Chapter 15 - The Forgotten Kitchen
The night before the dinner, Vincent could not sleep.
Norah found him downstairs in his grandmother’s kitchen.
The old room had been cleaned.
Not renovated.
Norah had insisted.
“The scratches stay,” she said.
Vincent was sitting at the table.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“You’ve used that joke.”
“So have you.”
She placed a pot on the stove.
Vincent looked toward her.
“What?”
“Soup.”
“At two in the morning?”
“You’re awake.”
“That does not equal hunger.”
“You skipped dinner.”
He frowned.
“How do you know?”
“I count.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It’s literally my job now.”
Norah started chopping onions.
Vincent watched.
After several minutes, he said, “Come with me when this is over.”
She stopped.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
Norah turned.
He looked serious.
“Vincent.”
“I own houses.”
“That is the least romantic start to any conversation.”
He laughed quietly.
“I told you I’m inexperienced.”
“You’re doing terribly.”
“I have a place in Maine.”
“No.”
“Florida.”
“No.”
“Italy.”
Norah smiled.
“You’re missing the point.”
Vincent stood.
“What is the point?”
“You’re asking me to run away immediately before confronting the man trying to destroy you.”
“When you say it like that—”
“There is no other way to say it.”
He smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“I don’t know what happens tomorrow.”
Norah understood.
This was not about travel.
It was fear.
“If everything disappears,” Vincent said, “companies, money, this house…”
Norah waited.
“Would you still be here?”
Her expression softened.
“You think I stayed because of the mansion?”
“No.”
“The salary?”
“No.”
“The tattoos?”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Possibly.”
She stepped closer.
“I stayed because the first time I saw you finish a bowl of soup, you looked shocked that your own body had given you permission to live.”
Vincent swallowed.
“And I wanted to see what happened if you kept choosing it.”
“Choosing what?”
“Living.”
The room became quiet.
Vincent touched her cheek.
Norah did not move away.
Their first kiss was not dramatic.
No music.
No perfect angle.
Just two exhausted people standing beside an old stove at two in the morning.
Slow.
Careful.
When they separated, Vincent rested his forehead against hers.
“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“You stare.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely stare.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was waiting for you to develop courage.”
Vincent laughed softly.
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
The soup began boiling over.
Norah jumped.
“Oh.”
Vincent looked toward it.
“Professional.”
“Quiet.”
He grabbed a towel.
Together they saved the pot.
For five minutes, the coming confrontation disappeared.
Then Liam entered.
He stopped.
Looked at them.
Looked at the stove.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Vincent said.
“No,” Norah said simultaneously.
Liam smiled.
“I’m leaving.”
“Why are you awake?” Norah asked.
His smile vanished.
“I found another file.”
Vincent’s mood shifted.
They went upstairs.
Liam had discovered a series of insurance policies.
All on Vincent.
Corporate key-person policies.
If Vincent died, several companies received enormous payouts.
But if he became legally incapacitated, control transferred temporarily to a trustee.
Julian Mercer.
Norah stared.
“So he didn’t just need you weak.”
Vincent read the clauses.
“He needed me declared incompetent.”
The poisoning had been phase one.
Starvation phase two.
Mental and physical decline phase three.
Eventually Julian would argue Vincent could not manage his companies.
He would take control legally.
No war.
No assassination.
Paperwork.
Vincent almost admired the design.
Almost.
“Why hasn’t he done it?” Liam asked.
“Because I recovered.”
Norah.
Again.
The simple food had not merely saved Vincent’s health.
It had destroyed Julian’s timeline.
No wonder she became a target.
Vincent looked toward her.
“You’re definitely staying out of tomorrow.”
Norah shook her head.
“I’m definitely not.”
“Norah.”
“He tried to have me removed because I made soup.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insulting.”
Vincent stared.
She smiled.
“I’m serving dinner.”
He realized arguing was pointless.
“Fine.”
Norah looked surprised.
“That easy?”
“No. I’m learning strategy.”
“What strategy?”
“Agree now. Increase security later.”
She rolled her eyes.
The next evening, twenty-three people entered the Rossy estate.
Lawyers.
Board members.
Accountants.
Business partners.
Julian Mercer arrived last.
He wore a navy suit and the expression of a man attending his own coronation.
Vincent greeted him.
“Godfather.”
Julian smiled.
“Vincent.”
Norah watched from the dining room doorway.
On the table were nineteen settings.
At Vincent’s seat sat one plain white bowl.
The same kind of bowl Norah had used on the first night.
Julian noticed.
His eyes moved toward her.
“You seem sentimental.”
Vincent sat.
“Lately.”
Julian took the chair opposite him.
“Have you reconsidered?”
Vincent looked around the room.
Every important person in his legitimate business empire was present.
“Yes.”
Julian leaned forward.
Vincent smiled.
“I decided to give you exactly what you asked for.”
A folder was placed on the table.
Transfer documents.
Julian’s eyes brightened.
He reached for the pen.
And Norah walked into the room carrying dinner.
May you like
The trap had begun.
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