Page 177 of Stranger to Love

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about," I snapped, cutting him off. "You think if I'm out of the house, she’ll be isolated. You think if you get all three of you in a room, she'll crack under the pressure and play the 'good daughter' who writes the cheques." I let out a harsh, dry laugh. "But here's the thing you’ve failed to realise: I’m not a distraction. I’m her partner. And this is my kitchen, in my house, which I share with the woman who actually wants me here."

"You're just a kid she's—"

"I'm the person who actually knows her," I interjected, poking a finger into his chest. "Not the person who treats her like a walking bank account. If you think for one second I'm leaving her alone with the three of you so you can pick her apart, you are even more delusional than I thought."

From the doorway, a cool, familiar voice rang out like a guillotine. "Is there a problem in here?"

We both turned. Carrie was standing there, breathtakingly formidable in her silk blouse and tailored trousers. Her eyes were sharp, her posture perfect, but the slight tightening around her mouth told me she had heard every word.

I held Richard’s gaze for a beat longer, making sure he saw the absolute lack of fear in my eyes, then turned my back on him. I walked over to Carrie, offering her the steaming mug. "Double shot, just the way you like it," I said softly.

Carrie took the mug, her fingers brushing mine. The look she gave me was heavy with gratitude and something much darker. She took a deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving Richard, who was suddenly very interested in the marble countertop.

"Richard," Carrie said, her voice like ice water. "If I ever hear you suggesting that Alex should leave her own home again, you won won’t have to worry about finding a flat. Because you’ll be admitted to the hospital. Do I make myself clear?"

Richard swallowed hard, turning pale. "I was just... thinking about the parents, CC. You know how they are."

"I know exactly how they are," she countered, stepping forward to stand tightly at my side—an unmistakable declaration of alignment. "And I know exactly who Alex is to me. If they have a problem with her, they have a problem with me. And if you have a problem with that, you can join them in the garden when they leave."

The heavy silence that followed was broken by the sharp, echoing chime of the doorbell.

Carrie’s hand tightened on her mug, her knuckles turning white. I reached out, resting a hand on the small of her back, feeling the tremor of anxiety beneath her silk blouse. She took one last bracing breath, her Dr. Carter mask locking into place—colder and more impenetrable than I’d ever seen it.

"That'll be them," she said, her voice flat. She looked at me, a silent question in her eyes. Are you ready?

I gave her a sharp, confident nod. "Let's go greet the guests.”

***

I had silently thanked the gods for my own parents at least ten times since Carrie’s family arrived.

It wasn't just her parents. Her older brother, Peter, had shown up with his wife in tow. I could immediately see why Richard called him ‘Perfect Peter.’ First of all, the man had a spectacularly punchable face. He was sitting there with a smug expression, acting as if he was the one who signed the fucking mortgage for this house. But my time with Carrie had given me a trained eye; his suit was a cheap imitation of a high-end cut, and his wife’s jewellery was loud, hollow, and definitely fake. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn't judge, but given the cocky way he was trying to mimic his sister’s gravitas, he just looked like a total knobhead. His wife seemed decent enough, but she was quiet—too quiet to challenge the way this family seemed to view Carrie as their personal bank.

They had been there for twenty minutes, and I was already counting down the seconds until I could shove them out the door.

Her parents were a study in contrasts. To my surprise, her mother, Carol—and I finally understood why Carrie was so adamant about people not using that as a nickname for Caroline—had chocolate-brown hair and soft, plump features. She looked nothing like Carrie. Her father, Martin, was where the genes landed: tall, slim, with sharp features and jet-black hair. It was all Carrie, though fuck knew where she got her actual beauty from, because his face was set in a permanent scowl.

They had practically ignored my existence since the initial shock of meeting me at the door. Honestly, I’d prefer the silence over their conversation, but my heart was breaking for the woman standing next to me. Carrie was rigid. It was not the powerful, commanding stance she took in a lecture hall; it was the posture of someone bracing for a punch to the gut. It made me want to rip their fucking faces off.

So far, I had played the role of the dutiful partner, helping Carrie prep the tea and coffee while they exchanged awkward, hollow small talk. Martin and Carol noted how the kitchen had changed since they were last there—fucking five years ago—while Peter pointedly mentioned that there was a new car in the garage.

Fucking leeches. They weren't there for a visit; they were there for an inventory.

The kitchen felt like a pressure cooker, the steam from the kettle the only thing masking the rising heat of Carrie’s temper. Finally, Carol set her teacup down with a dainty, rhythmic clink and looked at Richard, who had been trying to fade into the wallpaper since the moment they arrived.

"It’s just so lovely that you let your brother live with you, Caroline," Carol said, her voice a forced, sugary trill. "Family should always be under one roof."

Carrie’s jaw tightened so hard I could hear her teeth grit. She didn't look up from the tray she was prepping. "He is staying with me, Mother. He is here temporarily while he finds a flat and secures a job. He does not 'live' here."

Carol let out a long, theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes toward Martin. "Well, I’m sure the poor boy would have his own place by now if you’d actually helped him. With all your connections, you could have easily found him a comfortable position. It’s a bit selfish to keep all that success to yourself when your own flesh and blood is struggling."

The silence that followed was deafening. Richard looked down at his feet, failing to hide a small, smug twitch of his lips. He had clearly been complaining to his Mother on the phone.

I was going to rip his throat out.

Carrie finally looked up. Her expression was a terrifying mask of calm, but I could see the pulse thrumming in her neck. "I have provided Richard with a roof, food, and a list of recruitment contacts. I am his sister, not his career counsellor. And I certainly won't be accused of selfishness in the house I paid for, while serving tea I bought, to people who haven't bothered to visit in half a decade."

Peter scoffed, leaning back in his chair as if he was watching a boring play. "There she goes. Get a bit of money and suddenly you're too good for the rest of us. Always was the arrogant one, wasn't she, Dad?"