It would have been better if Aunt Grace never asked at all. Every time she intervened, even with a single question, my mother took it as a challenge. And the price was always paid by me, doubled.

So I could only stand in front of my aunt and say I was willing.

Grace sank onto the sofa like a balloon with all the air punched out of it. She didn't say another word for a long time.

Even Stella and Rhys stayed silent. The living room felt like a sealed room with the oxygen slowly draining out.

I drew several deep breaths, repeating the same warning to myself over and over.

Don't lose it. Don't let Rhys see you fall apart again.

Before long, Joel emerged from the kitchen with a full spread—ten dishes and a soup.

Nobody had any appetite. Forks moved, food shifted around plates, but no one really ate.

No one except my mother, who was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, heaping praise on every dish Joel set down.

"Joel is such a catch! A man who can cook—now that's a real man."

I felt like a hollow shell, a body with nothing left inside.

I shoveled food into my mouth mechanically, bite after tasteless bite, until my stomach refused to accept one more mouthful.

Then I bolted to the bathroom and threw it all up.

When I walked Aunt Grace's family to the door, she leaned in close and kept her voice low. "Irene, if you ever find yourself in real trouble, you come to me. Promise me."

I nodded. I did need her help. Just not yet.

The moment everyone was gone, my mother's face curdled. "Was your aunt talking behind my back again?"

"No," I said quickly. "She was just making small talk."

"Don't think I can't see right through her. The second Stella lands herself some trust-fund boyfriend, Grace drags the whole family over here to rub it in my face."

"Well, I showed her. A pretty-boy son-in-law who can't do a damn thing around the house? Give me a man who can cook any day."

"And let me make one thing clear—stay away from your aunt from now on. That woman has never had your best interests at heart."

I murmured a few vague agreements, enough to keep her temper from flaring again.

That was when Rhys's message popped up on my screen.

You broke up with me just so you could marry some old man?

Wait—was it the cooking? Irene, your taste gets more "unique" by the day. Congratulations on finding yourself a live-in father figure.