An hour later, a soft knock came at my door. “Tala? Dinner’s ready.” It was Barron.
I ignored it. I was lying on the too-soft bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, tracing the patterns of the recessed lighting. This was my first strategic move. A small one, but significant. They would not have a pleasant, happy family dinner. Not on my first night. Not ever.
Another knock, this time more insistent. “Tala, please. Mom made your favorite.”
Lasagna. Another calculated move. I almost laughed. They were trying to appease a rabid wolf with a steak dinner, not realizing I was there to burn the whole forest down. After five more minutes of silence, I heard footsteps retreating.
Victory.
But my stomach growled, betraying me. I hadn't eaten since the apple that morning. Fine. I would go down, but I would not surrender.
I found them seated at a long, formal dining table made of dark wood that could probably seat twelve. Richard was at the head, my mother on his right, Barron on his left. A single empty seat was placed directly across from Richard, a place of honor, or perhaps, a place of interrogation. The air was thick with a tension so heavy it felt like I had to push my way through it.
I sat down without a word, pulling the plate of lasagna towards me. I took a bite. It was delicious, and I hated her for that, too.
“So, Tala,” Richard began, his voice oozing a practiced, fatherly charm that made my skin crawl. “Your mother tells me you’re a fantastic surfer.”
I took another bite of lasagna, chewing slowly, deliberately. I met his gaze and held it, saying nothing.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat when the silence stretched. “Well, there are some great spots not too far from here. Maybe you and Barron could go this weekend.”
“I don’t go anywhere with traitors,” I said, not looking at my brother. I watched his fork clatter against his plate.
“Tala, that’s enough,” my mother said, her voice trembling.
“Is it?” I finally looked at her. “Is it enough? I don’t think it’s nearly enough. I’m just getting started.”
Richard placed his fork down, his charming facade finally cracking. “Listen, young lady. I know this is difficult. But you are in our house now, and you will show your mother some respect.”
Our house. The words hung in the air, a declaration of ownership. Ownership of the space, of my mother, of my brother. And now, of me.
I put my own fork down, the scrape of metal on ceramic a final, sharp note. I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous level. “Let’s get one thing straight. This is your house. She is your fiancée. He,” I flicked my eyes to Barron, “is her son. I am a prisoner of war. And I don’t show respect to my captors.”
I pushed my chair back, the legs screeching in protest against the polished floor. I stood up, my plate still half-full.
“Thank you for the meal,” I said, my tone dripping with a saccharine sweetness that was more insulting than any shout. “It was a lovely last supper.”
I turned and walked away, not looking back at the wreckage I had created. I could feel their shocked, angry stares on my back. It was the second satisfying feeling of the day. The war had begun, and I had just won the first battle.