𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀
I STRETCHED MY ARMS LUXURIOUSLY, feeling the pleasant resistance of my muscles after a long night of sleep, the first rays of the morning sun hitting my face through the sheer, heavy curtains. The light was pale gold, filtered and soft, exactly the kind of perfect, controlled ambiance the house demanded. I groaned softly, a sound muffled by the expensive thread count of the linens, slowly lifting myself from the deep warmth of the bed and making my way toward the adjoining bathroom. I glanced reflexively at the sleek, minimalist clock on my bedside table, its digital display a cool, steady blue.
"7:03 AM," I whispered, stretching my whole body again, vertebrae popping softly.
I paced myself in front of the marble-framed mirror, noting the faint traces of sleep still lingering in my eyes. I turned on the faucet, listening to the perfectly regulated flow of water—never too hot, never too cold—before cupping my hands beneath the running stream. I plunged my face into the icy spray. The sharp, sudden shock of the water against my skin was the only thing that could truly jar my sleeping soul awake, a brutal but necessary catalyst. Just as the residual coolness began to dissipate, a sudden, brisk knock rattled the heavy oak door.
"Miss C, are you awake now?" It was Mich, our trustworthy housemaid. Even through the wood, I could hear the faint, underlying energy in her voice. She's about my age—seventeen—and we share the same improbable, almost theatrical build: a slim waist, a generous bust, and hips that never lie. We are often mistaken for women in our mid-twenties, which speaks volumes about the genetics we were gifted. People often mistake us as being somewhat related, too, which Mich takes as a high compliment—a notion I find completely absurd, yet secretly, sometimes, a little comforting.
I shook off the internal reflection and the subtle discomfort of that observation, heading toward the door. I pulled it open and leaned against the door frame, adopting a pose of theatrical exhaustion, facing Mich. "I'm still sleeping at the moment, Mich. I'm quite certain I told my subconscious to take the morning off." I teased, faking a dramatic, exaggerated yawn that made my jaw crack.
Mich's eyes—wide, dark, and always brimming with potential trouble—gleamed with genuine mischief. She knew exactly what I was doing. "Well, if that's the case," she began, dropping her voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper, "I might as well throw those fluffy pancakes—the ones topped with vanilla ice cream and candied bacon—straight down the drain! They won't be nearly as tasty later, since you're still sleeping and won't get to eat them fresh." She hissed the word 'fresh' playfully, injecting it with high dramatic flair, already turning her body and preparing to run down the hall.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" I yelled, abandoning all pretense of elegance. The mention of the caramelized bacon and vanilla ice cream was enough to mobilize me instantly. I chased her laughter down the pristine, echoing marble hall toward the kitchen, my bare feet slapping lightly against the polished stone floor. The chase, brief as it was, felt like the most genuine thing I had done all morning.
Cynthia, our elderly head maid—a unique, formidable blend of childish impatience and absolute strict discipline—saw us the moment we skidded into the vast, industrial-sized kitchen. She clicked her tongue sharply, the sound a tiny, cutting indictment of our childish chaos, and called Mich back with an authority that brooked no argument.
"Why are you playing instead of serving the lady? Didn't I tell you that you're still in your working hours?" Cynthia moved swiftly, her starched apron making a soft hush sound as she rushed toward Mich. She grabbed Mich's ear—a classic, motherly punishment—pinching it gently but firmly as she delivered her message. I laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound of amusement, seeing the mixture of pain and feigned martyrdom on Mich's face. I grabbed the nearest chair—a heavy, wrought-iron dining chair—and pulled it near their direction, watching the scene unfold. It was a genuinely fun sight, a piece of spontaneous, messy life in the midst of the Smith order.
Cynthia has always been a second mother to us both. Although I'm not an orphan like Mich, my parents are habitually absent. Their minds and bodies work 24/7, constantly focused on board meetings, overseas investments, and maintaining the flawless Smith image. They don't even manage to come home on holidays or birthdays; those events are handled by proxy, through exorbitant gifts and meticulously planned itineraries. It's comforting having Mich around; being an only child has many pros—limitless resources, privacy, control—but also many deep cons, the largest being the suffocating solitude. It was fun at first, enjoying the run of the entire estate, but as I aged, I realized how much I truly liked and needed having people around.
Mich served my breakfast—a towering stack of pancakes, still safe, still warm—with a wide, brilliant, grinning smile. She leaned down and, unseen by Cynthia who was still rearranging a spice rack in mock indignation, made a goofy face at me while our head maid was still reprimanding her in the background.
