22: Chapter 0022: What’s Peppersoup?
22: Chapter 0022: What’s Peppersoup?
Elena’s Point Of View “Close the curtains, Graham,” I groaned, my voice sounding like a rusted gate hinge scraped against cement.
The morning sun wasn’t just shining; it was violently assaulting my retinas straight through my shut eyelids.
I fumbled blindly across the mattress, grabbing a heavy pillow and slamming it over my face, squeezing it tight against my ears to block out the harsh light and the dull, rhythmic thumping hammering inside my skull.
Every heartbeat felt like a fist against the inside of my temples, and I genuinely considered, for one fleeting moment, whether it was possible to simply will myself back into unconsciousness.
Maybe if I stayed still enough, breathed shallow enough, the whole wretched morning would just dissolve around me.
I’d trade almost anything for five more minutes of blissful, dreamless dark.
“Graham!” I mumbled into the feathers, my breath blowing hot air back onto my chin.
“Baby, turn off the light.
Turn it off.” Silence.
No movement on the mattress beside me.
No hand reaching out to pull the sheets over my shoulder.
That should have been my first warning, but my brain was too busy staging a mutiny against the rest of my body to notice.
A distant, groggy part of me registered that something was wrong, but the pain was so consuming that logic simply couldn’t compete.
I existed, in that moment, as nothing more than a raw nerve ending wrapped in yesterday’s mascara.
Smack.
“Ow!” I winced, my hands flying up to protect my face as the pillow was yanked away with enough force to give me windburn.
I sat up slowly, my head throbbing so hard I actually saw little yellow spots dancing across the darkness behind my eyes.
I kept one eye squeezed shut while the other cracked open to glare at the intruder.
“Graham!
What the hell was that for…” The words froze in my throat.
The dark, polished mahogany of my bedroom wasn’t there.
The soft ivory wallpaper was gone.
Instead, I was staring at a bright yellow sofa, a cluttered glass coffee table covered in empty soda cans and old fashion magazines, and a wall lined with messy bookshelves.
Nothing about the space held even a trace of the quiet, curated elegance I’d woken up to every day of my life.
Even the air smelled wrong… like takeout… jasmine and scented candles instead of the lavender polish the estate staff used every morning.
There wasn’t a single object I recognized, not a single scent that belonged to the world I knew, and that absence hit me almost harder than the pain in my skull.
This wasn’t my bedroom.
This wasn’t the estate.
My heart did a violent, sudden flip in my chest.
Had I been kidnapped?
Was I in a motel?
A thousand horrifying scenarios flashed through my mind in the space of a single ragged breath, each one worse than the last.
My hands began to tremble, some primal instinct screaming at me to run before my mind had even caught up with the danger.
I could feel my pulse hammering in my throat now, competing with the ache in my head for dominance.
My wild, wide-eyed gaze tracked sideways and landed squarely on a woman standing over me in an oversized satin robe, her blonde hair piled high in an ungodly mess on top of her head.
I gasped, clutching the blanket to my chest.
“Lexy?!
What the hell are you doing here?!” A blinding, razor-sharp spike of pain shot directly behind my left eye, making me drop my hands and clutch my forehead with a pathetic, wheezing groan.
“What the fuck?” “Keep your voice down, drama queen.” Lexy’s voice lacked its usual morning bite, softer than I expected given the circumstances.
She set a heavy ceramic bowl down on the glass coffee table with a small clink, followed by a napkin.
“Your brain isn’t leaking out of your ears, even if it feels like it.
It’s called a hangover.
An epic, legendary, five-star hangover.” I opened my eyes just enough to squint at the table.
Steam was rising from the wide stoneware bowl, carrying a scent so wildly aromatic and sharp it cut right through the stale, alcohol-soaked fog in my nostrils.
It smelled like toasted seeds, crushed herbs, burnt wood, garlic, and something intensely, terrifyingly hot.
My stomach didn’t know whether to growl or recoil.
“What is that?” I croaked, leaning back against the couch cushions, shielding my eyes from the window light with my forearm.
“Here.” Lexy shoved a large metal spoon into my hand and nudged the bowl closer to my knees, her movements brisk and businesslike, as though she’d done this a hundred times before.
“It’ll help you.
I ordered this from a local African kitchen down on 4th Street last night when we got back.
The girl on the delivery app called it Nigerian goat pepper soup.
She swore on her grandmother’s grave that it cures hangovers faster than an IV drip.” I stared down into the murky, dark brown broth.
Chunks of bone-in meat floated near the top alongside chopped dark green herbs, floating flakes of dried red peppers, and small spots of glistening oil reflecting the morning sun.
My stomach gave an uncertain lurch, caught somewhere between hunger and outright rebellion.
“Pepper soup?” I squinted, raising an eyebrow at her.
“What’s pepper soup?
Lexy, my stomach feels like a crime scene.
I don’t think throwing pepper into the fire is a brilliant medical decision.” “Eat it and stop complaining.” Lexy sat down on the opposite armchair with her legs crossed, watching me like a hawk, her expression daring me to argue further.
I grumbled under my breath, my fingers trembling slightly as I lifted the heavy spoon.
