Page 33 of Love on the Edge
I throw on something comfy—my go-to yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Even though my parents are formal, dinners at home are always casual. They love being able to just let loose. Well, to the best of their ability, that is.
Ana Lucia Blaze, my mom, is poised, always. Dark brown hair, streaked with gray, swept back in effortless waves. Her deep brown eyes hold warmth, but there’s always something else beneath it—concern, calculation, quiet expectation. She moves with grace, every step measured, every glance thoughtful.
Emilio Blaze, my dad, is the same way. Tall, lean, his posture straight like it was trained into him. His dark hair, now threaded with gray, is neatly styled, adding to his polished demeanor. Even now, dressed in something casual for him—perfectly tailored slacks, a crisp shirt—he still looks ready for a business meeting. His warm brown eyes scan the room with quiet observation, never missing anything.
I step into the kitchen and pause.
The chef is already at work, plating what looks like an entire feast. Rich sauces, delicate garnishes, portions too precise to be homemade.
Fuck.
How am I supposed to just eat less?
"Hi, dear," my mom says, sweeping into the room, effortlessly put together like always. She gestures toward the chef. "This is Chef Laurent. He’s preparing dinner tonight—last-minute booking, but I got lucky. He just finished a shoot withGastronome Weekly."
The chef looks up briefly, nodding in greeting before returning to his work
"Hi, Mom," I reply, tearing my eyes away from the food, already calculating.
It all looks rich. Heavy. Too much.
We all settle around the dining table, the usual hum of conversation filling the space. The food is plated beautifully, steam rising, the scent of roasted garlic and warm bread thick in the air.
Before anyone reaches for their plates, the chef steps forward, hands folded neatly in front of him, his tone professional but easy.
"For tonight’s dinner," he begins, "we have fresh baguette with whipped herb butter and sea salt, followed by a seasonal greens salad with lemon vinaigrette and toasted almonds. The main course is a roast chicken with garlic and thyme jus, served with parmesan mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans with shallots. And for dessert, an apple tart with vanilla bean ice cream."
A murmur of approval spreads around the table as plates are set down, warm rolls passed around, glasses filled. The meal is rich but familiar, something comforting without being extravagant.
Then the chef turns to me.
"And for you, Miss Blaze," he continues, his voice smooth, practiced. "Grilled chicken breast, lightly seasoned, with a side of steamed greens and roasted sweet potatoes. No butter, no oil, as requested. Your salad is without almonds, and the dressing is on the side. And for dessert, we have fresh fruit or yogurt, whichever you prefer."
Mom smiles, lifting her glass. "Honey, Chef prepared a separate meal for you. I know that you're eating a specialty diet."
"Thank you, Mom," I reply with a small smile. She always tries. I just don’t know how to let her in.
I turn to the chef, polite, controlled. "Thank you," I say.
He nods and walks back to the kitchen to clean up.
It looks great. Smells even better.
I know I can eat the salad. So I eat that. I move on to the greens, finishing all of them. A few bites of chicken and potatoes. No more than that. Just enough.
And I feel it—satisfied. Full, even.
Which is exactly when my mother notices.
"Sweetheart, is that all you’re having?" Her voice is light, but there’s a hint of concern.
My father glances at my plate. "You should eat a little more, Valeria. You’re training hard. You need the fuel."
I take another sip of water, slow and measured, even as my stomach feels too full, even as my pulse stays steady by force alone. "I am eating."
Mom gives me a small, approving smile, but I can see the hesitation in her eyes. Dad nods, satisfied enough, but I know them. I know how they work.
They notice everything.
