Chapter 2: Pulled Pork and Hidden Scars

Tears streamed down my face.

Maribel, I’m sorry.

I don’t think I can marry you anymore. Not after this.

The next day, I lied and said I’d slipped and hurt my back, getting half a day off.

Mr. Wilkins told me to go get some medicine from the mansion’s doctor.

On the way, staff and maids were all rushing around, like something big had happened.

People darted through the halls, whispers trailing behind them. Even the groundskeepers looked on edge, hats pulled low as if they could hide from whatever trouble was brewing.

Mr. Allen, who was always friendly to me, quietly told me someone had spiked Everett’s drink at last night’s gala, and now they were investigating who did it.

Hearing this, my heart skipped a beat. The unbearable memory from last night made me tremble all over.

My backside hurt even more.

“Also, last night Everett hooked up with a maid, but she ran off. This morning, he ordered the whole staff to search for her.”

“What for?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Mr. Allen glanced at me, leaned in, and whispered, “To keep her quiet.”

“W-Why?”

“Who knows if she was the one who drugged him? There are plenty of women here who’d love to marry into the Sinclair family.”

I felt ice water in my veins.

If they find out it was me last night, even if I swore on a Bible, I couldn’t clear my name.

Besides, I’m a man. If this gets out, it’d be a massive scandal for the Sinclairs.

“By the way, Everett’s at the mansion clinic getting checked out. I hear he’s in a terrible mood. If your injury isn’t serious, best not to go and bring bad luck.” Mr. Allen warned me.

Just as I took a step forward, I quickly stepped back, thanked him gratefully, and turned back to the kitchen.

Better to lay low for a while. Yeah, definitely time to disappear.

Unexpectedly, Everett himself came to investigate the kitchen.

Everyone lined up in a row.

Everett narrowed his eyes, looked over all the women, whispered a few words to the security team, and then dismissed them.

My heart pounded. Did he notice something?

The marks on my body hadn’t completely faded. If he wanted to check, I’d be exposed immediately.

Everett curled his lips into a gentle smile. “Everyone, introduce yourselves.”

We looked at each other, confused.

But when the boss speaks, no one dares to argue. We all started introducing ourselves.

Soon it was my turn.

“I’m Jamie Morales, twenty years old, good at making pulled pork…”

As I spoke, I watched Everett’s face. Seeing his expression unchanged, I couldn’t help but sigh in relief.

But before I could relax, Everett left me alone and dismissed everyone else.

I felt like I was facing the executioner, my brain scrambling for a way out.

Everett smiled and walked up to me. “Don’t be nervous.”

I patted my trembling legs. “N-Not nervous, sir…”

He grinned wider. “I’m not gonna eat you.”

You don’t eat people, but you sure ruin their lives!

I was about to cry from fear.

That jerk not only took my dignity, but now he wants to end me too!

Maribel, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ll never see you again!

“Don’t be scared, I kept you for another reason.”

“It’s just that your pulled pork is amazing, so I asked my dad to let you cook for me in the East Wing.”

Me: “Ah ah ah!”

Good news: Everett didn’t recognize me.

Bad news: I have to become his personal pulled pork chef.

Better news: the pay is doubled.

Good and bad cancel each other out, so I quickly packed my things and moved to the East Wing.

Everett is the biggest pulled pork fan I’ve ever seen.

He eats sandwiches as big as his head for all three meals. No, seriously. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Barbecued, slow-cooked, spicy…

I’ve made every style, and he never gets tired of them.

He even had a small kitchen built just for making pork.

When Mr. Wilkins took me there, he said, “Everett never shows much emotion. I’ve worked here over ten years and never saw him like a dish so much.”

Then he patted my shoulder, serious. “Do a good job. If you catch Everett’s eye, your future could be bright.”

Thanks, but right now I really don’t want to hear about my ‘future.’

After I started working in the East Wing, I realized Everett, who supposedly handled countless affairs every day, wasn’t as busy as people said.

He often wandered into the small kitchen, sat on a little stool, rested his chin on his hands, and watched me.

He called it “supervising the work.”