"Your grade," Liv repeats while her confusion immediately shifts into a deliberate brightness, like she's choosing not to see whatever might be there. "Dad, you really need to stop traumatizing students with your red pen. Look at her, she's practically shaking."
The relief and guilt hit simultaneously.
She's giving us an out, wrapping herself in willful blindness.
"I was just explaining the issues with her Rousseau analysis," Victor says, grabbing the lifeline she's thrown. "Perhaps I was too harsh."
"You? Harsh? Never," Liv says with exaggerated sarcasm, but I catch something in her eyes—a flicker of something deeper that she immediately buries. "Actually, this is perfect timing. Elisa, you're coming to dinner tonight. Seven o'clock. The whole group will be there."
"Liv, I should really study—"
"Absolutely not. You've been distant lately, and I'm not letting you disappear on me." She grabs my arm with the desperation of someone holding onto normalcy by their fingernails. "Besides, Mom's making carbonara and I already told everyone you'd be there."
"Olivia, perhaps Miss Valenti has other plans," Victor says carefully.
"Then she can cancel them." Liv's smile grows brighter, more determined. "My best friend is coming to dinner with my family. That's what normal families do, right? Have normal dinners with normal conversations about normal things?"
The repetition of 'normal' feels like a mantra, like she's trying to manifest reality through sheer force of will. I see it then—the fear underneath her brightness. She knows something's wrong but refuses to look directly at it, like not naming the monster might keep it from being real.
"Of course I'll come," I say, because denying her now would crack that fragile shell she's building around herself.
"Perfect!" Her grip on my arm tightens, then she turns to Victor. "And Dad, you're actually eating with us tonight. No hiding in your study. Mom specifically said she wants a family dinner."
Victor's jaw tightens. "I have papers to grade—"
"You always have papers to grade. One dinner won't kill you." Liv's voice carries that forced cheer that borders on hysteria. "Besides, Elisa's never seen you in your natural habitat. You know, being a normal father at a normal family dinner."
There it is again—normal, normal, normal. Like repetition might make it true.
"Come on, Elisa. Walk with me." She practically drags me from the classroom. "We have so much to catch up on."
In the hallway, she chatters about swim practice and upcoming exams, her voice pitched just a little too high. When we reach the building exit, she finally stops.
"You're my best friend," she says simply. "Whatever's happening in your life, whatever's making you pull away, just... be my friend tonight, okay? Just for tonight, let's pretend everything's perfect."
She knows, I think, seeing the plea in her eyes. She knows but she's choosing not to know.
"Everything is perfect," I lie, and she smiles like I've given her a gift.
The Larsen house at six-fifty feels like walking into a beautiful minefield where everyone's pretending not to hear the ticking.
Clara greets me at the door—silver silk blouse, white pants, smile that could freeze vodka.
"Elisa, how lovely that Liv insisted you come." Her gaze lands on my throat, cataloging each bruise Kilian left. "She says you've been quite busy with your studies lately. Victor mentioned you needed extra tutoring?"
"Midterms are brutal," I manage.
"I'm sure they are." Her tone is perfectly pleasant, but something in her eyes suggests she sees everything and chooses to see nothing, just like her daughter. "The others are already here."
The dining room table is set for eight. Mia and Sophia sit chattering about some party—Jess apparently bailed last minute claiming a family emergency that probably involves a Bergdorf's private sale—while Liv bustles between kitchen and dining room with manic energy. Then Victor enters from the kitchen, carrying a wine bottle, and the air gets sucked out of my lungs.
He stops when he sees me, his knuckles going white around the bottle neck.
"Elisa's here!" Liv announces unnecessarily. "Dad, you remember Elisa. Your student. Who you tutor. For grades."
The specification feels deliberate, like she's drawing boundaries with words.
"Miss Valenti," Victor says, his voice professionally neutral while his eyes scream things that would end careers.
"Professor Larsen," I respond, sitting as far from his usual seat as possible.
Except Liv has other plans. "No, no, Elisa sits here." She guides me to the chair directly across from where Victor always sits. "This is your spot. It's always been your spot."
Victor and I are now forced to face each other across three feet of mahogany and terrible decisions. Clara takes the head of the table like a queen presiding over an execution she's pretending is a dinner party.
"Wine?" Victor asks, his hand trembling slightly as he pours.
"She's nineteen, Victor," Clara observes mildly. "Though I suppose rules are flexible these days."
"I'm sure one glass won't hurt," Liv interjects with aggressive brightness. "We're all adults here. Having a normal adult dinner. Like normal families do."
My phone buzzes. Kilian: Having fun with the professor's family?
A photo loads—me entering the house twenty minutes ago. He's watching.
"Everything okay?" Victor asks, and for a moment his concern breaks through the professional distance.
"Just someone texting about a group project," I lie, shoving my phone away.
"You work too hard," Liv says. "Both of you do. Dad's always in his office until midnight, and you're always studying. Maybe you should study together more. Wait, no, that came out wrong. I mean—"
"We understand what you mean," Clara interrupts smoothly. "Victor's always been dedicated to his students. Some more than others."
The pasta might as well be glass for how hard it is to swallow. Victor cuts his food with surgical precision, avoiding my eyes. Liv chatters desperately about swim times and course selections. Mia and Sophia seem oblivious, but Clara watches everything with the patience of a spider.
"This is nice," Liv says suddenly, her voice cracking slightly. "Having everyone together. Like a real family dinner. Normal and perfect and exactly how things should be."
She reaches for my hand with one hand, her father's with the other. "My two favorite people at the same table. It's perfect, right?"
Victor and I are forced to look at each other across her desperate need for normalcy. His eyes are full of apology and regret and something else that makes my chest ache.
"It's perfect," I agree, squeezing Liv's hand.
"Absolutely perfect," Victor adds, his voice rough.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Kilian: The professor looks tense. Wonder why?
The doorbell rings.
"I'll get it," I say, desperate to escape this excruciating performance.
"We're not expecting anyone else," Clara observes, but I'm already standing, already moving toward the door, needing air that doesn't taste like lies.
I pull it open without thinking.
Kilian stands there in Tom Ford, holding an expensive bottle of wine, wearing catastrophe like cologne.
"Thought I'd join you for dinner," he announces, loud enough for the entire dining room to hear. "I'm Elisa's boyfriend."
The silence behind me is deafening. I turn to see everyone frozen—Liv's face cycling through shock to something deliberately blank, like she's rebooting her denial software. Clara's eyes narrow dangerously. Mia and Sophia exchange confused glances.
And Victor—Victor looks like someone just set his world on fire.
Kilian extends his hand with perfect politeness. "You must be Professor Larsen. I've heard so much about you."