CHAPTER 10

KIMANI

One week since I followed Alaric to his office, and like I told him. I didn't follow him again, that man won't know fun even if it hits him in the face.

Today, I am in the mood to bake, so I'm going to do exactly that. But not this morning, maybe in the afternoon. So I went down, had my breakfast and continued my tour of the whole house. Yes, continued. Can you believe a simple tour will take me days to complete. I'm glad that the route from my room to the kitchen is straight to the point, or I would be declared missing in the house.

After breakfast, I set off again on my little adventure, barefoot and curious, padding through the endless corridors like some explorer charting unclaimed territory. I swear, every corner I turned revealed another hallway, another grand staircase, another set of doors that probably led to some secret wing.

“This isn’t a house,” I muttered under my breath, running my hand along the cold marble wall. “It’s a small kingdom.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Alaric enjoyed building labyrinths just to keep people confused. Typical. If Alaric was born as a king in the past, he would be a tyrant king.

I passed what looked like a miniature library—books stretching from floor to ceiling, like something out of Beauty and the Beast. I poked my head inside, gasping. “Note to self: steal a book or two when no one’s watching. Or hide here to avoid everyone."

Further down, I found a music room, complete with a glossy grand piano and shelves of sheet music. Did Alaric play? If he did, I would to see that sometimes, I'm sure he would look as serious as ever.

By the time I circled back to familiar territory, my legs were tired, and I was convinced I’d only seen about ten percent of this palace. I collapsed dramatically onto a chaise lounge near a tall window, staring at the manicured gardens outside. I relaxed for a while before finding my way to the kitchen, time for my baking spree.

As I explored, bringing out everything I will need and chasing Danielle out, she is such a mama hen. My phone rang and I saw that it was a video call from my three crazy friends. I picked it and set it on the counter so my hands will be free.

"My Billionaire Wifey." Malik said, the newest nickname he gave me. I rolled my eyes.

"Hey, baby. Where are you?" Zendaya asked. "The kitchen, I was about to start baking." I replied. "Damn, it looks like those Royal kitchens." Denise said.

"Tell me about it."

"So where is your hubby." Malik asked wagging his brows. "Off to work, where else will Mr workaholic be." I replied.

“My condolences,” Malik said dramatically, clutching his chest. “Married to a fine man with pockets deeper than the ocean and yet you’re a lonely housewife already.”

Zendaya laughed. “Please, Malik. You just wish it was you in her position. Stop being jealous.”

I snorted. “Thank you, Z. At least someone’s on my side.” I grabbed the flour and set it on the counter, dusting my hands like a professional chef. “Anyway, today I am baking. I need sugar in my life, and if Alaric won’t provide entertainment, at least chocolate cake will.”

“Ooooh, cake!” Denise cheered, her eyes sparkling through the screen. “Mail me some.”

“Mail?” I arched a brow, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Babe, by the time it gets to you, it’ll be a science experiment. Mold cake deluxe.”

Malik burst out laughing. “Kimani’s bakery: buy one, get free penicillin.”

I gave him a glare through the camera. “Keep talking, Malik. I’ll put salt instead of sugar and dedicate the cake to you.”

Zendaya clapped her hands like a seal. “Yes! Roast him, wife!”

I stirred the batter, pretending to be a cooking show host. “Today on Barefoot in the Billionaire’s Kitchen, we are making survival cake—because living with Mr. Iceberg requires sugar therapy.”

All three of them broke into laughter, and for a while, the kitchen was filled with our easy chaos, not the stiff silence that usually hung over the house.

By the time the cake was in the oven, Malik was sprawled on his bed (still on my screen), Denise was painting her nails, and Zendaya was eating chips so loudly I threatened to mute her.

“So, Wifey,” Malik drawled, eyes gleaming mischievously, “when are we meeting this husband of yours? You can’t hide him forever.”

I licked batter off my finger. “Correction: I don’t hide him. He hides himself behind endless work, briefcases, and boring meetings.”

Denise smirked. “But let’s be real, he’s hot, right? Like, painfully hot? Cold, serious billionaire with smoldering eyes kind of hot?”

I groaned. “Unfortunately… yes.”

