Chapter 5: At Least One Normal Person... Shit.
Isabella groaned, pressing her palms against her temples as if she could physically hold her skull together. The sunlight slicing through the blinds was downright sadistic, each beam a laser targeting the worst hangover of her life. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. "I'm never drinking again," she muttered, though the words tasted like a lie.
A metallic clang from downstairs made her flinch. She cracked one eye open—10:30 AM. Shit. She hadn’t slept past seven in fifteen years. Fragmented memories from last night flickered: Marco’s stupidly perfect torso glistening from his shower, Sofia’s breathy giggles floating through the guest bedroom. Isabella groaned louder this time. "This isn’t happening."
She peeled herself off the mattress, her limbs leaden. Her blouse was wrinkled beyond salvation, her hair a tangled nest. The mirror confirmed she looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backward. "Christ," she muttered, finger-combing the worst knots.
The scent of coffee crept under the bedroom door, rich and caffeinated salvation. She followed it downstairs like a zombie drawn to brains. The kitchen should’ve been a war zone—half-empty takeout containers, cereal bowls fossilizing with milk. Instead, Tony stood at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing an apron that screamed '1950s housewife.'
"Tony?" Her voice came out hoarse. "What the hell?"
He turned, grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Morning, Mom. Hungover brunch is my specialty." He gestured to the spread—fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, eggs so perfect they looked photoshopped.
Isabella gaped. "Since when do you know how to cook?"
"YouTube tutorials," he said, shrugging. "And, y’know, trial by fire. Mostly fire at first." He flipped a pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Figured you could use the help."
She poured coffee, the first sip like liquid salvation. "You’re a saint," she sighed. "But seriously, what’s with the domestic goddess act?"
Tony’s ears pinked. He kept his eyes on the stove. "I like it. Cooking, cleaning… it’s satisfying. Making things nice for people."
Isabella studied him, stirring cream into her mug. "That why you’re always sneaking my laundry out of the hamper?"
"Maybe." He scraped the spatula over the pan harder than necessary. "Just… feels good when someone notices."
Sofia waltzed in, already in cutoff shorts and a crop top, her auburn hair in a messy bun. "Holy shit, Tony went full Martha Stewart." She grabbed a plate, piling it high. "Dude, the apron’s a vibe. Really leaning into the whole maid thing, huh?"
Tony’s head snapped up. "Shut up, Sofia."
Isabella froze, her mug halfway to her lips. "Maid thing?"
Sofia smirked, syrup dripping onto her wrist. "Oh, come on. You haven't seen his browser history?" She licked the syrup off, grinning. "Dude’s got a full-blown maid kink."
The kitchen went silent. Tony looked like he wanted to melt into the linoleum. Isabella set her coffee down with a sharp clink. "Tony," she said, voice deceptively calm. "Why? What makes you so interested in maids?"
The question hung in the air between them, sharp as the scent of burning bacon.
Tony's face flushed crimson, his eyes darting between Isabella and Sofia. He stammered, "It's not a 'kink,' okay? It's...an appreciation. For the work. The...dedication." His fingers twisted the spatula until his knuckles turned white.
Sofia snorted, rolling her eyes so hard her entire head tilted back. "Yeah, dedication to wearing a French maid outfit." She licked syrup off her thumb with exaggerated slowness. "I've seen the search history, Tony. Lace and feathers, dude. Lace and feathers."
The pan sizzled violently as Tony abandoned it. Isabella raised an eyebrow, her gaze fixed on Tony while the silence stretched thick between them. "Tony," she repeated softly, watching a bead of sweat trail down his temple, "is there a reason why you're so interested in maids?"
Tony fidgeted with the spatula, avoiding her eyes like they might burn him. He mumbled into his collarbone, "It's just...a fantasy, okay? Everyone has them." The bacon popped loudly, making him jump. "It's not hurting anyone."
Isabella pressed, leaning against the counter until the edge dug into her hips. "But why maids, Tony?" The coffee in her mug had gone cold, but she gripped it tighter anyway. "What is it about that particular...image that appeals to you?" Is it because I was one? The unspoken question echoed in her skull.
