I’m in the kitchen of Amaryllis Events the next afternoon taking out my frustrations on a batch of cinnamon rolls we need for a bridal shower brunch, when the phone rings. Hands full of sticky dough, I elbow the button for the speaker. “Amaryllis Events. This is Corinna.”

“Can you pull up your calendar?” Bryan’s voice comes through the phone brusquely.

“Not at the moment. My hands are covered with—”

“I need to give you a list of dates, Corinna. Get whatever crap off your hands, find a calendar, and stop wasting time,” Bryan barks.

Suddenly, I snap. I’ve had it. When did I suddenly become everyone’s bitch and call girl? Oh, that’s right. When my parents traded me in for some more heroin by selling me to a sex trafficking ring. This last week has pushed me to my limit. The tiara of peace I try to wear every day is blooming into a crown of despair.

Between finding out the tumor’s grown and the hot and cold from Colby, I’m all over the place. My temper is constantly warring with my anxiety. Now Bryan wants to change the dynamic of our doctor–patient relationship just like that? Before I was a pressure cooker, where the steam was getting vented. Bryan’s dismissiveness just broke off the safety valve, and I’m ready to blow.

I just can’t deal with any more.

I raise my voice to be heard over his. “You know what, Bryan? Have your secretary call me back in an hour when I can talk. I’m working. I can’t stop what I’m doing right now. If calling me back doesn’t work, call this number.” I rattle off Cassidy’s direct line. “You have my permission to tell my sister who you are and what you want. Right now, I have to focus on my job. I can’t do that and deal with you, this, or anything else.” Even as he’s starting to argue with me on the other end of the line, I hit the Off button with my elbow.

I snarl to my voice-activated speakers. “Volume seven.” A hard drum beat matching my anger pulsates through the speakers. Nodding in approval, I head back over to the dough and land my next punch for all I’m worth.

I am so over people this week. Letting out a sound of disgust, I hope someone, anyone, dares to enter my kitchen. I could use some target practice.

How dare men—Bryan, Marco, Jack, goddamned fucking Colby—dare to decide what’s best for me without asking me? Make a judgment about me? I may not have Ali’s level of genius, but I have qualities that are just as important. I have a heart. I have a soul. And for right now, I have a fully functioning brain.

After setting the cloth over the dough to rise, I wash my hands. Reviewing the list of to-dos tacked up on the board next to the sink, I’m tapping my foot when the kitchen door opens. Phil peeks his head in and turns to someone behind him. “Oh, good. She’s not holding knives.”

Without saying a word, I move toward my built-in knife cabinetry. I reach into the drawer where I keep the finely honed blades and pull out my most wicked chef’s knife. “That depends on who you’re talking to,” I threaten.

“It’s just me, Cori. Lower your weapon.” Cassidy breezes into my kitchen. Letting out a sigh of relief, I yell at my speakers to lower the volume, even as I slide the blade back into its slot. “Thank you. Now, do you want to tell me why your neurosurgeon called me a few minutes ago in a panic, thinking you’re changing your mind about your surgery?”

Because maybe I am? The thought flits through my mind briefly. “I asked him to call you because like most men, present company excluded, Phil—”

“Though not normally, so don’t get too big of a head,” Cassidy interjects, punching Phil in the arm.

I nod, ceding her point. “Most men are complete fucking assholes. I have no patience to be dealing with an extraordinarily egotistical one.”

“He was calling with your pre-op testing schedule, Cori,” Cassidy rebukes gently. “It was important.”

“All I tried to say was that I was up to my elbows in dough and it was a bad time to talk, Cass. I’m tired of being talked down to. Do people think the mass in my head makes me stupid?” I snap. “Why? Why is it so hard for people to understand I need some semblance of normalcy right now? As for it being important—don’t you think I get it? After all these years, don’t you think I get it?” By the time I’m done, the tears are wetting the burning fury heating my face.

Phil and Cassidy exchange a worried look. Suddenly, I feel sick. Is this what the end looks like for me? Anger and self-pity? No. I won’t let it come to that—not to these people who gave me nothing but safety, happiness, and joy. At least they tried their best.

