The following morning, Patricia woke up with a pounding migraine that made her feel like her head might explode if she didn't get something to ease it soon.
With her hands on her head and her eyes shut tight, she slowly made her way out of bed and stumbled out of the room. Taking cautious steps toward the kitchen, she relied on her senses to guide her until she bumped into a wall and let out a sharp scream, rubbing her forehead.
"Stupid! Why would you drink that much?" She cursed herself, taking a deep breath before continuing her unsteady walk. Soon, a sweet aroma wafted through the air, bringing a smile to her face because it meant she was close to the kitchen.
Following the scent, she finally arrived and slowly opened her eyes, ready to thank Maria for making her favorite hangover soup. Surprisingly, it was indeed her favorite, the very one Zara used to make for her every time she had a hangover. But how did Maria know?
With her eyes fully open now, she looked around for Maria but what she saw made her heart skip a beat.
Roman?!
Why was he the one standing there? And not only that, he was wearing an apron and stirring the pot himself.
"You forget how to speak?" He asked without looking up, his tone more mocking than questioning.
Patricia quickly straightened up. "Good morning. I came to make myself a hangover soup… I didn't know you would be using the kitchen… downstairs." Her voice trailed off, and she quickly looked away, not wanting to sound like she was questioning him in his own house. Still, he was the one who had given her access to everything downstairs. Didn't that give her some right to wonder why he kept coming down here to cook?
"I said you could use downstairs, I never said I wouldn't," he replied, giving her a glance before returning his attention to the pot. After a moment, he turned off the hot plate and served some of the soup into a bowl. The smell instantly made Patricia's mouth water, and the throbbing in her head seemed to intensify.
"Can I have some?" She asked, playing with her fingers, her voice more of a plea than a request.
When Roman raised his head to meet her eyes, she quickly looked away and cleared her throat, expecting a refusal. But instead, he said, "Here," and stretched out the bowl toward her.
She hesitated. "Isn't that for you?" She asked, not wanting to impose.
"Do you want it or not?" He said coolly.
Without another word, she took it from his hands before he could change his mind. Why was she even concerned about him? Selfishness was her best strategy until the divorce came through. If she kept acting soft, he might take advantage of it.
"I thought you wanted a divorce," he suddenly said, removing his apron.
The question caught her off guard. She looked at him blankly, unsure of what he meant until his gaze dropped to her chest. Following his eyes, she looked down… and her own eyes widened in horror.
What on earth was she wearing? How had she ended up in something this inappropriate?
She quickly curled up, using the bowl to cover her exposed breasts. She was wearing lingerie, something so revealing her nipples were visible and secondhand embarrassment hit her hard. Why was she always helpless around him? First it was the towel, now this overly exposed lingerie. She didn't even remember changing into it, didn't remember owning anything like it to begin with. So who had changed her into this?
"Your old woman wants us to attend a family death anniversary this weekend. I am sure you want to go, but…."
"I don't," she cut in firmly. "I don't want to go. I am useless there anyway." Her expression darkened.
Roman raised his brows but didn't question her decision. "Okay," he said simply, then turned and left.
It was the anniversary of her grandfather's death, a man she had never met. She had no memories of him, no connection to honor. For all she knew, he would have treated her just as poorly as the rest of them if he were still alive. She felt nothing about his death. Besides, attending would mean facing them all again, and she wasn't ready for that. Not until she was finally free.
With a sigh, she downed the soup in one go and wiped her mouth with the back of her palm. Her gaze drifted to her chest again, and she instinctively curled up once more, suddenly reminded of what she was wearing.
"Miss Patricia, you are finally awake!" Maria called cheerfully as she walked in, smiling brightly.
But Patricia was no longer in the mood for smiles. Her tone flat, she asked, "Maria, did you change me into this?"
"Yes. It was part of the things brought into your room yesterday afternoon. Have you checked everything?" Maria replied, still smiling.
"Things? What things? Who brought them into my room?" Patricia stepped forward, alarmed, firing off her questions in rapid succession.
"Didn't you know? The people who brought them said it was from your family. I know you said not to let anyone into your room, but they refused to leave, so I called Mr. Roman for instructions and he said they could go in," Maria explained.
Patricia's mood instantly worsened. How could he make decisions about her space? The more she thought about it, the more unsettling it became. It felt like Roman feared her old woman so much that he wouldn't dare oppose her. If that was the case, then he might be worse than her mother. And she couldn't afford to be vulnerable around someone like that.
"I decide who brings things into my room," Patricia snapped, her fists clenched. "I don't care if Roman owns this house. Next time, call me, not him."
Maria opened her mouth to respond, but Patricia didn't give her the chance. She stormed off, too angry to listen. She might not have had the right to choose who she married, but she wasn't going to let anyone dictate her life anymore.