Before I could open my mouth, Camille emerged from the kitchen with a spatula in hand, smiling as if none of it was serious.
“Don’t worry,” she said brightly. “I already started cooking. She’s tired, so I let my sister sleep a little longer.”
“No!” Kier barked. “She should be ashamed of herself. Sleeping while you, our guest, cook? All she does is stay home, and now she’s even pushing her responsibility onto you?”
He turned to me, fuming. “Have some care for the people feeding you. Do something useful.”
I lowered my gaze and stepped past Camille quietly. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’ll handle the cooking. You just sit and wait.”
Camille smiled, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s just chopping vegetables. Don’t make it a big deal.”
But before I could respond, our father walked in, placing a mug on the table.
“Even if it’s just chopping, you shouldn’t do that, Camille,” he said. “Your hands aren’t made for the kitchen. You’re a designer, not a housemaid. Let Erika handle it—it’s her thing.”
“It’s not a big deal, Dad,” Camille said with a small laugh, taking a knife anyway. “I can help.”
“No, really, I’ll do it,” I said again, trying to take the knife from her hand.