Seraphine moved past him, calm and unhurried, and gestured toward the table laid out near the window. The meal was simple—nothing extravagant. Warm. Intentional.
"Sit," she said lightly. "Soup or juice?"
Rhys blinked. The shift was jarring. "You're acting like you didn't just turn my world upside down."
She smiled to herself while ladling soup into a bowl. "People talk better when they're fed."
He watched her plate the food with practiced ease, as if this were routine—like she invited men tangled in secrets over for dinner every night. When she finally sat across from him, Rhys lowered himself into the chair, eyes never leaving her.
"So," he said, voice steady but edged, "what is it you're actually aiming for?"
Seraphine picked up her spoon, blew gently, and took a slow bite before answering. She savored it—or pretended to.
"Have you ever tasted something," she began casually, "and known immediately it was made for someone else's palate?"
Rhys frowned. "What?"
She gestured to the table. "This soup. My father likes it heavily seasoned. Strong. Overpowering." She took another bite, then added, "I prefer it lighter. Clean. But for years, I learned to eat it his way."
She set the spoon down and met Rhys's gaze.
"That's what I've been doing—working with him. Following recipes I didn't write."
His expression hardened. "And where do I fit into that?"
She didn't hesitate. "In the plan," she said softly. "But not as a casualty."
Rhys leaned back slightly. "You were working against me."
"Yes," she admitted. "Against your name. Your legacy. Not against you." She took a sip of juice, buying herself a second. "Nothing I agreed to would ever harm you. I made sure of that."
He searched her face for cracks. "Why?"
Her fingers tightened briefly around the glass. "Because I know what it's like to be born into something you never asked for." She looked down at her plate. "To be told this is your role, this is your future—eat what you're given and don't complain."
She glanced back up, something unguarded flashing in her eyes. "But I don't want to keep eating their food, Rhys."
The room fell quiet.
"I want out," she continued, voice low. "Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… cleanly. And for that, I need to finish what I started—then walk away before it consumes me."
Rhys exhaled slowly. "And you think I'm part of your exit?"
She nodded once. "Unintentionally, yes. But now that you're here…" a faint, almost tired smile touched her lips, "maybe intentionally too."
She picked up her spoon again, as if grounding herself in the ordinary. "Eat," she said gently. "You don't have to decide anything tonight."
Rhys looked at the food, then back at her—realizing this dinner wasn't a date.
It was a confession, served quietly.
Seraphine leaned back in her chair, folding her hands loosely in her lap, her tone light but deliberate.
"What I mean is," she said, "let's play our parts. Just… keep going with the flow. You'll understand when the time comes."
Rhys didn't respond immediately. By now, he could see it clearly—every step she took was measured, every word placed with care. Nothing about Seraphine was impulsive. This wasn't chaos; it was design. Clean. Controlled. Purposeful.
And that was exactly what unsettled him.
Because he knew where paths like this led.
If he let himself stay blind, even for a moment, he'd be pulled back into the world he'd spent years running from—the power plays, the quiet threats, the unspoken debts. The kind of life that never truly lets you leave once you step inside.
Yet, beneath all that, the proposition itself was disturbingly simple.
They didn't have to trust each other. They didn't have to pretend this was love. They didn't even have to stand on the same side.
They just had to move forward together.
Partners on the surface—two separate teams underneath.
Rhys looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time understood the kind of risk Seraphine Calder was taking. Not reckless, not emotional—calculated. Personal.
"So," he said quietly, "we act like we're in this together… while watching each other's backs."
A faint smile curved her lips. "Exactly."
Silence settled between them—not heavy this time, but resolved.
Rhys exhaled, his jaw tightening. He knew this choice would cost him something. He just didn't know what yet.
But one thing was clear.
Once he stepped into this game, there would be no pretending he didn't know how to play.
Lost in his thoughts, Rhys barely registered the silence until Seraphine spoke again, her voice light and sudden.
"Would you like to bake something with me?"
He blinked, pulled back into the moment. A quiet, playful chuckle slipped past his lips—she always had a way of shifting the atmosphere, of knowing exactly when to do so. Without questioning it, he followed her into the kitchen, saying nothing as he watched her move.
She reached for ingredients with practiced ease, opening cabinets, measuring things out as though this place belonged to her in more ways than one. It felt less like a farmhouse and more like a routine she'd repeated countless times.
Then she turned to him, tilting her head slightly. "Are you a good cook?"
Rhys shrugged, a casual confidence settling over him. "I mean… I can bake," he said, lips curving faintly. "Maybe even better than you."
Her eyes glinted with challenge, and just like that, the heaviness between them softened—replaced by something warm, effortless, and dangerously normal.
Seraphine paused mid-movement and slowly turned toward him, one brow lifting.
"Better than me?" she repeated, disbelief laced with amusement.
Rhys smiled, that easy, boyish smile she was starting to recognize. "I didn't say much better. Just… statistically better."
She scoffed and shoved a bowl toward him. "Then prove it, Mr. Confidence. Mix."
The kitchen filled with a soft clatter—metal against ceramic, drawers opening, packets rustling. Seraphine moved with familiarity, tying her hair back, sleeves rolled up like this was muscle memory rather than a rare escape. Rhys watched her for a second too long before clearing his throat and focusing on the bowl.
"Sugar," she said, sliding the jar toward him.
He poured, then paused. "That's enough."
She leaned over his shoulder, peering in. "That's barely anything."
"Exactly," he said. "Too much sugar ruins cookies. They're supposed to be warm, not loud."
She blinked at him, then laughed softly. "You talk about food like it has feelings."
"It does," he replied seriously, stirring. "Respect the cookie."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and added flour—too much.
Rhys caught her wrist gently. "Whoa. Planning to build a wall?"
"Oh relax," she said, tugging free. "We'll balance it."
They didn't.
The dough turned stubborn, cracking at the edges. Seraphine poked it. "It's… dry."
"Told you," he said smugly.
She narrowed her eyes and flicked a bit of flour at his shirt. "Fix it then, chef."
He laughed, reaching for the milk, adding just a splash. Their hands bumped. Neither pulled away immediately.
For a moment, it was quiet—just the hum of the oven preheating, the faint evening breeze slipping through an open window.
They shaped the cookies unevenly, some too thick, some oddly shaped. Seraphine lined them on the tray with exaggerated care.
"These look sad," she said.
"They look honest," Rhys replied.
When the timer finally chimed, they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching her pull the tray out. The cookies were pale, lightly cracked—not glossy, not perfect.
She broke one in half and tasted it. Her expression stilled, thoughtful.
"Well?" he asked.
She took another bite, slower this time. "They're… not very sweet."
His lips curved. "But?"
"But," she admitted, "they're good. Comforting."
She handed him one. Their fingers brushed again.
Rhys took a bite and nodded. "See? Not everything needs to be overwhelming."
Seraphine glanced at him, something unreadable flickering across her face before she masked it with a smile. "Maybe you're right."
They stood there, sharing imperfect cookies in a quiet kitchen far from politics, contracts, and names that carried weight.
For a little while, it felt like none of that existed.