Chapter 4: Breaking the Whitaker Curse

Back at the Whitaker family’s old house, I started packing my things.

I stuffed everything I owned into two suitcases. Most of it was cheap, but it was mine.

I didn’t want to spend another minute in that suffocating house.

Every room was a reminder of my misery. I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind.

Dragging my suitcase downstairs, I ran into Mrs. Whitaker, just returning with her lackey, Gloria.

They walked in, arms full of shopping bags, laughing about something. The moment they saw me, the mood shifted.

"Stop right there!" Mrs. Whitaker barked. "Where do you think you’re going?"

Her voice was sharp, the kind that made you want to shrink away. Not today.

"Why do you care?" I copied her, lifting my nose in the air.

I squared my shoulders, refusing to back down.

"I haven’t even settled yesterday’s score with you! Just wait until Carter gets back—you’ll regret it!" Mrs. Whitaker sneered, sitting on the sofa.

She tossed her bags aside, glaring at me like I was a stray dog who’d wandered into her living room.

Oh, that’s right—Carter had gone to Dubai for business and couldn’t come back right now.

I’d overheard her on the phone, complaining about the time difference.

No wonder Mrs. Whitaker hadn’t tattled to her son yet.

Normally, if I did anything to displease her, she’d run to Carter to complain.

She’d call him at all hours, her voice dripping with tears, demanding he "do something."

He was domineering and protective, never asking questions—just blaming me outright.

His method was simple: threaten me with my mom.

He’d lower his voice, icy and controlled, and remind me exactly who held the power.

"My mom and my sister are the people I care about most. If anyone upsets them, I’ll make them suffer ten times worse!"

He meant it. I’d learned that the hard way.

Then he’d tell his assistant to switch my mom to the cheapest meds the next month.

It was a cruel, calculated punishment. No warning, no discussion.

Even if I immediately apologized and begged, he wouldn’t budge.

His rules were ironclad. Mercy wasn’t in his vocabulary.

If he hadn’t gone abroad, Mrs. Whitaker would have called him back last night to get revenge for her.

She’d have made sure he came home, no matter the cost.

But now that I had money and confidence, even if Carter were here, I wouldn’t be afraid.

That realization was exhilarating.

I’d planned to just leave quietly.

I wanted to slip away, disappear without a word. But now…

But seeing Mrs. Whitaker strutting around, I didn’t want to go just yet.

She’d made my life hell. I wanted her to feel just a little of what I’d felt.

She’d bullied me for so long—leaving without payback would be too easy on her.

She didn’t deserve a clean break.

"Carter said he gives you $150 a month. You eat and live here—what do you need money for? When he gets back, I’ll tell him to cut you off. Women like you shouldn’t get a cent—keeps you from running around. So, where did you go this morning?"

She eyed my suitcase, suspicion written all over her face.

"The hospital," I answered honestly.

I didn’t owe her an explanation, but I gave her one anyway.

"Your mom’s in our hospital, we pay her bills—what’s there to see? You can’t cure her by visiting. From now on, no more hospital visits." Mrs. Whitaker ordered.

She spoke like a warden laying down the law. I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to laugh.

"Enough—mind your own—" I was getting annoyed.

I could feel my patience slipping away. I was done playing nice.

She cut me off. "Look at what you’re wearing! Are we starving you? Didn’t Carter buy you clothes? Dressing like that—you’re deliberately trying to embarrass us!"

She looked me up and down, sneering at my simple outfit.

I looked down: white T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. What was the problem?

I shrugged. Comfort over couture, any day.

"I like dressing like this."

My voice was even, my eyes steady. Let her stew.

Mrs. Whitaker jabbed her finger at me, furious. "Fine! You think no one can control you with Carter gone? I’m keeping track of everything you do. When he’s back, you’ll be on your knees apologizing!"

She whipped out her phone, typing furiously. Probably making a list of my "crimes."

"Sure, take your time waiting," I replied, unfazed.

