His Personal Assistant

Damsel in distress

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I stormed into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and grabbed a handful of fruits. I tossed them onto the counter, two kiwis rolling toward the edge. I snatched them up and slapped them onto the cutting board.

Drawers slammed open one after another as I searched for a knife. I had never so much as boiled water before—what the hell did I know about kitchen tools? After flipping through a chaotic mess of utensils, I finally found something with a blade.

"What are all these knives even for? Damn you for being a spoiled brat, Gina,"I muttered, frustrated, picking up and dropping knives randomly.

Settling for a butcher knife—because why not?—I started hacking at the kiwis like they were firewood. My hands moved on their own, powered by pure rage. Raspberries and blueberries joined the massacre, splattering juice across the counter. I wasn’t making a fruit salad—I was releasing war.

Then I shoved the cutting board off the counter. It crashed onto the marble floor with a thud, fruit chunks flying.

Still not enough.

Tears blurred my vision. I hurled the rest of the fruit onto the floor. The sight of the chaos I’d created—juice, pulp, broken skin—made my chest cave in. I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed, and started sobbing.

I sprinted upstairs to my room, collapsed onto my orange, fluffy bed, and buried my face in the duvet. My loud sobs were muffled by the fabric. I felt like a wreck, worthless. All I was good at these days was crying.

“Gina,” came Nana’s voice. I looked up, my eyes burning. Though I could barely see, I knew her face was plastered with concern. “Have you been crying again?” she asked as she rushed to my side.

“No, I–” But the lie crumbled. I broke down again. My chest felt like it was caving in, and I couldn’t get any words out. I crawled to her and rested my head on her lap, hiccupping uncontrollably. She stroked my copper-red curls with her long, acrylic nails.

“Baby... please calm down,” she said softly.

I sat up and wiped my face clumsily. “I can’t, Nana. I just... can’t. Did I deserve this kind of betrayal? From the people who birthed me? They built a fake life around me.” My voice cracked. “What the hell were they doing all their lives—catfishing?” I half-yelled.

“We’ll fix this, sweetheart,” she whispered.

“How, Nana? I already sold my shares in the company.” I sat upright. “And that didn’t even cover half the debts.”

I looked down, clutching the duvet at my hips. “Yesterday, some random bank called. I found out Mom and Dad took out a twenty-million-dollar loan. If we don’t repay it within four weeks, the mansion will be mortgaged.” My knuckles had gone white.

“I swear I detest Rina and Fernando Lopez,” I added.

“Don’t say that about your parents, sweetie. It’s only been two months since we lost them in that horrific plane crash.”

I clenched my jaw. “So I should be grateful? They left my life in flames.”

“I have an idea,” she said, rising. “But first—a cold shower.”

She took my hand and pulled me into the bathroom.

It was easy to undress me—I'd only been wearing a silk, lavender gown with black lace outlines and matching lingerie. That was my usual at-home attire. I was raised that way—soft, sexy, spoiled. Seduction had been a part of me before I even knew what the word meant. Nana had taught me belly dancing, and I adored the way it made me feel—powerful.

After undressing me, she began undressing too. Sherie Lopez—my Nana—was in her sixties, but you wouldn’t guess it. Plastic surgery had her looking like a rich woman in her forties. I called her Nana, but she was my flawless Betty and best friend.

We stepped into the frosted-glass shower. The water cooled more than my skin—it cooled my fury. A few minutes later, she reached for the towel to dry me off.

“I can do it myself, thanks,” I said.

She kissed my forehead and left.

I stepped out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, calmer now.

A soft knock echoed from the wide-open door.

“Come in, Annie,” I called, still towel-wrapped.

She hesitated, shy.

“Don’t be shy. We’re both girls, aren’t we? How’s your daughter?”

“She just had a mild fever,”she said, walking in. “Mrs. Lopez wanted to know what you’d like for dinner."

“I’m craving lamb chops. Deep fried. Extra spicy. With salsa and pasta. And velvet cake for dessert. Extra sweet,” I told her.

“Isn’t it a bit early to start preparing dinner?” I asked, glancing at the time—it was only 3:30.

“I was told to make dinner early,” she said politely.

She turned to leave, but I stopped her.

“Hey... I’m sorry for the mess I made in the kitchen. I know I was irrational. What I did was stupid.”

“It’s fine. I understand. You’re grieving.”

And with a gentle nod, she left the room.