I was sitting at the long oak dining table in the mansion’s grand hall, the morning light filtering through sheer white curtains that cast soft shadows across the polished surface.
The chandelier above glinted off the crystal glasses and silverware arranged perfectly in place, though only one setting remained untouched.
I was alone, the house quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
I was wearing a cream-colored tube top that hugged my flawless porcelain curves snug, the fabric soft and stretchy against my skin.
The top stopped just below my chest, showing off my bare midriff, the binding I wore underneath invisible under the tight material.
My blonde hair was tied up in a messy high bun, a few loose strands falling over my shoulders, and my sapphire eyes were tired from last night’s late rehearsal.
I sat with one leg crossed over the other, my posture relaxed but my mind tense.
On the plate in front of me was a small, modest portion of leftover food—two scrambled eggs slightly overcooked, a single slice of burnt toast, and a few wilted spinach leaves that looked like they’d been reheated in the microwave.
The eggs were pale yellow and dry, the toast browned unevenly with dark charred edges, and the spinach was limp and grayish.
A small glass of orange juice sat beside it, the liquid cloudy and slightly warm.
It was clearly Silvia’s leftovers from her own breakfast, the ones she’d deemed too good for herself but barely edible for me.
The plate itself was chipped on the edge, nothing like the pristine fine china she used for her own meals.
I poked at the eggs with my fork, the tines scraping against the ceramic with a dull clink.
My stomach churned as I took a small bite, the dry eggs sticking to my throat.
“Cat, when will I get rid of Silvia?” I whispered under my breath, my voice low and frustrated.
I set the fork down and looked up at the ceiling, my sapphire eyes glaring at the chandelier.
“She is your target, Host.
You can’t get rid of her so easily,” the system cat replied in my head, its voice calm and matter-of-fact.
“Remember the mission.
You need her affection, not her dismissal.”
I sighed heavily, pushing the plate away slightly.
“I was eating the food that Silvia prepared.
She’s a bad husband.”
“Why?” the cat asked, though it sounded more like it was prompting me than genuinely curious.
I gestured at the plate with my fork, my voice rising slightly.
“Aren’t I eating leftovers?
She should be a bit more understanding.
I work as an actress, I come home tired from shooting late last night, and then she makes me her maid.
She made me clean the whole mansion, garden, garage—two hours straight. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
And now this?
Leftovers?
She treats me like a servant, not a wife.”
“Host, it’s your fault that you don’t know how to cook.
In a way, she is doing a favour to you,” the system cat said, its voice tinged with dry amusement and a hint of playful teasing in my head.
I paused with the fork halfway to my mouth, sapphire eyes narrowing slightly as I looked down at the plate.
“Are you my system or hers?” I asked, my voice sharp with suspicion.
“Yours!” the cat replied quickly, almost defensively, its tone defensive.
“Always yours.
But facts are facts, Host.”
“What facts?”
“You broke her favourite plate yesterday.
That hand-painted blue porcelain one she got from her grandmother.
She’s giving you leftovers as punishment.
It’s as simple as that.”
“I am her wife,” I grumbled.
“That’s not a point, Host.”
I picked up the toast and took a small bite, the charred crust scraping my tongue rough and dry.
It tasted bitter and stale, like it had been sitting out for hours, maybe even overnight.
The bread was dense and hard; the crust blackened in spots.
I swallowed hard, forcing it down, and set it down again, pushing it away with my fork.
The fork scraped against the chipped ceramic plate with a dull clink that echoed in the quiet kitchen.
“Silvia is punishing me, right?” I asked, my voice low and bitter, my resentment bubbling up again.
“Yes,” the cat confirmed, its tone serious now.
“You broke her favourite plate.
That’s why she is giving you leftovers that are bad for you.
Cold eggs, burnt toast, wilted spinach.
She’s making a point.
Alphas don’t forget things like that, Host.
They hold grudges.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Don’t repeat your words!”
“You asked the same question, Host.”
“I know,” I muttered, my voice thick with frustration.
I looked down at the plate, the food now cold and unappetizing.
“The eggs had congealed into hard, pale-yellow chunks that looked greasy under the kitchen lights.”
I sighed, “The toast was getting soggy from the steam, the edges softening and turning gray, and spinach was wilting further, turning grayish-green and limp, the leaves drooping on the plate.
A small pool of water had formed around the eggs, making everything look even more unappetizing.”
“Wow, Host!
Your analysis is on spot.
But don’t dwell over this, okay?”
“Shut up!
I really want to slap Silvia into oblivion!”
“That’s your target, Host,” the cat said firmly, its tone shifting serious, cutting through my self-pity.
“You have to make her softer towards you.
Every meal, every chore, every moment is a chance to chip away at that ice wall.
”
“Fuck you!”
“You remember the feeding mission?
That was progress.
She fed you herself.
She made you soup, and she sat beside you.
The Obedience Aura is working, even if you don’t see it yet.
You just have to keep pushing.”
I leaned back in the chair, my arms crossing over my chest, the cream tube top stretching tight across my shoulders and my bare chest.
The fabric was soft and stretchy, hugging my curves snug, but the tension in my body made it feel tight and uncomfortable.
“Host, you have to control yourself.”
“Oh my god!
I am going to lose my mind if you say these words over and over again.”