But she insisted, and I didn’t want to start an argument in front of everyone, so I let it go.
We stood side by side at the counter, both cutting vegetables in a tense silence, until suddenly—
“Agh!” Camille shrieked.
Blood dripped from her finger. She dropped the knife as Kier rushed into the kitchen in panic.
“What the hell happened?!” he shouted, grabbing her hand. “You’re bleeding! Goddamn it, Camille, your hand—do you even know how important that is?! You have a presentation next week!”
“It’s okay, it’s just a scratch—”
Kier turned on me before she could even finish.
“This is your fault! You useless woman! You let her get hurt in your own kitchen! You couldn’t even chop the damn vegetables yourself?”
I was stunned. “I—I didn’t—”
But it didn’t matter. Camille tried to defend me, but her voice was drowned out by the chaos. They were all hovering over her, pressing tissues to her wound, blaming me for things I hadn’t done.
And I didn’t even have the chance to explain that I had a wound too.
The cut I got from cleaning up the broken vase hadn’t healed, and now with the kitchen work, it had split open again.