"Sharon, you should eat more," said Alex’s mother, who is also supposedly my mother even though I had never laid eyes on her before this very mont.
She spooned another generous portion of creamy fettuccine onto my plate, the sauce dripping thickly like so kind of manufactured warmth, while I plastered on a fake smile that refused to reach my eyes or soften the hard edges of my suspicion.
My brother Alex had called yesterday evening to inform that my parents wanted to co ho for a family dinner, his voice carrying that polished urgency I now recognized as rehearsed. They want here for so reason.
I arrived with a calculated plan already fully ford in my mind because I understood perfectly well that I would not get another opportunity like this to investigate the protagonist’s family in such dangerously close quarters
My brother, the so-called protagonist of this twisted reality we inhabited, watched constantly with a gaze that overflowed with a kind of love, but that love carried no trace of anything brotherly in its hungry intensity.
He wants to sleep with . And how did I know?
Because I have seen this sa look on countless people.
When I took the first bite of the pasta, I gagged imdiately because of its overwhelming richness and cloying garlic overload, yet I forced myself to swallow it down despite the violent revulsion rising swiftly in my throat and threatening to betray my composure.
The dining table sagged noticeably under the weight of extravagant Italian platters, which included steaming loaves of garlic bread slathered in butter, a Caesar salad drowning in creamy dressing until the leaves wilted pathetically, and tiramisu chilling in the refrigerator waiting patiently for dessert later.
This entire setup stood in stark, jarring contrast to the sparse solitude of my own apartnt, where I usually survived on nothing more than black mugs filled with strong coffee and laptop-fuelled sches hatched in the dead of night. Although, my tongue’s requirents increased when I was in Charatshore Empire.
The mother figure hovered over us all like a sentinel, constantly refilling wine glasses with practiced precision while firing off probing questions such as, "Where on earth have you been hiding yourself, darling? We have missed you terribly for so long."
Every word dripped with what felt like carefully crafted lies designed to disarm because if these people truly controlled everyone in the world just as the Bureau does with their invisible matrices, then why in the hell did they abandon as a worthless orphan scraping for survival on cold streets in the first place?
Are they really my parents?
Now I sat right here in the middle of their pristine suburban ho, playing the role of the long-lost dutiful daughter purely to uncover any hidden Bureau connections lurking beneath their polished family facade.
Alex’s foot brushed deliberately against mine under the heavy oak table, a contact that qualified as no accident whatsoever based on the sly glint in his eyes.
His gaze glead with the sa possessive, predatory hunger I had once scripted so carefully for Kelshin when he went about conquering won in my old stories, reducing those complex characters to submissive "cream buns" for the cheering hordes of readers.
"Does it taste good to you, sis?" he asked with a low purr threading through his voice that sent chills racing down my spine.
"It tastes absolutely delicious," I lied smoothly without missing a single beat while my mind raced ahead at full speed to scan every possible inch of this house for concrete clues. I would have vomited if not for my self-control.
This entire so-called ’family’ emitted a stench of pure Bureau puppetry that grew stronger by the minute—the mother’s uncanny warmth felt entirely manufactured like so kind of synthetic emotion, and the father’s silent, unblinking observation from his position at the head of the table carried vigilance far too sharp and calculated for any normal man. It was as if the puppeteer wanted its puppets to behave as he wanted.
My plan continued to hum steadily in the background recesses of my thoughts like an engine ready for ignition. I fully intended to endure every awkward second of this farce-filled evening, observe every tiny detail with ruthless precision, and then make my first move accordingly.
Their version of twisted love functioned purely as nothing more than a tight leash wrapped firmly around my neck in an attempt to control . They don’t love as their family... and for so reason... I am thinking sothing is wrong with this family.
I forced down another substantial forkful of the pasta despite everything. The gag reflex hit even sharper this ti around as the sauce began to congeal unpleasantly in my mouth exactly like their crumbling pretence of normalcy started to do right before my eyes.
Instead of giving in, I swallowed my rising tide of pure rage and sohow managed to keep that fake smile locked firmly in place.
Alex leaned in even closer across the table, his breath coming hot and invasive against my ear as he whispered softly. "You really should stay much longer tonight, Sharon. Do it just for us, won’t you?" His protagonist delusion remained fully intact without a single crack showing through the surface.
What absolute fools they all turned out to be in the end. I would consu every last bite of their wretched feast no matter the cost, steal away all their most guarded secrets bit by bit, and then thodically unravel every single one of them until nothing remained standing.
"Brother, how is your work going?" I asked, my voice laced with feigned sweetness as I twirled another forkful of the cloying fettuccine, the sauce now a cold, congealed ss on my plate. The words hung in the air like a baited hook, tossed casually into the tension of this farce family dinner. I needed him talking—Alex, the golden protagonist, spilling details on his ’job.’
Alex gave a soft smile, yet his eyes undressed in his mind. "Work’s great. I am doing great too. Big projects at the firm—consulting, you know? Helping companies streamline their... control systems." His emphasis on control landed like a subtle jab, or perhaps a warning, his foot brushing mine again under the table—deliberate, possessive.
Across from us, the mother figure bead, oblivious or complicit, piling more garlic bread onto my plate. "Your brother’s doing so well, Sharon. Always the star! Tell her about that promotion, dear." Her voice gushed pride, but her eyes flickered with sothing sharper—calculation, maybe—watching my reaction like a hawk.
I smiled widely as I looked into Alex’s eyes. "What promotion? Alex, are you now a bigshot? If yes, why don’t you help too? I an, I am living a poor lifestyle, right?"
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