Chapter 2

Elyse Delgado POV:

I left my wet coat on the kitchen island, right next to Brandee's half-eaten croissant. That was when I noticed them.

Sitting in a pristine row on my marble counter were five massive, luxurious gift baskets wrapped in gold cellophane and wide burgundy ribbons. They were overflowing with imported Belgian chocolates, artisanal cheeses, vacuum-sealed smoked salmon, and vintage sparkling wine.

I reached out and pulled the thick gold ribbon of the closest basket toward me.

"I'm taking two of these," I said, looking Julien dead in the eye. "I'll ship one to my parents for Thanksgiving tomorrow, and we'll keep the other."

"Put that down right now, Elyse!" Julien's voice snapped like a whip.

He lunged forward, grabbing the wicker handle and ripping the basket out of my hands with enough force to shove the box back against the counter.

"These are not yours to touch," he said, his chest heaving with anger. "I bought these specifically for Brandee's family. Every single one of them is already accounted for."

"With whose money, Julien?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "Where did the nine hundred dollars for these five luxury baskets come from? You told me this morning that spending eighty dollars on my parents was a criminal waste of money."

"I used my discretionary household management funds," Julien justified without missing a beat. "Brandee's parents understand high society. They appreciate quality imported goods. Your parents live in a rural suburb and spend their weekends at church potlucks. Giving them reserve cider is casting pearls before swine. Be realistic for once in your life!"

Brandee stepped forward, wringing her manicured hands and putting on her softest, most pitiful expression.

"Elyse, please don't fight with Julien over me," she murmured, lowering her head. "If it means that much to you, you can have one of my baskets. I can just tell my cousins I forgot their gifts. I don't want to cause trouble between you two."

"You don't need to sacrifice your family's holiday gifts just to appease her temper tantrum, Brandee," Julien interjected loudly, glaring at me.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen aggressively for a few seconds, and shoved the screen three inches from my face.

"There! Are you happy now?" he sneered. "I just went on Amazon and ordered a bulk holiday box for your parents. It has twenty items in it. It cost nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents with free shipping. Everyone gets equal treatment. Stop embarrassing yourself."

I stared at the phone screen. The product was a generic cardboard box filled with processed crackers, artificially flavored cheese spread in plastic tubes, and stale mini-cookies with near-expiration dates.

At that exact moment, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text message from my older brother, Alex.

"Hey El, Mom told me you were asking about sending holiday stuff. Please don't let Julien buy anything from that discount website again this year. Remember those clearance pecan bars he sent last Thanksgiving? Mom spent two days in urgent care with severe food poisoning from expired oils. Dad didn't want to tell you because he knew you'd feel bad. Just send a picture of yourself, we miss you."

A heavy, suffocating pain clamped down on my chest, followed immediately by pure, burning fury.

Last year, Julien had charged our joint account forty dollars for what he claimed was a curated organic nut sampler. He had sent them expired clearance garbage, pocketed the difference, and put my mother in the hospital.

I looked up from my phone, staring at Julien's smug, self-righteous face.

"Cancel the order, Julien," I said quietly.

"What?" Julien frowned. "I just solved your problem and bought them twenty items. Now you want me to cancel it?"

"Cancel it," I repeated, my voice devoid of any emotion. "Don't ever send a single piece of trash to my parents' house again."

Julien rolled his eyes and tapped his phone. "Fine. Order canceled. Brandee, you witnessed this. She refused the gift herself. Don't let her claim later that I never tried to provide for her family."

"I saw it, Julien," Brandee whispered, giving him an admiring, supportive look. "You're always so patient."

"Let's just eat," Julien sighed, turning toward the stove. "Brandee made her signature creamy garlic pasta in our kitchen. Sit down, Elyse, and let's put this ridiculous drama behind us."

The three of us sat at the dining table. Brandee scooped a heavy portion of pasta onto my plate. I took one bite. It tasted like salt and grease, completely heavy and flavorless. I pushed the plate away and set my fork down.

"I'm done," I said.

Julien wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and looked at me with an authoritative scowl.

"Since Brandee cooked dinner for us, Elyse, you are on cleanup duty tonight," he commanded. "Wash all the pans, wipe down the countertops, and load the dishwasher."

I looked toward the open kitchen. It was an absolute disaster zone. Brandee had used four different stainless steel pans, three mixing bowls, and left open containers of cream and garlic skins scattered across every inch of the marble island.

"No," I said simply.

Brandee gasped softly, her eyes widening. "Oh... I'm so sorry, Elyse. I get a little carried away when I cook. I would help you clean, but I just got my gel nail extensions done today, and the chemicals in the dish soap will ruin the adhesive."

"You don't need to explain yourself to her, Brandee," Julien said, his voice rising in anger as he glared at me. "Elyse, this is a standard division of labor. Brandee has delicate hands and works hard on her appearance. You sit at a marketing desk all day. Stop being lazy and do your part!"

For two years, every single chore generated by Brandee had been dumped onto me. When I asked Julien to spend money from our joint account to fix the broken dishwasher, he refused, telling me that hand-washing dishes built character and saved on electricity.

I stood up from the table.

"Brandee didn't cook for me. She used my kitchen to avoid dirtying her own, made a giant mess, and ate dinner with you," I replied coldly. "She can clean her own mess. I am not touching a single plate."

"You will clean this kitchen right now, or you won't sleep in our bedroom tonight!" Julien threatened, stepping up to assert his physical height over me.

I didn't back down.

Instead, I raised my right hand and shoved it directly into Julien's face, spreading my fingers wide.

The skin across my knuckles was bright red, rough, and split with three deep, bleeding fissures from the freezing rain and constant dish scrubbing in freezing water over the past week.

"Look at my hands, Julien," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a razor. "Tell me again about Brandee's delicate nails."