Chapter 4 - The Golden Boy’s Feast
Saturday evening arrived. The drive to Evelyn’s house in the affluent suburbs was entirely silent.
Zachary sat in the passenger seat of my car, staring out the window, chewing his fingernails to the quick. He was wearing his best tailored suit—a suit I had paid to have dry-cleaned two months ago—and smelled heavily of expensive cologne.
"Jenna," he said quietly as we pulled onto his mother's street. "Please. Just... let me handle the talking tonight."
I kept my hands steady on the steering wheel. "Why, Zachary? Are you worried I might spoil your celebration?"
"Look, my mom and Aunt Gertrude... they have high expectations for me," he muttered, his voice desperate. "Aunt Gertrude is old school. She believes a man should be the provider. I just... I told them things were going well with my new consulting venture so they wouldn't worry!"
"Your consulting venture?" I pulled the car into Evelyn’s driveway and put it in park. "Zachary, you don't have a consulting venture. You haven't submitted a single job application in eight weeks."
"I'm building something!" he hissed, turning to me. "It takes time! If they knew I was living off your salary right now, my mom would be heartbroken, and Gertrude would never respect me! Just play along for one night! I'll pay you back for the $486 market bill as soon as my first client signs!"
"With what money, Zachary?" I asked softly. "You don't have a client."
"I will!" he pleaded, grabbing my wrist. "Just don't humiliate me in front of my family! Please!"
I looked at his hand on my wrist, then up at his pleading, pathetic eyes. For six months, I had protected his pride. I had made excuses to my friends about why he wasn't working. I had covered his expenses quietly, swallowing my own stress so he wouldn't feel like "less of a man."
And in return, he had emptied my kitchen, stolen my money, and reduced me to a background wallet while taking credit for my labor.
"Let's go inside," I said, gently pulling my wrist from his grip without promising a single thing.
Evelyn’s brick home was brightly lit. As soon as we stepped through the front door, the rich aroma of roasted meat and herbs hit my nose.
"Zachary! My successful boy!"
Evelyn rushed into the foyer, wearing a silk dress and gold jewelry. She threw her arms around Zachary’s neck, kissing both of his cheeks dramatically before barely glancing at me. "Jenna, hello. Come in, come in! Gertrude is in the dining room!"
We walked into the formal dining room. The large mahogany table was impeccably set with sterling silver, crystal glasses, and cloth napkins.
Sitting at the head of the table was Aunt Gertrude—a severe, sharp-eyed woman in her late seventies, draped in expensive knitwear and holding a glass of sherry. Aunt Gertrude was the wealthy matriarch of the family, having inherited a massive real estate portfolio from her late husband. She was known for being brutally honest and fiercely protective of the family’s money.
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And there, arranged neatly on silver platters in the center of the table, were the remains of the $486 purchase from Metropolitan Gourmet Market—the French cheeses, the smoked salmon, and the imported crackers—alongside the expensive single-malt bourbon resting in a crystal decanter.
"Zachary," Aunt Gertrude boomed, her voice crisp and commanding. "Sit down, nephew. It’s about time we talked business."