I smiled, letting her know she didn’t scare me anymore.

"Go ahead and be stubborn. When the time comes, even kneeling won’t save you!" Mrs. Whitaker stormed upstairs, breathing hard.

She stomped up the stairs, heels clicking angrily on the wood.

"What are you standing around for? Go make lunch! Can’t you see it’s almost noon?" Gloria barked from behind the sofa, hands on her hips.

She’d picked up all of Mrs. Whitaker’s worst habits, and then some.

I was a little hungry, so I didn’t argue.

No sense wasting energy on her.

I went to the kitchen and got to work.

The kitchen was my safe space, oddly enough. I lost myself in chopping and stirring, letting the smells and sounds drown out everything else.

Half an hour later, three dishes and a soup were done.

The table looked inviting, steam rising from the plates. For once, I was proud of my work.

I brought the food to the table and started eating.

I sat at the head of the table, fork in hand, savoring every bite. It felt like rebellion.

Gloria heard the noise and ran over.

She stormed in, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief.

"You’re eating? Who said you could eat? How dare you?" She nearly jumped out of her skin.

She pointed at me, voice shrill. If she’d had a whistle, she’d have blown it.

I picked up some shredded potatoes and pork, slowly chewing before replying, "I made the food—why wouldn’t I eat?"

I let the words hang in the air, daring her to challenge me.

"What right do you have to sit here and eat?" she said, pointing at me like she owned the place.

She puffed up, trying to make herself look bigger. It was almost funny.

True, I cooked every meal.

I was the unpaid chef, cleaner, and all-around scapegoat. Lucky me.

Gloria, wanting to slack off, suggested to Mrs. Whitaker that I cook instead. Mrs. Whitaker, eager to make me suffer, happily agreed.

It was a match made in hell. I was the only one who lost.

I learned all kinds of recipes, perfecting my skills just to avoid criticism.

I watched cooking shows, memorized family recipes, anything to stay one step ahead of their complaints.

But after cooking, I couldn’t eat. Like Gloria, I had to stand behind Mrs. Whitaker, waiting on her as she ate.

I’d stand silently, hands clasped, pretending I was invisible. Sometimes, my stomach would growl so loud, Mrs. Whitaker would smirk.

Today was my first time eating at the table since coming here. About time.

Before, I always ate alone in the kitchen after Mrs. Whitaker was done.

I’d sneak bites over the sink, praying no one would catch me.

Ignoring Gloria’s ranting, I finished my meal slowly.

I chewed each bite, savoring the taste of freedom.

Putting down my fork, I told her, "Wash the dishes."

I kept my tone light, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Gloria stared at me like I’d lost my mind. "What did you say? You want me to wash the dishes?"

She looked around, as if hoping someone would come to her rescue.

She pointed at herself.

Her finger wobbled, her face a mix of outrage and confusion.

She was so shocked. Ever since I came to the Whitaker house, washing dishes was my job.

She hadn’t so much as picked up a sponge in months.

Gloria, the housekeeper, had offloaded most of her chores onto me.

She’d mastered the art of delegation—at least when it came to making me miserable.

Her real job was sucking up to Mrs. Whitaker and coming up with new ways to torment me.

She spent more time gossiping than cleaning.

She hadn’t cooked or washed dishes in over six months.

The kitchen was practically foreign territory to her.

I calmly wiped my mouth with a napkin. "Who else, if not you?"

I looked her dead in the eye, refusing to back down.

"You, you—" she sputtered.

She couldn’t finish the sentence, her face turning red.

"You were about to say I should wash them, right?" I clapped my hands and stood. "Don’t forget, I’m Carter Whitaker’s legal wife—the lady of this house. You’re the housekeeper. Your job is to do housework!"

I made sure to enunciate every word, letting it sink in.

Ignoring the dishes, I walked upstairs.

I didn’t even glance back. Let her stew.

I was a little tired—perfect time for a nap.

For once, I’d sleep in peace, knowing I’d stood up for myself.

