Chapter 46 Chapter 46

Chapter 46 Chapter 46
Valentina 

I set the grocery nylon on the kitchen counter and exhaled. The plastic crinkled beneath my fingers as I unpacked tomatoes, fresh peppers, scent leaves, and the spices Violeta insisted were "non-negotiable."

My phone lay on the counter, on speaker.

"Don't burn the onions," Violeta's voice rang through the quiet kitchen. "You always rush that part."

"I do not rush," I muttered, reaching for a knife.

"You do. Medium heat, Valentina. Let it caramelize properly. That's why mine tastes better."

I rolled my eyes even though she couldn't see me. This dish...

It was the one Mother used to make on Sunday evenings. The smell would fill the entire house. Back when things were simpler. Back when arguments didn't echo through hallways and names didn't feel like shackles. Violeta loved it so much she practically shadowed Mother in the kitchen until she perfected it.

Now here I was, in a kitchen that didn't belong to me, trying to recreate something that felt like home.

I glanced around the cabin. Two days. It had been two days since Lucien brought me here.

I still remember the way I felt stepping inside. And the fact that no one knew about it. Not even his siblings.

He told me about his parents' divorce. About how his mother left. About how this house was a hiding place. A refuge. He didn't say much about his own pain. But I saw it. He trusted me with that.

The past two days had been hectic. Office meetings. Briefings. Endless documents. Lucien buried in whatever business his father assigned him. He looked composed as always, but I could tell something was moving beneath the surface.

I hadn't heard anything about the girls case again. It was as if the entire situation had been erased. Ambrose's attention had shifted to another project now. A larger one. Cleaner on paper. But I was certain it wasn't clean at all.

I made a mental note to ask Lucien later. How he shut it down so completely.

"Valentina?" Violeta's voice cut through my thoughts. "Are you even there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Good. Because you just went silent for like ten seconds. Are you alone there?"

My knife paused mid-slice.

"Why?" I asked carefully.

"Aren't there maids to help you around? With the way Ambrose has wealth, I'm sure you don't have to lift a finger." She scoffed lightly. "Don't tell me you're cooking this for him."

I let out a soft laugh, hoping it sounded normal.

"I just wanted to make it," I replied. "It's been a while."

"For him?" she pressed.

I didn't answer immediately. Because no, it wasn't for Ambrose. And Violeta didn't know that I wasn't even home.

She didn't know I was standing in Lucien's childhood kitchen. Didn't know I was chopping vegetables in a house that held secrets no one else had seen. Didn't know I was... involved with my husband's son.

The word affair felt too loud. Too ugly.

"I just felt like cooking," I said finally.

Violeta hummed suspiciously. "You're hiding something."

"I'm not," I lied smoothly.

She sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if you're making that dish and you ruin it, I'll never forgive you. Add the crab after the tomatoes soften. Not before."

"Yes, Chef."

"And taste as you go."

"I know how to cook, Violeta."

She snorted. "Debatable."

I smiled despite myself. After we hung up, the silence settled again.

I don't know how Lucien is going to react when he comes here and finds me cooking. I don't know if he'll like the idea of me occupying this space so freely.

This is his sanctuary. His mother's house. His hidden truth. Maybe I shouldn't be here alone.

But a part of me wants to give something back. Something simple. Something warm. Something that says: I saw your pain. Even if you didn't say it out loud.

I reached for the pot and turned the heat lower, just like Violeta instructed.

The onions were finally the right shade — golden, not burnt.

I stirred, letting the scent rise. The tomatoes softened, the oil separating just slightly at the top the way Mother used to say meant it's ready for the next step.

I added the crab. The aroma changed instantly.  I stood there, staring at the pot, wooden spoon in hand, watching it simmer.

My phone began ringing from the counter.  Leah.

I wiped my hand on a towel and picked it up. "Yes, Leah."

"Mrs. Ambrose, the contractors sent over the revised structural plans. They're requesting confirmation before noon tomorrow."

"Forward them to Mr. Keller as well," I replied automatically, stirring the pot with my other hand. "Tell him we'll adjust the parking layout to accommodate the new zoning restriction."

"What about the financial projections?"

"Hold them. I want to review the updated cost implications first. No external circulation yet."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And Leah?"

"Yes?"

"Clear my 9 a.m. tomorrow. Push it to the afternoon."

There was a brief pause. "Noted."

"Email me once the documents are organized."

"Yes, Mrs. Ambrose."

