She turned to the room, beaming. "Everyone, let me introduce you—this is Irene's fiancé. They're getting married in a few days."
"He's an incredible cook. I invited him over specifically to handle the kitchen for us today."
Joel bared a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "You're too kind, ma'am. I'm nothing special—just know my way around a few home-cooked dishes."
"Oh, stop being modest! You're the go-to chef for every big banquet in the village. Our Irene is going to eat well for the rest of her life."
The air went still.
Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto me—surprise, confusion, mockery, contempt—each gaze a needle driven straight through my skin.
I held myself upright by sheer force of will, enduring the humiliation as it carved into me piece by piece.
A flicker of shock crossed Rhys's eyes, but it dissolved almost instantly into something colder. Derision.
I dug my nails so deep into my palms that the pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart.
Stella's eyes went wide. "Irene? This… old man is your fiancé?"
My mother feigned a scowl. "Stella, don't talk about your future brother-in-law like that. He's not even fifty yet."