Chapter 46 - A Domestic Experiment
By Saturday evening, the heavy corporate weight had lifted sufficiently for us to commit a truly radical act: entering our own kitchen without an executive assistant, a tactical briefing, or an emergency comms unit.
I stood before the pristine quartz kitchen island, wearing a simple silk blouse with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, glaring down at a recipe book that Bruno had left propped against the espresso machine.
Victor leaned against the doorframe, nursing a glass of scotch and watching me with undisguised amusement. "Let me guess. The culinary protocols are failing to meet your operational standards?"
"The author of this cookbook assumes that human beings possess an innate understanding of what 'folding egg whites' actually means without destroying the structural integrity of the batter," I retorted, brandishing a whisk like a baton.
"You're approaching a soufflé like it's a hostile corporate takeover," Victor chuckled, setting his glass down and walking over to stand behind me. He reached over my shoulder, his large, warm hands covering mine on the handle of the mixing bowl. "Relax your grip, Madam CEO. You don't need to intimidate the eggs into compliance."
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"If they deflate, I'm blaming your lack of supervision," I muttered, though I leaned back against him, letting the tension bleed out of my shoulders as his hands guided mine in slow, even circles.
The kitchen filled with the quiet, domestic rhythm of clinking ceramic and low laughter—a sound so foreign to the life we had carved out of violence and ambition that it felt almost revolutionary. We weren't fighting for survival. We were simply existing, together, in the quiet aftermath of absolute victory.
