“What are you doing?” Victoria’s voice cuts through the room like a knife.
I pause, my hand on the back of the chair. “Sitting down?”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate.” She looks at River, her expression somewhere between confused and scandalized. “River, surely you don’t allow the help to eat with you.”
Heat floods my face, but it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger, sharp and immediate. But behind the anger is something else. Fear that she’s right. Because no matter how nice River is, I know I’m not in his league. He’s rich, and famous. And I’m a nobody.
Still, my defenses raise and I’m about to say something—something probably sarcastic and definitely not helpful—when River speaks.
“Mother.” His voice is firm in a way I haven’t heard before. “Kiera eats with me every night. I insist on it.”
Victoria’s mouth forms a thin line. “That’s highly unusual, darling. There are certain boundaries one maintains with household staff.”
“She’s not household staff.” River’s jaw tightens further. “The whole point of this arrangement is for her to cook and get feedback. That requires eating together and discussing the food.”
“How modern of you.” Victoria’s tone suggests this is not a compliment. “Though I’m sure there are more appropriate ways to provide feedback without actually dining with the help. A simple comment as you pass through the kitchen would suffice.”
The help. There it is again. That phrase that reduces me to nothing more than a function, a service, something less than human.
I should bite my tongue. Should smile politely and excuse myself. Should take the high road and prove I’m better than her condescension. But I’m so tired of people treating me like I’m worthless, and I have a sassy streak that I sometimes can’t rein in.
“Well,” I say, my voice dripping with false sweetness, “I wouldn’t want to make Mrs. Stone uncomfortable by contaminating her dining experience with my mere presence. Perhaps I should just eat in the servants’ quarters. Oh wait, there aren’t any servants’ quarters. I guess I’ll just have to eat standing up in the kitchen like the lowly help I am.”
Victoria’s eyes narrow. River looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“That won’t be necessary,” Victoria says, her voice ice-cold.
“Mother.” River’s voice cuts through the tension, and there’s steel in it now. Something I’ve never heard before. “You have two choices. You can be kind to Kiera and enjoy your stay here. Or you can pack your bags right now and fly back to Los Angeles tonight. Those are your options. Choose.”
I have to hold myself together so I don’t clap and cheer. The silence that follows is so thick I could cut it with one of the knives on the table.
Victoria’s face goes through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, indignation, calculation. She’s clearly not used to River standing up to her like this. Not used to him drawing a line in the sand and actually defending it.
Finally, she takes a breath and arranges her features into something that might pass for pleasant if you weren’t looking too closely.
“Of course, darling. I apologize.” She looks at me, and her smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “Please, Kiera, do join us. I’m sure your meal will be... adequate.”
It’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard. Passive-aggressive and condescending, wrapped up in a bow of false politeness. But River seems satisfied with it, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“Thank you, Mother.” He gestures to my chair. “Kiera, please sit. You worked hard on this.”
I lower myself into the chair, my heart still racing from the confrontation. Victoria picks up her fork with deliberate precision, examining the food on her plate like she’s inspecting it for poison.
“What exactly is this?” she asks.
“Gochujang chicken,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s a Korean dish with a spicy-sweet glaze made from gochujang and gochugaru—Korean chili paste and chili flakes. The chicken is served with sticky rice and quick-pickled vegetables.”
“Korean.” Victoria says it like I’ve announced we’re eating something out of the dumpster out back. “How... adventurous.”
River picks up his chopsticks and takes a bite of the chicken. His eyes close, and I watch his expression melt into that look of pure appreciation I’ve come to recognize and maybe live for a little bit.
“This is so good,” he says after swallowing. “Kiera, the glaze is perfect. It’s got heat, but it’s balanced with the sweetness, and the chicken is so tender it practically falls apart.”
Pride swells in my chest. “Thanks. I wanted something bold. Something that would show I’m not afraid to work with strong flavors.”
Victoria takes a small, delicate bite. I watch her face carefully, looking for any reaction.
Her eyes widen slightly. She chews, swallows, and reaches for her water glass, taking a long drink.
