Chapter 4 - The Kitchen Table TruceBy Thursday morning, the atmosphere inside the Vale mansion had shifted from a war zone to something dangerously close to a truce.
It started with flour.
At 6:00 a.m., I dragged a massive wooden block into the center of the industrial kitchen, set out five mixing bowls, and began measuring out ingredients for apple cinnamon scones—Maya’s absolute favorite recipe.
Halfway through kneading the sticky dough, a pair of bare footsteps padded softly across the tile floor.
Seven-year-old Noah appeared in his dinosaur pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes, his jam-jar beetle collection clutched tightly in his left hand. He stopped three feet away, sniffing the air cautiously.
"What's that smell?" Noah mumbled.
"Scones," I replied without looking up, dusting my flour-covered hands on my apron. "If you don't touch my mixing spoon, I might let you brush the egg wash on top."
Noah hesitated, glanced back toward the hallway to make sure his older brothers weren't watching, and then shuffled over to the counter. He climbed onto a barstool, resting his chin on his hands, watching me knead with intense, scientific curiosity.
"Evan says you're going to quit by Friday," Noah said suddenly, his voice small and fragile.
I stopped kneading. I looked up, catching Noah’s wide, anxious eyes in the morning light streaming through the kitchen windows.
"Evan likes to talk big," I said gently. "What do you think, Noah?"
Noah poked a finger into a pile of loose flour, drawing a crude smiley face on the counter. "I think... you're better than the lady who tried to make us eat kale smoothies every day."
I let out a sharp laugh. "Kale smoothies? Who authorized that?"
"Dad's assistant," Noah whispered conspiratorially. "She cried when Luke put a live frog in her briefcase."
"Fair enough."
Ten minutes later, Caleb wandered in, followed closely by nine-year-old Luke. By 6:30 a.m., all four boys were gathered around the kitchen island, elbow-deep in flour, arguing fiercely over who got to cut the scone dough into triangles. Even Evan slouched in from the hallway, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, pretending he didn't care about the warm, buttery pastries coming out of the oven.
"Here," I said, sliding a plate of hot scones directly toward Evan across the stainless-steel counter.
Evan stared at the plate. He didn't touch them for a long moment. Then, slowly, he picked one up, took a bite, and chewed in silence.
The kitchen went dead quiet as the boys waited for his verdict.
Evan swallowed, looked up at me with those slate-gray eyes, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"They're okay," Evan muttered, though he immediately reached for a second one.
That was the moment the ice finally cracked.
By the time Adrian walked into the kitchen at 8:00 a.m. dressed in his usual charcoal suit, briefcase in hand, he froze in the doorway, staring in absolute disbelief.
His four sons—the impossible, destructive, grieving boys fourteen caregivers had fled from in terror—were sitting around the kitchen island laughing loudly, covered from head to toe in white flour, while I poured orange juice into their glasses.
Adrian’s gaze locked onto mine over the heads of the boys. A slow, profound warmth softened the harsh lines of his face, transforming the ruthless billionaire into a man who looked like he had just been given back his life.
"Morning, Dad!" Noah shouted, waving a flour-covered spatula in the air. "Nia’s teaching us how to bake!"
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Adrian swallowed hard, stepping into the room. "Good morning, boys." He looked at me, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion. "Nia. We need to talk in the study before I leave for the office."
My stomach tightened. Probation was officially over. It was time to talk about the future.
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