“You really don’t know how to do your job? What the hell did you do to my clothes?”
The shirt hit my face with a sharp snap, then fell to the floor.
“What is this?” Kier barked, glaring at the wrinkled garment. “Why the hell isn’t this done yet?”
I bent to pick it up, blood from the wound on my palm still seeping into the bandage.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I got caught up with the laundry, and I was cleaning—then the vase earlier—”
“Oh, so you’re still making excuses now?” His voice rose. “Is that it, Erika? You want a Paris honeymoon but can’t even do basic chores?”
He threw a second bundle of white clothes at me, this one speckled with a pale yellow stain.
“And what about this? Look at it!” he snapped. “You ruined it. This is designer. Do you even know how expensive this was?”
I stared at the stain—barely visible—but in his eyes, it was a catastrophe.
“I didn’t see it,” I murmured. “I’ll fix it.”
“God, Erika,” he groaned. “This is your job. Your only job. You get to sit in this house, have whatever you want handed to you, and the one thing I ask—keep the house in order—and even that’s too hard?”