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“I gotta make a toast,” I announce, hoisting my champagne glass as all eyes turn my way. “Today's been a long haul for most of us.”
“You can say that again,” Rey, my right-hand man, agrees.
“But the fact that you all managed to squeeze this into your schedules says a lot.” I flash a grin at each one of them.
“We're just here for the grub.” Rey draws a round of laughter. “And for you, of course.” He smirks and raises his own glass.
“I gotta thank my amazing wife for pulling this off behind my back.” I pause and glance toward the back of the room at the remarkable woman who's trying to sort out some leftovers with Leila. “So here's to her for this surprise, and to all you folks for showing up.”
“Here's to you, Kyle.” Dean and Rey step forward and lift their glasses high, downing them in one swig. I follow suit and toss the empty glass into the trash can as I stride over to Miri and pull her into a kiss, drawing whistles and cheers.
Chapter Three
Dean
Istare at myself in the mirror, my weary face reflecting the remnants of my past. Once-vibrant eyes, brimming with confidence, now stare back, hollow and adrift in a sea of confusion and disillusionment. Despite my inclination toward logic and science, I feel like a ship lost in a stormy ocean, tossed without a compass or map, at the mercy of tempestuous waves and erratic currents.
My work, once my driving purpose and ambition, has turned into a refuge from reality, a means of escape. What used to be tedious business trips have transformed into moments of solace and tranquility, offering a brief respite from the chaos of daily life.
And then there's Greta, the center of my world.
When I first met her, she was a beacon of light in the darkness, an irresistible force of nature. But that allure that drew me in revealed itself to be a treacherous fire, consuming everything in its path. I love her, I truly care for her, yet I can't shake this feeling that something crucial is missing.
It's almost as if she's taken control of my life, although the thought seems ludicrous and impossible. I am an adult, perfectly capable of making my own decisions, but I can't ignore the fact that, slowly, I've started to set aside my identity, losing pieces of my essence. Our life seems to have stopped, or rather, vanished. Longtime friends have disappeared, hobbies abandoned, and outings with my brother, Kyle, canceled time and again, each time with a different excuse. Kyle isn't blind; he's noticed that something isn't right. Honestly, I didn't quite know what it was either.
Tonight, though, as I witness the scene unfolding before my eyes, it's surreal to believe this is actually happening. Perhaps it's just my imagination, a fleeting thought conjured up in moments of boredom as a distraction.
“And you have nothing to say?” Greta's voice jolts me back to what I hoped was a dream.
“That’s enough, Greta. We’re fucking tired of your prima donna attitude, always belittling others,” Miriana counters, her voice steady as if they're discussing shoe choices.
Greta bursts into a laughter loaded with mischief, spreading in the sharp air like a blade. She leans on the table with a calculated nonchalance, arms arched, while the smile on her lips seems to dance with an almost sadistic pleasure. Her eyes, sparkling with spite, fixate on Miriana like invisible claws, ready to tear apart her composure piece by piece. “But listen to her,” she hisses, her voice a poisoned caress, “All classy and perfect, but with a slutty mouth.”
I flinch at Greta's response, and a sense of oppression tightens my chest, almost suffocating my breath. My gaze restlessly roams along the table as I try to mask the turmoil raging inside me. The discomfort worsens, a tangle of frustration and bewilderment gripping my stomach. But Miriana remains unfazed, hiding a mocking smile behind the glass of wine from which she takes a sip. “At least I know how to use my mouth. Unlike—” She halts abruptly as my gaze shifts to Kyle, who seems oddly amused.
Am I imagining all of this? I rub my eyes, feeling like a mere viewer as my wife and sister-in-law clash once again. I'm tired of these fights, so weary that I've been avoiding our Saturday night dinners altogether. They used to be a ritual, a way to end the week and come together as a family. But it always ends the same way: my wife, for no apparent reason, unveiling her worst side, while Miriana, graceful and composed, refuses to be dragged down.
“Aren't you going to say anything?” Greta's voice cracks like a whip in the tense air, the sound of cutlery slamming on the table echoing like thunder, making the wine in the glasses ripple. It's a sound that penetrates deep into the bones, filling the room with tangible tension.
She locks eyes with me, her gaze as sharp as poison-tipped arrows, and I feel it pierce my chest. She slams the cutlery down with such force that it sends waves through the liquid in the glasses. “You're just the same spineless pushover as always,” she accuses, each word a deliberate stab intended to wound.
My silence becomes the backdrop against which she expertly paints her disdain. Her cruelty, so carefully orchestrated, revels in my stillness. Each sarcastic remark of hers is a scalpel slicing through my pride, leaving behind burning scars of doubt.
Her eyes, cold mirrors, challenge me without a word. It's a silent battle in which she stands dominant, seeking to demolish every one of my defenses, every effort at redemption. And I, frozen in this icy standoff, desperately search for the courage to reply.
“Are you wearing a straw hat because I’m right?” Miriana retorts, “Your ever-changing moods and constant flip-flopping don't fly anymore, Greta. Fake victimhood isn't welcome in this house. You need to wake up and face the music, dear; you need a good therapist.”
“How dare you!” She shoots up from her seat, her chair toppling to the floor with a resounding thud. Kyle freezes, his demeanor instantly shifting.
Miriana, ever the picture of calm, neatly folds her napkin before standing. “You're a miserable person. So empty inside that you destroy what you have instead of appreciating it. I can't help but wonder if it's because you fear being alone once he sees through your manipulative games or just because you're a damned narcissist.” Her words ring clear, a stinging slap to Greta, who seems on the brink of a meltdown.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Unflinching, Miriana arches a brow. “You can't silence me, Greta. And you can't silence any of us. We're sick of your toxic antics. You're wreaking havoc, consuming him!”
My heart pounds painfully as I watch the tension escalate between the two women. I feel Miriana's touch on my hand, pulling me back to the reality that I seem to be drifting away from. I hardly noticed her moving closer to me. I look up to find her eyes filled with a mix of pride and...fear. She's standing up for me, for our family's peace, with a fierce resolve I've never seen before.
I shift my gaze to Greta, her eyes are icy and scheming.
