“It’s quite spicy,” she says, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.
“That’s kind of the point,” I say. “Korean food is known for its heat. But the sweetness in the glaze should balance it.”
She takes another bite. Then another. River starts asking her questions about how his siblings are doing, a much safer topic. As they talk, I notice she’s eating steadily, working through the chicken piece by piece despite the show she made earlier about it being too spicy.
I hide a smile.
Because you don’t eat all of something you genuinely dislike. You pick at it, push it around your plate, make excuses about being full. The fact that Victoria is methodically working through this entire meal tells me something important.
She might not want to admit it, but my food is good. Good enough that even her refined, probably-used-to-bland-country-club-food palate can recognize quality when she tastes it.
“Kiera, the rice is perfectly sticky,” River says, when there’s a lull in the conversation. “And I love how you quick-pickled the vegetables. They’re crunchy and bright, and they make everything else pop.”
“I wanted different textures,” I explain, relaxing into my chair despite Victoria’s presence. “The tender chicken, the soft rice, the crisp vegetables. It creates this contrast that keeps each bite interesting.”
River nods enthusiastically. “That’s exactly what the competition judges will be looking for. Complexity. Thoughtfulness in how the elements work together.”
We continue eating, River asking questions about my technique and me explaining my thought process. Victoria remains mostly silent, working through her meal with precision.
When her plate is finally clean—every last grain of rice consumed, every vegetable eaten—she sets down her fork and takes a final sip of water.
“Well.” She dabs at her lips again. “That was certainly... bold.”
It’s not exactly high praise, but coming from Victoria Stone, I’ll take it.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I say, unable to keep a slight edge of sarcasm out of my voice.
River catches my eye across the table, and there’s warmth there. Appreciation. Maybe even admiration. He stands and starts collecting plates, and I move to help him.
“Oh no, darling,” Victoria says, rising from her chair. “You don’t need to clear the table. Let her handle that. It’s what she’s here for.”
River’s jaw clenches again, but before he can say anything, I speak up.
“It’s fine,” I say, stacking the plates. “I’ve got it. You two should catch up.”
Victoria looks satisfied with this arrangement, but River hesitates.
“I can help?—”
“River.” I meet his eyes, trying to convey that I’m okay, that I don’t need him to fight this particular battle right now. “I’ve got it. Really.”
He nods slowly, understanding passing between us. “Thank you for dinner. It was perfect.”
“You’re welcome.”
I carry the plates to the kitchen and start loading the dishwasher, listening to the murmur of voices from the living room. I can’t make out the words, but Victoria’s tone is sharp, argumentative. River’s responses are quieter, more measured.
I’m rinsing the last plate when River appears in the kitchen doorway.
“My mother has decided to retire early,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—frustration, maybe, or exhaustion. “She says she’s tired from the flight.”
I set the plate in the dishwasher. “It’s only eight o’clock.”
“I know.” He leans against the doorframe, running a hand through his hair. “I think she just wants to get away from me before I say something else that challenges her worldview.”
“You stood up to her.” I close the dishwasher and turn to face him. “That was really brave.”
“It didn’t feel brave. It felt terrifying.” He crosses to where I’m standing, close enough that I can smell that woodsy scent I’ve come to associate with him. “I’ve never talked to her like that before.”
