Chen Luoru’s porcelain-white face flushed red, her beautiful peach blossom eyes shimmering with watery light.
Meng Jianchen slanted his gaze, wanting to see what other tricks she could pull.
Chen Luoru took a deep breath, finally controlling the urge to jab that mop straight into Meng Jianchen’s face.
Something had definitely gone wrong with the script—how had it turned into “I Woke Up and Became the CEO’s Maid”?
With so many eyes on her, she absolutely could not admit she was faking amnesia—otherwise she’d be in the wrong.
Now Meng Jianchen was taking advantage of her supposed confusion to make her do housework and even refusing her food. This, on the contrary, was solid proof of spousal abuse within the marriage, and when the time came she could logically use it as grounds for divorce.
Since ancient times, those who accomplish great things must not fuss over trifles.
“What are you standing there for?” Meng Jianchen said. “Hurry up and go.”
Chen Luoru lifted the quilt, got out of bed, and left carrying the mop.
“Sir, this…” Butler Wu watched her departing figure, unable to make sense of what tricks this couple was playing at again.
Meng Jianchen’s thoughts were already difficult to guess. Now with a childish Chen Luoru added into the mix, the butler was caught in the middle, neither one side nor the other.
“Go check on her,” Meng Jianchen said coldly.
“Yes.” Butler Wu quickly arranged for a few servants to follow.
Although Meng Jianchen didn’t say it outright, Butler Wu knew in his heart—sir would never truly let madam do chores.
Chen Luoru’s temperament did need some discipline. If she went on acting on whims every day, no one in the household would have peace.
But once Chen Luoru reached the corridor with the mop, she suddenly remembered—she didn’t know how to do chores.
And this wasn’t an act. Since childhood she had been the Chen family’s pampered pearl of the palm; she had never even washed a pair of socks.
Her ten fingers had never touched spring water, her hands tender and fair—these were hands meant for plucking the harp, how could they be used for menial tasks like mopping?
The maid who followed was tactful. She said, “Give me the mop, I’ll demonstrate.”
She took the mop from Chen Luoru, went to the cleaning room for a bucket of water, soaked the mop, wrung it dry, and then began to mop.
Most of the villa’s flooring was laid with redwood planks. Wherever the mop passed, it instantly shone bright and new.
Chen Luoru squatted to the side, resting her chin on one hand, watching the maid work.
She thought of reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer as a child, when Tom had turned the chore of whitewashing his aunt’s fence into an opportunity to trade trinkets with other kids.
After finishing one room, the maid picked up the bucket to move on to the next, when Chen Luoru suddenly grew interested: “Alright, I’ve learned it now, give it to me.”
For the maid, chores were part of her duty. For Chen Luoru, doing chores was nothing more than a way to experience life’s novelty.
She took up the mop and, like a young foal seeing the wide grasslands for the first time, began joyfully prancing about.
The maid stood helplessly to the side—what was she supposed to do now?
If sir found out she had really allowed madam to do the work, she’d be doomed.
Not long after, Butler Wu came to check, and to his surprise saw Chen Luoru mopping while humming a little tune.
He was aghast—could it be that madam really had lost her memory?
But Chen Luoru’s enthusiasm lasted only three minutes. After finishing one room, she realized the villa still had dozens left.
For the first time, she felt the wedding house Meng Jianchen had prepared was not just large, but absurdly wasteful of Earth’s resources.
Worse yet, the floors were already spotless enough to reflect her shadow—why mop them again? This was meaningless human labor! Find the original chapter at g.com.
Seeing her flagging, the maid quickly and sensibly took the mop from her hands: “I’ll mop instead.”
Chen Luoru asked, “Do you do this every day?”
The maid replied, “It’s my job, it’s only right.”
Chen Luoru leaned on the side, watching her mop, falling into thoughts about life.
At that moment, another servant came over: “Sir asks you to come to the dining room.”
Chen Luoru thought, This damned man still has a little conscience, he knows I’m hungry.
So she obediently went to the dining room.
This villa had not one but three dining rooms for the master’s family: a breakfast room, a regular dining room, and a large banquet hall.
As for the servants’ quarters, they were strictly separate from the master’s. The Meng family did not mistreat servants—their living conditions were decent—but compared to the master’s, of course they were far inferior.
