Chapter 4 - Honey and Sourdough
Victoria and the other three women stepped gingerly into the foyer, holding their cashmere coats tightly against their chests as if the children might contaminate them with disease.
“Quiet down, boy!” Victoria hissed at Ryan, who immediately pointed a paint-covered finger at her designer skirt.
Claire didn’t wait for permission. She set the heavy baskets on the massive mahogany entry table, pulled off her thick coat, and dropped down to one knee in front of little Maya.
The toddler sniffled, her cheeks blotchy and tear-stained.
Claire reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, still-warm roll shaped like a braided rabbit. She held it out. “I lost a sock once,” Claire said softly, her voice warm and melodic like an old lullaby. “Turned out the oven ate it. But this bunny told me he found a blue one under the grandfather clock.”
Maya’s crying stopped instantly. Her big, tear-filled hazel eyes fixed on the bunny roll. “A bunny?”
“Take a bite and see if he’s sweet.”
Maya grabbed the roll with both hands and took an eager bite. A tiny smile broke through her tears.
Meanwhile, Ryan skidded to a halt beside Claire, his eyes widening as he caught the smell of the basket. “Is that cinnamon?”
“Cinnamon, brown sugar, and pecans,” Claire said, without looking up. “And if you put that cat down gently before it claws your nose off, you can have two.”
The cat was dropped onto the rug with astonishing speed. Ryan reached for the basket.
“Hands washed first, young man,” Claire’s voice had an effortless, natural authority that made the boy freeze. “Soap and warm water. Go.”
Ryan didn’t argue. He bolted toward the hallway bathroom.
In less than three minutes, the howling storm inside Blackwood Manor had turned into quiet chewing. Leo leaned against the banister upstairs, watching Claire with a scowl, but Claire tossed a heavy roll wrapped in wax paper straight up to him. He caught it instinctively, smelled it, and his hostile posture softened just a fraction.
Vincent Vance stood motionless against the doorframe, watching every movement of Claire’s hands, every gentle shift of her hips as she knelt on the hardwood floor.
Victoria cleared her throat loudly, disgusted by the domestic scene. “Mr. Vance, this is absurd. A wife is meant to oversee staff and host society functions, not act like a tavern scullery maid. When we marry, these children will be sent to a proper boarding school in Switzerland to learn discipline.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Vincent took three slow, heavy steps toward Victoria. The temperature in the room plummeted. The polite, wealthy facade dissolved, revealing the ruthless syndicate boss who had built an empire on cold terror.
“Boarding school?” Vincent murmured, his voice deadly quiet.
Victoria took an involuntary step back, her high heel catching on the rug. “I... I only meant—”
“My children lost their mother two years ago to an illness money couldn’t cure,” Vincent said, his words sharp as a straight razor. “They will never leave this house. And no woman who looks at them like vermin will ever sit at my table.”
He gestured toward the open door, where snow was beginning to fall heavier.
May you like
“Leave,” Vincent commanded. “All of you. Now.”
***
