Chapter 2 – The Taste of Real Food

For three years since their mother had passed, the triplets had survived on high-end commercial catering delivered in plastic trays—cold, impersonal, and lacking any maternal warmth. They threw the food to punish their father for his endless seventy-hour workweeks.

By 5:30 PM, I had the entire marble foyer sparkling clean.

Then, I took over the industrial chef’s kitchen.

I pulled three wooden step stools up to the granite prep island. I set out bowls of warm yeast dough, softened butter, brown sugar, and freshly ground cinnamon.

“If you’re going to throw things,” I told the three children standing cautiously in the kitchen archway, “you might as well learn to knead dough. Unless you think your hands are too weak.”

Mason scowled, marching forward. “I’m stronger than Michael!”

“Are not!” Michael yelled, scrambling onto a stool.

Within twenty minutes, all three triplets were covered in white flour, laughing hysterically as I guided their small hands to roll out the dough, spread the spiced butter, and cut the rolls with baker’s twine.

When Ethan stepped into the kitchen at 7:00 PM, loosening his silk tie, the aroma of roasting garlic chicken and warm cinnamon rolls filled the cavernous home.

For the first time in three years, all three children were seated at the dining table, eating warm homemade food without a single thrown plate.

Ethan froze in the doorway, staring in utter disbelief.

“Daddy!” Madison beamed with powdered sugar on her nose. “Miss Naomi let us roll the cinnamon!”

Ethan looked at his smiling children, then locked his intense gray eyes onto me.

“Mrs. Gable,” Ethan commanded the stunned housekeeper. “Prepare the east wing suite. Miss Johnson starts full-time immediately. Quadruple the standard agency retainer, and have our corporate legal team arrange private pediatric medical coverage for her daughter tomorrow morning.”