The line disconnected. Mrs. Ambrose. I hated how easy it comes out of other people's mouth. 

My thumb hovered over Lucien's name and I pressed call. He picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?"

There was noise in the background. Movement. Voices. A car door shutting somewhere close to the receiver.

"Are you busy?" I asked.

"A little," he replied. "Why?"

"I need you to stop by the cabin."

A slight pause. More noise  footsteps maybe, a muffled voice speaking to him before fading away.

"Is something wrong?" His tone sharpened instantly.

"No."

"Valentina."

I smiled at how quickly he shifted. "Nothing is wrong. Just come straight to the cabin."

Another pause. The background noise quieted slightly as if he'd stepped away from whoever was around him.

"Are you alone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did someone—"

"No, Lucien." I cut in gently. "I'm fine."

Silence. Then, softer, "You're sure?"

"Yes."

He exhaled. I could hear the control settling back into his voice.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes."

"Good."

"Valentina."

"Hmm?"

"If this is about something Ambrose did—"

"It's not. Just come," 

His voice lowered. "Alright."

The line went dead. I stared at my phone for a moment before setting it down.

Thirty minutes. I turned back to the pot, tasting carefully. It needed a little salt. I added it.

The late afternoon light filtering through the small windows, casting warm streaks across the wooden floor.

"I hope you like it," I murmured to no one in particular.



I wiped down the counter, rinsed the knife, arranged the plates. I even found two proper glasses in the cabinet and set them out, hesitating before reaching for the small bottle of wine I had picked up on the way here.

Not too much. Just enough. I didn't want to overstep. I didn't want him to feel like I was rearranging something sacred.

So I kept it simple. Two plates. Two glasses. The pot in the center. Thirty minutes.

The faint crunch of tires over gravel outside cut through my thoughts.

My breath caught. He was here.

I wiped my hands on the towel again even though they were already clean. I looked down at myself, smoothing invisible creases from my dress.

The car engine stopped.

A door shut. My pulse thudded louder.

Then footsteps. Approaching.

I didn't move toward the door. I stayed where I was, pretending to adjust the glasses again.

The handle turned.

The soft metallic click of the knob sounded through the quiet cabin.

The door opened. Cool evening air slipped in first. Then him.

Lucien stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on me.

He closed the door behind him slowly.

His gaze shifted. To the table, plates and then back to me. "Oh no you don't," I said quickly, walking straight toward him and grabbing his wrist before he could open his mouth. "You are not interrogating the room."

His eyes dropped to where I was holding him.

"Interrogating the room?" he repeated dryly.

"Yes. I can see it on your face. The questions are loading."

He almost smiled.

"Valentina—"

"Nope." I tugged him further inside. "Shoes off. Sit down."

He allowed himself to be pulled, which in itself felt like a victory.

"I drove thirty minutes because you said nothing was wrong," he said as he removed his shoes slowly. "And I walk into... this."

"This," I said dramatically, gesturing toward the table, "is not a crime scene."

"It looks planned."

"It is planned," I replied. "That's how food works."

He huffed a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. I pushed him gently toward the chair. "Sit."

He raised a brow at me but obeyed, lowering himself into the seat. I moved around to the pot and lifted the lid. Steam rose between us.

"It's not poisoned," I added casually. "I promise."

"That wasn't my concern."

"It should be," I said lightly. "You've annoyed me several times this week."

That earned me an actual smile. He leaned back, watching me as I served the food into his plate.

"What is this?" he asked, but softer now. Not suspicious. Just... curious.

"A childhood classic," I said. "Mine, not yours. Although I'm hoping it's transferable."

He looked at the plate again, then at me.

"You cooked for me."

"Yes."

"In my mother's kitchen."

"Yes."

He studied me for a second. I hated that look. It always felt like he could see too much.

So I leaned forward slightly and said, "If you say something emotional right now, I will throw this spoon at you."

His lips twitched. "You're threatening me in my own house?"

"I'm establishing boundaries."

He shook his head, but there was warmth in his eyes now. I sat down across from him.

"For the record," I added, "this was not some grand sentimental gesture. I was bored. And I needed to prove to Violeta that I can cook better than she claims."

"You called Violeta?"

"Yes."

"And she approved this?"

"She micromanaged it."

He gave a small nod as if that made sense. He picked up the spoon.

I watched him taste it.  He didn't react immediately. Which was rude.

"Well?" I demanded.

He took another bite. I narrowed my eyes. "Lucien."

"It's good."

"That's it?" I scoffed pouting. "I almost burned the onions for this."

