Chapter 8 Eight
The sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, followed by the sound of heels hitting the marble floor.
Antonia froze.
Her hands tightened around the serving spoon as her heart leapt violently against her ribs. They’re here.
The scent of simmered spices, roasted herbs, and warm bread clung to the air—comforting, familiar, and utterly incriminating. She had meant to stop. She truly had. But one dish had turned into another, and then another, until the kitchen had come alive beneath her hands in a way the house clearly hadn’t in a long time.
She smoothed her dress quickly, wiped her palms on a kitchen towel, and inhaled.
Dislikeable, she reminded herself.
But when footsteps approached, that resolve slipped through her fingers like sand.
Kennedy entered first.
His mother followed.
Priscillia Walton was elegance personified. Her posture was impeccable, her silver-streaked hair styled into a soft chignon, her eyes sharp and assessing beneath perfectly groomed brows. She looked like a woman who had ruled boardrooms and dinner tables with equal authority.
Antonia’s instinct took over.
She stepped forward immediately.
“Mrs. Walton,” she said warmly, dipping her head slightly. “Welcome home. I’m Antonia.”
Priscillia paused.
Her gaze flicked from Antonia’s face to the ring on her finger… and back again.
“So this is her,” Priscillia said slowly, her voice cool but curious.
“Yes,” Kennedy said stiffly. “This is Antonia Adams. My fiancée.”
Antonia smiled—soft, genuine, respectful.
“Your son has told me so much about you,” she lied smoothly, extending her hand. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you.”
Priscillia studied her for a moment before accepting the handshake. "Your name is just as beautiful as you are." she said, nostrils flaring slightly as the aroma from the kitchen reached her fully. “And you cooked,”
Antonia blinked. “I—yes. I hope you don’t mind. I thought it would be nice to have a proper meal after your flight.”
Priscillia’s lips curved faintly.
“Interesting, so thoughtful of you.” she murmured.
Kennedy stiffened beside them.
The kitchen betrayed Antonia further as the rich scent wrapped around the room like an embrace.
Priscillia turned to her son. “The house smells… alive.”
Kennedy’s jaw clenched.
“I’ll show you to your room, Mother,” he said curtly.
As they walked away, Antonia caught the look Kennedy shot her over his shoulder.
Sharp. Questioning. Heated.
Her stomach dropped.
What had she done wrong?
He returned ten minutes later.
Fast.
Purposeful.
Furious.
Kennedy strode into the kitchen, his presence instantly changing the air. Antonia was just placing the final dish on the table when he stopped inches from her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a low voice.
Her heart lurched. “I was just—”
“I told you to be unlikeable,” he snapped. “Not play perfect little hostess.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Your mother had just traveled—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in sharply. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Pain flared behind her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I just thought—”
“That’s the problem,” he said coldly. “You thought.”
The words struck deeper than she expected.
“This is exactly why I said don’t overdo it,” he continued. “You’re making her comfortable. You’re making her like you.”
Her throat tightened. “I was just being decent.”
“This isn’t about decency,” he snapped. “This is about control.”
She recoiled slightly.
“You think cooking a meal makes you look good?” he continued bitterly. “You think that’s impressive? I need you to remember what you are here for.”
His voice dropped, sharp and cutting. “Don't get ideas in your head. This is not real. You’re replaceable, Antonia. Don’t forget that.”
The words sliced through her.
Silence fell thick between them.
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize kindness was such a crime.”
He laughed humorlessly. “In this house? With my plans? It complicates things.”
Her hands trembled as she set the spoon down carefully. “I forgot,” she said quietly. “I forgot I was supposed to be… unloveable.”
Something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly.
“Stick to the plan,” he said flatly. “Or face my wrath.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Antonia stood there, staring at the doorway long after he disappeared.
She reached up and twisted the ring on her finger again.
Perfect pretender, she thought bitterly.
\---
The dining room glowed under soft chandelier light, polished and pristine, like a stage set for perfection.
Antonia sat stiffly in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, every muscle in her body wound tight. The long dining table stretched between her and Priscillia Walton like a quiet battlefield, its surface dressed in fine china and crystal glasses that reflected more light than comfort.
Kennedy sat at the head of the table, posture straight, expression unreadable. If not for the occasional tightening of his jaw, no one would have guessed the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior.
The first bite was taken in silence.
Then—
“This is exquisite.”
Antonia nearly dropped her fork.
She looked up to find Priscillia dabbing her lips delicately with a napkin, her eyes bright with genuine appreciation.
“You cooked this yourself?” Priscillia asked.
Antonia nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The seasoning is perfect,” she continued. “Balanced. Confident. Not the kind of food made by someone unsure of herself.”
Antonia flushed, heat creeping up her neck. Compliments had always unsettled her. She wasn’t used to being seen, much less praised by a woman like Priscillia Walton.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I… I enjoy cooking.”
"Same here. I actually own a restaurant."
Kennedy said nothing, but his fingers tightened around his cutlery.
Priscillia glanced at him pointedly. “You never mentioned your fiancée was so talented.”
Antonia froze.
Fiancée.
She still wasn't used to being called that.
The word landed heavy in her chest, both thrilling and painful all at once.
“Well,” Kennedy said coolly, lifting his glass, “there are many things my fiancée enjoys.”
Priscillia’s gaze slid back to Antonia, sharp yet curious. “Tell me about yourself, Antonia. Where did you grow up?”
“Oh—uh—” Antonia straightened. “In the city. I lived there most of my life, but I moved in with my sister recently.”
“Recently?” Priscillia echoed.
“Yes. She’s married. Has two kids,” Antonia added, smiling softly at the thought. “They’ve been very kind to me.”
“And your parents?”
Her smile dimmed slightly. “My father passed when I was young. My mother lives in the countryside.”
Priscillia hummed thoughtfully. “That explains your resilience.”
Antonia blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You carry yourself like someone who’s had to rebuild,” Priscillia said calmly. “It’s admirable.”
Antonia’s throat tightened. She nodded, unsure how to respond.
Priscillia leaned back in her chair, eyes gleaming with interest. “So… how did you meet my son?”
Antonia’s pulse spiked.
Kennedy’s gaze snapped to her.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
They hadn't planned that part.
And now she didn't know how to respond.