The Miller kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design, a sterile expanse of white marble and stainless steel that gleamed under the recessed lighting. It was beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth. To Rachel Miller, it felt less like a heart of the home and more like an operating theater where she was perpetually the patient, dissected for flaws.
Rachel stood by the open refrigerator, the cold air washing over her face, doing little to cool the sweat prickling at her hairline. She stared at a plastic container of pasta from the night before, her mind racing in a familiar, frantic loop. If I serve this, Jake will say I’m lazy for not cooking fresh. If I throw it out and start something new, he’ll say I’m wasting money.
It was a trap. Every choice was a trap.
The front door slammed, the sound reverberating through the floorboards like a gunshot. Rachel flinched, her hand tightening on the refrigerator door. Heavy boots thudded down the hallway—Jake. Behind him came the murmuring complaints of Linda and Don, his parents, who lived in the guest cottage out back but spent their waking hours ensuring Rachel knew her place in the main house.