Zendaya gasped, nearly choking on her chips. “You’re falling, aren’t you?!”

I froze, spatula mid-air. “What? No. Absolutely not. I just said he’s hot, not that I’m falling. Don’t twist my words.”

Malik pointed at the screen like he’d just caught me red-handed. “Denial. Classic symptom.”

“Goodbye!” I announced, dramatically reaching for the phone. “Cake’s ready. Friendship over.”

The three of them howled with laughter as I hung up.

The timer dinged a few minutes later, and I pulled out my masterpiece—rich, gooey chocolate perfection. I cut a generous slice for myself, sinking into a stool with a satisfied hum.

That was when I heard footsteps behind me, slow and deliberate.

Of course. Mr. Iceberg himself, home earlier than expected.

Alaric’s deep voice filled the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

I swiveled on the stool, fork halfway to my mouth, chocolate cake perched like a crown jewel on the plate. “What does it look like? I’m saving my sanity.”

His eyes flicked from the cake to my messy counter, then back to me. That unreadable stare of his made me grip my fork tighter.

For a second, I thought he’d scold me for making a mess of his perfect kitchen. Instead, he said flatly, “Give me a piece.”

I almost dropped my fork.

Did Alaric Walker just voluntarily ask for cake?

I blinked at him. “Wait, you want cake?”

Alaric’s expression didn’t even twitch. “You baked it. Give me a piece.”

I squinted at him suspiciously, fork hovering midair. “You don’t strike me as the cake-eating type. You look like someone who survives on black coffee, protein, and pure intimidation. Which for a fact, you actually do."

He didn’t deny it. He just stepped closer, sliding one hand into his pocket, the other resting lightly on the counter as he waited. Patient. Silent. Deadly serious… about cake.

“Well,” I muttered, cutting a second slice, “miracles do happen.” I plopped it on a plate and pushed it toward him.

Alaric took the plate but didn’t immediately eat. Instead, he glanced at me, then at the fork in my hand. “Feed me.”

I nearly choked on air. “Excuse me?”

His brow lifted the tiniest bit, like he was issuing a challenge. “You made it. Feed me.”

For a moment, I just gaped at him. Then a slow grin spread across my face. “You know, if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were secretly a spoiled prince.”

“Kimani.” His tone was a warning, but I heard something else there too—a faint amusement he was trying to bury.

“Fine, fine.” I cut a small bite, lifted the fork dramatically like I was about to crown him king, and held it up. “Say ahhh, Mr. Billionaire.”

He didn’t flinch. He leaned forward slightly, lips parting just enough to take the bite from the fork.

I watched him chew, waiting for the verdict like my life depended on it. His face remained as unreadable as ever, no twitch of approval or disapproval.

“Well?” I demanded, leaning closer. “Don’t just sit there with your poker face. Do you like it?”

His eyes locked on mine, dark and steady. Then, finally, the corner of his mouth tilted—just barely, but enough to send a thrill through me.

“It’s good,” he said simply.

"Good? Young man, I spent a lot of time and dedication and even fed you and all you can say is good?" I said. The audacity of this human shaped iceberg.

"Tastes well." he took the fork from me and finished the slice of the cake before leaving the kitchen.

I sat there, slack-jawed, watching him walk out with the calmness of a man who just closed a billion-dollar deal instead of eating my cake like it was nothing.

“That’s it?” I yelled after him, waving my fork. “No applause? No speech about how this cake saved your soulless existence? Nothing?!”

Silence. Just his retreating footsteps echoing down the hall.

I stabbed another forkful of cake, muttering under my breath. “Tastes well. Pfft. Who even says that? He’s lucky he’s hot, otherwise I’d shove the rest of this cake in his face.”

Still sulking, I finished my slice and leaned on the counter. As much as I wanted to stay mad, the image of Alaric—the all-powerful, perfectly pressed billionaire—leaning forward to be fed like some pampered royal kept replaying in my head. And worse, that tiny, almost invisible smirk when he admitted it was good.

My heart did a stupid little skip. Ugh. I hated that.

“Calm down, Kimani,” I muttered, licking the fork clean. “It was just cake. Not a love confession. Just cake.”