Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Manor
Living in the Vance Manor was like living inside a golden fortress wrapped in paranoia. The estate was surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls, armed guards patrolling every fifty yards, and security cameras covering every inch of the perimeter.
For Emma, accustomed to the early-morning hustle of kneading dough, managing inventory, and breathing in the warm scent of baked bread, the silence of the manor was almost deafening. Her injury kept her confined to the east wing for the first week, but as the days passed, her stubborn nature took over.
She couldn't just sit around being served gourmet meals by silent staff members.
On the eighth morning, despite the protests of Lucian’s medical team, Emma worked her way down to the manor's massive commercial kitchen. The head chef, a stern Frenchman named Laurent, looked horrified as Emma tied an apron around her waist with her one good arm.
"Miss Brooks! You are a guest of Mr. Vance! You should not be in here!"
"If I spend one more hour staring at the wallpaper in my room, I am going to lose my mind," Emma replied with a bright, stubborn smile. "Besides, your pastries lack soul, Laurent. Too much butter, not enough love."
By noon, the heavenly aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls, crusty sourdough, and chocolate brioche filled the grand halls of the estate. The guards stationed in the hallways began sniffing the air, their hard, stoic expressions softening as the sweet scent drifted past them.
Sophie was the first to arrive, guided by the smell. Her eyes lit up as she saw Emma standing at the island, flour dusting her dark curls and a broad smile on her face.
You are baking? Sophie signed eagerly, pulling up a high stool.
I am making real food, Emma signed back with a wink. Not fancy foam on small plates.
Sophie giggled, a clear, ringing sound that echoed into the hallway.
Standing in the shadow of the kitchen doorway, Lucian watched the scene unfold. For three years, this house had been a mausoleum. Ever since his wife was killed in a rival hit, the manor had been cold, grey, and suffocating. But now, filled with the warmth of fresh bread and the rare sound of his daughter’s laughter, it felt... alive.
He stepped into the kitchen, causing Laurent and the guards to snap to attention. Emma turned, wiping a line of flour from her forehead with the back of her forearm, leaving a white streak across her cheek.
"You should be resting," Lucian said, though there was no real bite in his tone.
"I heal better when I am useful," Emma countered, holding out a warm, glazed cinnamon roll on a paper towel. "Eat. You look like you haven't slept in three days."
Lucian looked at the offered pastry, then at Emma. No one spoke to him like this. No one commanded him to eat, nor did anyone dare look him directly in the eye without a trace of fear. Yet here was this woman—unapologetically full-figured, fierce, and radiating a warmth that felt like a furnace in a winter storm—offering him a pastry in his own house.
He took the roll, biting into it. The sweet dough melted on his tongue.
"It is... acceptable," Lucian muttered, though he finished the entire thing in three bites.
Sophie covered her mouth, signing quickly to Emma: Papa lies. He loves it.
Emma laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent a strange, unfamiliar spark straight to Lucian’s chest. He looked away, clearing his throat to hide the sudden heat rising in his neck.
"Victor," Lucian called out to his second-in-command, who was standing nearby. "Find out what equipment Miss Brooks needs. Convert the old pantry in the west wing into a fully operational bakery."
May you like
Emma’s jaw dropped. "Lucian, you don't have to do that—"
"I do," Lucian interrupted, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers with intense gravity. "You took a bullet for my blood. A bakery is the least I can build for you."
