Chapter 111 Chapter 111
Zaiel
The house has been quieter the week after the dress appointment, and not the bad quiet either. It was the kind that settled after big things lined themselves up properly. Wedding planners came and went with folders, fabric samples, and way too much confidence in timelines that I already knew were fake. My mother and her sisters took over half the dining room with charts and color palettes, arguing in calm voices that somehow sounded more intense than yelling ever could, but I stayed out of it.
Not because I didn’t care, but because I trusted them. My family had always treated big events like business mergers mixed with emotional warfare. They planned, they adjusted, and they won; they had a simple system. It worked for decades, and I wasn’t about to suddenly become a micromanager fiancé hovering over flower arrangements, or my mother would probably hit me or worse, make me miss my own wedding.
I focused on work during the mornings. The company has been steady, which honestly surprised me considering how distracted I’d been lately. Tessa working right here helped more than I expected. She handled the SEO tasks like she had built it herself. Reports came in clean, traffic numbers climbed, and clients kept renewing contracts without needing me to step in. Watching her grow inside my company felt weirdly personal. It was pride mixed with relief; she wasn’t just part of my life. She was part of my empire, and she held her ground there without leaning on my name.
Arthur had adjusted to living with us faster than I thought he would. The first week he kept offering to pay a bill, like he was a guest instead of family. By week two, he was arguing with my father about plants and soil over morning coffee and grilling on Sundays like he’d known them for years. Stability suited him; it suited Tessa too. I saw it in the way she moved around the house now, like she wasn’t waiting for anything to collapse.
That night, I got home earlier than usual. The sun was still dropping behind the skyline when I walked into the house. The place smelled like vanilla candles and something sweet baking in the kitchen. I left my briefcase on the table and followed the smell and found her standing barefoot on the tile, hair clipped up messily, stirring something in a glass bowl like she was trying to win a fight with it.
“You’re baking?” I said.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled like she’d been caught doing something illegal. “I’m experimenting,” she said with a smile.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s for your cousins. They’re coming tomorrow, and I promised dessert samples for the tasting committee.” She rolled her eyes at the word committee.
I leaned against the counter and watched her mix batter like it required personal revenge. “That committee has more authority than my board of directors,” I said.
“They were terrifying last time,” she admitted. “Michelle rejected three cakes because the frosting felt emotionally distant,” she said with a sigh.
I laughed under my breath. That sounded exactly like Michelle. She poured the batter into small trays and slid them into the oven, then wiped her hands on a towel before leaning against the counter beside me. The kitchen windows reflected the sunset across the marble surfaces, painting everything gold and soft. It made her skin glow in a way that always distracted me.
“You look thoughtful,” she said, studying my face.
“I’m just tired,” I answered.
“Work tired or wedding tired?” she asked.
“Life tired.”
She nodded like she understood that answer without needing details. That was one of her talents. She read between words better than most people read actual sentences.
“Come have a seat,” she said, nudging my shoulder.
We moved to the couch, and she curled into my side like she had done a thousand times before. The city lights outside started flickering alive while the oven hummed quietly in the kitchen. For a few minutes, neither of us spoke. Silence between us had never felt uncomfortable. It felt like shared breathing.
“Your mother called earlier,” she said eventually.
“That sounds ominous.”
“She wanted confirmation about guest transportation for the ceremony venue.”
“That place still feels unreal,” I said with a groan.
“It is unreal,” she corrected gently. “But it’s beautiful.”
The venue had been my mother’s final victory. A restored palace turned private event hall overlooking the river, layered with crystal chandeliers, marble staircases, and gardens that looked stolen from a royal postcard. I barely remembered agreeing to it, mostly because my father and uncles had already secured the booking before I could form an opinion.
“You liked it,” I asked, glancing down at her.
“I loved it,” she admitted quietly.
That settled it. If she loved it, then it was perfect.
She rested her hand against my chest, tracing absent circles through my shirt. The contact pulled tension out of my shoulders without her even trying. She had that effect on me. Always had since the day I met her.
“You’ve been calmer lately,” she said.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No,” she laughed softly. “It’s just… nice.”
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You make things steady.”
“You make things safe,” she said softly.
That landed heavier than she probably realized. "Safety" wasn’t a word people usually connected to me. Respect, fear, and power, sure. Safety wasn’t part of my public reputation. Hearing it from her felt like someone was rewriting my entire character without asking permission.
Thankfully the oven timer beeped, saving me from answering that out loud. She slid off the couch and hurried to the kitchen, pulling trays out carefully while testing one with a fork like she was performing surgery.
I watched her move around the kitchen barefoot, humming under her breath, completely unaware of how domestic moments like this wrecked me more than any boardroom negotiation ever could. She brought a plate back to the coffee table and sat cross-legged across from me.
“Try one,” she said, pushing it toward me.
I bit into the small cake and chewed slowly. “This might start a family war.”
“That good?” she asked.
“That’s dangerous,” I said, which was true; she had a thing for cooking.
Her grin stretched wide. “Good. Michelle will cry.”
“I want chicken pot pie for dinner tomorrow; you might want to make some for my parents too.”
She looked at me and smiled; that was the first thing she cooked for me.
We stayed there eating the sample desserts and rating them like critics until both of us felt slightly sick from sugar. By the time the trays cooled completely, the city outside had gone full night, and the house felt warmer against the glass walls. I made the right choice in buying a house; it felt more like a home than the apartment ever did. She leaned her head against my shoulder again, quieter this time.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“For the wedding?”
“For everything after it,” she said.