He sighed, finally meeting her gaze with a flicker of vulnerability that made her chest ache. "I don't know, Mom." His shoulders slumped under the frilly apron. "It's just...the idea of someone taking care of everything. Making things perfect." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Being...subservient, I guess."
Sofia piped up through a mouthful of pancake, "Subservient?" Syrup dripped onto her plate with a sticky plop. "Dude, that's kinda messed up."
Tony's glare could have melted steel. "Shut up, Sofia." He snatched the burning bacon from the pan. "You wouldn't understand."
Isabella held up a hand, the universal mom-sign for cease fire. She turned back to Tony, watching how his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Is it the uniform?" she asked gently, ignoring how her own pulse had picked up speed. "The power dynamic?"
Tony hesitated, then nodded so slowly it was barely perceptible. "Maybe." The spatula clattered against the stovetop. "I don't know. It's just...hot, okay?" He slammed the utensil down hard enough to make the salt shaker jump. "Is that what you want to hear?"
Isabella winced at the noise, a sudden memory flashing behind her eyes - the crisp white uniform clinging to her younger body, the way her ex-husband's gaze would follow her as she dusted the bookshelves. "I see," she whispered, the words tasting like ash.
Sofia, sensing the shift in atmosphere, finally shut her mouth with an audible click of teeth. Her eyes darted between them, a flicker of understanding dawning across her features.
Isabella stared at Tony, watching how the morning light caught the dark stubble along his jaw - so like his father's. Her mind raced through twenty years of memories, landing hard on one truth. "Tony," she asked aloud, the question punching through the kitchen like a gunshot, "do you know what your mother used to do before she was a teacher?"
Tony frowned, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What are you talking about, Mom?" He wiped his hands on the apron, smearing grease across the lace trim. "You've always been a teacher."
Isabella looked at him - really looked at him - seeing both the boy he'd been and the man he was becoming. A strange mix of sadness and resolve settled in her chest.
She turned to Tony, who was still watching her with that confused, searching look. "Never mind, Tony," she said, forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn't feel. "It's not important." She reached out to squeeze his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Just... thanks for breakfast. It's perfect."
Tony's frown deepened. "Mom, what's going on?" His fingers twitched toward hers, then pulled back. "You're acting weird. Did I do something wrong?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word, making him sound younger than his years.
Isabella busied herself with clearing plates, stacking them with more force than necessary. The ceramic clattered together like a warning. "No, sweetheart. I'm fine. Just tired." She avoided his gaze, focusing on scraping food scraps into the trash. "Why don't you go work on your coding or something? I know you've got that project due."
Sofia, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly perked up. "Yeah, Tony," she said with exaggerated cheer, "go be a computer wizard." She winked at Isabella while twirling a strand of auburn hair around her finger. "Leave the domestic stuff to the professionals."
Tony's face darkened. "Fuck off, Sofia," he muttered, snatching his backpack from the chair. The straps caught on the backrest, making him yank harder than necessary. He shot one last confused look at Isabella before storming out, his sneakers squeaking angrily on the linoleum.
Isabella watched him go, guilt twisting in her gut like a knife. She should tell him. She knew she should. But the words—those simple, awful words—stuck in her throat like dry bread. 'I was a maid before I married your father.' How could she say that now?
The kitchen felt suddenly too quiet. Sofia cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the silence. "So," she drawled, popping a piece of bacon in her mouth, "about that maid kink—"
"Drop it, Sofia." Isabella's voice came out harsher than she intended. She rubbed her temples, the hangover pounding behind her eyes. "Just... not now."
Sofia rolled her eyes but didn't push. She grabbed her phone, scrolling with one hand while licking syrup off the other. "Whatever. I'm meeting Chloe for coffee." She paused at the doorway, her expression uncharacteristically serious. "Just... talk to him, Mom. He's a weirdo, but he's your weirdo."
Isabella nodded, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. "I will," she lied smoothly. "Soon." The word tasted bitter.
