10/01/2026
Chapter Six
“Dinner of Hidden Knives”
Mira stood at the sink, letting the cold water run over her hands longer than necessary. She wasn’t actually washing anything; she just needed something steady to hold onto. Her breath kept slipping in and out of rhythm. The whole house felt charged — like the air before a thunderstorm.
From the dining room, she heard plates clinking. Brandon was already there, of course. He wouldn’t miss a chance to play the perfect guest.
“Mira,” her father called. “Dinner’s ready.”
She wiped her hands, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the table with the kind of determination people used when entering an exam they didn’t study for.
Her father sat at the head of the table, Brandon to his right. One empty seat remained — directly across from Brandon. Perfect. She slid into it slowly.
The food smelled good, but Mira’s appetite had disappeared somewhere around mid-afternoon. Still, she scooped a small portion onto her plate just to avoid questions.
Her father clasped his hands. “I’m glad we’re all here. This family needs moments like this.”
Brandon’s fork scraped lightly against his plate as he smiled. “I agree. It’s been… peaceful.”
Mira nearly choked on air. Peaceful?
She stabbed a piece of yam a little harder than she meant to.
Her father looked between them, trying to gauge the atmosphere. “I know things might feel awkward now, but with time—”
“With time,” Brandon cut in gently, “we’ll get along just fine. I’m sure Mira and I will figure things out.”
Something in the way he said it—smooth, polite, dripping with hidden meaning—made Mira’s fingers tighten around her fork.
She forced a breath. “We’ll see.”
Her father brightened slightly, misreading the tension. “Exactly. That’s the spirit.”
They ate quietly for a while. Mira kept her eyes on her plate, but she could feel Brandon watching her, like he was waiting for the right moment to poke at an old wound.
Halfway through the meal, her father turned to Brandon. “So, how long are you planning to stay? I want to make arrangements for your schooling.”
Brandon wiped his mouth slowly. “Hard to say. I’ll settle in first, figure things out. I’m not in a hurry.”
Mira heard what he didn’t say: I’m not leaving anytime soon.
She kept her face blank, though her stomach twisted.
“And Mira,” her father added, “I hope you will help your brother adjust. He’ll need support.”
Her fork paused in mid-air. “Support? Dad, he’s not new here—”
“Mira.”
Just her name, but with the kind of warning tone that always shut down arguments.
She leaned back, swallowing what she wanted to say.
Brandon spoke before she could recover. “It’s okay, sir. I don’t expect her help. We both… have history.”
Her father looked confused for a second. “History? I thought you two never really interacted much growing up.”
Mira felt her spine stiffen. Brandon locked eyes with her, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
“Not much,” he said softly, “but enough.”
Her pulse jumped. She gripped her napkin so tightly it wrinkled.
Their father, still oblivious, continued eating. But Mira and Brandon remained locked in silent battle — his gaze sharp, hers guarded.
Then he leaned forward a little. “By the way,” he said casually, “I was thinking we should all go out this weekend. Maybe visit town together.”
Her father nodded. “That sounds wonderful.”
Mira blinked. “Wait—what?”
Brandon shrugged. “Just trying to bond. Isn’t that what families do?”
Something about the way he said families made every memory she’d buried claw its way back to the surface.
She didn’t trust her voice, so she said nothing.
Brandon smiled — a small, satisfied curve of his lips. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
Mira didn’t blink, didn’t look away, didn’t let him see the tremor running through her chest.
“Promises from you,” she said quietly, “are usually warnings.”
Her father dropped his spoon. “Mira! That’s enough—”
But Brandon lifted a hand, all innocent. “It’s alright. She doesn’t mean it.”
Oh, she meant it.
The meal limped on awkwardly until they finally finished. Her father stood, tired. “I’m going to bed early. You two clean up, okay?”
Mira stared at him. “Both of us?”
“Yes. Work together. Try to talk.”
He left before either of them could argue.
As soon as his bedroom door clicked shut, the dining room fell into a heavy silence.
Brandon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her with an unreadable expression.
“So,” he murmured, “just you and me now.”
Mira stood up slowly, fingers brushing the table’s edge for steadiness.
“Let’s just get this done,” she muttered.
But deep down, she knew —
Cleaning the table wasn’t the hard part.
Surviving whatever Brandon planned next… that was the real challenge.
