"Irene, get up! Aunt Grace and her family are here."

I opened the door with dark circles carved under my eyes, my face drawn and pale.

And froze.

There, on the sofa, sitting right beside my cousin, was my ex-boyfriend.

Stella Acevedo rose gracefully and gestured toward him with an easy smile.

"Irene, this is my boyfriend, Rhys Gilbert. Turns out you two went to the same school!"

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to think.

Sophomore year.

I'd been working three jobs to scrape together tuition, running myself so ragged that my blood sugar crashed and I collapsed. Rhys Gilbert happened to be passing by. Without a word, he'd scooped me onto his back and carried me to the campus clinic.

After that, we started dating.

Six months later, he graduated and left the country to study abroad. I knew the gap between us was too wide, so I was the one who ended it.

Now, two years later, he was my cousin's boyfriend.

Rhys extended his hand, his smile polite and distant. "Nice to meet you."

The taut wire that had been holding me together finally snapped.

Bitterness surged up my throat. Even breathing hurt—a dull, spreading ache behind my ribs.

I couldn't bring myself to take his hand. "Excuse me—I need to go wash up."

I fled to the bathroom, scooped cold water over my face again and again until the shock receded enough for me to think straight.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Irene, go see who that is!" my mother called.

I opened the front door. Joel Lambert stood on the step, a bag of groceries in each hand, grinning at me like an idiot.

My mother rushed over and took the bags from him. "Joel! Come in, come in."

She turned to the room, beaming. "Everyone, let me introduce you—this is Irene's fiancé. They're getting married in a few days."

"He's an incredible cook. I invited him over specifically to handle the kitchen for us today."

Joel bared a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "You're too kind, ma'am. I'm nothing special—just know my way around a few home-cooked dishes."

"Oh, stop being modest! You're the go-to chef for every big banquet in the village. Our Irene is going to eat well for the rest of her life."

The air went still.

Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto me—surprise, confusion, mockery, contempt—each gaze a needle driven straight through my skin.