Chapter 20
Kiera Emmerson
I pull into River’s driveway and immediately notice the taxi idling near the front entrance, its engine running. Victoria Stone stands beside it in another perfectly tailored suit—this one navy blue—surrounded by her matching designer luggage.
She’s leaving.
Relief floods through me so powerfully I have to grip the steering wheel to steady myself. One day. She lasted one day before giving up and going home.
I kill the engine and climb out of my car, unable to keep the surprise off my face. “Leaving so soon?”
Victoria turns to look at me, and her expression is cool. The taxi driver is already loading her suitcases into the trunk, but she makes no move to get in the car. Instead, she crosses her arms and regards me like I’m a wine stain on white silk.
“I know when I’m not welcome,” she says, her voice crisp and cutting. “My son has made his priorities quite clear.”
There’s something in her tone that makes my stomach tighten. Something pointed and deliberate.
I should just nod and let her leave. Should take the win and not engage. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—makes me ask, “What do you mean?”
Victoria’s lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile. “Oh, don’t play coy, dear. It doesn’t suit you.” She takes a step closer, and I have to resist the urge to step back. “If you think you have a chance at a serious relationship with my son, you’re sadly mistaken.”
The words hit like a physical blow, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.” Her laugh is brittle.
“He may be infatuated with you right now—playing house with the help, indulging in this little fantasy. But I raised River with high standards. Expectations.” She looks me up and down, and I’ve never felt so thoroughly dismissed in my life.
“You’re a novelty. Something different from his usual social circle.
But novelty wears off, dear. And when it does, he’ll realize what he’s given up for someone so far beneath him. ”
My throat closes, and I can’t breathe. Every insecurity I’ve been trying to ignore, every fear I’ve been pushing down—she’s pulling them all to the surface and holding them up to the light.
“He’ll get bored,” Victoria continues, her voice matter-of-fact, like she’s discussing the weather.
“Perhaps not immediately. But eventually, he’ll want someone who can move in his world.
Someone from a good family, with proper connections and education.
Someone who doesn’t cook for a living.” She pauses, letting that sink in.
“So you might want to stop fooling yourself into thinking he has serious feelings for you. You’re temporary.
A phase. And the sooner you accept that, the less it will hurt when he inevitably moves on. ”
I want to argue. Want to defend myself, defend what River and I are building together. Want to tell her that she’s wrong, that her son is nothing like her, that he doesn’t care about social class or connections or any of the shallow things that define her world.
But the words don’t come out. Because deep down, in the parts of myself I try not to examine too closely, I’m terrified she’s right.
Victoria must see something in my face—some flicker of doubt or fear—because her smile sharpens. “That’s what I thought.”
She turns and walks toward the taxi with precise, measured steps. The driver moves to open the back door for her.
The front door of the house opens, and River emerges, struggling with Victoria’s largest suitcase. His hair is disheveled, and there’s tension in his shoulders I can see from here.
“Mother, wait—” He hefts the suitcase down the front steps.
Victoria has already positioned herself by the open taxi door, far enough away that River won’t know she just spit her vitriol all over me. She watches him approach with that same cool expression.
“Thank you, darling,” she says as he loads the suitcase into the trunk.
River straightens, and for a moment they just look at each other. Then he opens his arms and pulls her into a polite hug—the kind you give distant relatives at family gatherings. Stiff and obligatory.
“I’m sorry you chose to leave instead of agreeing to my terms,” River says, and his voice is carefully neutral.
Victoria extracts herself from the hug and air-kisses both his cheeks, making sure not to actually touch him with her lips. “I’ll be waiting for you to take your proper place in the family, darling. When you’re ready to stop this nonsense and come home, you can call me.”
“This is my home.”
“For now.” She smooths down her jacket. “But everyone grows up eventually, River. Even you.”
She slides into the back of the taxi without another word, and the driver closes the door behind her. Within seconds, the taxi is backing out of the driveway, carrying Victoria Stone and her poisonous words away.
River stands there watching until the taxi disappears down the street. Then he exhales—this long, heavy breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for hours. Maybe days.