But Gloria raced up the stairs ahead of me.

She moved faster than I’d ever seen her move before.

She shouted, "Ma’am, the little brat finished eating and won’t wash the dishes!"

Her voice echoed up the stairs, shrill and triumphant.

Halfway up, I saw Mrs. Whitaker at the top of the stairs, Gloria standing behind her, puffed up with pride.

They looked like a pair of angry hens, ready to peck.

Mrs. Whitaker glared. "You must be tired of living! How dare you eat at the table without permission? Someone like you isn’t fit to sit here! Think I can’t deal with you just because Carter’s not home?"

She pointed at me, her finger shaking with rage.

"Ma’am, let me teach this brat a lesson!" Gloria rolled up her sleeves.

She actually flexed her arms, as if she was about to step into a boxing ring.

"If I’m a brat, what does that make Carter? The brat’s husband? And you, Mrs. Whitaker? The brat’s mother-in-law?" I laughed. "Mrs. Whitaker, never seen someone so eager to degrade themselves!"

My laughter was sharp, echoing through the hallway. I saw Mrs. Whitaker’s face turn an alarming shade of purple.

"If it weren’t for Savannah, you’d never have set foot in this house! You’re not even worthy to tie Carter’s shoes. Once Savannah’s relationship is secure, you’ll get out! Just having you here is dirtying the place!"

She spat the words out, her voice trembling with fury.

"If I’m so dirty, why do you eat my food? Why do you make me serve you coffee and water? Never seen anyone as two-faced as you—don’t think being old means you can be shameless."

I let the words hang in the air, daring her to contradict me.

"You dare insult me?" Mrs. Whitaker’s face turned purple, her finger trembling. "Hit her!"

She looked at Gloria, her eyes wild.

Gloria lunged at me.

She charged, arms outstretched. Faster than I expected.

I sidestepped.

Years of practice dodging their abuse paid off.

As she charged, I dodged again.

She stumbled, arms flailing, barely keeping her balance.

With her bulky, clumsy frame, she was no match for me. I’d only put up with her before because I was swallowing my pride—she really thought I couldn’t fight back?

I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Crash!"

The sound was deafening. Porcelain shattered, echoing down the stairs.

Gloria slammed into a side table, knocking a vase over the railing to the floor below, where it shattered.

The vase spun in the air. Then—crack. It hit the tile.

"My vase!" Mrs. Whitaker screamed and ran downstairs.

Her voice was pure anguish, as if she’d lost a child.

Supposedly, Mrs. Whitaker had bought that vase at auction for a quarter million dollars.

She’d bragged about it to anyone who’d listen, even wrote an article for the local paper.

To show it off, but not let anyone touch it, she’d had a special table made for the top of the stairs.

It was the centerpiece of her "collection," visible from every angle in the foyer.

That way, everyone downstairs could see it, but no one could touch it.

She’d threatened to fire anyone who so much as breathed on it.

Now, a quarter million dollars’ worth of porcelain was in pieces on the floor. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer vase.

"Ma’am! I didn’t mean to!" Gloria cried, kneeling before Mrs. Whitaker. "It was the brat! She ran toward the vase on purpose!"

Her voice was desperate, eyes wide with terror. She pointed at me, shifting the blame as fast as she could.

"That’s right, I did run that way on purpose," I called down from the upstairs railing, grinning. "But I didn’t make you lunge at the vase! Gloria, you could work here your whole life and never pay that off—what now?"

I leaned over the banister, letting my words carry. Gloria’s face went white as a sheet.

Gloria trembled in fear. "Ma’am, I’m sorry! Please, for the sake of my loyalty, let me off this once!"

She clasped her hands, begging like a child caught stealing cookies.

"This isn’t about money!" Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes were red as she cradled the porcelain shards. "Don’t you know, this vase is one of a kind? No amount of money can replace it!"

She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. The sight would have been touching if I didn’t know better.

Mrs. Whitaker wept, tears dripping onto the shards.

