Chapter 2Trash the Invites, Trash Him Too

When I walked into the living room, Christopher had already started eating. Sarah was also seated at the dining table, her head bowed over her plate. The four dishes and soup were still steaming. My spot was empty. There wasn't even a place setting for me.

“When Mrs. Davis was training you, did she not mention that you’re not supposed to sit at the table with your employer without permission?” I asked, my voice tight with displeasure.

It wasn't that I was being unreasonable. I had invited Mrs. Davis to eat with us before, but she had always insisted on following the rules, citing professional boundaries.

Sarah, however, seemed unfazed. “This is how I’ve been eating this whole time. Mr. Hayes said it was fine.”

Christopher chimed in. “It’s no big deal, Claire. Come on, sit down and eat.”

I didn’t move. I just stood there, looking at them. In the silence, the clinking of chopsticks against porcelain sounded jarringly loud.

Christopher, sensing my anger, wheeled himself over and looked up at me. “Claire, don’t be mad. Please, sit.”

“Tell her to leave the table,” I said.

“Claire…” he started to argue.

“Tell her to leave the table,” I repeated, leaving no room for negotiation.

After a tense moment, he relented. “Sarah, would you mind eating in the kitchen?”

Sarah’s face tightened. She scraped her chair back, a short, sharp sound against the floor. She seemed to have grown accustomed to her easy dynamic with Christopher, and my return had disrupted it. A flicker of emotion crossed her face before she suppressed it and prepared to stand.

“Wait,” I said, turning to Christopher. “Did you not tell her I don’t eat cilantro?”

He finally looked down at the table. Almost every dish was sprinkled with it.

“Uh…” He was at a loss for words.

“Miss Vance, it’s not Mr. Hayes’s fault,” Sarah cut in quickly. “I forgot while I was cooking. I added it out of habit.”

“Then remake it,” I said flatly.

“Claire, let it go. Just pick it out tonight. Sarah will remember next time,” Christopher tried to placate me.

I didn’t say another word. I walked to the table, picked up the dish closest to me, and dumped its contents into the trash can. The sound of the sauce splattering was sharp and clear. “Then no one eats.”

Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Claire, what are you doing?” He bit back the rest of his sentence, knowing, ultimately, that this was Sarah’s mistake.

I ignored them both, grabbed my car keys and purse from the entryway, and left.

I didn't go back that night. Instead, I stayed at my small apartment near the office for a few days. I’d bought it for late nights during a big project. It was sparsely furnished but was only a five-minute walk from work.

For days, Christopher bombarded me with messages: What time are you getting off work? Have you eaten? When are you coming home? Normally, he would have just driven over and waited for me downstairs. But with his leg, he was stuck at home, his frustration channeled into a relentless digital assault.

I didn’t block him, but I rarely replied, occasionally sending a curt “Busy.”

On the sixth day, he sent a longer message, asking if I wanted to look at wedding venues with him that weekend. He said he’d contacted several planners, checked on dates and budgets, and wanted me to pick my favorite.

His tone was sincere, and I didn’t want to drag out the stalemate. I decided to accept the olive branch and went home.