"You didn't," he said calmly. "They're perfect."

Lucien took another bite. "So, is this you trying to prove you're not stubborn again?"

I gasped. "We are not bringing that up here."

He smirked. "This is a peaceful dinner." I pointed my spoon at him. "You're lucky I cooked."

"And you're lucky it tastes good." I tried to glare, but I failed.



The dishes were cleared, the plates stacked neatly. We were now seated on the couch enjoying a glass of wine. 

I took a sip, letting the warmth roll down, then glanced at him.

"Are you... not angry?" I asked, careful, though not hiding the curiosity.

He raised a brow, leaning back into the cushions. "Angry about what?"

I shrugged. "You know... me invading your mother's home. Cooking in her kitchen, touching her things..."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I'm not angry."

I blinked. "Really?"

"Really." His tone was calm. "This house... it's quiet here. It's supposed to be safe. If you want to be here, then I'm glad you are."

I laughed, a little embarrassed. "I just... I didn't know how you'd feel about me being here. About me knowing... all these things."

He turned, watching me with those dark, steady eyes. "Valentina... you don't need permission to see this side of me. This house, these memories... I like that you're here. It feels... right. Comfortable."

I shifted closer, letting the glass rest in my hands. "I like it too. I like being away from the chaos. Even if it's only for a few hours."

"Me too," he murmured. "It's nice... normal, in a way. Away from everything else."

"Normal is underrated."

"It really is."

I sipped my wine again, watching him in the soft lamplight. "You know... it feels like I can see you here, not the Lucien everyone else knows. Not the Lucien who has to answer to my husband, or your father, or anyone."

He looked at me, and I could see a flicker of something relief, maybe, or acceptance. "That's exactly how I want it. Just... this. Us. Simple."

"Simple... in a house full of secrets, that feels almost dangerous."

He nudged me gently with his shoulder. "Dangerous can be fun too."

I smirked, and the corner of his mouth lifted in response. I set my glass down, giving him a playful glance. "Tell me something," I said, letting my tone dip into mischief.

He raised a brow, leaning back lazily. "Hmm? What now?"

I tilted my head. "If I were... in the water... drowning, would you save me?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What sort of question is that?"

I pouted, reaching for his wine and setting it aside like I had mine. "Answer me."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "Obviously. I wouldn't think twice."

Before I could respond, his hand moved, cupping my face gently, thumb brushing along my cheek. My heart skipped. The warmth of his touch was intoxicating.

"Do you really mean that?" I teased, voice low, daring him.

His eyes darkened, a slow smolder creeping in. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

I didn't have time to answer, because his lips found mine. Slow at first, testing, coaxing. My hands lifted instinctively, settling on his chest as the kiss deepened.

It shifted—heated, urgent. His tongue brushed mine, teasing, pulling, demanding. My breath caught, heart racing. I pressed closer, feeling the strength behind his arms as he held me flush against him.

The wine sat forgotten, the lamplight casting shadows over us, and the cabin seemed to shrink until it was just the two of us, tangled and reckless, the air thick with desire.

When we finally broke, I was gasping, flushed. His forehead rested against mine.

"You really do like dangerous, don't you?" he murmured.

I bit my lip, a grin spreading despite the heat coursing through me. "Only when it's fun."

He chuckled, a dark, throaty sound, before claiming my lips again, fiercer this time. And I didn't pull back. Not for a second. He lifted me up on his lap and I instinctively straddled him, my knees on either side of his hips. His hands moved over my back, pressing me closer, tracing the curve of my spine, roaming with a heat that mirrored mine.

I was trembling, chest heaving, my breath uneven against his lips. Every touch, every movement made me ache for more, until... a whisper slipped out before I could stop it.

"I... I love you."

The words shocked me as much as they did him. They were soft, urgent, filled with a reckless truth I hadn't planned to voice like this—here, like this, in the heat of our desire.

Lucien froze for a heartbeat, eyes widening slightly before darkening, deep, smoldering, raw.

"What...?" His voice was husky, low.

"I—" I swallowed, realizing there was no turning back. "I love you," I repeated, firmer this time, against the warmth of his chest.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, those dark eyes bore into mine, hunger and possessiveness flaring in every line of his face. Then his grip tightened, hands moving with a force that pinned me to him.

"Fuck," he muttered his strength moved me, guiding us until I was beneath him. My hair fanned out over the couch cushions, my body pressed to his, and his lips found mine again, more demanding, more claiming than ever.