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I wake up before 6 the next morning. I drag my tired body out of the comfortable bed because I know I have obligations. I haven't slept well, but I've slept better than previous days and at I least I slept in a comfortable bed and a warm room.

It's dark outside and the house is still quiet. I'm prepared for the cold to hit me, but it doesn't come and I sigh in relief. I've been so used to waking up to cold in the morning that this is actually a nice surprise.

Until I remember I'll have to deal with the dragon again. But I need to suck it up and deal with it because I can not screw this up. This job is well-paid and if that means I have to listen to stuck-up people and serve them with my head bowed down, I will certainly do that.

I dress in my old clothes that scream of how poor I'm currently living. I wrap my hair up in a ponytail, brush my teeth, wash my face with some warm water and then splashing it with a cold one to wake myself up some more and then I head down into the kitchen as quietly as I can.

I don't think anyone is up yet. The house is still dark and quiet even in the halls.

When I get into the kitchen, I check the menu again to make sure what to prepare for Mr Welch. It's an omelette for today and a fruit - any kind of fruit.

I don't know who would want to eat an omelette at 6 in the morning, or anything for that matter, but I'm not here to question their living, I'm just here to follow the rules. So if they want to eat an omelette at 6 in the morning, they're getting it.

I prepare the meal quietly, still not used to the big kitchen. I have some troubles in finding the cutlery and other dishes.

"Is there any particular reason the table is not set yet?"

I wasn't prepared for anyone to come in here and I really wasn't prepared to hear that voice again. "Qué chingados?!" I shriek, jumping up and then putting my palm down to calm myself down, but I press it directly on the hot stove and I yelp in pain. "Fuck, oh, fuck ...Mierda," I let out, my stomach churning.

"Miss Duarte."

I'm mortified. I'm also completely sure that, at this moment, I've lost my job. Well, I at least made around 80 pounds if my calculations are right.

"I'm sorry, I'm so -"

"Get your hand under the cool water," the booming voice orders just when I want to turn around. When I don't move fast enough, he raises his tone, saying a sharp, "Now!"

I react quickly. Because his tone doesn't allow objections and it's the tone that you subconsciously oblige, no matter what it says. I let the cold water run down my hand and I barely hold myself together to not start crying.

I messed up. I totally, utterly screwed this up. I can also smell the omelette burning and I'm starting to quietly sob now. What a mess.

Mr Welch comes to the stove and turns it off. And only now I get the first view of him.

He's ... extravagant. Again in his suit that had to be made only for him because no way could he go to a store and find a suit that fits his amazing body so good. He also looks completely waken up, as if it was in the middle of the day and not only 6 am. He's polished, his hair is not as ruffled as it was the previous evening, but his face has the same hard lines that make him look so intimidating.

I avert my gaze away from him because I feel unworthy of even looking at him in my old clothes and my tired, dull face.

I feel his strong presence at my side and I feel tears stinging my eyes again. But I'm not going to let myself cry. I'll get out of here with my head raised up high and with a fake confidence, pretending I'm stronger than I am.

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