"Nothing," Margot says, in a tone that definitely means something.
"You like him," Amelia says simply.
"I don't—we're not—it's fake!"
"Your face isn't fake." Amelia points her crochet hook at me. "That's real feelings."
I set down my wine glass. "Okay. Let's establish some facts. One: this is a business arrangement. Two: Victor is emotionally unavailable. Three: I learned my lesson with Thomas about falling for unavailable men who see me as convenient. Four: we got married in a place with Pac-Man decor. FIVE: this is not a romance novel."
"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself," Margot observes.
“I’m—I’m being practical. This ends come New Year’s. We go our separate ways. I get my show. He gets his board approval. Everyone wins."
"And then what?" Amelia asks quietly.
"Then I move out. We get a quiet divorce or annulment or whatever Rachel decides is best for optics. And when the time is right, I leave StreamEats on amicable terms.”
"And you're okay with that?"
Am I?
I should be. That was the deal. That was always the deal.
"I'm okay with it," I lie.
My sisters don't look convinced, but they let it drop.
We crochet in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythm of hooks and yarn and sisterhood wrapping around us like the blanket we're making.
My phone buzzes once more.
VICTOR KADE: By the way. Check your crochet bag when you get a chance.
I frown at the screen, then reach for my bag—the large tote I use to carry yarn, hooks, and whatever project I'm working on.
I pull out the usual suspects: three balls of yarn, my favorite hook, the pattern for Amelia's blanket.
And a small box I definitely didn't put there.
"What's that?" Amelia asks, leaning over.
"I don't know."
I open it.
Inside is a French press. A small, portable one. The kind you can use to make actual coffee, not just espresso.
There's a note card tucked inside, written in sharp, angular handwriting I recognize from contracts and emails.
For emergencies.
—V
I stare at it for a long moment.
"What is it?" Margot asks.
I hold up the French press, and Amelia reads the note over my shoulder and makes a sound like a teakettle. "OH MY GOD."
