Chapter 265 The Blackwood After(Side story chap 1)
GENESIS
I was in the kitchen, zipping up the last lunch box, three identical ones lined up on the counter like little soldiers when Izzy’s voice hit decibel levels that should be illegal before 8 a.m.
“MOMMMMMM, DASH IS YANKING ON MY PONYTAIL!”
I winced, fingers freezing on the zipper.
“Sweetheart,” I called over my shoulder, keeping my tone even, “you don’t need to yell. I’m right here.”
“But he’s pulling it!”
I turned.
There they were both of them in their booster seats at the dining table, Izzy’s face flushed pink with righteous fury, ponytail half-undone, Dash looking calm and innocent with a fistful of pink elastic in his hand.
“Dash, baby,” I said, walking over, “let go of your sister’s hair.”
He blinked up at me with those big, green eyes that were pure Kieran when he was scheming.
“She took my smiley pancake.”
“No I did NOT!” Izzy shrieked, twisting to glare at him.
“You did too! It was the one with the biggest smile!”
“It was MY smiley face!”
I sighed, the kind of sigh that only comes from three years of twin negotiations and knelt between their booster seats.
“Okay, okay. No one stole anyone’s pancake. I made five smiley ones.”
Dash reluctantly released the ponytail. Izzy immediately patted it like it had suffered a war wound.
“Thank you,” I said to Dash, kissing his forehead. Then to Izzy: “And thank you for using your inside voice next time.”
She pouted but nodded.
Across the table, Mitchell sat in his booster seat too, five years old now, calm as ever, giggling softly at the twins’ drama while methodically poking holes in his own pancake with a finger.
I smiled at him.
“You’re the only sane one here, Mitch.”
He grinned, showing the gap where a front tooth was missing.
I stood, brushing my hands on my jeans.
Just then Kieran walked in, charcoal suit already on, tie loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking unfairly good and edible at 7:15 am.
“Who’s ready to go to school?” he asked, voice deep and playful.
“ME!” Izzy and Dash screamed at once, scrambling down from their booster seats so fast the chairs scraped.
“Me too!” Mitchell piped up, raising both hands like he was volunteering for a mission.
I laughed and grabbed the three lunch boxes from the counter.
Kieran met me halfway. He slid one arm around my waist, pulled me in, and kissed me, slow, warm, tasting like coffee and him.
“Morning, wife,” he murmured against my lips.
“Morning, husband,” I whispered back, fingers already moving to fix his tie.
I straightened the knot, smoothed it down his chest. His hand covered mine for a second, thumb brushing my knuckles.
I handed him the kids’ lunch boxes.
“Give Mommy a kiss,” I said to the three of them.
Izzy launched herself at my legs first, smacking a loud, wet kiss on my cheek.
“Love you, Mommy!”
Dash was quieter, he hugged my thigh, pressed a soft kiss to my knee.
“Love you.”
Mitchell rushed over last, arms up. I bent down and he planted a sticky kiss on my cheek.
“Love you, Aunt Gen.”
My heart squeezed.
“Love you more. All three of you. Be good for Daddy.”
They nodded solemnly like they believed they could actually be good.
Kieran scooped Izzy onto his hip, took Dash’s hand, and Mitchell grabbed his free fingers.
A door slammed shut upstairs and Daisy came rushing down the stairs, backpack bouncing, hair in a messy ponytail.
“You were almost left behind,” I teased.
She rolled her eyes with classic 11-year-old energy but smiled.
“Thanks for waiting.”
I handed her her lunch bag.
“Have a good day baby.”
“Thanks, Lily.”
Kieran leaned down, kissed my forehead one more time.
“See you tonight.”
I watched them walk out, Kieran with Izzy on his hip, Dash and Mitchell holding his hands, Daisy slinging her backpack higher as she chatted about some school project. The car doors opened, closed. Engine started. Tires crunched over gravel.
Then silence.
I stood on the porch for a second longer, smiling at the empty driveway, the courtyard littered with plastic trucks, stuffed animals, a tricycle tipped over in the grass.
We didn’t live in the Blackwood Estate anymore.
