Chapter 83

Adrian's POV

"You should go," Anna said quietly beside me, her rain-soaked dress clinging to her frame. "She needs you."

My phone flashed with another message—Sophie in the hospital, perfectly positioned for tomorrow's sympathy headlines. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, rain hammering against the windshield.

"No," I said finally. "Not tonight."

Anna turned, surprise flickering across her face. "But she's—"

"She has Henry," I cut in, gentler than I felt. "And a full medical team. Charles will handle PR." My fingers tightened on the wheel. "I can't keep rushing to her every crisis, especially when..."

"When what?" Anna pressed, searching my face.

I exhaled slowly. "When I suspect some of these emergencies are... conveniently timed."

Anna studied me, cautious. "You think she's faking?"

"Not entirely. But last time, the press arrived suspiciously fast." The guilt still gnawed—Sophie and I had history, complicated and deep. I couldn't simply dismiss her, yet I couldn't keep being pulled back either. "I'll check on her tomorrow. Right now, she's stable and has support."

Relief and uncertainty warred in Anna's expression. "What will you tell Charles?"

"That I'm where I need to be tonight." I reached for her hand, finding it cold and damp. "And I'll deal with Sophie in the morning."

I started the car, pulling away from the Fairmont. The storm raged around us, but inside, a strange calm settled. For the first time in years, I'd chosen what I truly wanted—not what was expected, not what was strategic.

"Where are we going?" Anna asked as we navigated the rain-slicked streets.

"Your place," I replied. "Unless you'd rather—"

"No," she said quickly. "My place is good."

The next morning, sunlight spilled through Anna's blinds, gilding her skin as she slept beside me. My phone buzzed with Charles's updates—Sophie's "condition" had mysteriously improved once the cameras captured suitable concern from Henry. The board was questioning my absence, but the IPO preparations continued uninterrupted.

I silenced it, watching Anna's peaceful face. Something had shifted—in me, in us, in everything. I wanted more than stolen moments and office walls.

My phone buzzed again—a text from Sarah Rose: \[Cooking class still on for today? 2pm at restaurant. No experience required.\]

I smiled, remembering our conversation at Bella Cucina when I'd mentioned wanting to learn Italian cooking. She'd offered to teach me, eyes twinkling with something between amusement and assessment.

"What's that look about?" Anna murmured, eyes still closed.

"Your mother's teaching me to cook today," I replied, kissing her forehead.

Her eyes flew open. "She's what?"

Bella Cucina's kitchen gleamed in afternoon light, white marble and steel a stark contrast to the rustic dining room. Sarah stood at the prep station, sleeves rolled up, hair netted back.

"Ah, the student arrives!" she called, spotting me at the door. "Ready to get your hands dirty, Mr. CEO?"

I rolled up my sleeves, strangely nervous. "More than ready, Mrs. Rose."

"Sarah," she corrected, handing me an apron. "Today you're not Anna's boss or some tech titan. Just a man learning to make pasta from scratch."

"First rule," she said, measuring flour onto the marble, "you can't control everything. Not in cooking, not in life." Her eyes held mine with surprising directness. "This isn't like your computers where you input code and get exactly what you want."

I smirked, accepting the challenge. "I'm a fast learner."

"We'll see." She demonstrated the egg well technique. "Now you try."

My first attempt collapsed, eggs spilling across the counter. Sarah laughed—not unkindly—as I scrambled to contain the mess.

"In my kitchen," she said, handing me a towel, "we don't hide mistakes. We clean them up and start again."

"In my world," I replied, wiping egg from my hands, "mistakes cost millions."

"Here they just cost eggs." She pushed more flour toward me. "Try again. Slower this time."

An hour later, I'd managed a passable dough, though my fingernails were caked with flour and my forearms ached.

"Now we rest it," Sarah instructed. "Like all good things, it needs time."

"Time is luxury in my business."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that how you see my daughter? A luxury to fit between meetings?"

The question caught me off-guard. "No. Anna is—" I paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound calculated. "Essential."

Sarah's hands stilled on the dough. "Essential can mean many things, Adrian. A good assistant is essential. Oxygen is essential."

"It's more than that," I admitted. "With Anna, I'm... different. Better."

"And that's enough? Being better because of her?"

I met her gaze directly. "No. But it's where I'm starting."

Sarah nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good answer. Now, let's see if you can feed this through without tearing it. Gentle pressure, consistent speed."

My third attempt at the pasta machine resulted in another torn mess. I swore under my breath.

"Language," Sarah warned, but her eyes twinkled. "You're trying to muscle it. This isn't a negotiation you can overpower."

"This is why I have a personal chef," I muttered, starting again.

"And miss all this character building?" She demonstrated once more. "Watch. You adapt to the dough, not the other way around."

Two hours and several failures later, I finally produced something resembling fettuccine. Sarah examined it critically.

"Not bad for a man who probably hasn't made his own breakfast in years."

"I make excellent coffee," I protested.

"Pushing buttons on a machine doesn't count," she teased. "Now for the sauce. The real test of any cook."

My sauce burned twice before I got the heat right. Sarah watched with growing amusement as I, who negotiated billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, cursed at a pot of tomatoes.

"You're not giving up," she observed as I started a third batch. "Most men with your money would've called their chef an hour ago."

I caught my reflection in a steel pot—flour dusting my hair, sauce splattered on my rolled sleeves, completely unrecognizable from the boardroom version of myself.

"Some things are worth the effort," I replied, more honestly than intended.

Sarah smiled knowingly, then checked her watch. "Anna should be here soon. She's bringing the wine."

As if summoned, Anna appeared at the kitchen door, stopping short at the sight that greeted her. Her eyes widened, a smile tugging at her lips as she took in my disheveled state.

"What happened to you?" she asked, amusement dancing in her voice.

"Your mother is a demanding teacher," I replied, grinning despite my exhaustion.

Sarah laughed, wiping her hands on a towel. "He's a stubborn student. Burned three batches of sauce before getting it right."

Anna set down the wine, approaching slowly. Her fingers brushed flour from my cheek, the touch lingering. "I've never seen you like this," she said softly.

"Like what?"

"Imperfect," she whispered. "Real."

The word struck deeper than I expected. In board meetings and investor pitches, perfection was currency. Here, covered in flour with sauce-stained hands, I'd never felt more exposed—or more myself.

Sarah busied herself at the far counter, giving us a moment of privacy. "He's determined," she said over her shoulder. "Not focused on being perfect, just on getting it right for you."

Anna's eyes met mine, something tender and questioning in their depths. "Is that true?"

I nodded, words failing me. "Always," I whispered finally.

Her smile—genuine and warm—made every mishap in the kitchen worthwhile.

We served dinner at Sarah's modest kitchen table. No fine china or crystal stemware, just simple dishes that felt right. As Sarah shared stories of Anna's childhood, laughter filled the room. Under the table, Anna's hand found mine.

"To new beginnings," Sarah raised her glass, eyes twinkling.

Something shifted in my chest as our glasses clinked—not the familiar rush of business victories, but something deeper, more real.

Anna's fingers squeezed mine. When our eyes met, the look in hers made time stop, a thousand unspoken words passing between us.

"Adrian," she began, voice soft enough that only I could hear, "I think I'm ready to—"

Her phone buzzed sharply, cutting her off. She glanced down, frowning at the screen.