Her mascara ran in black streaks, her sobs echoing off the marble floors.

Gloria was at a total loss.

She looked around, unsure what to do. For once, she had no snarky comeback.

Awkwardly, Mrs. Whitaker’s stomach suddenly growled.

The sound was so loud, even Gloria jumped. I had to bite back a laugh.

I glanced at the clock—oh, it was after one, and Mrs. Whitaker hadn’t had lunch.

No wonder she was extra cranky.

"Ma’am, please—" Gloria was still begging.

She crawled after Mrs. Whitaker, voice trembling.

"Get out!" Mrs. Whitaker shouted.

Her voice cracked, echoing off the walls.

Gloria scrambled up and ran outside.

She didn’t even look back, just bolted for the door.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Whitaker yelled.

She stood, hands on her hips, glaring at Gloria’s retreating back.

"Didn’t you tell me to get out? I’ll stay far away so I don’t bother you."

Gloria’s voice was muffled, almost apologetic.

"Get to the kitchen!"

Mrs. Whitaker barked the order, her patience gone.

"Huh?"

Gloria peeked back inside, confused.

"Make lunch!"

Mrs. Whitaker’s voice rose another octave, desperate for food.

"Oh!"

Gloria scrambled to the kitchen, tripping over her own feet. I shook my head, amused.

After being doused with foot-bath water and losing her vase, Mrs. Whitaker left me alone for the next two days.

She sulked in her room, refusing to speak to anyone. The house felt lighter, almost peaceful.

As for Gloria, she didn’t even dare be in the same room as me.

She’d peek around corners, making sure the coast was clear before entering.

If I was in the kitchen, she waited until I was done before coming in. If I was in the living room, she hid in her room. If she saw me in the garden, she’d make a wide detour.

It was like I’d become radioactive. I enjoyed every second.

She stayed quiet for two days, but one morning, she suddenly had the nerve to confront me again.

I was in the dining room, sipping mushroom soup, when Gloria strutted over.

She squared her shoulders, trying to look tough. But her hands shook.

She stood in front of me, unmoving.

She planted her feet, blocking my view of the window.

"What’s this?" I looked up, puzzled.

I kept my tone light, pretending not to notice her bravado.

"Hmph!" Gloria slapped the table. "Don’t get cocky—you won’t be smug for long!"

She tried to sound intimidating, but her voice cracked at the end.

"Oh?" I put down my spoon. "Is Carter coming back?"

I raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

"Mr. Whitaker will be home tomorrow morning. Ma’am says he’ll put you in your place." She sneered. "Then I’ll get to slap your face all I want."

She grinned, clearly looking forward to her revenge.

"Then wait until tomorrow to gloat." I stood up. "For now, wash the dishes."

I tossed her a dishrag, watching her face twist in frustration.

Gloria glared at me, but eventually cleaned up without protest.

She muttered curses under her breath, but did as she was told.

Ha, I loved seeing her pissed off but helpless.

It was the sweetest revenge.

The next day, I was still sleeping in when someone pounded on my door.

The banging rattled the pictures on the wall. I groaned, pulling the pillow over my head.

"Mr. Whitaker’s back! Get up!" Gloria shouted from outside.

She sounded breathless, almost gleeful.

I ignored her, pulling the covers over my head.

I was in no mood to deal with Carter before coffee.

But the knocking got louder and louder, like she was about to break down the door.

She was relentless, determined to make my life miserable.

Fed up, I yelled through the door, "I’m not done sleeping—he can wait!"

My voice was muffled, but I made sure she heard every word.

The noise stopped.

Finally, some peace.

Good—I went back to bed.

I stretched out, savoring the quiet.

When I woke again, sunlight was streaming through the window.

The room was warm and bright. I took a deep breath, feeling almost hopeful.

I checked my phone—it was past ten.

I’d slept later than I had in months. It felt like a small victory.

After washing up and getting dressed, I headed downstairs.

I put on my favorite hoodie and jeans, not caring what anyone thought.