Chapter 8 Sweet Things Don’t Last
Coralyn
Just when I thought the snow storm outside would take an hour break or two, it intensifies by the freaking second.
I wake up to the rhythmic sound of the wind howling against the thick glass panes.
Underneath that roar, however, is something much softer and entirely unexpected—giggling.
It is a high-pitched, delighted sound that feels oddly out of place and jarringly sweet after the darkness of everything that happened the night before.
I blink several times, trying to get myself used to the unfamiliar room, and then the scent hits me.
Cookies… home baked.
I slip out of the massive bed quietly, my bare feet sinking into the carpet, and follow the smell trail toward the kitchenette.
Orion is standing there.
He is actually wearing a ruffled resort apron over his casual clothes.
For a long second, my brain simply refuses to process the image before me, stalling like a faulty engine.
This is the exact same man who stood like an impenetrable, terrifying wall between me and Kade less than twelve hours ago.
This is the same man whose voice dropped low enough to make my blood run cold when he threatened his own brother for my sake.
And now, with a look of intense concentration, like he's planing world domination, he’s flipping golden-brown pancakes.
Zilla is perched high on a wooden stool, her feet swinging back and forth in a frantic rhythm, watching him like he’s performing a high-stakes magic trick.
“You’re gonna burn them!” she laughs, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“They’re fine,” Orion says calmly, his voice a steady anchor as he reaches for a silver spatula. “You can’t rush the process of a perfect pancake, Zilla.”
I lean against the doorframe, remaining unnoticed in the shadow, my heart doing something strange, fluttering and traitorous against my ribs.
The Enforcer, the high-powered tech CEO, the man who radiates a level of self-control that borders on the superhuman, and he is standing in a kitchen wearing an apron.
Zilla spots me first, her face lighting up with a radiant, gap-toothed smile.
“She’s awake!” she announces to the room. “Daddy, Coralyn has to help us now. It’s part of the plan.”
“What plan would that be?” I ask, my voice sounding a little raspy from sleep but amused despite myself.
“The cookie plan from the elevator,” Zilla explains with dead seriousness and it takes everything in me to not burst out laughing. “Remember?”
I do remember, the memory surfacing through the fog of my morning brain.
It was something about making cookies because elevators are inherently boring places and cookies have the power to make everything in the world better.
Her words not mine.
Orion glances over his shoulder, finally noticing my presence in the doorway.
His expression softens instantly, the hard lines around his eyes relaxing just a fraction as he takes me in. I squirm under his stare.
“Morning,” he says, his voice like velvet.
“Morning,” I reply, suddenly and acutely aware that I’m standing there in borrowed clothes, my hair a tangled mess, and my heart absolutely refusing to cooperate with me.
Zilla hops down from her stool with a thud. “You have to help. Daddy makes the dough too neat and perfect. It needs some chaos. It's going to feel like a robot baked it.”
“I do not make it too neat,” Orion says, though there is a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“You do,” she insists, pointing a finger at the perfectly measured bowls.
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound feeling light and foreign in my throat.
And then, before I know it, I’m washing my hands and standing right beside him at the counter.
Flour begins to dust the marble surface, and chocolate chips are scattered everywhere like delicious little landmines.
“Careful,” Orion says softly as I reach for the bowl of dough. “It’s sticky.”
“I bake,” I say automatically, a spark of pride rising up. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Zilla gasps, her eyes going wide. “You bake for real?”
“For shi—” I stop myself just in time, the word 'shifts' nearly escaping. “For… people. Important people.”
Orion’s mouth twitches, and I can tell he knows I’m hiding something, but he doesn't push.
We fall into an easy rhythm that feels like it’s been practiced for years.
He shows me how to fold the dough just enough to add the chips without overworking the gluten.
Our hands brush occasionally, seemingly by accident, sending that familiar, electric flutter straight through my stomach.
Fidgety butterflies.
They are annoying, persistent, and incredibly dangerous to my peace of mind.
Zilla hums a tuneless song as she lines the baking tray, occasionally sneaking a handful of chocolate chips into her mouth when she thinks we aren't looking.
“You know we see you, right Peanut?” Orion says without even turning his head.
She freezes mid-chew, her cheeks puffed out. Then she grins. “Worth it.”
The cookies finally go into the oven, filling the suite with an intoxicating aroma.
The pancakes disappear off our plates much faster than I expected, washed down with orange juice.
Time seems to stretch out, becoming something soft, forgiving, and elastic.
It feels like we are living inside a bubble.
It is domestic, quiet, and terrifyingly addictive.
As we wait for the timer to ding, Zilla tugs insistently on my sleeve. “Come. We have to go not see the sunset.”
I blink, confused by the phrasing. “Not see it?”
She nods solemnly, as if she's letting me in on a state secret. “Daddy doesn’t like it.”
Orion let out a long, weary sigh. “For the hundredth time, j never said that, Zilla.”
She drags me away anyway, pulling me toward the massive glass wall and out onto the covered veranda.
The storm hasn’t really stopped, but the sky is absolutely stunning—a deep purple with streaks of gray, while the snow swirls around.
It's like a scene out of books and it feels so surreal.
It’s beautiful.
I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill, breathing in the crisp, frozen air.
For the first time since I stepped off the plane, I feel like I’m actually on a vacation.
There is no work, no yelling, and no constant state of survival mode.
Just the snow, the cookies, and a man in an apron who pretends he doesn't care about the beauty of a sunset.
Then my phone vibrates against my hip.
Just once.
I glance down at the screen without thinking, expecting a weather alert or a notification.
My breath catches painfully in my throat.
It’s a message from a completely unknown, unlisted number.
I open it with trembling thumbs.
A photo loads, pixel by pixel.
It’s me.
I'm standing at the resort entrance yesterday, looking lost and cold.
The shot was taken from a significant distance and it's slightly blurred, but the subject is unmistakable.
My stomach drops, feeling like a lead weight.
There is no accompanying text and no explanation for the image.
It doesn't need one.
Kade.
My fingers go ice-cold as the reality of the situation settles back over me.
I lock my phone instantly and slide it deep into my pocket, forcing my face into a practiced smile as Zilla chatters away beside me about the snow.
I nod at all the right moments.
I laugh whenever a laugh is expected from me.
But my eyes keep drifting past her, back to the glass wall and the white abyss beyond.
Because I know the truth now.
The walking red flag is always watching, even when I think I'm safe.
And no matter how warm or perfect this bubble feels, I know it can shatter into a million sharp pieces at any given moment.