I stood by Klaus’s desk, watching the moment unfold like a cruel joke. I was the one who made sure he had something to eat every day. I had learned how to cook because he was so picky because his stomach couldn’t handle the stress after the war. And now, he sat there, angry and hungry, without a clue that I had been the one behind every meal he enjoyed.
Klaus tensed, his fist clenching the phone. He hung up on Benedict, a low growl escaping his throat. “You’d better not reply to my messages,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
I looked at the framed photo on his desk, one from our second anniversary. He picked it up, his fingers tracing the edges, and for a fleeting moment, his anger softened. But then, with a frustrated huff, he set the photo back down and reached for the stuffed wolf I had given him. He turned it upside down, a habit he’d developed whenever he was mad at me.
“This doll looks like you, Mavis,” he’d say, smirking. “Always watching me. Always by my side.” And whenever I upset him, he would make it stand on its head as if punishing it.