Chapter 41 Darcy
The woman’s face lit up. “Hi, honey!”
She crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him. Damien stiffened for half a second before sighing and returning the hug, bending slightly to accommodate her shorter height.
For a moment, he looked like a little boy again.
Then he pulled away, narrowing his eyes at her. “What are you doing here, Mother?” he asked, his tone stoic and serious.
“I wanted to visit. Is that a crime?” she batted her eyelashes at him innocently.
Damien raised a brow.
She huffed dramatically. “Ugh, I’ve been so lonely.”
She pouted up at him, and I couldn’t help thinking how adorable she looked with her exaggerated puppy-dog eyes.
Damien didn’t seem impressed, but I could see something else beneath his hard expression—worry. Concern. A love he refused to show openly.
I watched them with quiet fascination.
He had her eyes.
Her sharp nose. Her strong jawline.
But where Damien was guarded and stern, she was warm and bubbly.
“I also wanted to spend time with your wife,” she beamed suddenly.
Before I could react, she looped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. “She’s a pretty one. I always knew you had a thing for brunettes,” she smirked.
Damien groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mother…”
He actually whined.
“You are supposed to be resting at home, not here playing mother-in-law.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. I’m perfectly fine.”
Then she turned to me with a conspiratorial smile. “Is he always such a stick in the ass?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Yeah.”
She laughed too
I glanced at Damien and found him watching us, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head.
My heart skipped.
God, he looked beautiful like that—relaxed, amused, human.
“Now come on,” she said suddenly, clapping her hands together. “It’s been a while since I made something with my own hands. Let’s bake.”
She rounded the island, opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients—flour, sugar, butter, chocolate chips, vanilla extract—placing them in neat rows on the counter.
“You two have fun,” Damien muttered. “I’ll be in my study—”
“Not so fast, Damien,” his mother cut in.
He stopped and turned. “What?”
“You’re helping.”
“I have work.”
“You’re helping.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
Damien groaned but walked back to the counter, standing beside me.
She handed me a mixing bowl. “Want to help, Jasmine?”
I nodded quickly, mirroring her smile. “Of course.”
What followed was chaos.
Flour dusted the counter. Sugar spilled. Damien complained. His mother teased him endlessly. I laughed more than I had in months.
By the time the last tray of cookies slid into the oven, I was clutching my stomach, doubled over in laughter.
Genuine laughter.
Tears streamed down my face as she sat on a barstool, unwrapping a sweet and chuckling.
“He always had such an imagination as a child,” she said dreamily, staring off into space.
Her smile softened. “But he had to grow up so fast.”
Her expression dimmed. “When his father left… he was never the same. His father was hardly ever there to begin with, but when he finally walked away, something in Damien broke.”
The kitchen grew quiet.
“He became distant. Protective. Cold.”
I listened carefully, my heart aching for the little boy she described.
“I hadn’t known her long,” I realized, “but it felt like I had known her forever.”
Talking to her was easy.
Natural.
She didn’t judge me. Didn’t question me. She accepted me without hesitation.
For someone like me, who feared vulnerability, her openness was a gift.
And somehow… she already felt like family.
~
“Cookies are ready!” she announced brightly, beaming as she slid the trays out of the oven with thick mittens covering her hands.
She placed them carefully on the kitchen island, and I couldn’t help but smile as the warm scent of chocolate chips and cinnamon filled the air, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. My mouth watered instantly.
Tears blurred my vision.
I had been in this position so many times before—standing in the kitchen with Mom, waiting impatiently for the cookies to cool while she laughed at my eagerness.
I sighed and blinked the tears away quickly, unwilling to let them fall. I didn’t want Darcy to think I was weak.
Damien had slipped away earlier while we were busy talking, and neither of us had even noticed when he left.
Darcy reached for a cookie, and I instinctively grabbed her wrist. “They’re really hot,” I warned.
She scoffed and swatted my hand away.
“Nonsense.”
She picked one up anyway and began juggling it from palm to palm as she hissed every time the heat stung her skin.
“Darcy—”
Before I could stop her, she tossed the cookie into her mouth and shut her eyes tightly, waiting for the burning to pass.
After a few seconds, she exhaled dramatically.
“It’s delicious!” she cheered, humming to herself in delight.
I stared at her with wide eyes.
“What?” she asked defensively when she noticed my expression. “It tastes better when it’s hot.” She winked. “Want some?”
I nodded slowly.
I picked one up, holding it carefully between my fingers. The warmth seeped into my skin, and suddenly my chest tightened. My vision blurred again as memories flooded in—Mom standing by the counter, flour on her cheeks, laughing while she warned me not to burn myself.
A small laugh escaped me, but it came out shaky.
Darcy noticed immediately. “What’s wrong, darling?” Her face filled with worry as she looked me over. “Are you hurt?”
Before I could answer, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug.
I melted into her embrace.
“I-it’s just… my mom used to make these for me when I was a kid,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I miss her so much…”
My words broke apart as my chest tightened and the tears finally spilled. I cried into the crook of her neck, unable to stop myself.
She didn’t say anything at first. She simply held me and rubbed slow, soothing circles on my back.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Her scent—warm vanilla and something floral—only made it harder to control myself. Everything about her reminded me of Mom: the way she held me, the way she spoke, the comfort she gave so easily.
I sniffled and pulled away slightly. “I’m sorry… I just lost it and—”
She cut me off by pulling me back into another hug. “It’s alright, dear. You don’t need to apologize for feeling. You keep too many things bottled up inside, and I can tell you’re afraid to let yourself be vulnerable. But everyone needs to cry sometimes.”
She ran her hands gently up and down my back. “It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Her words settled deep in my chest.
“Now,” she said, stepping back and smiling softly, “let’s pack these cookies before Damien gets his hands on them.”
She winked playfully, and I laughed weakly.