Alva sat at the dining table, twirling her fork like it was a microphone and she was about to roast someone on live TV. Cody was next to her, sipping water like he wasn't about to explode with gossip. Tim and Sam sat across from them, playing that fake-happy couple act they'd been rehearsing for weeks now. Alva wasn't buying it.
At the end of the table, little Alice was having her own food fight—solo edition. Her cheeks were painted in spaghetti sauce, and her giggle every time her spoon missed her mouth made the room feel less awkward... barely.
Tim looked different tonight. Hair freshly cut, jaw looking too sharp for someone supposedly "soft-hearted." He looked like a model straight out of a brooding romance novel—and he knew it. The way he glanced at Sam, all soft eyes and gentle hands, was just a bit too perfect.
And Sam? Please. She'd dyed her hair that buttery gold again—the color she always swore she'd "never go back to." Yet here it was, bouncing over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. Her icy blue eyes stared right past Tim like she was mentally somewhere else... probably with whoever was calling her phone every night at 11:37 p.m.
Alva smirked, leaned on one hand, and dropped the question like a grenade.
"Sam," she said, all casual-like, "how's Tim? He still pretending to be Prince Charming?"
Sam smiled, slow and sugary. "He's wonderful," she cooed, way too sweet to be true.
Tim slid his hand over hers. "You know I adore you," he said with that classic low laugh. Charming. Too charming.
Alva raised a brow. Mmhmm.
Sam chuckled, but her smile cracked a little at the edges. That phone of hers? It started ringing right on cue—like it was part of a drama script.
"Excuse me," she said quickly, standing up so fast her chair groaned in protest. She walked off with the phone to her ear, her golden hair swaying like she was in a music video, not running from dinner-table drama.
Sam stepped into the hallway, the soft click of the door behind her cutting her off from the dinner party like a curtain falling at the end of a show she didn't audition for. The hallway was dim, too quiet, and her phone screen lit up her face like a warning sign.
"Hello?" she whispered, already knowing who it was.
A beat. Then a deep voice, cool and serious. "Sam. We need to talk. Now."
Her stomach flipped.
Of course he'd call now. Perfect timing, as always. She took a sharp breath, her heels barely making a sound on the polished floor. "Where?" she asked, her voice tighter than she meant it to be.
"The usual spot. Outside. Alone."
Sam rolled her eyes slightly. Alone. Always alone. She could practically hear the unspoken no Tim in his tone. Fine by her.
She hung up and stuffed her phone into her pocket like she was trying to shove the whole situation away with it. Her golden hair slipped over her shoulder, half hiding her face. Good. She didn't want anyone seeing her expression right now.
Back at the table, she slid into her seat like nothing happened. But she didn't look at Tim. Not once.
He reached for her hand again, all fake affection and polished charm, but she was too focused on stabbing her food like it had personally offended her. The laughter around the table kept going, light and clueless, while Sam sat there quiet—smiling, nodding, playing her part—while a whole storm was starting just outside that door.