I signed with my hand for her to come closer, dropping my voice. "Eat breakfast with me so we can goof around the theater room later!" I joyfully whispered, trying to contain the bubbling excitement of our shared conspiracy. Her eyes were sparkling with delight at the break in routine. She gave a quick, secret nod and swiftly sat beside me, grabbing a fork.
"Cynthia," I said, my voice carefully nonchalant, projecting toward the older woman without looking directly at her. I began methodically cutting my pancakes, the fork scraping lightly against the porcelain. "Mich will eat with me today. It's a requirement of my diet. I hope you don't mind." The deliberate vagueness and the implied authority of "my diet" were usually enough to shut down any protest. Cynthia couldn't argue with my requests, especially if they sounded like a doctor's order. She just let out a heavy sigh—a silent but audible protest at my notion of commandeering her staff. Mich and I then exchanged triumphant, silent smiles and happily devoured the decadent food in front of us, the caramelized bacon providing the perfect salty crunch against the cool vanilla cream. The breakfast, usually a solitary affair, felt warm and alive.
ONCE THE FINAL PANCAKE DISAPPEARED and Mich was finally released from Cynthia's gentle tyranny—a tyranny Mich secretly thrived under—we began our slow, contented retreat to the sanctuary of the theater room. We didn't rush. The house felt quiet again, the sun higher now, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished wooden floors. Every step was accompanied by the soft echo of our sneakers on the marble, a faint, rhythmic sound in the enormous space.
I let Mich busy herself choosing a film from the massive, floor-to-ceiling shelf cabinet that lined one wall of the large, circular foyer leading into the theater. The cabinet housed hundreds of films, all alphabetically organized, a testament to my father's penchant for order and completeness. Meanwhile, I wandered the perimeter of the theater room, letting my fingers trail lazily over every plush, cushioned armrest. The fabric was velvet-soft, cool beneath my fingertips. My eyes roamed the shadows of the expansive room, desperately trying to unlock a forgotten memory—a trace of my parents perhaps enjoying a movie night with me in this very spot. Did we sit here as a family? Did we share popcorn? I inhaled deeply, trying to catch a phantom scent of my mother's expensive perfume or the faint, woody aroma of my father's cologne. But the vast, echoing silence in my mind remained, leaving only a hollow disappointment. It was all utterly blank, a beautifully decorated stage that had never hosted a true family performance.
"Miss C, I've wanted to watch this one for so long! I didn't know you guys had it here," Mich exclaimed, her voice snapping me back from the edge of my melancholy. She was clutching a DVD case like a priceless, rediscovered treasure, the cover art brightly colored and exciting. I smiled, grateful for her timing, gesturing for her to load it into the player positioned on the high console at the far center of the room. The console itself looked more like a mission control panel than a simple media player, a complex display of Smith excess. She gave me a quick salute and then dashed to the Snack Area, a customized, climate-controlled nook tucked neatly into the right-hand corner. She emerged moments later with armfuls of drinks and treats—oversized bags of gourmet popcorn, chilled sodas, and imported chocolate bars—before navigating the short flight of stairs that led down to the main seating aisle.
The theater was quite spacious, its design reminiscent of a small, luxury screening room. A huge, cinematic screen dominated the front wall, facing seven columns of luxurious, deeply reclining chairs spread across three wide rows, or aisles. Every chair was positioned for the perfect sightline. I settled into my usual favorite—the center chair in the front row, the position of maximum control. Mich dropped a small mountain of soft pillows and a thick, fleece throw blanket onto the chair next to mine, then began her meticulous arrangement of the snacks, laying everything out perfectly. She carefully snapped the lid onto the soda, placing the bowl of popcorn precisely where it could be reached by both of us.
For this moment, with the sound system humming quietly and Mich's focused energy beside me, everything was perfect. The quiet was manageable now; it felt shared, not empty. I still thank my parents for giving me the two of them. If it weren't for Cynthia and Mich—for their noise, their care, their human presence—this entire house would be gray, a spectacular monument to emotionless wealth. How I wish Mom and Dad were always present, not just represented by financial transactions and empty schedules. Only then could I truly say that I couldn't ask for more.
Mich finished her setup, gave me a triumphant nod, and pressed the main play button on the remote. The lights began their slow, deliberate process of dimming, bathing the room in a deep, expectant darkness that swallowed the last vestiges of daylight, just as the movie studio logo flickered to life on the colossal screen. The peaceful calm settled over me, a fragile, temporary respite.