The heavy oak door of the kitchen groaned open as Hannah stepped into the sunlit marble corridor, cradling Lucas against her chest. The infant was quiet, his breathing steady—a sound that still felt like a small, fragile miracle after those terrifying hours in the ruined bakery.

Two of Adrian’s guards, Marcus and Leo, sat on the edge of a mahogany bench near the pantry. They had a box of dry crackers and a cold paper cup of coffee between them.

“Is that breakfast?” Hannah asked, her voice cutting through the hollow silence of the massive estate.

Marcus looked up, startled, his hand instinctively dropping toward the holster beneath his suit jacket before he recognized her. He cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “The chef quit last Tuesday, ma’am. And Theresa has been managing the medical staff for the boss’s son. Cooking hasn't exactly been anyone's top priority.”

Hannah stared at them, her brow furrowing. For ten years, she had run a bakery that fed half of Brooklyn on fresh sourdough, roasted garlic focaccia, and warm cinnamon rolls. The idea of men standing guard for twenty-four hours straight on stale crackers and cold coffee grated against every instinct she possessed.

“Where is the pantry?” she asked.

“Down the hall, past the scullery,” Leo muttered, eyeing her warily. “Though I wouldn't recommend poking around too much. Mr. Vale doesn’t like people changing things.”

“Mr. Vale isn't the one eating dry crackers,” Hannah replied coolly.

Twenty minutes later, the cavernous, industrial-grade kitchen of the Vale estate smelled of butter, caramelized onions, and freshly chopped chives. Hannah had tied a spare dish towel around her waist like an apron. She found flour, eggs, sharp cheddar, and thick-cut bacon tucked away in the back of a sub-zero refrigerator, likely untouched since Isabel Vale’s passing.

As she slid a tray of savory buttermilk biscuits into the massive stainless-steel oven, the heavy kitchen doors clicked open.

Adrian Vale walked in.

He wore a dark charcoal suit with the jacket removed, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, corded muscles and faint scars from a life carved out of violence. His eyes were cold, sharp, and instantly locked onto her.

“What are you doing?” his voice was low, carrying that dangerous, gravelly edge that made seasoned men tremble.

Hannah did not flinch. She pulled a metal spatula from a drawer and turned to face him, holding his gaze without a drop of intimidation.

“I’m keeping your guards from passing out on my watch,” Hannah said, pointing toward the counter where a plate of hot, golden biscuits and crisp bacon sat beside a fresh pot of coffee. “An army marches on its stomach, Mr. Vale. Even a private one.”

Adrian walked slowly into the center of the kitchen. He looked at the food, then up at Hannah. For a second, a flash of something unreadable crossed his features—disbelief, perhaps, or a strange, disorienting wave of domesticity that didn't belong in a fortress built on blood and shipping contracts.

“You left the nursery,” he said, ignoring the food entirely.

“Lucas is sleeping. Dr. Bennett’s nurse is sitting right outside his door. And I needed to use an oven that actually works.” Hannah stepped closer, her chin held high. “Did you come down here to check on your son, or to interrogate me about breakfast?”

Before Adrian could answer, a sharp, frantic chime echoed from the hallway.