Chapter 219 Burnt pancake

Chapter 219 Burnt pancake


Elisa sat by the window, the soft morning light catching the vibrant red waves of her hair. Baby Sunny had finished nursing and was currently drifting off into a milk-induced food coma, his tiny chest rising and falling against her shoulder. But Elisa wasn't feeling sleepy. Her blood was still humming with adrenaline, her mind racing over the DNA report that sat locked away in a drawer or rather, the fact that Ridge had dared to pull such a stunt behind her back.

She needed to talk to someone. Someone with a brain, a sense of humor, and zero tolerance for billionaire nonsense.

Without breaking eye contact with the wall, Elisa reached for her phone on the side table, tapped her screen, and dialed Kristy’s number.

It rang twice before a brisk, clinical voice answered.

"Kristy’sTherapy Clinic, front desk speaking..oh, hey Elisa! If you're calling to tell me you're already missing my expert baby-sitting services, I charge an hourly rate of three designer handbags," Kristy’s voice chimed through the speaker, sounding cheerful and entirely unaware of the war zone she had evacuated just hours prior.

"Not quite," Elisa said, her voice dry as a desert. "Though if I don't find a good lawyer soon, you might actually get those handbags."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of a file folder slamming shut. Kristy lowered her voice. "Okay, hit me. What did the golden god of the underworld do this time? Did he accidentally buy you a diamond mine instead of a necklace, or did he forget to fold the laundry?"

"He ran a secret DNA test on Sunny while I was still pregnant," Elisa deadpanned, her dark eyes narrowing at the door.

A sharp gasp echoed through the receiver. "He what?!" Kristy shrieked. "A paternity test?! In the womb?! Oh, hell no. Hand me my clinical clipboard, I’m diagnosing him with terminal stupidity right now. Do you want me to call a hitman, or should we just start packing bags?"

Elisa let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "I'm seriously considering your advice on divorcing my husband. And keep in mind, we haven't even been legally married for twenty-four hours yet. That has to be some kind of world record for the shortest royal marriage in history."

Kristy burst into loud, unapologetic laughter that echoed through the clinic. "Oh, my god. A divorce before the wedding cake has even gone stale! You're iconic, Elisa. But tell me honestly... are you actually mad at him, or are you just running because the sex is too good and it scares you?"

"Kristy!" Elisa hissed, her cheeks flushing hot red despite her anger. "I am standing in a room with my newborn child, discussing a profound breach of trust, and you're asking about his….his..”

"Hey, I'm a therapist, I look at the root causes of avoidance!" Kristy laughed defensively. "Anyway, whenever you're less busy meaning whenever you're done terrorizing the household staff,come by my office. But do it in disguise, because remember, half the city still thinks you're a missing pop star who fell off the face of the earth. Leave Sunny with Higgins. That old butler treats the baby like a crown jewel anyway; he’ll be fine."

"Fine. I'll drop by this afternoon," Elisa sighed, running a hand through her hair. "See you later, Kristy."

"Bye, babe! Don't let him win you over with his cock" Kristy joked before hanging up.



Downstairs in the sprawling, commercial-grade stainless steel kitchen of the Lockhart estate, a catastrophic historical event was currently unfolding.

Ridge Lockhart, the most feared man in the corporate underworld, the ruthless enforcer who could dismantle a cartel with a single phone call, was standing in front of a sputtering stove holding a spatula like it was a live grenade.

Earlier, after retreating from the master suite with his tail between his legs and a bouquet of rejected roses, Ridge had experienced a rare flash of domestic inspiration. She wants proof that I'm a partner, not a tyrant, he had reasoned with himself in the hallway. What do people do in normal marriages when they screw up? They make breakfast! They cook!

It seemed simple enough in theory. In practice, it was a death trap.

Ridge had marched into the kitchen, his dark eyes sweeping over the pristine, marble-topped island. Three terrified kitchen maids, mid-prep for the estate's lunch service, had stopped dead in their tracks.

"Get out," Ridge had commanded in his deepest, most intimidating register.

"S-sir?" the head chef stammered, clutching a whisk as if it could save her life. "The lunch menu—"

"I said, out," Ridge repeated, leveling a single, murderous glare at them that could melt steel.

The maids didn't need to be told twice. They dropped their aprons, tripped over each other in a desperate scramble, and scurried out of the kitchen faster than Olympic sprinters, bolting straight toward the safety of the servants' quarters.

Left entirely alone in the massive kitchen, Ridge rolled up the sleeves of his charcoal shirt, feeling like a conquering hero.

He decided to make pancakes. How hard could pancakes be? It was just flour, milk, eggs, and a prayer.

Ten minutes into the culinary experiment, the kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated inside a dairy farm. There was white powder smeared across the stainless-steel refrigerator, raw egg dripping down the side of the counter, and a mysterious brown substance burning aggressively at the bottom of a heavy iron skillet.

Ridge stared at the skillet, coughing as a thick cloud of grey, acrid smoke billowed up toward the ceiling vents.

"Damn it," he muttered, aggressively poking the black, charred disc of batter with his spatula.

