Chapter 10 Ten
Morning came quietly in the Walton house.
Sunlight filtered through the tall glass windows of the dining room, casting pale gold patterns across the polished table. The house smelled different today—warm, inviting. Toast. Coffee. Something buttery and familiar.
Kennedy sat stiffly at the dining table, jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as though he were already bracing himself for battle. He stared into his coffee, jaw clenched, barely tasting it.
Across from him, Priscillia Walton moved about the dining area with surprising energy for someone who had complained of jet lag the night before. She hummed softly as she placed a plate in front of him.
“Eat,” she said. “You’ve always skipped breakfast when you’re stressed.”
He glanced down. Eggs. Toast. Fruit neatly arranged.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered.
“I wanted to,” she replied simply, taking the seat across from him. Her eyes sparkled with quiet satisfaction. “It's been a while since I cooked for my son.”
Kennedy smiled.
“I'm sorry I already gave my cook a week's leave before you told me you were visiting.” he said slowly.
“It's fine,” Priscillia said, lifting her teacup. “Your fiancée cooks well, I am sure I will eat good meals for the duration of my stay."
His grip tightened around the mug.
"She is such a thoughtful girl. Polite. Warm, and beautiful. Kennedy, you found yourself a good woman.” His mother added.
Kennedy exhaled through his nose, irritation simmering beneath the surface. This was not how this was supposed to go. Antonia was supposed to make a mess of things—ruffle feathers, not smooth them.
Instead, she was winning his mother over effortlessly.
“I must say,” Priscillia continued, smiling dreamily, “you surprised me. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to choose a good woman.”
Kennedy’s head snapped up. “Mother—”
“No, let me finish,” she said firmly. “Antonia is kind. Respectful. She listens. And the way she looks at you…” She shook her head softly. “It reminds me of how Ruth used to look at you.”
The name hit him like a blow.
His chest tightened, breath catching painfully.
“That’s enough,” he said coldly.
Priscillia studied him, her smile fading. “Kennedy…”
“You don’t get to compare them,” he said, pushing his chair back slightly. “Ever.”
Silence settled between them, thick and fragile.
Priscillia sighed. “I’m not trying to replace Ruth.”
“No one can,” he snapped.
“I know that,” she said quietly. “But you cannot keep living like your heart was buried with her.”
That did it.
Kennedy stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You have no idea what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to live,” Priscillia said, her voice breaking just slightly. “I’m asking you to let go of the grief that’s been strangling you for six years.”
His eyes flashed. “Let go?” he echoed incredulously. “You want me to let go of my wife?”
“I want you to stop punishing yourself for surviving her,” she replied softly.
Pain flared, raw and unfiltered.
“No woman,” Kennedy said, his voice shaking with restrained fury, “will ever replace Ruth in my heart. Not now. Not ever.”
Priscillia stood as well, her face pale but composed. “I’m not asking you to replace Ruth.”
“Then what exactly are you asking?” he demanded.
She hesitated, then asked the question carefully. “Don't you have feelings for Antonia?”
The words landed heavily.
Kennedy laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. “Feelings?”
“Yes,” she pressed. “Because if you do—”
“You wanted to meet my fiancée,” he cut in harshly. “You wanted me to get married again, Mother. I am doing this for you.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Kennedy—”
“So don’t ask me about my feelings,” he finished coldly. “This isn’t about love. It’s about fulfilling your wish.”
The hurt in Priscillia’s eyes cut deeper than he expected.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” she murmured. “For you… and for her.”
Kennedy grabbed his jacket. “I have work.”
He didn’t wait for her reply.
The front door slammed behind him, the echo reverberating through the house.
Priscillia sank slowly back into her chair, her heart heavy. She stared at the untouched plate in front of her and whispered to the empty room, “Oh, my son…work on a Sunday?”
Outside, Kennedy strode to his car, anger coiling tightly in his chest.
Nothing was going according to plan.
Not his mother.
Not Antonia.
Not his heart.
And that frightened him more than he was willing to admit.
\---
Kennedy’s office felt different on Sundays.
Too quiet.
The elevator doors slid open onto his private floor, the soft hum echoing down the empty corridor. No hurried footsteps. No murmured greetings. No ringing phones. Just stillness—and the faint scent of polished wood and cold air.
He unlocked his office and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.
The silence pressed in.
Kennedy shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair before walking toward his desk.
He sank into his chair and leaned back, eyes closing briefly.
“What a mess,” he muttered.
His mother’s voice replayed in his head.
You cannot keep living like your heart was buried with her.
His jaw clenched.
They never understood. No one ever did.
His gaze drifted to the corner of his desk where a silver frame sat—untouched, exactly where it had always been. He reached for it slowly, almost reverently, as though afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast.
Ruth.
Her smile stared back at him—soft, familiar, devastating. The kind of smile that once felt like home.
He bowed his head, resting his forehead lightly against the cool glass.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I tried to keep them off my back. I really did.”
A deep sigh left his chest, heavy with years of unspoken grief.
“They think I’m ready,” he continued quietly. “They think time fixes everything. But you and I know better, don’t we?”
He straightened, thumb brushing over the edge of the frame.
“No woman will ever take your place in my heart,” he said firmly, as though making a vow. “Not Antonia. Not anyone.”
The name lingered longer than he intended.
Antonia Adams.
He frowned, pushing the thought away, setting the frame back down carefully.
“This is temporary,” he told himself. “A solution. Nothing more.”
Yet as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, an image rose unbidden—Antonia’s shy smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way she had stood in his kitchen without fear, filling his cold, empty house with the scent of home.
His chest tightened.
“No,” he said aloud, shaking his head. “This ends soon.”
He turned his chair toward the window, folding his arms, steel sliding back into place.
Because loving again was not an option.
And he would make sure his heart remembered that.