Meng Jianchen sat prim and proper in the dining room having dinner. He had taken off his suit jacket, wearing only a white shirt.
A snow-white napkin was tucked under his collar, and with both hands he gracefully wielded knife and fork to cut steak.
“Finished mopping?” Meng Jianchen speared a small piece of steak, dipped it in black pepper sauce, and put it in his mouth.
Chen Luoru’s eyes fell on the table—perfect, he was enjoying a candlelit dinner alone, with no place set for her.
She sniffed through her nose, replying sullenly, “Not yet.”
A servant handed her a tray, gesturing for her to serve Meng Jianchen at the table.
On the tray were a bottle of red wine and a glass.
Chen Luoru: “…”
So now he was ordering her around too!
What kind of fussy bastard was this, having a glass of ’82 Lafite just for a solo dinner?
Swallowing her anger, she carried the tray to the table, set the glass at his side, and poured the wine—one-third full, as was proper.
Since she hadn’t eaten since afternoon, and had just done some chores, her stomach was already rumbling.
Though a growling stomach was very improper, as a little maid she couldn’t care about manners now—it wasn’t even under her control.
“Hungry?” Meng Jianchen sipped his wine, lifting his eyes to her, a glint of concern in his gaze.
Chen Luoru pouted, refusing to answer.
“Want a bite?” he asked casually while cutting steak.
Her eyes fell on the prime New Zealand marbled steak on his plate—pan-seared medium-well, its aroma rich and tempting. A stroke of the silver knife pressed juice from the tender meat, making her mouth water.
She couldn’t resist and gave a soft “Mm.”
Meng Jianchen forked a piece of meat and said lightly, “Keep dreaming.”
How could a man be this petty!
Just because of one remark she’d made in the morning, he was still holding a grudge by evening!
Her fingers clutched the wine bottle so hard her knuckles whitened. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
She really wanted to pour that whole bottle of Lafite over his head.
No—she had to endure. If she lost her temper over something small, it would ruin her bigger plan.
This was all hard evidence of his mistreatment, she’d need to write it all carefully in her little notebook later.
Meng Jianchen slowly finished his dinner, and before returning to his room, even reminded her: “Don’t forget to finish mopping.”
Dog of a man! Could any human actually behave like this?
Watching his graceful figure walk away, Chen Luoru’s resolve to divorce only grew firmer.
Butler Wu didn’t dare let her truly mop floors. He only asked her to collect the dinner plates.
As soon as she put them into the sink, another servant came: “Sir wants a bowl of plain noodles sent to the master bedroom.”
Chen Luoru: “…”
This never ends, does it?
Steak just eaten and now noodles? He wasn’t afraid of bursting?
In the kitchen, the head chef was waiting by the stove, clearly to instruct her.
The household employed four chefs in total: one for Chinese, one for Western, one for desserts, and one Cantonese chef especially hired for Chen Luoru.
“Plain noodles are simple,” the chef said. “I’ve already prepared the noodles and seasonings. Just boil them and sprinkle scallions on top.”
He turned on the gas stove, water soon bubbling in the pot. “Now—put the noodles in.”
Chen Luoru dropped the small bundle of hand-rolled egg noodles into the boiling water.
Three minutes later, the chef turned off the flame.
He poured noodles and broth into a bowl with seasonings, and Chen Luoru sprinkled on a handful of scallions.
“That’s it,” the chef said. “Take it up.”
With that, he left the kitchen.
Chen Luoru stared at the bowl, unable to swallow the resentment in her chest.
Why should he eat and drink so well, while she had to work and starve?
On the counter stood many jars and bottles. She grabbed one of salt, and sprinkled several pinches into the noodles.
The snow-white crystals quickly melted, and she stirred them with chopsticks.
Let’s see you eat this—if it doesn’t choke you to death!
She carried the tray lightly upstairs to the master bedroom. The door was ajar; she pushed it open and walked in.
Meng Jianchen, now in a misty-blue silk loungewear set, sat on the sofa scrolling his phone.
Chen Luoru set the tray on the low table and said, “The noodles are ready.”
It took all her effort to hide the smug delight in her voice.
But Meng Jianchen didn’t even lift his head, his long fingers sliding over the screen as he said casually, “That’s your dinner. Eat here.”
Chen Luoru: “…”
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