Marcus came down at noon in a custom suit, his hair perfectly styled. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, his eyes widening at the cleaning crew and the stacked boxes of catering equipment.

“What is all this, Clara?” he demanded. “I told you to get to work. Why are there strangers scrubbing my baseboards?”

I gave him the same calm smile I’d built the night before. “You said you wanted a five-star evening for your executives. With a broken arm, I couldn’t get it perfect on my own — so I made sure of it.

The house will be immaculate, the food will be Michelin quality, and you won’t have to lift a finger. Isn’t that what you wanted? A flawless display of your success?”

Marcus looked at the spotless dining room, then back at me. His irritation melted into a satisfied grin.

“Well,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Good to see you finally using your head instead of throwing hysterics. How much is this costing?”