I walked into the kitchen and froze.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” I screamed.

Right there, in my kitchen, was **Randy**—standing with **three strangers** at our dining table, **devouring my homemade lasagna.**

Plates were piled high, sauce dripping from their mouths as they **laughed and toasted with my wine glasses.**

One guy—a **scrawny college kid**—wiped his mouth and grinned. “Oh hey, you must be Randy’s wife! **Killer meatballs, by the way.**”

I felt my **eye twitch.** “Excuse me?!”

Randy **jumped up** like a guilty kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Uh, honey! You’re home early!”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And who the hell are these people?”

He hesitated, then gestured to them like this was **some casual book club meeting.** “Uh… meet my, um… **buddies?**”

The scrawny kid **chuckled.** “More like your biggest fans! Man, your cooking is legendary! Randy’s been bringing us leftovers for weeks!”

I **blinked.** “Wait. You **KNEW** I was making this food for YOU, and instead of eating it, you’ve been **feeding random people off the street?**”

“Not off the street!” Randy **chuckled nervously.** “This is my gym crew! We all work out together, and they needed meals, so I figured—”

“YOU FIGURED?!” I cut him off. “YOU FIGURED I WAS YOUR FREE MEAL PREP SERVICE?!”

Silence.

The gym guys suddenly **lost their appetite.**

I exhaled, turned on my heel, and **grabbed my purse.** “Cool. You know what? Since you’ve got your own little **‘dinner club,’** I think I’ll take a break.”

Randy **gulped.** “Babe, where are you going?”

“To a five-star restaurant. Alone. Enjoy your little food cult.”

And just like that, I left.

For the **next month, I cooked NOTHING.**

Randy’s “buddies” stopped coming over. He **begged** me to start cooking again, swearing he’d never pull that stunt again.

And when I finally did?

I plated myself a **huge** portion first.

Then handed Randy a **TV dinner.**