It was nearly time for dinner, and unless she wanted to eat by herself in her room, she was going to have to make her way downstairs. And that meant first standing.
She rested her good foot on the floor and shifted her weight forward. Her body protested so loudly, she involuntarily gasped. That gave her a sharp stab in her ribs, which made her gasp again. Okay, maybe emotions weren’t the only things that sucked.
She managed to get upright without fainting from the pain. Her journey to the elevator was an almost comedic hop-step thatseemed to grind all her bones together. Once she was at the hated door, she pushed the button, then girded herself to move inside.
Fear joined pain as she stared into the deadly chamber. The door closed.
“Dammit.”
It was just an elevator. She was a grown-up—she could deal with a twenty-second trip to the main floor. She was strong, she was capable. She was the person whose first word—according to both her parents—had beenmore.
She pushed the button again, and the door slid open. She forced herself to hop-step inside and jabbed the button for the first floor. With her eyes tightly closed, she counted potatoes, then scurried out as quickly as she could when she arrived.
She ignored the cold sweat breaking out on her back and moved past the elegantly set dining room table. As always, her mother had taken the time to put out fresh flowers and stylish flatware and crystal glasses. Dinner at their house was an event more than a meal. If Victoria was back at her place, she would be ordering DoorDash and eating on her sofa while watching reality TV.
She entered the kitchen and found her mother preparing dinner. Despite the large house, the daily maid service and the platoon of gardeners that kept the grounds looking perfect, Ava preferred to cook for her family. She always had. Even Victoria’s school lunches had been put together by her mother.
“How are you feeling?” Ava asked from her place at the sink where she was washing basil.
Victoria eased onto a stool and held in a groan as her body complained about all the moving around. “How do I look?”
“Like you were thrown out of a truck.”
“That’s kind of how I feel.”
Her mother’s mouth straightened, and her eyes narrowed. “I know you enjoy your work but—”
“Stop,” Victoria said, interrupting. “Don’t go there, Mom.”
“I wasn’t going to be critical.”
“Sure, you were. You can’t help it. Improvement is your love language. I get it, and mostly I’m fine with it, just not today.”
Ugh—more weakness, which was so not like her. Normally she liked sparring with her mom. Going toe-to-toe with Ava was an excellent mental exercise. But somehow she just didn’t have it in her to rally. She gave herself the excuse of the pain meds and vowed to do better next time.
“Very well,” Ava said quietly and returned to drying the basil.
An awkward silence filled the room. Fortunately before Victoria could start to feel guilty for cutting off her mother, she heard a familiar voice call out “I’m home.”
The relief was instant. Having her dad around made everything easier.
Seconds later Milton walked into the kitchen. He offered her a brief smile before crossing to her mom and pulling her close. Her parents held on to each other for several seconds, as if reconnecting after a two-year absence.
They’d always been like that, she thought, watching them. Totally and completely in love. They were a unit, bound together by an unbreakable bond. As a kid, she’d watched as several of her friends’ parents had separated then divorced, but that wasn’t anything she ever worried about. She might not be interested in romantic love for herself, but she sure believed it could exist. Her parents were living proof.
Her father walked over and touched her cheek. “The purple is a nice addition.” He frowned slightly. “Still not okay to hug?”
She winced at the thought. “Fist bump.”
They did, and he kissed her cheek.
“All right, beautiful ladies. Put me to work.”
“You can slice the tomatoes,” Ava told him.
“With pleasure.”
He crossed to the sink and washed his hands before startinghis task. Victoria wondered what the studio’s other senior executives would think about seeing Milton Rogers carefully slicing tomatoes before artfully arranging them on a platter with mozzarella and basil. Not that her father would care—there was only one opinion that mattered to him.
