“What the hell happened?!” he shouted, grabbing her hand. “You’re bleeding! Goddamn it, Camille, your hand—do you even know how important that is?! You have a presentation next week!”
“It’s okay, it’s just a scratch—”
Kier turned on me before she could even finish.
“This is your fault! You useless woman! You let her get hurt in your own kitchen! You couldn’t even chop the damn vegetables yourself?”
I was stunned. “I—I didn’t—”
But it didn’t matter. Camille tried to defend me, but her voice was drowned out by the chaos. They were all hovering over her, pressing tissues to her wound, blaming me for things I hadn’t done.
And I didn’t even have the chance to explain that I had a wound too.
The cut I got from cleaning up the broken vase hadn’t healed, and now with the kitchen work, it had split open again.
But no one noticed. So I quietly stepped away, my bleeding hand hidden under the edge of my apron, and went back to my room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, peeled off the bandage, and sighed as I pressed a clean towel to the reopened wound. The sting was sharp, but the silence stung more.
Then the door burst open.
Kier.
“Apologize to Camille,” he ordered.
I looked at him. “It wasn’t my fault. She insisted. It was an accident.”
He narrowed his eyes. “So what? You’re still responsible. Apologize.”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
Before I could respond, Camille entered the room too, still holding her bandaged finger.
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft now. “There’s no need for that. My sister is not at fault. It’s on me.”
I forced a nod, though my throat burned.
Camille glanced at Kier. “Anyway, we need to talk about the trip. Only three days away now.”
“Oh, right,” Kier said, his tone shifting instantly. “We’re heading to Paris. Business trip. I’ll need you to pack our things. I’m going, Camille’s going, and your dad too.”
Paris.
My heart skipped.
“Can I come?” I asked before I could stop myself.
They both looked at me.
Kier let out a harsh laugh. “You? Erika, it’s a business trip, not a vacation. Don’t dream too high. You wouldn’t even know how to keep up with the conversations. You’d just embarrass us.”
“I could just—”
“No,” he cut in. “This is for work. Camille’s part of the brand’s pitch. You’d be out of place. You don’t even have clothes for something like this.”
“I could—”
“She’ll stay,” he said flatly, turning to Camille. “She can finish the chores while we’re gone.”