The smoke detector on the ceiling let out a sudden, high-pitched SCREEECH!

"Oh, hell no," Ridge cursed, swatting blindly at the smoke with a kitchen towel as the alarm shrieked at deafening volumes.

To make matters worse, he had turned the burner on high to speed up the process, completely ignoring the fact that butter burns instantly at high heat. A tongue of bright orange flame suddenly licked up from the pan, catching the edge of a paper towel roll sitting innocently on the counter.

FWOOSH!

The paper towels caught fire instantly, the flames spreading toward a bottle of cooking oil like an invitation to a bonfire.

"Are you kidding me?" Ridge yelled, his business instincts finally kicking in.

Instead of grabbing the fire extinguisher mounted neatly on the wall by the pantry, Ridge,operating entirely on panic and bruised male ego,grabbed a massive pitcher of cold water and dumped it directly over the flaming pan of oil.

Physics, as it turned out, did not care about the Lockhart surname.

BOOM!

The water hit the burning grease, causing an explosive splatter of fire and steam that shot upward, scorching the stainless-steel hood and sending a wall of black soot straight into Ridge’s face.

When the mini-explosion cleared, Ridge Lockhart,billionaire CEO, master strategist, and terrifying boss,stood in the middle of a scorched kitchen, his custom shirt ruined, his hair spiked with soot, and his face smeared completely black like a chimney sweep from a Victorian novel.

The fire alarm was still screaming its head off.

Just then, the kitchen swinging doors flew open with a violent bang.

Higgins, the dignified, impeccably dressed head butler, charged into the room carrying a heavy-duty fire extinguisher, her silver hair ruffled, her eyes wide with absolute horror. Behind her peered several trembling maids, ready to call the fire department and abandon the estate forever.

Higgins took one look at the burning counter, then shifted her gaze to Ridge, who was standing there holding a melted spatula, covered from head to toe in black soot and flour.

For three whole seconds, absolute silence hung in the scorched air, save for the blaring smoke alarm.

Higgins slowly lowered the fire extinguisher, her face locked in a mask of profound disappointment.

"Mr. Lockhart," Higgins said, her voice dripping with dry, aristocratic sarcasm. "Shall I call the local fire brigade, or are we planning to burn the entire western wing down today so we can collect the insurance payout?"

Ridge wiped a smudge of soot off his nose with the back of his hand, glaring darkly at the melted skillet. "The stove is defective, Higgins."

"Of course it is, sir," Higgins sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "And I suppose the flour on the ceiling is just a decorative interior design choice. Please, step away from the cooking utensils before you accidentally blow up the entire postcode."

Ridge dropped the ruined spatula into the sink with a loud clatter. He felt like an absolute idiot. He had wanted to show Elisa that he could be a normal, caring husband who cooked breakfast, and instead, he had turned their kitchen into something more than a mess.

"Clean this up," Ridge ordered gruffly, marching past the butler with his shoulders squared, trying his absolute best to salvage whatever dignity he had left. "And bring a cold bottle of water to my office. Immediately."

"Right away, Pyromaniac," Higgins muttered under her breath, signaling the maids to bring out the fire blankets.

Upstairs, the smoke detectors in the hallway had finally stopped shrieking after Higgins managed to disable the master system, but the faint scent of burnt despair still drifted up through the air vents.

Elisa, standing by the nursery window, caught a faint whiff of smoke and frowned. She opened the door just an inch, peeking out into the hallway.

A few moments later, she saw Ridge walking down the corridor toward the master wing.

She almost laughed out loud.

The mighty Ridge Lockhart,the terrifying man who ruled the city with an iron fist was walking like a defeated soldier. His shirt was scorched, his face was streaked with black soot, and he looked like he had just wrestled a bear and lost.

Ridge stopped when he saw her standing in the doorway. He slowly came to a halt, realizing there was no hiding the disaster. He couldn't blame the guards, and he couldn't threaten the fire. He was caught red-handed.

"Did you just try to burn our house down?" Elisa asked, crossing her arms over her chest, a stubborn, amused twitch threatening the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts to stay furious.

Ridge let out a heavy sigh, leaning his broad shoulder against the doorframe, looking thoroughly miserable.

"I tried to make pancakes," Ridge confessed, his deep voice carrying a rare note of humble defeat. "Apparently, they require a bit more finesse than a hostile takeover."

Elisa looked at him,sooty, exhausted, and desperately trying to find a way back into her good graces and felt the icy wall around her heart crack just a little bit more.

She didn't smile. Not yet. He still had a long way to go before she forgave him for the secret DNA test. But as she turned back into the room, leaving the door unlatched behind her, she made one thing very clear.

"Next time, leave the cooking to the chefs, Mr. Lockhart," Elisa called out over her shoulder, her voice softening just enough for him to catch the hint of a tease. "Unless you want me to actually call that divorce lawyer."

Ridge stood in the hallway, a slow, genuine smirk finally touching his soot-covered lips. She hadn't locked the door. For a man who had just survived a kitchen explosion, that felt like a massive victory.