Chapter 17 #2
I follow her inside, dread settling heavy in my stomach. Mother is already descending the stairs, having apparently decided freshening up could wait in favor of inspecting whoever rang the doorbell.
“Mother,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is Kiera Emmerson. Kiera, this is my mother, Victoria Stone.”
Kiera extends her hand, that professional smile firmly in place. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone. I’m here to cook dinner for you and River this evening.”
Mother takes Kiera’s hand briefly, with just two fingers, the handshake lasting barely a second before she pulls away. Her eyes scan Kiera from head to toe, taking in the casual clothes, the pink streak in her hair, the bag over her shoulder.
I can practically see the judgment forming.
“How charming,” Mother says, and the word sounds like an insult. “River, there’s no need to treat the help with such formality. A simple introduction would suffice.” She turns to Kiera, her smile sharp. “You may go do your job in the kitchen now. I’m sure River has work to attend to.”
My face burns. Heat floods up my neck and into my cheeks, and I want to say something. Want to tell Mother that Kiera isn’t “the help” and she deserves to be treated with respect. Want to defend both of us.
But the words stick in my throat. Because this is Mother, and she always wins. Always finds a way to make me feel like I’m in the wrong for even considering pushing back.
I catch Kiera’s eye, trying to convey how sorry I am, how much I hate this. She gives me the smallest nod—understanding, not angry—and heads toward the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there,” I manage to say.
Mother settles onto the couch, crossing her legs with elegant precision. “Whatever do you need to do in the kitchen?”
I don’t want to explain our mystery ingredient arrangement, so I just mumble, “I’ve got to give her something.”
My mother gives me a nod. “Don’t be long, darling. We have so much to catch up on.”
I practically flee to the kitchen.
Kiera is already making herself at home, her bag slung onto one of the stools. She doesn’t look upset or hurt or angry. Just focused, like Mother’s dismissiveness rolled right off her.
“Kiera, I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out. “She shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You’re not—you’re so much more than—”
“River.” She turns to face me, and her expression is gentle. “It’s okay. She’s only here for a few days, right? I can handle a few days.”
“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
“Maybe not.” She shrugs. “But I’ve dealt with people who thought I was worthless trash. I can deal with someone who thinks I’m just the help.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “Besides, I’m going to make such an incredible dinner that she’ll have to admit I’m good at something.”
The fierce determination in her voice makes my heartbeat erratic. She’s not running. Not letting Mother’s attitude chase her away. She’s staying and fighting back in her own way.
“You’re amazing,” I say quietly. “You know that, right?”
Pink creeps into her cheeks. “I’m just stubborn.” She turns back to the counter. “Now, what’s my mystery ingredient? Please tell me it’s something good. I need a win tonight.”
I reach into the cupboard and pull out the small container I prepared earlier. “Gochugaru. Korean red pepper flakes.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really? I get to make Korean food again?”
“I figured after that delicious galbi, you’d want another chance to show off your skills.” I set the container on the counter beside her. “Plus, I have a feeling whatever you make is going to blow my mother away, whether she admits it or not.”
Kiera picks up the gochugaru, examining it with the same intensity she gives all her mystery ingredients. “I’m thinking gochujang chicken. With sticky rice and pickled vegetables. Something bold and flavorful that she can’t dismiss as boring.”
“Perfect.”
I’m about to head back to the living room when Mother appears in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes sweep over the scene—me standing close to Kiera, the way we’re talking like equals instead of employer and employee.
“River.” Her voice is sharp with disapproval. “A word, please?”
I follow her back into the living room, my stomach knotting.
She turns to face me, keeping her voice low enough that Kiera won’t hear but loud enough to make her point crystal clear.
“Darling, I understand that you’re new to having household help, but there are certain boundaries one maintains.
You don’t fraternize with the staff. You certainly don’t hover in the kitchen making friendly conversation while they work. ”
“Mother, she’s not—”
“It’s inappropriate, River. And it gives the wrong impression. These people need to understand their place, and you undermining that by treating her as a friend does no one any favors.”
The words feel like a slap. These people. Their place. Like Kiera is somehow less than us just because she’s cooking dinner.
I think about everything Kiera’s been through. Everything she’s survived. The way she works two jobs and still finds time to practice for a competition that could change her life. The way she stayed late to perfect those matcha macarons because she refused to accept failure.
She’s worth ten times anyone in Mother’s social circle.
“Kiera is more than just my cook,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected. “I told you. She’s a good friend.”
Mother’s eyebrow arches. “Do you pay her?”
“Yes. She’s talented and hardworking, and she’s teaching me about food while I help her prepare for a culinary competition. We have a professional arrangement, but we’re also friends. And I’d appreciate it if you’d treat her with respect.”
For a moment, Mother just stares at me. I’ve never talked back to her like this. Never stood my ground so directly.
Then her expression shifts into something calculating. “I see.”
Those two words carry more weight than I want them to. Like she’s figured out something I’m not ready for her to know.
“Well,” she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp, “I suppose as long as you’re getting proper meals, it doesn’t matter who’s preparing them. Though I do hope you’re not paying her too much. These island types tend to take advantage of wealthy transplants from the city.”
The implication is clear. Kiera is using me. Taking advantage of my money and my kindness.
It takes everything I have not to defend her more forcefully. To tell Mother exactly what Kiera means to me, how she’s the best part of my day, how being around her makes me happier than I’ve been in years.
But I can’t. Because Mother will use that information like a weapon. She’ll find ways to make Kiera’s life difficult, to drive a wedge between us, to prove that I’m making another poor life choice.
So I just say, “She’s worth every penny I pay her.”
And I turn and walk back to the kitchen before Mother can respond.
Kiera is already working, her hands moving with confident precision as she prepares the chicken. She glances up when I enter, and concern flickers across her face.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I lean against the counter, watching her work. “Everything’s fine.”
Except, it’s not fine. Not even close.