The Cat Job

Two days later, a former colleague found me a job.

Live-in housekeeper.

The task: take care of a rich person’s cat.

I followed the address and arrived at a mansion so luxurious it seemed offensive.

The door opened.

Victor Fu stood there wearing only a towel around his waist.

My face and neck burned instantly.

The employer was Victor.

“Lina?” He did not look surprised. He stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Mr. Fu,” I said stiffly.

Since I had left the company, I could no longer call him Boss.

His face darkened.

The air pressure inside the house dropped.

“Where is your cat?” I asked bravely.

“At the groomer.” He glanced at me, displeased. “Go shower first. There are women’s clothes in the second-floor guest room.”

The cat must be precious.

He probably feared my sour smell would offend it.

The guest room wardrobe took up an entire wall.

Inside were custom women’s clothes for all four seasons.

Tags still attached.

My heart twisted.

Everyone in the company said Victor Fu was not interested in women.

Clearly, they were wrong.

He had someone he liked.

How much must he treasure her to prepare an entire wardrobe in advance?

I chose pajamas.

They were soft.

Perfectly my size.

Apparently, the woman he loved had a body like mine.

I did not see the cat all evening.

Victor, the workaholic, stayed home.

Only after dinner time passed did he remember to ask me to cook.

The refrigerator was full.

But he insisted on buying fresh groceries.

Rich people were difficult.

I only dared complain internally.

At the supermarket, women kept looking at him.

Some even asked for his contact information.

He refused politely.

“Sorry. I have a girlfriend.”

My heart shattered.

So he did have someone.

At checkout, the cashier smiled at us.

“Newly married? Such a sweet couple.”

I fled outside.

Back at the mansion, I rolled up my sleeves to organize groceries.

Among the vegetables were bags of snacks.

I looked up.

“Mr. Fu, you like snacks?”

Was this the secret life of the powerful CEO?

He gave a vague answer.

I knew better than to ask.

A while later, I found more items.

“Mr. Fu, why did you buy so much toothpaste?”

More than ten boxes.

“Discount,” he said. “Cheap.”

Then added,

“The cashier recommended it.”

I inspected the boxes and sighed.

“Mr. Fu, in the future, don’t trust people so easily. These are close to expiration. You were tricked.”

Victor did not look upset at all.

In fact, he seemed happy.

That made no sense.

Dinner was simple.

Three dishes and soup.

Cooking was a skill I had practiced since childhood.

Victor served me a bowl of pork rib soup.

I stared for several seconds before accepting it.

His girlfriend must be so happy.

I was jealous of a woman I had never met.

My appetite was poor.

Since my depression worsened, I ate less every day. Half a bowl of soup filled me.

I propped my chin on one hand and drifted into thought.

When I came back to myself, Victor had finished my remaining soup.

“Not wasting food is a traditional virtue,” he explained.

I understood.

The richer people are, the stingier they become.

Soon, sleepiness rolled over me.

I forced myself to stay awake, remembering the dishes.

“If you’re tired, go sleep.” Victor tied on an apron and walked into the kitchen. “Only after resting can you take care of the cat properly.”

That night, before my mind fully blurred, I let myself have a brief dream.

A home.

Two people.

Three meals.

Four seasons.

And maybe, rescue.

Then I pushed the thought away.

Dreams are cruel when you wake.