We’d sold it two years ago, too many ghosts, too many memories that didn’t belong to us anymore. We bought this two-story house instead: big porch, white picket fence, backyard big enough for swings and chaos. Fresh start.
My phone rang from inside.
I hurried back in, grabbed it off the counter.
Cady’s name on the screen.
I smiled.
“Hey, you.”
“Genesis! Where are you? We’ve got the new cinnamon roll batch ready and Zarina is about to start a riot because you’re the only one who can make the icing right.”
I laughed.
“I’m coming now. The kids are off to school, Kieran just left for the office. Give me twenty minutes.”
“Better be fifteen.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up, grabbed my keys.
A few years ago Cady had been shot, point-blank, fighting for her life, in a coma for months. After the twins were born, she finally woke up. Weak at first, angry at the world, but alive. Now three years later she was thriving, scars and all. She, Zarina, and I opened a bakery together. They’d both quietly retired from the “angel” life. No more shadows. No more blood. Just flour, sugar, early mornings, and the smell of fresh bread.
I locked the door behind me, glanced back at the house once, toys scattered, porch swing swaying gently in the breeze.
Everything was quiet.
Everything was good.
I got in the car and drove toward the bakery, windows down, wind in my hair, smiling because I finally knew what peace felt like.
The drive was short fifteen minutes through quiet streets lined with trees just starting to turn gold for fall. The radio played something soft and old, the kind of song that made me think of my dad without the usual ache. I sang along under my breath, off-key, happy.
When I pulled into the small parking lot behind the bakery, the back door was already propped open with a crate. I could smell cinnamon and vanilla before I even stepped out.
Inside, it was controlled chaos.
Cady stood at the long steel table, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a messy bun, piping bag in one hand and a scowl on her face.
“You’re late,” she announced without looking up.
“By seven minutes,” I said, dropping my bag on the hook and tying on my apron. “You’ll survive.”
Zarina, tall, tattooed, always in black even when covered in flour was stacking boxes like they owed her money.
“Survive?” she snorted. “We’ve got a hundred cinnamon rolls due in one hour for that corporate order. If these aren’t perfect, the office manager is going to cry to her boss, and then we'll be blacklisted from every midtown building.”
I laughed and washed my hands.
“Relax. I’m here. Where’s the icing?”
Cady jerked her thumb toward the industrial mixer.
“Batch three is cooling. Batch four is in the bowl. You’re on duty.”
I moved to the mixer, dipping a finger into the thick white icing and tasting it.
“Needs more vanilla,” I said immediately.
Zarina groaned.
“Of course it does. You and your magic nose.”
I added two more teaspoons of extract, stirred, tasted again.
“Perfect.”
We fell into rhythm the way we always did.
Cady piped the rolls with perfect spirals. Zarina packed them into branded boxes, twenty-five per order, tissue paper tucked just so. I swirled the icing over each one, making sure the edges dripped just enough to look homemade but not messy.
The radio played low in the background, old jazz, then something poppy that made Cady hum off-key. We talked over each other:
\- Cady complaining about their neighbor’s new dog that barks at 3 a.m.
\- Me laughing and vibing with it all
Every few minutes one of us would glance at the clock.
Thirty minutes.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
We moved faster, hands flying, boxes stacking, laughter cutting through the stress.
At exactly 9:30a.m. the last roll was iced.
Zarina snapped the lid on the final box.
“Done.”
Cady wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“I need a nap.”
I leaned against the counter, catching my breath, smiling at the neat tower of pink-and-white boxes.
“We did it.”
Zarina bumped my shoulder.
“We always do.”
Cady came around the table and kissed her wife.
“Love you, baby.”
“Love you too.”
The delivery guy arrived right on time, polite, young, already wearing our branded cap.
I handed him the stack.
“Careful. They’re still warm.”
He nodded.
“Got it. See you next week.”
The door chimed behind him.
Silence settled, the good kind.
I looked around the bakery: flour dusting the air, trays cooling, the smell of sugar and butter lingering like a hug.
A few years ago I never thought I’d have this.
A life.
A home.
A family.
Friends who showed up.
A husband who still looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth burning it all down for.
And four kids who made every day louder and brighter than the last.