Chapter 18
Kiera Emmerson
The gochujang chicken glistens under the kitchen lights, the glaze a perfect balance of sweet, spicy, and savory.
I’ve outdone myself, and I know it. The sticky rice is formed into neat mounds, and the pickled vegetables add these bright pops of color—radish, cucumber, and carrot, all quick-pickled with rice vinegar and a touch of sugar.
I plate three servings with careful precision, arranging everything like I’ve seen in those cooking competition shows.
The chicken gets sliced to show the juicy interior, fanned out across one side of the plate.
The rice sits in the center, molded into a perfect dome.
The pickled vegetables cascade artfully beside it, and I finish each plate with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and thinly sliced green onions.
It looks good if I do say so myself. Professional. Like something that could win a competition.
Take that, Victoria Stone.
I carry the plates to the formal dining room, setting them at the three place settings I arranged earlier.
The table looks elegant—white plates against the dark wood, water glasses filled, napkins folded properly.
I even put out chopsticks alongside the regular silverware, though I doubt Victoria will use them.
I step back and survey my work. This is good. This is really good. And if Victoria can’t appreciate the effort and skill that went into this meal, that’s her problem, not mine.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head toward the living room, my heart beating just a little faster than normal. I can hear Victoria’s voice carrying from the other room, that precise, cultured tone that probably came from years of private schools and etiquette classes.
“...and honestly, River, I simply don’t understand why you’re wasting your time on this island. You have connections in Los Angeles. This documentary nonsense is all well and good as a hobby, but—”
I clear my throat from the doorway.
Both of them turn to look at me. River’s expression is tight, his jaw clenched in a way I’m starting to recognize as his “dealing with my mother” face. Victoria looks at me like I’m an interruption she didn’t anticipate, her perfectly shaped eyebrows raising slightly.
“Dinner is ready,” I say, keeping my voice professional and even.
“Wonderful.” River stands immediately, relief flickering across his features. “I’m starving.”
Victoria rises more slowly, smoothing down her cream-colored suit jacket. “I suppose we should see what your so-called cook has prepared.”
“Mother,” River warns.
I clench my jaw. I can see why River didn’t want his mother coming to visit. I lead them to the dining room and gesture to the table. “Please, sit.”
River takes his usual seat, and Victoria settles into the chair across from him. I move toward my place at the table—the one I’ve been using all week when River and I eat together.
“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.
“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.