Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Forbidden Fruit Tastes Sweetest

After Rose graduated, Dad began claiming every spare moment of my time. He issued a direct order: stay home for months. And so, instructors arrived—prim, polished women sent to mold me into the perfect hostess.

And more pointedly… the perfect wife.

Pathetic, isn’t it?

Actually studying how to be one?

As if my future husband would ever expect me to wait on him hand and foot. I could barely even hold a knife properly without someone hovering nearby, terrified I’d hurt myself!

Those months brought another unexpected change: Mom began staying home, too. Where once she’d been distant, living between her own quarters and Grandpa’s mansion, now she was here—laughing with Dad, sharing quiet conversations. Once, rounding a corner, I caught them kissing in the hallway.

Eww! Gross!

Of all the years they could have chosen to be affectionate, why now? Why act like lovesick teenagers when they’ve spent decades as polite strangers?

If they dare bring another child into this world after all this time, I swear I’m running away! Let the new sibling inherit this gilded cage and all its expectations. I’m done.

“Now, you must wait until the oil shimmers before adding the garlic and onions,” Mrs. Garcia instructed gently, her voice steady and patient.

I leaned in, watching the pale gold surface. “How will I know it’s ready? Does it bubble?”

She smiled, pointing. “It will look calm and still—like glass. See? There.”

I added the ingredients carefully, heart in my throat. Nothing splattered. Nothing burned. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Oh my! Did I truly do it right?”

“Perfectly,” she nodded. “Now pour in the sauce.”

I followed every step, measuring, stirring, watching the colors deepen. Honestly? This was the first time everything had gone smoothly. My earlier attempts had been disasters—burnt garlic, salt so plentiful it made us wince, once even a small kitchen fire that left Dad’s eyebrows singed. He’d refused to let me give up, though. Stubborn man.

I’d complained endlessly. We have maids! Chefs! Why must I waste hours learning something others are paid to do? I should be out there—traveling, following Leon. I hadn’t heard a single word about him since I’d been confined here. It was as if he’d vanished. But Dad wouldn’t budge.

He wanted me capable, he said—just like Rose. He’d actually compared me to her. As if we were ever raised the same way! It wasn’t my fault they’d handed me everything on a silver platter since birth. Now they expected me to struggle through flour and fear of hot oil like everyone else?

Finally, I set down the ladle. Before me sat a plate of spaghetti—sauce rich and deep, noodles tangled neatly, smelling of garlic and herbs. It actually looked… edible. Good, even.

Mom clapped softly when she saw it. “Avar, it’s lovely!”

“There should be a reward for this,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “You’ve locked me inside for months!”

“Only weeks, Avar,” she corrected gently.

I rolled my eyes. “It feels like a lifetime! I should be with my cousins, not here being drilled on etiquette and simmer times.” I gestured vaguely at the stove, making no effort to hide my annoyance.

Mom smiled that knowing, soft smile—the kind that made me feel both seen and treated like a child. “You need these skills, sweetheart. What will your future husband think if you cannot even prepare a simple meal?”

I scoffed. “The maids will do it. Why would he expect his wife to labor over a stove?”

“But what if he prefers privacy?” Dad asked from the doorway. “What if there are no servants?”

I looked at him sharply. “Then I shall hire one. I am meant to be his wife, not his cook or servant.”

“A wife serves her husband with love,” Dad said firmly—though there was no bite in it, only quiet insistence.

I had an answer ready. “Did Mom serve you?”

Mom sighed, her gaze drifting toward Dad. “I tried, but—”

“It is time to tell her the truth,” Dad interrupted, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but his eyes held something heavy—years of silence, finally breaking.

I straightened. “Yes! Tell me why the two of you suddenly act like more than polite strangers. It is so strange—this easy warmth, this staying under the same roof. Are you too old to be sneaking kisses in hallways like lovesick teenagers?”

They exchanged a long look. A look heavy with history, things unsaid, regrets and realizations.

Dad cleared his throat. “Your mother and I entered this marriage with a contract. We would produce an heir, fulfill our obligations to our families, but never pretend to be husband and wife in heart or home. We lived apart, as agreed.”

“And whose brilliant idea was that?” I demanded, disliking every word.

“Mine,” Mom said quietly.

I scoffed. “Why? Why agree to such a life?”

“Because your father loved another woman,” she said simply.

I stared. “But he married you!”

“It was arranged,” Mom sighed. “For business. For alliance. He had no choice. Neither did I.”

I looked at Dad, bewildered and angry. “And now? What changed? You told me once you cared for her… but are you saying she was merely a replacement? Did your great love cast you aside?”

Dad shook his head slowly. He looked weary, but relieved—as if carrying this secret had worn him down for decades. “No one left me. I simply… realized too late. Anyone can fall in love and be foolish, Avar. But I learned—too late—that I had loved your mother all along. She was the one who stayed. The one who endured. And we tell you this now because we believe you will understand. You do, don’t you?”

I laughed bitterly. “The only thing I understand is that my life was built on a lie—and yours was, too.”

I saw the sorrow in their eyes—the weight of wasted years, of cold dinners and separate beds, of a daughter raised in silence. They had every right to regret it.

“Avar,” Mom said softly, reaching for my hand. “What we want you to know is this: love can grow. Even in marriages built on contracts and convenience. It begins as duty, then respect… and then something more. It is hard at first. But it finds you.”

I looked from one to the other—two people who had learned to love each other far too late. “You learned it too late,” I said flatly.

Mom sighed, frustration and sadness warring in her face. “We did. And I pray with all my heart it never happens to you.”

