:
I always told James: she isnt your match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative asset. Bring, fetch. Not the mistress the servant.
Laughter erupted again, even more gloating. I glanced at James. He looked away, pretending to be busy with a napkin.
And I I lifted the fork. Calmly. Straightened my back. And for the first time that evening I smiled. Not strained, not politegenuine.
They had no idea that the world theyd built on my patience was about to crumble. My own was just beginning. Right now.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their laughter died as abruptly as it had begun. Margaret even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in disbelief.
I didnt replace the fork. Instead I walked to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, took a clean glass and poured myself some cherry juice. The very expensive juice Margaret called a luxury and a foolish splurge.
Glass in hand I returned to the lounge and took the only free seatnext to James. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Emma, the hot soup is cooling! Margaret snapped back to herself. Her voice rang with steel. We must serve the guests.
Im sure James can manage, I took a small sip, eyes never leaving her. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes darted to James. He turned pale, then flushed, nervous, throwing pleading glances at me then at his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered and shuffled toward the kitchen.
It was a tiny, sweet victory. The air grew heavy, thick.
Realising the direct attack had failed, Margaret switched tactics. She talked about the country house:
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month, as usual. Some fresh air.
Emma, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, ready the house.
She said it as if it were already decided, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
Sounds lovely, Mrs. Whitaker. Only I fear I have other plans this summer.
The words hung like ice cubes in a scorching day.
Other plans? James returned with a tray of uneven plates of hot food. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. My refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming, I looked first at him, then at his mother, whose gaze hardened with fury.
I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
I paused, savoring the impact.
This one, you know, has become too cramped.
A deafening silence settled, broken first by Margarets short, croaking laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Will you spend your life working on concrete walls?
Mums right, Emma, James immediately chimed in, seeking support. He slammed the tray down, sauce splashing the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests. Each wore contemptuous doubt. They stared at me as if I were an empty seat that suddenly thought itself important.
Why a mortgage? I smiled softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle John, who had been silent, snorted.
Inheritance, perhaps? Some old millionaire aunt in America passed away?
The guests chuckled. They felt they were still in control. This upstart was bluffing.
You could say that, I turned to him. Except the old lady is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to absorb.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you think kept me sitting in an office. The company I built for three years. My startup.
I stared directly at Margaret.
The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flat. Maybe even a seaside cottage. No more cramped rooms.
The room fell into a ringing hush. Faces tightened. Smiles vanished, exposing shock and bewilderment.
James stared, his mouth open, unable to utter a sound.
Margarets colour drained slowly. Her mask crumbled before their eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
James, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find new accommodation. Im selling this flat too.
I headed for the door. Not a whisper reached my back. They were frozen.
At the threshold I turned and gave one last look.
And, Mrs. Whitaker, my voice was firm and steady. The servant is tired and needs a rest.
Six months later. Six months I lived a new life.
I sat on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Beyond the floortoceiling window, the evening city glimmereda living, breathing entity that no longer seemed hostile.
It was mine. In my hand I held a glass of cherry juice. On my lap a laptop displayed blueprints of a new projectan architectural app already attracting its first investors.
I worked hard, but now it was joy, because the work filled me instead of draining me.
For the first time in years I breathed fully. TheI raise my glass to the horizon, savoring the sweet taste of freedom as the citys lights flicker like promises finally kept.
