Chapter 15 - The Sweet Taste of Peace
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The kitchen of the countryside estate was a massive, rustic room with exposed wooden beams, a large stone fireplace, and a wide farmhouse table right in the center. The afternoon sun poured through the large bay windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the flour scattered across the butcher-block counter.
Richard followed his son into the room, taking a deep breath of the incredible aroma. It smelled like cinnamon, baked apples, and melted butter. It was the scent of a real home, something they had severely lacked in the cold, sterile penthouse back in the city.
“Look, Daddy!” Leo pointed enthusiastically at a cooling rack filled with slightly misshapen but delicious-looking muffins. “I made these. Clara helped with the hot oven, but I did all the mixing!”
“You did the mixing all by yourself?” Richard asked, feigning absolute shock as he pulled out a wooden chair and sat at the table. “I don’t believe it. My son, the master chef?”
“It is true, Mr. Sterling,” Clara said, walking into the kitchen and untying her white apron.
“He has quite the natural talent. He measured the sugar and whisked the batter until his little arm was tired.”
“Well, I think I need to taste one immediately to verify these claims,” Richard said, reaching out to grab a warm muffin.
Leo watched him with wide, anticipating eyes, practically vibrating with excitement. Richard took a large bite, chewing slowly and dramatically widening his eyes in pure delight.
“Leo, this is incredible. This is the best muffin I have ever had in my entire life.”
“Really?” Leo giggled, climbing onto the chair beside his father.
May you like
“Absolutely,” Richard confirmed, pulling his son into a side hug.
He looked over Leo’s head and caught Clara’s eye. The elderly housekeeper offered a soft, knowing smile. The darkness of the past few months—the court battles, the restraining orders, the terrifying nights trying to keep Leo safe from his volatile mother—felt completely severed. As Richard ate the imperfect apple muffin baked by his five-year-old son, he realized that true wealth had absolutely nothing to do with corporate bank accounts. It was sitting right here in this warm, flour-dusted kitchen.