With a final skeptical look, Sofia disappeared down the hall. The front door slammed shut behind her, leaving Isabella alone with the dirty dishes and her swirling thoughts.
Outside the window, a breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree. Shadows danced across the countertop, fleeting and insubstantial. Like secrets, Isabella thought. Like the past she'd worked so hard to bury.
She turned on the faucet, letting the water run hot before plunging her hands in. The heat stung, but she welcomed the pain—something real to focus on. She scrubbed at a stubborn bit of egg, watching as the suds bubbled and popped.
One plate. Then another. Methodical. Mindless. The rhythm of it steadied her breathing, even as her mind raced. Tony's fascination. Sofia's knowing looks. Marco's damn towel. All of it tangled together like a knot she couldn't unravel.
Not today, she decided, scraping burnt pancake off the skillet with more force than necessary. Today she would breathe. Today she would wash dishes and pretend everything was normal. Today she would let it go.
For now.
The water swirled down the drain, carrying bits of food and foam with it. Isabella watched it go, her reflection warped and wavering in the stainless steel. She barely recognized herself.
She reached for the next dish. Then the next. One at a time. That's all she could do. One dish at a time. One day at a time.
For now.
Marco sauntered into the kitchen, already dressed for a jog. Spandex shorts hugged his thighs like a second skin, the fabric stretching taut over the muscles that flexed with each step. A sweat-wicking tank top clung to his torso, the deep V-neck revealing just enough to make Isabella’s mouth go dry. He smirked, catching her eye as she stood frozen at the sink, soap suds dripping from her fingers. "Morning, ladies," he said, then glanced around the empty kitchen. "Or, uh, lady."
Isabella glared at him, her earlier resolve dissolving under the weight of his stupidly perfect smirk. "What's with the smirk, Marco?" She wiped her hands on a dish towel, gripping it tight enough to wring water from the fabric.
"Just enjoying the view," he said, his gaze dragging down her disheveled appearance—the wrinkled blouse, the tangled hair, the dark circles under her eyes. His grin widened. "You look like you had a rough night."
"Mind your own business," Isabella snapped, turning back to the dishes with more force than necessary. A plate clattered against the stainless steel sink. "And while you're at it, address me properly."
Marco chuckled, leaning against the counter so close she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive, with a hint of citrus. "Properly?" He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish the sentence. "As in...?"
"As in, 'Mom,'" Isabella said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. She turned to face him fully, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's not that difficult."
Marco's smirk faltered for a split second, just long enough for her to notice. Then it returned with renewed force, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. "Alright, Mom," he said, drawing out the word with exaggerated emphasis. He pushed off the counter, stepping into her space. "Anything else I can do for you, Mom?"
Isabella gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to throw the soapy sponge at his stupidly handsome face. "Just go for your run, Marco." She jerked her chin toward the door. "And try not to get arrested."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Mom," he said, pushing off the counter. He took a step back, then another, his smirk never wavering. "See you later." He winked, slow and deliberate, before turning toward the front door.
As Marco passed the sink, he reached out and squeezed Isabella's shoulder. His fingers were warm, his grip firm but not unkind. "Later, Mom," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
Isabella shivered, pulling away from his touch like she'd been burned. "Just go," she muttered, her cheeks flaming. The spot where his hand had been tingled, the sensation lingering long after he'd let go.
Marco laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. He headed out the door, his footsteps fading down the sidewalk, the rhythmic slap of his sneakers against pavement growing fainter with each passing second.
Isabella stared after him, her mind a jumble of conflicting emotions—annoyance, attraction, and a healthy dose of confusion. "Mom," she repeated under her breath, the word feeling strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. It shouldn’t have been this hard. He was her stepson, for Christ’s sake.
Just as she was about to turn back to the dishes, a knock echoed through the small house. Sharp. Authoritative. The kind of knock that made her spine stiffen and her pulse kick up a notch.
Isabella wiped her hands on her jeans, the fabric rough against her damp skin. She walked toward the door, each step heavier than the last, a sense of foreboding settling in her stomach like a stone.
She knew exactly who was on the other side: Donna.