I fell silent, pushing the heavy thoughts aside. “My spaghetti is getting cold.”

“Oh! Of course! I am so sorry, honey!” Mom said quickly, reaching for her fork.

I watched Dad serve her first—carefully placing a portion onto her plate, brushing a strand of hair from her face as he did. In all the years I’d known them, I’d never seen him so gentle. Never imagined they could be like this.

Could it be true? Could I one day look at a stranger chosen for me and find… this?

“Thank you, Aidan,” Mom said softly, taking a bite. She closed her eyes, smiling. “It’s delicious. Try it.”

Dad took a bite, then turned to me—eyes warm, proud. “You have real talent. You should try other recipes soon, sweetheart.”

I grinned despite everything. Once, my only skill had been spending money. Now I had another.

Skill #1: Spending money that isn’t mine.

Skill #2: Cooking spaghetti without burning the house down.

Wonder what comes next?

Oh god… it feels as though my whole world is shifting beneath my feet.

“So!” I said, brightening. “May I travel now? Please? I miss Rose and Tyler!” Two months trapped inside felt like a lifetime. I hadn’t even been able to video call them properly—always busy, always unavailable.

Mom raised an eyebrow. “You may visit them. But the moment I call you home, you return at once. Do you understand?” She still spoke to me as though I were seven and prone to wandering off.

“And one more thing,” Dad added, his tone turning serious. “Do not chase him, Avar. Stay away from Leon.”

My chest tightened.

I’d already lost track of him—and now they were forbidding me too?

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because he is a dangerous man,” Dad warned. “And you know what you are to do.”

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. I would obey—for now. I knew better than to assume I was truly alone. Dad had his people watching over me, always. It was never a secret.

That afternoon, I boarded a plane bound for Japan.

I went straight to my cousins’ apartment—and found Tyler sprawled across the sofa, a fresh cut above his eye and a dark bruise blooming along his cheekbone.

“Who did this to you?” I gasped, rushing forward.

He waved me away, wincing as he sat up. “Rose.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth. Of course it was. Rose had begun training—boxing, judo, aikido—ever since Maky introduced her to the martial arts. She said every woman ought to know how to defend herself, how to land a blow that mattered. It was also how she released the anger she kept locked tight inside.

Things I would never, ever be capable of learning. I could barely throw a punch without hurting myself.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Kyoto. Won’t be back until late tomorrow,” Tyler grunted, standing and grabbing his jacket. “Come on. We’re going out. I need a drink.”

I was exhausted from the flight, but I agreed. Anything to be out of these four walls.

We arrived at a sleek, crowded club—music thumping, lights swirling, bodies pressed close. At first I sat beside him, but as the night wore on, Tyler was swept onto the dance floor. He spun and laughed, letting strangers touch him, kiss him, buy him drinks—drunker by the minute.

I watched him, nose wrinkling. “Ugh! What an absolute fool.” Bruised and battered, yet women still flocked to him like he was a prize.

I retreated to the bar instead, ordering a glass of wine and staying firmly on the stool. I preferred watching—observing, unseen. When someone tried to crowd too close, I shifted my gaze to them—cold, sharp, unyielding—and they retreated.

I turned back to the bartender. “Another, please.”

Then the stool beside me creaked. Someone sat down—close enough that I caught the familiar scent of cedar and something darker, warmer.

I sipped my wine, waiting.

A low, smooth voice curled around me—one I’d memorized long ago.

“Long time no see… Sloan.”

My heart stuttered. I froze, glass halfway to my lips.

Slowly, I turned my head.

There he was. Leon.

After all this time—after Paris, after months of silence, after wondering if I’d ever see him again—he was here. In Japan. Sitting right beside me.

A wicked, knowing smile curved his lips—lopsided, devastating, familiar. His stubble was thicker now, dark and rough along his jawline. His hair had grown longer, falling in dark waves over his forehead, wild and untamed. He looked sharper, harder, more impossibly handsome than ever. My throat went dry just looking at him.

He leaned in, eyes dark and intent. “Tell me… what do you look for in a man?”

I held his gaze, refusing to let him see how quickly my pulse raced. I smirked, letting amusement color my voice. “Someone who wears black,” I said, glancing at his crisp dark dress shirt.

His smile widened. He looked down at his clothes, then back at me. “And?”

“Someone with stubble,” I added, my eyes never leaving his face.

His grin stretched wider—slow, satisfied, like he’d been waiting to hear those words. He leaned closer still, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “What else?”

I didn’t pull away. I could smell him—cedar, warm spice, that scent I’d carried in my memory for months. “Someone who smells good…” I murmured, leaning in just enough to let my breath brush his ear, “and tastes even better.” I pulled back, meeting his eyes boldly. “Do you?”

His gaze dropped to my lips, darkening instantly. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. “We already started this once, didn’t we? In that elevator. Why don’t we finish it?”

He remembered. After all the women, all the cities, all the nights—he remembered.

Before I could breathe a reply, a heavy arm draped over my shoulders. Tyler stepped between us, eyes cold and jaw set tight.

“She’s off-limits, Simba,” Tyler said sharply.

Leon didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He sat back calmly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, that lazy smirk never leaving his face.

“Is that so?” Leon asked, his voice smooth and unbothered.

“You know it is,” Tyler snapped.

Leon’s eyes flicked to mine—dark, amused, certain. Then he turned his gaze back to Tyler, slow and deliberate.

“Funny,” Leon said quietly, lifting his glass to his lips. “All I know is… forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.”