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– This is... – I hesitated, struggling to find words that wouldn't raise suspicion, trying to recall everything I'd managed to read in that damn folder. – This is unexpected. It's just... I thought we couldn't afford it.
Marek smirked and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes studied me again, but now with a kind of weary warmth.
– Well, we really couldn't before, – he admitted. – But things are better now. My job is stable, we have money. And besides, Polya, having kids isn't just about money. It's about family. About us. You know I've always wanted a big family. And you... – he smiled slightly. – You'd be a wonderful mom.
My face grew hot, and I stared down at my plate, hoping he wouldn't notice the mix of anger and dread in my eyes. He was saying it as if I had already accepted his damn reality!
– Marek... – I started, barely keeping my voice steady. – Maybe this isn't the best time for this kind of talk. Let's wait. At least for a while.
His brows furrowed slightly, but he nodded, clearly not wanting to press the issue.
– Alright, Polya, – he said, picking up his fork. – If that's what you think. But we won't put it off for too long, – he added firmly, as if it were his final word on the matter.
I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. This was pure insanity. Not only was I stuck in a woman's body, but now I had to listen to this "husband" telling me I needed to have his kids. What the hell kind of messed-up experiment was this?
Finally finishing his stew, Marek placed his fork on his plate and gave me an appraising look. His eyes lingered for a moment on my hands, which I had nervously clasped on my lap as if trying to hide my irritation. Then, lazily, he stood up from the table, shoved his hands in his pockets, and smirked, looking at the table.
– You know, Polya, – he drawled with a hint of mockery, – you're definitely acting strange today. Usually, you clean up after cooking, and now it's just... – he paused, as if savoring the moment, – a mess. I don't even know what to say.
I felt blood rush to my face. His words, his tone – it was all infuriating. He could see I was on edge! He could've just kept quiet...
– But alright, – he continued, noticing my silence as I barely managed to hold back my annoyance. His smile grew warmer, almost soft. – The kitchen is your domain, right? You'll handle it.
I clenched my teeth hard to keep from snapping at him. "My domain?" I wanted to scream in his face that I didn't give a damn about this "domain," that none of this was mine or even real. But I swallowed the lump in my throat, knowing the cameras were watching my every move.
Marek leisurely headed toward the door, pausing for a moment in the doorway. He turned back and tilted his head slightly, looking at me as if expecting something. He smelled like a mix of tobacco and the grime of hard work – a scent that seemed to cling to him now.
– Polya, – he said a bit softer, without the mockery this time, – take a break. You’ve clearly had a tough day. I'll deal with the dishes tomorrow.
He winked, then walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with a sink full of dirty dishes, an unfinished dinner, and the deafening silence pounding in my head.
When Marek's footsteps faded somewhere in the depths of the apartment, I finally let myself relax. My hands were trembling, and I instinctively ran my palms over my face, feeling how my long nails grazed the skin. This whole situation was a joke. Marek. This dinner. This farce of my new "life." I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress the rising panic.
– It's just temporary, – I whispered to myself, though the words offered no comfort.
Looking at the sink, I felt a surge of anger boil up inside me. The pile of dishes, crumbs scattered across the table, vegetable scraps on the cutting board – the "mess," as Marek had called it. But what irritated me most was that he was right. It did look like a battlefield.
Grinding my teeth, I stepped up to the sink and turned on the water. My hands automatically began scrubbing off leftover food, even though everything inside me screamed in protest. "The kitchen is your domain." Marek's words rang in my head like a taunt.
"To hell with it," I thought, scrubbing the plate furiously with a sponge. "If they want me to play this role, fine. But I won't be their... their slave."
My movements grew sharper as I grabbed another plate. Soapy water foamed over my hands, dripping down my arms and soaking the sleeves of my blouse. But I didn't stop. It was better than sitting there feeling helpless.
At some point, I caught my reflection in the glass door of a cabinet. A woman. Beautiful, well-groomed, with big eyes and a tired face. That was me. My damn face. Or... not me. Inside, everything churned.
– God, – I breathed, wiping my forehead with a wet hand. Water dripped from my fingers onto the floor, but I didn't even notice. – What have they done to me...
I turned away from the reflection and grabbed another plate. "Just play the role," I told myself. "Hold on. Find a way out."