The kitchen—normally a pristine battlefield of stainless steel and quiet efficiency—looked like it had survived a mild culinary hurricane. For the past two hours, steam curled from the simmering pot in soft, ghostly spirals, carrying the soothing scent of ginger and vegetables through the air like a peace treaty Rafael desperately hoped would work. Carrots, potatoes, herbs… the whole medley blended into something warm and comforting, the kind of smell that made the soul unclench.
Rafael Vexley, towering billionaire, master strategist, destroyer of boardrooms—and apparently, wildly mediocre at chopping carrots—dragged the back of his forearm across his forehead. His dark wavy hair stuck out in a few rebelliously damp curls from all the heat and effort. The crisp designer shirt he'd insisted on cooking in (because "I want to look composed, James") now wore a dignified dusting of flour and a tiny splash of soup near the hem. Very chic.