“If Bryan wouldn’t talk with you, I’ll call him back now,” I say grudgingly.

Cassidy approaches me, inches shorter than me even in her heels. Wrapping her arms around me, she murmurs, “You don’t have to, Cori. I got all of the information. It’s on the family calendar.” Stroking my back, she says, “Phil, if you don’t mind?”

“Wait just a damn second. Maybe I can help,” he argues.

“Do you have a penis?” she asks sweetly.

“A damn nice one, if I do say so myself. I’m sure Jason will happily confirm.” Cassidy and I roll our eyes at him.

“If you have such a great one, then you probably don’t want to be here when Cori vents her frustration against the male species. Actually, I’m sure of it. Unless you’d like nightmares, I suggest you get out,” Cassidy encourages.

An evil grin crosses my face as Cassidy crosses to where I keep my cutting boards. Phil is frozen in horror. “No, that’s not what’s about to go on. Y’all are about to share some kind of gossip without me.”

Cassidy turns to me and says, “Chef’s knife bad or cleaver bad?”

I think back to Jack’s debasement, to Bryan delivering the news of the increased size of the tumor, then to Marco telling me he broke things off because he realized I had feelings for another man. A man who was a ghost. And then Colby. The months of his being an irritant, making amends, running into Addison, and the scene last night at my front door. Without hesitation, I answer, “Both.”

Cassidy goes into my knife drawer and hands me the first blade, a wicked cleaver I use when I’m cutting a pumpkin or experimenting with hard vegetables. I hold the perfectly weighted blade in my hand, wishing for a throwing board with every fiber of my being. I accept the equally diabolical chef’s knife, sharpened enough I could run a man through.

Perfect.

“Be right back,” Cassidy chirps before walking into my refrigerator.

Phil is still standing in place, jaw completely unhinged. He’d better step back or get out, lest he becomes a target of the results of my handiwork. I’m not handing out protective gear for this sideshow.

Cassidy comes out with an impressive assortment of fruits and vegetables, almost staggering under the weight of it. I’d offer to help, but I’m way too fascinated at my overly in-control sister handing me the keys to wreak havoc.

“Last chance, Phil,” Cassidy tells him. Handing me a grapefruit, she says, “Think of this one as Phil’s thick skull for not listening.”

I don’t even hesitate. I pick up the cleaver, and with a swift movement, I slam the blade down to slice it clean through.

Phil emits a choking sound.

“Again!” Cassidy demands. She shoves another grapefruit at me, and less than a second later, that one is divided in half. Cassidy promptly grabs a bowl and moves them away from the other fruit.

“Here, Cori. Phil won’t leave. He’s proven himself just as stupid as the others. What does he deserve for that?” In her hands is a ripe tomato. With a wicked smile at my sister, I switch knives. Not even looking at Phil, I bring the knife flat side down. Hard. Tomato chunks go flying in all directions at ludicrous speeds. I see some of it land on Cassidy, who just laughs in delight.

Phil, not so much.

“You’re both fucking crazy! Do you know how much this shirt cost?” We turn our heads in Phil’s direction as he pulls chunks of tomato off the lilac silk he’s wearing. “Someone’s replacing it.”

Leaning forward, knife still in hand, I smile. It isn’t pretty. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Huffing, Phil turns and pushes the door open. “I’m just going to go see if there’s something to change into in my office. If not, I’m going home.” He strides through the door, which swings back and forth in his wake.

“You go home, I’m having Ali dock your pay!” Cassidy yells after him.

His middle finger coming through the door is his answer. Without hesitation, I grab some of the tomato still on my cutting board and hurl it at the door. It lands on his hand with unerring accuracy. Phil screeches like he’s just been shot before yelling down the hallway, “They’ve both lost their minds! Don’t go near the kitchen. I repeat, don’t go near the kitchen!”

Cassidy and I fall on each other in a heap of laughter. Carefully, I place the knife on the counter. “If we’re lucky, Holly never figured out how to wire this place up,” I gasp.

