Chapter 3: Feast of Ambition

After Cassie was officially treated as family, she carried herself like the future lady of the house. She walked with her chin high, as if she’d always belonged.

She started giving orders to the staff, walking through the halls with her nose in the air, as if she’d been born to it. The other maids watched her with a mix of envy and fear, not sure which way the wind would blow.

With the mentality of someone who’d just hit the lottery, she wanted to stuff every good thing into her own belly at once. Nothing was off-limits now, not for her.

She raided the kitchen, piling her plate high at every meal, sampling every dessert and delicacy. She acted like the house was a buffet, and she was finally allowed to eat her fill. The cooks rolled their eyes, but she didn’t care.

Steak with truffle butter. Lobster bisque. Chicken and wild rice soup. Pecan pie. Not a meal missed, not a crumb left behind.

The cooks grumbled, but she didn’t care. She ate with both hands, savoring every bite, her eyes daring anyone to stop her. She relished every moment.

I frowned as I watched. My hands itched to snatch the plate away.

It wasn’t just the waste that bothered me. It was the recklessness, the way she acted like nothing could touch her now. That was what got under my skin.

Too much rich food during pregnancy, and the baby would be too big—making labor dangerous. I’d seen it before, more than once.

I’d seen it happen before—women who thought money could buy them an easy birth, only to pay the price in the delivery room. I could still hear their screams.

I was about to tell the kitchen staff to remove a few dishes. My hand hovered over the order slip.

I hesitated at the threshold, torn between duty and resentment. The kitchen was my domain, and I wouldn’t let her ruin it. But I bit my tongue.

Cassie, her mouth shiny from eating, looked up warily at me—the “unfriendly guest,” she’d called me once. Her eyes flickered, uncertain.

She wiped her lips with a linen napkin, eyes narrowed. She knew I was watching her, and she didn’t like it one bit. Her jaw set.

She pouted as she whined to the young lord eating with her, "I’m carrying your child, you know. I just ate a couple extra dishes, and your mom’s face dropped like I was eating up the whole Whitaker family fortune." Her words hung in the air, daring me to answer.

She shot me a smug glance, as if daring me to contradict her. The other staff exchanged nervous glances, eyes darting between us.

The young lord tore his hungry gaze from Cassie’s slightly rounded belly and, voice sharp with warning, said, "Mother, what are you still standing there for?" He didn’t even look at me.

He put on his best stern voice, but it was all for show. He couldn’t hide the anticipation in his eyes, not from me.

"Cassie says your precious grandson wants to eat your homemade chicken noodle soup." He said it like it was a royal decree, his words heavy as a judge’s gavel. I swallowed hard.

Chicken noodle soup might sound ordinary, but to make the Whitaker family table—wealthy as they were—it had to be special. Nothing less would do.

It was my signature dish, the one everyone remembered from childhood. Even the neighbors talked about it at church potlucks. Folks would beg for the recipe, but I never wrote it down.

The soup was made with the finest free-range chicken, hand-cut noodles, garden-fresh herbs, slow-cooked to perfection. The aroma alone could bring a grown man to tears.

I’d wake up before dawn to start the broth. Letting it simmer for hours until the whole house smelled like home. That was the secret.

Aside from the occasional skillet cornbread, it was the young lord’s favorite dish. He’d always ask for seconds, licking the spoon clean. It was the only thing that made him look like a boy again.

He liked food that was honest—looked like what it was, tasted fresh. No tricks, no fuss. Just the real thing, and plenty of it.

He was a man who believed in tradition, in the simple pleasures. It was the one thing about him that never changed. Some days, I was grateful for that.

With words like that, how could I not understand what he was really asking for? I heard the plea behind the order.

He wasn’t thinking about Cassie or the baby—he was thinking about himself, about the taste of something he couldn’t get anywhere else. That was all that mattered.

Should I be grateful? I chewed the thought like gristle.

The question gnawed at me. Was this all I was good for now? A cook. A caretaker. A keeper of family secrets. Nothing more.

Grateful that the young lord felt nothing for Cassie, who was carrying his only child—no pity, no love. Only an endless hunger for delicacies.

It was a cold comfort, knowing I was still the only one who could satisfy him in this one small way. Cold as the kitchen tile under my feet.

But when I placed my hand over my chest, my heart didn’t stir at all. Not a flutter.

I felt nothing. Not anger, not jealousy, not even pain. Just a hollow ache where love used to be. Empty as a soup pot after supper.