I scooped up a small amount of the broth, avoiding the actual meat for a second, and brought it to my lips, bracing myself for the worst.
The moment the liquid hit my tongue, my eyes blew wide open.
It wasn’t just hot… it was an absolute explosion.
A deep, earthy wave of nutmeg, wild ginger, and fragrant native herbs hit first, rich and surprisingly savory, followed almost instantly by a massive, searing bolt of raw heat that set every single taste bud on my tongue screaming in surprise.
“Oh,” I choked out, my throat instantly constricting.
“Careful!” Lexy leaned forward, alarm flickering across her face.
“It has lots of pepper!
Easy, easy, don’t choke!” I swallowed hard, the heat sliding down my throat like a line of liquid fire, warming my chest from the inside out.
My eyes watered immediately, two hot tears spilling over my lashes, but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t lie… it was incredible.
It was sharp, wild, and utterly unlike anything the sterile, bland cooks at the Sinclair estate had ever placed in front of me.
The rich, fatty broth melted away the dry, bitter taste of cheap scotch, while the tender, fall-off-the-bone chunks of goat meat soaked up the spiced broth until every bite was an intense, savory punch.
There was something almost defiant about it, as if the dish refused to be tamed or apologized for, and for reasons I couldn’t quite name, that stubbornness struck a chord somewhere deep in my aching chest.
It made me wonder, absurdly, how many other things I’d never allowed myself to taste, to feel, simply because they hadn’t been served on the estate’s fine china.
I’d spent my whole life eating carefully, politely, quietly… and here was something that demanded to be reckoned with.
The world really did have cuisines I had never even dreamed of.
I scooped up another spoon.
Then another.
Within three minutes, I was leaning over the table, practically gulping it down, my nose running, my lips burning and slightly swollen from the spice, but the heavy, dull pounding in my temples was actually beginning to recede under the sheer heat of the meal.
“Told you.” Lexy smirked, watching me sweat through my silk camisole with unmistakable satisfaction, the kind reserved for someone who loved being right just a little too much.
I finished the last drop of broth, leaning back against the sofa cushions with a loud, unrefined, completely un-Sinclair-like sigh.
For a moment, I didn’t care how undignified I looked.
It felt strangely liberating, like shedding some invisible layer of expectation I hadn’t realized I’d been wearing my entire life.
Maybe there was something to be said for eating like a person who didn’t have an image to protect.
Lexy immediately stepped in, taking the empty bowl and replacing it with a tall glass of ice-cold water.
I grabbed the glass with both hands, tilting my head back and gulping down half of it in one continuous swallow.
The ice hit my tongue like sweet relief, washing away the lingering fire.
My vision cleared completely.
The room stopped spinning.
The blinding headache shrank into a faint, manageable dull roar behind my brow, and for the first time since waking, I felt something close to human again.
“Thank you, Lex,” I breathed out, setting the glass down and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Don’t mention it.” She packed up the empty dish and the glass smoothly, setting them on a tray by the kitchen counter before wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
She turned around and leaned her lower back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.
She stared at me.
A slow, terrifyingly sharp smirk began to spread across her face, pulling up one corner of her mouth, and something in my gut twisted with dread.
I knew that look.
It never preceded anything good.
It was the same look she’d worn right before telling my sister about the boy I’d liked in high school, the same look that always meant my carefully composed world was about to crack open.
Lexy had never once, in the decade I’d known her, let me off easy, and there was no reason to believe today would be the exception.
I blinked at her, pulling my knees up to my chest on the yellow sofa.
“What?
Why are you looking at me like I grew a second head?” “So,” Lexy drawled, her tone dripping with mock innocence, clearly savoring whatever she was about to say.
“How’s the head?
Do you…
remember anything from last night at that club?” I scoffed, running a hand through my tangled hair, though the gesture felt more defensive than dismissive.
“Of course I remember.
My memory is just…
a little foggy, Lex.
That’s all.
I know we went out.
I know I was mad about Graham.” I paused.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to piece together the blurred, disjointed film reel in my head.
I remembered standing up from our booth to find the restroom.
I remembered turning down a dark corridor.
I remembered bumping into someone…
entering a private booth…
And then the dark cherry scotch.
The taste of smoke.
Heavy, calloused hands gripping my waist with terrifying precision.
Heavy rings against my bare thigh.
A pair of dark, smoke-colored eyes staring down at me through the shadows, a slow, arrogant smirk, and a voice like low gravel whispering: We’ll continue this later.
My entire face went up in flames…
a searing, blinding heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the pepper soup I’d just eaten.
My cheeks burned so hot I thought my skin might melt right off my skull.
The memory unfurled further, each fragment sharper and more damning than the last, until shame pooled thick and heavy in the pit of my stomach, curdling alongside the lingering warmth of the broth.
My hands had gone cold despite the fire still simmering in my chest, and for one dizzying second, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to laugh or be sick.
I gasped, dropping my head into my hands, my fingers tangling in my messy hair as the full weight of the memory hit me like a runaway freight train.
“No…” I whispered into my palms, my voice shaking in complete, horror-struck realization.
“No, no, no…
that…
that wasn’t me.”