The next morning.

Delle brought warm milk to Rebecca without adding sugar. “You look tired, ma’am? Is everything alright?”

“I was having these weird dreams,” Rebecca said.

“Oh, talking about weirdness,” Delle said. “I asked Mr. Benyamin to bake a cake for Roshan’s birthday, but he said he didn’t know how to make a cake. I asked him again, and he said he doesn’t know how to cook.”

“Huh? He really said that?”

“Yeah, I swear on myself, ma’am,” Delle said. “He felt insulted that I asked him to cook, just like your mother would feel.”

“Strange…” Rebecca squinted her eyes. “Is he in a bad mood?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you what happened because it felt weird,” Delle said. “I mean, Benyamin, who should know how to cook, says that he can’t cook. And then Mr. Benjamin cooks almost similar to how we know Benyamin cooks.”

When these words came out of Delle’s mouth, Rebecca’s eyes widened. “W-Wait, these past couple of weeks, it was Benjamin who was cooking and not Benyamin?”

“Yeah.