Chapter 1: Broken Promises and Bare Skin

I spent the whole afternoon binge-watching every romantic comedy on Hulu I could find, hoping to snag some moves—anything that might finally make Derek, my too-cool, too-distant uncle-in-law, actually see me. I scribbled down lines between scenes, practiced flirty smiles in the hallway mirror, and even Googled 'how to flirt without looking desperate.' Deep down, I knew it was a long shot, but I clung to the hope that tonight, something might finally click.

As I prepped a candlelit dinner, fussing with the dimmer switch and scrolling through my playlist, I caught my reflection in the microwave door, checking my lipstick for the third time. Get it together, Nat. Just as I set the last fork on the table, Derek’s car rolled up the driveway. He came in through the mudroom, and my heart dropped when I saw Aubrey, his assistant, trailing after him, laughing at some joke. Their voices carried easily through the open-plan kitchen, and it felt like my whole little world of anticipation deflated in an instant.

Laughter spilled in, bouncing off the granite countertops. My playlist felt too romantic, too obvious.

Derek dropped his laptop bag on the counter, loosened his tie, and barely glanced at me. "I’ve got a Zoom in five," he said, voice dry and indifferent. Aubrey gave me a polite smile and followed him into the office, her heels clicking over the hardwood.

I just nodded, tightening my apron with trembling hands, and turned back to the pot roast. My heart thudded so loud I thought they might hear. I focused on slicing carrots, pretending it didn’t matter. But the illusion shattered quickly.

An hour later, the office door opened. Aubrey stepped out, hair glossy over one shoulder, and flashed a dazzling, practiced smile. Her phone buzzed; she tucked it away, waving goodnight. The way she moved was so polished—like she owned every room she entered.

I stood frozen in the kitchen, hands gripping the counter, the word "goodnight" stuck in my throat. I wanted to say it, but nothing came out. I felt small and foolish in my little red dress and apron.

Because I noticed—even though Aubrey was as put-together as ever, her black tights from earlier were gone. Her skirt was long enough to be decent, but her bare, pale legs told a different story. A hot flush crawled up my neck. I turned away, but the image burned behind my eyelids.

I stood there, stunned, the kitchen suddenly too bright and too quiet, as if the world had shifted. A heaviness settled in my chest, and I stared at the half-set table, the flickering candles now pointless.

Then I turned, fighting back a wave of humiliation, and dumped all the carefully prepared food—roast, salad, even the homemade biscuits—into the trash. The trash can lid thudded shut. I stared at my hands, sticky with gravy, and tried not to cry. All that work, gone in a second. The smell of rosemary and garlic was overwhelming, almost mocking.