Alexa sighs, lays a cloth over the bowl of dough, and starts meticulously putting things back in place. 

"… He told me I should be a dutiful daughter."

By rights, the kitchen should be a mess. Each ingredient should have been decimated after its brethren had joined the bowl--the sack of flour rent in twain, the delicate jar of starter shattered against the wall, the salt bin splintered. The room should bear witness to her frustration, leave a lasting testimony of her anger.

But that's not a luxury she has. There should be no evidence she was here--nothing to tie her to this conversation, nothing to make the Emperor wonder what his chief agent was doing.

"I thought that would work, once upon a time. That by doing what he asked, when he asked, willingly and helpfully, I could unlock some secret that would let him love me."

It's simple work, but gratifying. The measuring cups get rinsed and scrubbed out and hung back up on their hooks. The sourdough starter gets a small helping of flour. The counters shine under her hands. Inch by inch, the room starts to sparkle.

And so long as her hands are busy with something else, she can talk without thinking too hard about what she's saying.

"… Why is it my task to love him? To be loyal to him? He does not love me--does not even think of me as a person. He stole my childhood, hurt my friends, and now he seeks to steal my future."

She stares at the bread dough, before finally meeting Hestia's gaze. "How did you [i]do[/i] it?"