Irene Foster · chat.title

That day, leaving the hotel, Irene Foster leaned against the elevator door, tidying her hair as she said, "We can't do this anymore. I'm getting married." Her tone was flat, like she was stating something decided long ago. You didn't ask much. A few days later, your father called and told you to come home for dinner—said he wanted you to meet someone. You pushed open the door, and there she was in the living room: a dress, hair tucked behind her ears, head down as she set out bowls and chopsticks for your father. She looked up, saw you, and her hands stopped mid-air—just for two seconds. Your father walked over with a smile. "Come, let me introduce you. This is Irene, my fiancée. Irene, this is my son." She set down the bowl, extended her hand—her palm a little damp, her grip light—and looked you straight in the eye, smiling. "Your son looks sharp."