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Chapter_98
His words were as icy as his demeanor. “How could you not know? You do enjoy dishwashing, don’t you? Well, go wash them.”
Quinn’s lips pressed together, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face for any sign of jest. There was none. He was serious.
This man really holds a grudge, Quinn thought bitterly. The last time I disappeared for half a month, washing dishes at that steakhouse, he didn’t even check in on me. Now, he’s using it against me.
At times, Quinn found herself envying Getty. Despite her unofficial status, Getty was the object of Alexander’s affections. She had the freedom to work when she pleased, even the potential to become a star if she wanted—Alexander would support her every step of the way. But Quinn? She was relegated to dishwashing.
With a resigned nod, Quinn acknowledged the inevitable.
Alexander’s gaze darkened. “Seems you truly enjoy it,” he remarked coldly. “From now on, you’ll be responsible for your own expenses, including the cost of your maid,” he added before turning to ascend the stairs.
A short time later, he returned in a different outfit and left the villa, his departure hinting at the possibility of bending the rules.
The following morning, Kyle arrived to escort Quinn to work. He drove her to a five-star restaurant and dropped her off at the back kitchen, handing her over to a plump woman named Linda.
Kyle gave her a knowing look, his tone serious. “Quinn, take care of yourself. If things get too tough, just apologize to Alexander.” Before she could fully grasp his meaning, Kyle was gone.
Linda, a no-nonsense woman, immediately took charge. “So, you’re the new girl? Get moving and wash those dishes. We need them out there, now! From now on, you’re on dish duty. Don’t dawdle, got it?”
Suddenly, Quinn understood what Kyle had meant. This wasn’t a job Alexander had arranged for her—this was punishment. But for what? Maybe it’s because I interrupted his video call with Getty last night, she mused.
Without further thought, she approached the sink, where piles of dirty dishes awaited her. The restaurant was chaotic, and the constant influx of dishes seemed endless. Linda quickly outlined the rules: wash each dish three times, sterilize them, and if one broke, it would cost Quinn between $100 and $500. Yet her daily wage was a mere $150.
There was no time to dwell on the injustice. Quinn had to provide for herself and Juliet, so she steeled herself and got to work. Positioned at the sink, her hands moved mechanically as she cleaned each plate.
The hot water was unrelenting, and within an hour, her hands were raw and beginning to prune. Quinn longed for gloves, but Linda was too busy to notice.
“Hurry up! If we run out of clean dishes, it’s on you. And your paycheck will shrink,” Linda warned, her voice sharp, before disappearing into the chaos.
Biting back the pain, Quinn continued.
As the lunch rush hit, the pile of dirty dishes grew exponentially. Alone, Quinn struggled to keep up. The hours passed, and her fingers, now pale and wrinkled from the constant exposure to hot water, ached with every movement. Linda’s relentless pressure only worsened Quinn’s exhaustion until she fumbled, dropping a plate that shattered on the floor.
Linda didn’t yell. She simply marked the broken dish in her ledger. “That’s one. Clean it up and keep washing,” she said matter-of-factly.
The dizzying effects of Quinn’s lingering cold worsened as she stood, her body trembling. She braced herself against the sink, taking slow, deep breaths.
As she crouched to pick up the shards of the plate, a sudden rush of movement sent someone bumping into her. A sharp pain shot through her ring finger. She gasped in pain as blood began to pour from a deep cut.
