Chapter 3 - The Morning Routine of a Parasite
By ten o'clock in the morning, the heavy silence in the house had settled into a suffocating, gelatinous weight.
I dressed with deliberate care, choosing a tailored charcoal-gray sheath dress from my wardrobe—sharp, professional, and uncompromising—paired with classic black leather pumps that clicked authoritatively against the hardwood floor with every step I took.
I applied a minimal, flawless layer of makeup, pulling my dark hair back into a sleek, severe French twist that highlighted the sharp angles of my jawline.
When I stepped out of the bedroom and walked down the wide hallway toward the kitchen, the rich, buttery scent of frying bacon and toasted sourdough hit my senses.
Lorraine was standing by the stove, humming an off-key tune to herself while aggressively flipping strips of bacon in the very same cast-iron skillet she had hurled at my head less than two hours earlier.
She didn't turn around immediately when I entered the room.
Instead, she assumed the arrogant, performative posture of a martyred matriarch who expected a humble apology delivered on bended knee.
“Well,” Lorraine sniffed loudly, not bothering to look back.
“It’s about time you finally dragged yourself out of bed. The sun has been up for hours. A decent wife would have had breakfast on the table by seven, especially when Andrew is away working himself to the bone for this family.”
I didn't answer right away.
I walked over to the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator, pulled out a chilled bottle of sparkling mineral water, unscrewed the cap with a crisp twist, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
The cold liquid refreshed my throat.
I leaned my hip against the marble countertop, looking down at Lorraine’s rigid back.
“Lorraine,” I said evenly.
“Turn around.”
Something in the flat, metallic timbre of my voice made her pause.
The spatula froze halfway in mid-air above the sizzling pork fat.
Slowly, reluctantly, Lorraine turned her head over her shoulder, her thin lips pursed in a judgmental scowl.
“What is your problem now? Are you going to whine about the skillet? Honestly, Julia, you’ve always been entirely too dramatic. It missed you, didn't it? Stop making a mountain out of a molehill and scramble some eggs. My stomach is starting to—”
She stopped dead in her tracks.
For the first time, she actually turned her body around and looked at me properly.
Her eyes swept over my tailored charcoal dress, the severe hair, the cool, impassive expression in my eyes—an expression entirely devoid of the habitual deference and nervous accommodation I had worn like a cheap apron for the past seven years.
Lorraine’s scowl deepened into genuine irritation.
“Why are you dressed like that? Where do you think you’re going? You aren't scheduled at the clinic today, are you? Andrew explicitly said—”
“Andrew doesn't get to dictate my schedule anymore, Lorraine,” I interrupted, my voice smooth as polished glass.
I reached down and placed the green folder squarely on the center of the kitchen island, right beside the plate of greasy bacon.
The heavy leather cover landed with a dull, significant thud.
Lorraine blinked, staring at the folder as if it were a venomous snake coil.
“What is that rubbish?” she demanded, crossing her arms defensively over her floral apron.
“Open it,” I invited softly, gesturing toward the clasp with two fingers.
“Go ahead. Read page four. It's particularly educational.”
Lorraine sneered, marching across the kitchen floor with her chin thrust aggressively forward.
“Playing games on your birthday, are you? Typical. Immature, selfish, just like your mother—”
She snapped the brass clasp of the green folder open, pulled out the top stack of legal documents with jerky, impatient movements, and scanned the bold header text at the top of page four.
Her eyes raced across the lines of dense legal terminology, moving from paragraph to paragraph with frantic speed.
The rich, ruddy color in her cheeks began to drain away in real-time, replaced by an alarming, pasty shade of gray.
Her breathing hitched, turning into a shallow, ragged wheeze.
“This... this is a mistake,” Lorraine whispered, her voice cracking violently on the final syllable.
She looked up from the paper, her eyes wide and bloodshot with sudden, blind panic.
“This is a fake document! Andrew told me... Andrew said he bought this house! He told me he worked for every brick, every shingle, every square inch of this property! He said you were just a lucky little nurse who married up!”
A cold, mirthless laugh escaped my lips.
“Andrew lied to you, Lorraine,” I replied calmly, stepping closer so she could see the absolute chill in my eyes.
“Or perhaps you both lied to yourselves, comfortable in the shared delusion that you could parasitize my family’s wealth while treating me like dirt in my own home.”
Lorraine shook her head frantically, clutching the papers so hard her knuckles turned chalk-white, threatening to tear the legal stationery in half.
“No! No! You can't do this! We have rights! Andrew is your husband! He’s the man of the house!”
I reached out with two fingers, caught the edge of the legal document, and smoothly tugged it out of her trembling grip, sliding it back into the green folder with a satisfying rustle.
“There is no 'man of the house' here, Lorraine,” I said, locking the brass clasp with a sharp click.
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“There is only me. And as of five o’clock this evening, every single piece of furniture, every vehicle in the driveway, and the roof over your head belongs strictly and exclusively to Julia Vance.”
Lorraine let out a high-pitched, strangled shriek, her hands flying to her face as the horrifying reality began to crash down upon her fragile, arrogant fortress of lies.
