Lisa's POV
I lost count of how many times I had walked into the kitchen that day, but I knew it was at least five times. My hands were sticky from juice pulp, my patience frayed thin like a string about to snap. The smell of citrus clung to my fingers no matter how many times I rinsed them under the running tap. I had tried to tell myself to breathe, to stay calm, to not let it get to me—but each time Irene sent me back with that infuriatingly calm, collected tone of hers, it felt like I was shrinking smaller and smaller.
“Again,” she had said the last time, barely glancing at me, her fingers brushing her dress as though the world revolved around her whims. “Less sugar this time. Or rather, no sugar at all. I don’t want it too cold either, but not warm. Just… perfect.”
Perfect.
As if
