Chapter 2: The Price of a Meal
The words landed like a physical knife in the old woman’s chest.
Martha lowered her head. A crushing wave of humiliation washed over her as she slowly reached forward with both aching, deformed hands. Every gentle movement she made caused a visible spike of pain along her wrists, yet she forced herself to obey. She believed she had no other choice in this house. She had been strictly reminded, time and time again over the past year, that nothing was free here—she needed to earn her dinner.
Silence filled the multimillion-dollar living room, heavy and suffocating. Only the soft, agonizing sound of her trembling fingers against designer skin and the faint, rhythmic tapping of a phone screen disturbed the peaceful atmosphere.
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Martha thought back to the small, damp countryside cottage she had spent her entire life working inside, breaking her back in the rice fields just to send every single extra penny to fund her son’s education abroad. She had pictured this grand mansion as a palace of peace for her golden years. Instead, it had become a gilded cage where her presence was tolerated only as long as she served as an unpaid servant.
Just hold on, she told herself silently, a single tear slipping down her lined cheek and hitting the marble floor. Jonathan will be home soon.
