“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, stepping closer, invading her personal space. “Why didnt you let my sister in?”
Oliver didnt just walk into the flathe barged in, bringing with him a gust of cold autumn air from the stairwell and the sharp scent of his irritation.
The key turned aggressively in the lock, the door slammed against the wall, and he froze on the threshold, still wearing his rain-soaked jacket. His usually easygoing face, with its hint of laziness, was twisted with anger he didnt bother to hide.
In the kitchen, perched on the small sofa by the window, sat Emma. She was reading. The light from the lamp fell on her hair and the pages of her thick hardback. She didnt flinch at the noise, didnt look up. Only her finger, tracing the line, stilled.
She waited for him to repeat the question, louder this time, his voice edged with barely restrained fury.
“Emma, Im talking to you! Sophie rang me, nearly in tears. She and her husband came by on their lunch break, starving, and you didnt even open the door! What was I supposed to say? That my wife decided to make a point?”
Only then did Emma slowly, reluctantly, pull herself from her book. She didnt close itjust slipped a thin bookmark inside and set it beside her on the sofa.
She looked up at him. Her gaze was clear, cold as winter sky. No fear, no guilt, no pity. Just quiet, heavy exhaustion.
“I heard the doorbell,” she said evenly. “And I saw through the peephole who it was. Thats why I didnt answer.”
Oliver hadnt expected that. Hed braced for excusesa headache, or claims she hadnt heard. The blunt admission threw him. He took a few steps into the kitchen, his shoes leaving muddy prints on the clean floor.
“So you did it on purpose?” His voice dropped, but that only made it sharper. “You saw it was my sister and deliberately left her standing there? What kind of stunt is that, Emma? Theyre used to having lunch here!”
He said it like it was some unshakable law of the universe. A tradition carved in stone.
*Used to.* The words hung in the air, thick with his righteous anger and her silent refusal.
To him, it was normalhis sister and her husband, who worked nearby, coming over every single workday for lunch. Convenient, economical, and, in his mind, perfectly reasonable. Hed never questioned where the food came from, who cooked it, who cleaned up after. It just *was.* Like the sun rising.
Emma stood without a word. She was shorter than him, slimmer, but in that moment, she seemed to fill the entire kitchen.
She walked to the counter and leaned against its cold edge, staring straight at himhis flushed face, the raindrops still clinging to his dark hair.
“*Used to?*” she echoed softly.
The word hit like a whip. No emotion, just cold fact. She tilted her head slightly, studying him like an unfamiliar object.
“Time they got unused to it.”
Oliver froze. His brain stuttered over what hed just heard. This was outright rebellion. A violation of the unspoken agreement hed assumed their marriagehis peace of mindwas built on.
The initial anger, sparked by his sisters complaint, twisted into something deeper, more personalthe sense that his territory, his *rules*, had been challenged in the most brazen way.
“Are you *serious?*” he hissed, stepping even closer, crowding her. “What gives you the right to decide who comes into *my* home? Shes my sister! My *blood!* Theyre not coming to see *you*, theyre coming to *me!* And as my wife, youre supposed to be *hospitable.* Thats your *job!*”
His voice filled the kitchen, every word an accusation. He wasnt asking, he was *declaring.* Painting a world with clear roles: him, the provider; her, the keeper of the home, ensuring comfort and hot meals for him and his family.
And now that picture was cracking.
“Youve turned *selfish,* Emma. A selfish *brat!* You grudge my family a bowl of soup? Do you have *any* idea how this looks? Theyll laugh at us! Say Ive let my wife run the show, dictate who I can see!”
Emma listened, expression unchanging. She didnt look away, didnt interrupt. Just watched him, and in that calm, there was something terrifying.
She let him finish, let him spew every bit of venom built up during that short phone call with Sophie.
When he finally fell silent, breathing hard, she didnt engage with his rant. Instead, she did the last thing he expected.
Wordlessly, she stepped around him, opened the kitchen drawer, and pulled out the cheap calculator she used for bills. Then a notepad and a pen.
Oliver stared, baffled. Hed braced for tears, shoutinganything but this cold, businesslike efficiency.
Emma sat at the table, flicked the calculator on. The dry *click* of buttons was deafening in the quiet.
“Lets do the maths,” she said, tone flat as a newsreader. “Starting with groceries. Meat, veg, pasta, bread, butter. To feed four adults lunch, its about” Her fingers flew over the keys. “At current prices, roughly £15 a day. Just lunch. Times twenty working days. £300. Thats just the food, from our shared budget.”
Oliver stood rigid, watching. He didnt understand where this was going, but his spine prickled.
“Now my time,” she continued, jotting numbers. “Shopping, cooking for four, serving, then washing up and cleaning. At least two hours a day. A cook and cleaner in our area charges say, £15 an hour. Two hours, £30. Times twenty days. Another £300.”
She circled the total, then slid the notepad toward him.
“Total: £600 a month. Thats the cost of your sisters *habit.* Since theres two of them, split it. £300 per person. But since they dont come every day, well bill per visit.” She wrote *Menu Prices* at the top in bold letters. “Here. From today, lunch or dinner for your relatives is £20 per person. Per meal. Pass it on. Payment upfrontcard or cash.”
She set the pen down and met his eyes.
“Oh, and Im billing you for tonights dinner too. If this is a restaurant for your family, *everyone* pays. Or they eat elsewhere.”
She tore the page off and laid it in front of him. He stared at the neat figures, this absurd, humiliating proposition, and knew she wasnt joking.
This was a wall. Built of numbers and facts, against which his comfortable world had just shattered.
His familys free meal ticket had just closed. Permanently.
Oliver stared at the page for a long time. The figures, in blue ink, mocked him. He reread *Menu Prices* like it held some hidden joke. It didnt.
This was a declaration of warcold, calculated, and brutal. He crumpled the paper in his fist, the tight ball pressing into his palm like a stone.
Without a word, he turned and walked out. When he returned from the bedroom, phone in hand, he made no effort to lower his voice.
“Sophie? You wont *believe* what shes No, shes home! Shes just Shes lost it. Shes *billing* me! For your lunches! Yes, *yes,* Im serious. Twenty quid a head. Says were running a restaurant now. I dont *know* whats got into her, I swear! Shes not right in the head.”
He listened, nodding at nothing, face darkening. He didnt repeat her arguments about cost or time. He framed it like shed snapped, turned greedy overnight.
Easier that way. Made him the victim, not the man whod let his wife be used for years.
The next day, at noon sharp, the doorbell rangnot a polite tap, but a long, demanding press. Emma, dusting the living room, calmly set down the cloth and answered. She knew who it was.
Sophie stood there. Beside her, silent backup, loomed her husband Mark, a large man with a perpetual scowl. Sophie was righteous fury incarnatecheeks flushed, eyes flashing. She didnt greet her.
“Im here to see my *brother!*” she snapped, trying to shoulder past.
Emma didnt move. Just rested a hand on the doorframe, blocking her. Calm. Final.
“Hes busy,” she said flatly.
“Were not here to *disturb* him! Its *lunchtime.* Or have you forgotten people have breaks? Move!”
Another shove, met with ste
