A new home - 3

It had been half an hour since Mrs Wesley left her home to fetch items off the mall, and amidst that time, all I had done was busy myself with admiring the intricacies that came with this place.

Ginormous. It was such an understatement to describe how massive this home was—kept to a theme of grey and white, designed with pieces that would catch your eye, I wondered if Mrs Wesley lived here all alone.

I mean, if she did, then surely, she swam in wealth, but this home was just too elegant to be copped by a lady whose job I still had no idea of.

Now, I'm well aware that there are millions of women in the outside world swimming in such luxury, but then I wondered if Mrs Wesley was likened to them.

Come to think of it, Pavla had called her Mrs Wesley, yet I haven't found a frame of her or her husband hanging anywhere on the wall.

There were no pictures at all, like they were just intent on keeping it out of view. I could only deduce that it had something to do with the interior design, and not wishing to mess it up.

And it was only then I realized how far from home I was. I was in a different country, of a different culture, and varied ethnicities, which would have me adapting to.

This place was entirely different from home.

For instance, Back in Monterey, you were bound to know every single person you came across on the street.

It was a little community there. Yet, for some reason, every one over here chose to keep to their business.

I dragged myself down the hall, my cleaning instruments in hands, all ready to begin work.

If I spent another minute waiting for the lady of the house, then I surely would exhaust every hour left of the day, and I couldn't afford any mistakes now knowing so well how the woman didn't fancy me, and would only be looking for an excuse to send me out of her home at every slight move I made.

I couldn't let that happen.

Oh not at all. I had come this far now to be sent back to the turmoil I fled from. The minute I was to take a step out of here, it was to return to the mess that made up my life, and I just couldn't return to the agony.

I knew Huncho was somewhere out there, perhaps on the hunt for me—On the hunt for what belonged to him, but the truth was, I threw the Polythene bag down a stream in Monterrey. As advised by Marta, if I wanted to step foot onto a new land of opportunities, I had to do away with all implications.

Maybe, just maybe I’d finally managed to escape that life. After all, since I got here, I haven’t received a word about Huncho. Not like I had anyone to talk to, but if there was something new which came up, Marta would inform me. Wouldn’t she?

I hurried down the hall, deciding to put a halt to the craggy thoughts in my head. Going into a room which I had now stumbled upon, I was left examining the magnificence of an area.

This place was nothing compared to the guest room where I had been assigned to.

It was three times bigger in size, painted in a cream color so rich, it complemented the rug on the floors, and had a king-sized bed centered in the area.

I waddled about the space, gaze shifting here to there, accessing all that came with the chambers. I found myself moving onto a adjoining room which I came to realize was a walk-in closet, which housed quite a large number of Mrs Wesley's clothes and just at another end of the closet was a rack with a number of shirts with neatly brushed male pants hung there.

And then did it hit me, that Mrs Wesley in fact had a husband.

I made my way to the dresser table by a corner of the closet, prying at an assemble of perfumes and fragrances stacked on there.

Those names, I barely could read. Most in French, and others in Italian. And when I sprayed a whiff of one of the bottles, I choked on the scent, gasping for air.

Quickly, I hurried out of there, shutting the door back in place, having decided that it wouldn't be a good look having my employer walk in on me ransacking her belongings.

I returned to the main chambers, craning the place.

The room was a tidied-mess. Tidied in the sense that the furnitures stayed kept in place, looking well polished, yet a mess, in regards to the clothes strewn about the room, scattered here to there.

Most of the clothes were dresses. Mrs Wesley's, so I deduced. And with a few of her stilettos scattered here to there, I wondered how difficult it was for the lady to put her things in place. But I wasn't being paid to grumble now, was I? I was meant to work, and that, I must do.

And in a moment, I found myself grabbing my duster and brush, getting to work at once.