I move toward him, concern overriding the churning mess of emotions Victoria left behind. “Are you okay?”
He turns to look at me, and there’s exhaustion written across his features. But he nods. “Yeah. It’s for the best.”
“What happened?” I ask gently. “Why did she leave?”
River runs both hands through his hair, making it stand up in several directions.
“She came here to collect me. Like I’m a stray dog that wandered off.
” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“She wants me to come back to California. Enrolled me at Stanford—in their MBA program, starting in the fall—without even asking if that’s what I wanted. ”
My stomach drops. “She enrolled you? Without your permission?”
“That’s not even the best part.” His jaw tightens. “When I told her I wasn’t going, that I’m staying here to finish my documentary, she threatened to remove me from her will. Said if I’m going to throw my life away on this ‘filmmaking nonsense,’ I can do it without the family money.”
The words hit me like ice water. His inheritance. She’s threatening to cut him off financially because he won’t do what she wants.
And suddenly Victoria’s words echo louder in my mind. You’re temporary. The sooner you accept that, the less it will hurt.
“River,” I say, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I’m sorry? That’s terrible? Your mother is manipulative and cruel?
All of it is true, but none of it feels adequate.
He must see something in my face because he reaches out and takes my hand. “Hey. It’s okay. I don’t care about the money.”
But you should, I think. You should care that you’re giving up your financial security. And you’re doing it partly because of me—because standing up to your mother meant defending me, and now she’s punishing you for it.
“Come on,” River says, tugging me gently toward the house. “Let’s go inside. I could really use a distraction right now.”
I follow him through the front door, Victoria’s words playing on repeat in my head. He’ll get bored. You’re beneath him. Stop fooling yourself.
River leads me to the kitchen, and I’m grateful for something to focus on besides the hollow feeling growing in my chest. He heads straight to the pantry while I set my bag on the counter.
“Okay,” he says, emerging with a small container. “I know today has been rough, but I promise this mystery ingredient will make it better.”
He sets the container on the counter between us, and I lean forward to examine it. Inside are several cloves of garlic, but they’re completely black—soft and almost jammy-looking, nothing like regular garlic.
“Black garlic,” I say, picking up one of the cloves. It’s sticky and slightly sweet-smelling.
“Have you worked with it before?”
“No. But I’ve read about it.” I turn the clove over in my fingers, my mind already working through possibilities despite the emotional chaos Victoria left behind.
“It’s regular garlic that’s been aged through a fermentation process.
It’s supposed to be sweet and umami-rich, almost like balsamic vinegar. ”
“Exactly.” River leans against the counter, watching me with that focused attention that usually makes my heart stutter. But right now, it just makes Victoria’s words louder. Infatuated. Temporary. A phase.
I force myself to focus on the black garlic. “I’m thinking pasta. Maybe with mushrooms and cream, since the black garlic will add that umami depth. And for dessert...” I pause, the idea forming. “Black garlic caramel. Drizzled over vanilla ice cream.”
“That sounds good.” But there’s something hollow in River’s enthusiasm, like he’s going through the motions.
“Go,” I say, making shooing motions toward the hallway. “Do your editing thing. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
He nods and disappears down the hallway. I hear the door to his editing room close, and I’m alone with my thoughts and a container of black garlic.
I get to work almost on autopilot. The black garlic gets mashed into a paste and mixed with butter, which I toss with fettuccine and sautéed mushrooms. Heavy cream and parmesan turn it into this rich, earthy sauce that coats every strand of pasta.
For the caramel, I melt sugar until it’s golden, then whisk in the mashed black garlic and a touch of cream.
The result is this dark, glossy sauce that’s sweet and savory and completely unexpected.
By the time I plate everything and call River to the dining room, I’m proud of what I’ve created. But the hollow feeling in my chest has only grown larger.
River appears and takes his seat, examining the pasta with genuine interest despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “This looks good.”
We eat in near silence. River makes appreciative sounds about the pasta—the way the black garlic adds depth without overwhelming the dish, how the mushrooms complement the flavors—but his heart isn’t in it. He’s going through the motions, same as me.