Chapter 3 - THE QUEEN OF BURNED BISCUITSThe silence that fell over the kitchen was absolute.
Harrison froze, his mouth half-open, staring at the middle-aged woman wearing a metal mixing bowl like a medieval helmet. The two junior executives stood paralyzed in the doorway, their jaws practically hitting the floorboards.
Evie adjusted the bowl with one flour-covered hand, lifted her chin with regal dignity, and declared in a booming, theatrical voice:
“Bow before the Queen of Burned Biscuits.”
For a full three seconds, nobody moved.
Then, a sound erupted from the corner of the room that hadn't been heard in that house for seven agonizing years.
It started as a low rumble deep in Nathan's chest—a sudden, violent expulsion of breath that he tried desperately to suppress. But the sheer absurdity of the scene, combined with the lingering warmth of the biscuits and the absolute shock on Harrison’s face, broke the dam.
Nathan threw his head back and laughed.
It wasn't a polite chuckle. It was a roar of genuine, gut-wrenching laughter. The kind that makes your ribs ache and tears spring to your eyes. He doubled over, pressing one hand against the kitchen island, gasping for air as the sound rolled through the silent mansion like thunder.
Housekeeper down the hall dropped a silver tray. The gardener outside paused by the open window, staring in disbelief. The three executives stood frozen, completely forgetting the multimillion-dollar contract in their hands.
Nathan stood in the kitchen with one hand pressed against his chest, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Across from him, Evie stared at him as though she had just witnessed a man rise from the dead.
In a way, she had.
"Nathaniel?" Harrison whispered, terrified, as if seeing a ghost. "Are... are you alright?"
Nathan wiped a tear from his eye, straightening up. But as he looked toward the doorway and saw his terrified employees staring at him as if he had lost his mind, the old darkness flickered back into his eyes. His smile faltered. The heavy mantle of grief threatened to descend once more.
Evie saw the shift. She didn't remove the bowl.
Instead, she planted both floury hands firmly on her hips, glared across the room, and barked:
“Don’t you dare apologize for sounding alive!”
Nathan stopped dead. He stared at her, stunned.
Harrison found his voice, sputtering indignantly. "This is completely unprofessional! We are talking about corporate assets, and you are wearing kitchenware on your head—"
"Mr. Fancy Suit," Evie interrupted, her voice ringing out clearly from beneath the stainless steel, "the only asset in danger of dying in this room is your soul. Now get out of my kitchen before I hit you with a wooden spoon."
Harrison stared at her in utter horror, looked at Nathan—who was now biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing again—and backed slowly out of the room. "We'll... we'll discuss the contract later, Nathan," he stammered, grabbing his juniors by the shoulders and practically fleeing down the hall.
The kitchen door swung shut. Silence settled over the room once more, save for the hum of the refrigerator.
May you like
Evie slowly lifted the mixing bowl off her head, setting it back on the counter. She brushed a stray lock of brown hair from her forehead, leaving a smudge of white flour right across her nose.
"Well," she muttered dryly, looking at Nathan. "That ought to keep them away until lunch."