Cassidy’s doubled over. “She would have asked Caleb or Keene. No way that’s happened yet.”

“Sorry about your dress, Cass,” I offer, but the smile I’m wearing contradicts that.

“The hell you are. And I’m not either.” Her grin morphs into something serious. “Matt used to have me break plates.”

“What?” I’m confused. What does our local coffee shop owner have to do with anything?

Shoving the still-edible food aside, she hops up on the cleanest part of the workstation. Gesturing for me to move closer, she wraps her arm around my shoulder. “I used to go see Matt for therapy, Cori. Remember he used to be a VA psychologist?” The lightbulb goes off in my head. Even as I nod, Cassidy continues. “For a long time before I met Caleb,” she muses, “and a while after as well. When the pressure of everything got to be too much, he’d collect all the chipped cups from The Coffee Shop and let me hurl them at the brick wall in the back.” She shrugs as if she hasn’t rocked my world already by admitting she actively sought out help.

“So much has happened to you, Cori. Your foundation has been rocked by so many things. Things I would like to think we’d have been there for over the years. Thinking about it? I can’t say we wouldn’t have smothered you. You’re too precious for us not to.”

I snort. “You’re the only ones who think so.”

Cassidy’s sad smile is like a vise around my heart. “I understand why you’re feeling that way after this week, and I’m pretty certain I don’t know everything. I’d be shocked if you weren’t ready to explode. All I did was give you an outlet.” Giving me a quick kiss on the cheek, she slides off the table. “Talk to us. It’s better than wasting the food. Ali will have a conniption over the budget.

“And to that end, you’ll notice I saved the grapefruits.” She points at the two I cut in half. “They’re next up on your to-do list for the brunch tomorrow. It’s a fresh grapefruit cake.” The grin that flashes across my face is because the move was pure Cassidy. Kill two birds with one stone, and keep on schedule while doing it.

“As for your doctor, I enjoyed smacking him down to reality for a few minutes.” Crap, amidst traumatizing Phil, I forgot I’d given Bryan her number.

“I’m sorry, Cass. I just couldn’t handle it anymore,”

“And that will be the last time you apologize for that.” Her pouty lips lift in a broad smile. “When I explained who I was and that all future scheduling would come through me, he tried to give me a song and dance about HIPAA, unsigned paperwork, blah blah blah. I called Ali into my office. She explained two things. If you gave him the number to my private line, you were waiving your right to privacy. Second, scheduling typically occurs through assistants, not the surgeons themselves. He could have his call yours. De facto, that ends up being me or he could wait for a better time to speak with you. Ali just happened to have a sidebar with me about Caleb and Keene’s personal donations to Greenwich while dear Dr. Moser was debating his options.”

“And it didn’t take long for him to decide to send the information you needed to your corporate email. Since I have access to it, it’s already been loaded into your calendar,” Ali says as she strides through the door. “Wow, Phil wasn’t kidding. You sacrificed the shit out of some produce.”

“It was one tomato. And funny enough, it was from my own lunch.” My stomach growls in protest.

“Meh. Don’t worry about that. We’re bringing in Frances for lunch.” Ali waves me off.

My ass does not need Frances, I think to myself. Or at least, I think I do until Ali smacks it. “Um, these jeans are falling off your ass. You can deal with some good ole Southern cooking. And you’ll enjoy it.”

“Only damn thing that place gave to us worth anything,” I tease my sister, but Ali’s already shaking her head.

“No, Cori. The thing the South gave us that’s worth the most is each other. And we’ll fight to the bitter end to keep it.”

“Damn straight we will,” Cassidy pipes in. “And I know I speak for the others when I say that too.”

I take a deep breath. And then another. As my sisters crowd me, I heedlessly let the tears I’ve been holding in fall. “Damn, cutting grapefruit does it to me every time.”

“I thought that was onions,” Ali muses.

“Shh,” Cassidy says as she hugs me. “Just go with it. Grapefruits can make you cry too.”