“Lauren, if you realize your mistake, you should make up for it. Go fetch the chicken soup from the kitchen and serve it to Yvette,” he commanded coldly.
I hesitated, my legs too weak to take a single step.
In the end, a servant pushed me toward the kitchen. I was handed the steaming pot of chicken soup, the heat scalding my hands.
“Miss Cameron, you’d better behave. Otherwise, you’ll get punished again, and this time it’s New Year’s. If Old Master Hall hears about it, his health might deteriorate even further,” the servant warned.
Though the servant’s words sounded kind, they deliberately withheld gloves, forcing me to carry the bowl barehanded.
To avoid worrying Grandpa, I gritted my teeth, picked up the scalding bowl of chicken soup, and walked to Yvette’s side. However, she acted as if I didn’t exist, engrossed in a conversation with Monica, my supposed to be mother-in-law, about her experiences abroad.
The porcelain bowl conducted heat mercilessly, and the burning sensation spread across my palms, leaving them a deep red print. I was desperate to set the bowl down, but Jameson’s cold voice stopped me.