The aluminum crutches leaned against the refrigerator like silent sentinels, silver and cold under the harsh recessed lighting of my parents’ suburban kitchen.

“Four... four thousand...?” Ryan choked out, his voice hitching as he stared at Lisa’s clipboard as if it were a venomous snake. “Are you out of your mind?! That’s robbery! Get these people out of my house right now!”

Lisa didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, maintaining a customer-service smile that could cut glass. “Sir, Vance Event Co. operates under strict legal contracts. Your sister, acting as your authorized representative—or rather, the person you delegated to manage this entire operation—contracted our services under emergency corporate rates. The crew is already setting up the appetizer stations on the patio. If you cancel now, our cancellation fee is seventy-five percent of the total estimate, payable immediately.”

“Ryan!”

My mother’s voice cut through the tension like a siren. We all turned toward the front hallway.

The front door, which had been left unlocked for the guests, swung open. Standing in the foyer were Mr. Henderson—senior partner at the city’s largest real estate firm—and his impeccably dressed wife, Eleanor, holding a bottle of vintage Napa Valley cabernet.

“Ryan, my boy!” Mr. Henderson boomed heartily, stepping into the living room with his hand extended. “Wonderful place you’ve got here! Smells incredible—wait, is that truffle oil I smell?”

Ryan stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, wearing a towel around his waist, dripping pool water onto the freshly mopped tile, glaring murderously at me while his boss stood thirty feet away expecting a sophisticated cocktail party.

The contrast was so violently absurd that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

Dad cleared his throat, his face burning red, and hurried out of the kitchen toward the foyer with the desperate energy of a diplomat trying to avert a nuclear strike. “Ah! Harold! Eleanor! Welcome, welcome! Please, come right through to the patio! Ryan will be... ah... right with you. He was just finishing up a quick swim!”

Eleanor Henderson blinked, peering past my father into the kitchen where Lisa’s staff was arranging crystal stemware and a towering platter of artisan cheeses. “Oh! My goodness, Ryan hired a private catering crew? How luxurious!”

“Yes, well, you know Ryan,” Dad babbled nervously, guiding them toward the sliding glass door. “Only the best for his guests!”

In the kitchen, the silence returned, thick and suffocating.

Ryan turned back to me, his hands trembling with rage. He lowered his voice to a venomous hiss, leaning over my crutches so close I could smell the cheap beer he’d been drinking by the pool. “You did this on purpose. You deliberately set me up.”

“I didn't set you up, Ryan,” I said, my tone remaining infuriatingly calm. “You told me to make sure dinner was ready for ten people. You told Mom I was being difficult for wanting help. So, I got help. Professional, high-end help. Exactly what your boss thinks you can afford.”

“I don’t have four grand lying around for a damn dinner party!”

“Then I suggest you explain to Mr. Henderson that you’re financially overextended, or better yet, explain to him that you bullied your sister with a broken leg into cooking for his elite circle until she mutinied,” I replied, stepping past him with my crutches, making my way carefully toward the patio doors.

“Catherine, where do you think you’re going?” Helen hissed, grabbing my arm.

I pulled my arm away with a sharp tug, glaring at her with eyes that made her step back. “I’m going outside to enjoy the charcuterie I didn't have to chop. And if you or Ryan try to ruin my evening, I’ll have Lisa bill you for emotional damages too.”

I swung myself out onto the patio, leaving my family to drown in the financial and social nightmare they had meticulously constructed for themselves.

The evening air was warm and smelled faintly of rosemary and grilled lemons. The patio was already transformed. Lisa’s crew had strung fairy lights along the pergola, setting up an elegant mahogany dining table draped in crisp white linen, surrounded by padded chairs that looked infinitely more comfortable than the plastic loungers Ryan had expected us to use.

Mr. Henderson and Eleanor were standing near the edge of the pool, holding crystal glasses filled with sparkling water and imported wine, looking thoroughly impressed as Lisa’s lead server offered them delicate canapés of smoked salmon and dill cream cheese.

My father was standing nearby, sweating through his polo shirt, desperately trying to steer conversation away from the catering bill.

I lowered myself into a padded armchair near the corner of the patio, propping my heavily braced left leg up on an empty ottoman with a grateful sigh of relief.

A shadow fell over me.

I looked up. Ryan was standing there, having finally put on a clean shirt and slacks, though his face was still dark with suppressed fury. He didn't sit down. He leaned over my chair, his voice a low, threatening growl.

“You think you won?” Ryan whispered.