Chapter 16 Family Dinner Drama
Olivia: POV
"What do you want?" I answered, not bothering with pleasantries. The guy had cheated on me and now had the audacity to call me? Please.
"You fucking bitch!" Jason's voice sounded strained, almost pained. "Was it you? Did you hire those guys to jump me? Is that why I'm lying in a hospital bed right now?"
I nearly swerved my car into the next lane. Hospital bed? What the hell was he talking about?
"Excuse me?" I pulled over to the side of the road. This conversation required my full attention. "What guys? What hospital?"
"Don't play dumb," he spat. "Three men jumped me in the parking garage last night. Broke my nose and two ribs. Said I should watch how I treat women."
I took a deep breath. Yes, I had orchestrated his public humiliation with Charlotte. But physical violence? That wasn't my style.
"Look, I only planned the newspaper story about your scandal. After that, I was done with my revenge. If you got your ass kicked, it's probably because you've made plenty of enemies with your charming personality." I couldn't help the cold laugh that escaped my throat. "I'm not afraid to own up to my actions, and this wasn't me."
"Bullshit!" Jason yelled so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "You're the only one with a reason—"
"You're delusional. And I'm not going to let your voice contaminate my day anymore." I hung up before he could respond, then turned my phone off completely. The nerve of that man.
---
When I walked through my front door, the smell of garlic and herbs filled the air. I followed my nose to the kitchen where I found my parents in a scene straight out of a wholesome family sitcom.
Dad was chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who'd never had to cook a day in his life until meeting my mom, while Mom stirred something that smelled divine on the stove.
They were both wearing matching aprons with "Parker Cooking Crew" embroidered across the front – a gift I'd given them for Christmas last year.
This. This was the kind of marriage I secretly wanted. Not the flashy, Instagram-worthy relationships that filled my social feeds, but something real. Something that still had two people laughing in a kitchen together after decades.
I snuck up behind my mother and wrapped my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Mom."
Catherine jumped slightly, then relaxed into my embrace. "Olivia! You scared me."
I reached over and snagged a cherry tomato from the cutting board. "What's for dinner?"
"Pasta primavera," Dad said proudly, holding up his knife like he'd just completed brain surgery instead of chopping a zucchini.
Mom turned to face me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Where have you been all day? It's rare to see you without your laptop on a weekend."
I popped the tomato in my mouth. "I owed someone a favor. Got sent to do manual labor."
"Manual labor?" Mom raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking up in amusement. "Who would dare send my Olivia to do farm work? Your ex-boyfriend doesn't have something on you, does he?"
I snorted. "Speaking of my ex-boyfriend, he got beaten up. He's in the hospital."
The knife Dad was holding clattered to the cutting board. Both my parents stared at me with wide eyes.
"Was it you two?" I asked, only half-joking. My parents weren't above protecting their children, but they typically operated through lawyers and business maneuvers, not hired muscle.
Dad shook his head immediately. "We had nothing to do with it. Whenever we handle anything regarding you, we always let you know first. You know that."
I did know that. My parents had always been transparent with me. Well, except for that whole "you're not actually our biological daughter" bombshell three years ago. But who's counting?
"Well, someone beat the crap out of him," I said, leaning against the counter. "And honestly? Karma's a bitch, and I'm not sorry."
Just then, the front door opened and closed, and Mike's voice called out, "Something smells amazing!"
My brother appeared in the kitchen doorway, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up after a day at the office. "Hey, everyone."
"Perfect timing," Mom said. "Go call your sister down for dinner."
Mike nodded and disappeared upstairs to fetch Emma. I busied myself setting the table, trying not to think about Jason lying in a hospital bed. He deserved it, whoever did it.
When Mike returned with Emma trailing reluctantly behind him, her face set in its perpetual scowl, we all sat down around the dining table.
"This looks delicious," I said, helping myself to a generous portion of pasta. "You guys outdid yourselves."
Emma rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't get stuck in the back of her head.
"Emma," Dad said, his voice taking on that stern tone he rarely used. "Your mother and I have been talking, and we think it's time you quit smoking. It's not good for your health."
Emma stabbed a piece of broccoli viciously. "Oh, sure, 'for my health.' Why don't you lecture your perfect daughter Olivia about healthy choices? Oh wait, I forgot—she can do no wrong in your eyes."
"Emma," Mike said gently. "Don't talk to Mom and Dad like that."
Emma stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Isn't it true though? Olivia is the perfect Parker daughter, and I'm just some outsider who doesn't belong." She threw her napkin on the table and stormed upstairs.
Mom covered her face with her hands. The kitchen fell silent except for the soft sound of her shaky breathing. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.
"Ever since we brought her back, we've tried our best," she whispered. "When she didn't want to go to college, we sent her anyway. But all she did was skip classes and get into fights. She was asked to leave before the first year was even over."
Dad put down his fork, his appetite clearly gone. "I don't understand where we went wrong," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "We've given her everything—opportunities, support, love. And she throws it all back in our faces."
"She picked up so many bad habits from that family," Mom continued, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. "We've tried to help her change, but she just won't listen. The only time she talks to us is when she wants money. My heart is breaking."
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. I could see the pain etched on my parents' faces, the helplessness in their eyes. They truly had no idea how to reach Emma.
Mike cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "I hate to even suggest this," he said hesitantly, "but have you guys considered something more... structured? Maybe some kind of program that could help her reset?"
"Like what?" Dad asked, looking up with a flicker of hope.
"Well," Mike continued, choosing his words carefully, "I've heard about these specialized schools that focus on discipline and personal growth. Something like a military academy, but more focused on emotional development."
Mom and Dad exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.
I bit my lip, torn between wanting to help and worrying about making things worse. "It might be worth looking into," I said finally. "I'm worried about her. The path she's on now... it's not leading anywhere good."
I thought about adding more—about how Emma needed structure, how her values needed realignment—but stopped myself. This wasn't about fixing Emma like she was broken. This was about helping her find her way.
"We'll think about it," Dad said heavily. "But let's not make any decisions tonight."
Little did we know that Emma was standing at the top of the stairs, listening to every word. Her voice floated down, sharp and bitter: "You can go fuck yourself with your 'specialized schools.' I'm not going to any military academy or whatever bullshit you're planning."