"Kayla, deal with it for now. I'll be back in ten minutes."

I looked down at my hand. The blisters were already swelling up.

"You're going back?"

"Marie's client decides half a year of the tearoom's revenue."

"And my hand? Is it not as important as her client?"

He gripped the wheel tighter.

"Don't say things you don't mean. I'll be quick."

I got out. The instant the car door shut, he was already turning around.

The clinic doctor took one look and frowned.

"This needs a hospital. The burn covers a fair amount of skin."

I took a cab to the ER myself.

While the doctor cleaned the wound, he asked, "Where's your family?"

I said, "Busy."

The doctor sighed.

"Change the dressing on schedule, keep it away from water, or it'll scar."

I looked at my bandaged hand, and suddenly thought of Rule Nine in the Twenty-Four House Rules.

A woman's hands and feet must be clean, no scars, nothing that costs her dignity.

What a joke. They wanted my hands to look dignified, but didn't care whether they hurt.

That evening, Irvin finally came to the hospital.

He had medicine in his hand.

"What did the doctor say?"

"It'll scar."

For a moment, guilt crossed his face.

"I'm sorry. That client this afternoon was just too important."

I said nothing. He set the medicine down.

"Marie asked me to buy this. She was scared out of her mind too."

I looked at the bag. Two tubes of burn cream.

One already opened, one new.

On my phone, Agatha had just posted to her feed.

Marie James, sitting on the tearoom sofa, the same brand of burn cream by her hand.

The caption: "Marie was so frightened her face went pale. My brother brought her the medicine first. So sweet of him."

I stared at that line, and suddenly even the pain felt like more than I needed.

Irvin was still talking. "Marie says she didn't do it on purpose. When you get home, don't bring it up with my mom. It's opening day. Don't make things unpleasant for everyone."

My phone rang right then. It was the aide from the nursing home.

I picked up. Her voice was urgent.

"Miss Swanson, your grandmother had a fall today. The doctor says it doesn't look good. You'd better come back tomorrow."

I bolted upright.

"How is she now?"

"Still under observation. She may have to be transferred to the county hospital."

The next morning, the aide called again.

This time her voice was shaking.

"Miss Swanson, the old lady passed out again last night. We're moving her to the county hospital now, and the doctor says we need to pay a deposit first."

I called Irvin immediately.

"Transfer me the eighty thousand I left with you."

That was the emergency money I'd set aside for Grandma, the money I'd meant to use after the wedding to hire her a better aide.

Irvin had said the interest was higher in his investment account.

His voice dropped a little.

"That money. I lent it to Marie for a while, to cover her cash flow."

For a second my mind went blank.

"What did you say?"

"Her tearoom just opened. The payments to suppliers are tight. I figured the wedding's been pushed back, so we wouldn't need that money for now."

I laughed out loud.

"Irvin, that's my grandmother's life-saving money."

"I know. I'll figure something out."

"When?"

"Maybe not today. Tomorrow…"

I cut him off.

"My grandmother is in the hospital right now."

Marie's voice came through from his end.

"Irvin, the supplier's here."

Irvin lowered his voice.

"Kayla, I really can't get away right now. Put it on your credit card for now, or borrow from a friend."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"Then drive me back to the county town."

"I have to be with Marie to sign the contract."

"Give me the car keys."

"I drove the car out."

The rain pounded against the window. I listened to the faint voices on his end, and felt nothing but how absurdly pitiful I was.

Two years.

I cooked for his mother, bought medicine for his father, pressed his sister's interview clothes.

But when my grandmother was lying in a hospital bed, he wouldn't even lend me a car.

Because Marie had a contract to sign.

I hung up. In a downpour like that, a cab was almost impossible to find.

I waited forty minutes at the roadside before one finally came that would take me to the county town.

The traffic was brutal. The caregiver called me three times on the way.

The last time, she was crying.

"Miss Swanson, please hurry. The old lady keeps calling for you."

I said, "I'm almost there. Almost."

But I was still too late. By the time I reached the hospital, Grandma was already under a white sheet.

The caregiver stood in the doorway, her eyes red.

"Before she went, she said you were busy with work. Not to rush you."

I dropped to my knees on the floor.

The gauze on my hand scraped the ground, a pain that went straight through me.

But I couldn't feel it anymore.

When I was little, no one looked after me. Grandma sold vegetables to put me through school.

In winter her hands split open and bled, and she still tucked a hot boiled egg into my schoolbag.

After I started dating, she asked me once.

"That family, do they treat you well?"

I said yes. I didn't want her to worry.

Now, thinking back, I never even got to tell her one last honest thing.

After the funeral, I went back to the Weiss home.

No one was in. On the coffee table sat the pastries Marie's tearoom had sent over.

Phyllis couldn't bear to throw them out. She'd even wrapped them in cling film.

I walked into the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase.

I didn't have much, really. Phyllis didn't like a woman keeping too many things.

Clothes could fill half a closet. Skincare got one shelf. No more than three pairs of shoes.

She said it was the rule. Made it easy to pack now, at least.

I took out that book, the Twenty-Four House Rules, and went down it line by line, marking each one again.

Rule One: breakfast on the table before six.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty times. Billed at the going rate for an hourly breakfast service.

Rule Two: the younger generation handles the whole family's laundry.

Two years. Hand-washing, pressing, and dry cleaning billed separately.

Rule Seven: family shame stays in the family.

So every time they humiliated me, I swallowed it.

Rule Sixteen: Weiss family matters come first.

So my work, my injuries, my grandmother's life, all of it could wait.

On the last page, I wrote one line.

"I've kept the house rules to the end. Now it's your turn to keep the contract."

I laid it all out in the entryway together: the itemized list, the transfer records, the wedding cancellation slip, and a copy of Grandma's death certificate.

The keys went on top.

In the evening, Irvin came home.

The first thing he said walking in was, "Kayla, is dinner ready?"

No one answered.

Changing his shoes, he noticed one slot in the shoe cabinet was empty.

My slippers were gone.

The kitchen was cold. The living room was cold.

Phyllis sat on the sofa, her face dark.

"She's still not back? Call her right now. Look at the state of this house."

Irvin dialed my number.

Powered off.

Then he finally saw the documents in the entryway.

The list of debts, the wedding cancellation notice, and Grandma's death certificate.

And last, the copy of the Twenty-Four House Rules.

After every line, an amount and a date in my handwriting.

His fingers froze.

His phone buzzed. A text from the wedding company.

"Hello, Mr. Weiss. Ms. Kayla Swanson has canceled all wedding-related services. The refund will be returned to the original payment account."

Right after it, a bank alert popped up. I'd transferred him the cash value of the engagement ring.

The note was just one word.

"Even."

Then a system message came up on his messaging app.

"Kayla Swanson has removed you from the wedding planning group."

I'd changed his contact label to: "Debtor, Irvin Weiss."

Irvin stared at those words, the color draining from his face.

From this moment on, to me he was no longer a fiancé. Only a debtor.