7

The kitchen was the only room in the Hemingway mansion that felt warm, it had been Giselle’s safe haven since the whole drama with Chase started. It was the only place she went to clear her head, embarking on one spontaneous culinary adventures or the other.

Amelia was busy at the gas cooker, the clatter of pans echoing against the tiles.

"Amelia, let me help you with that," Giselle said, stepping into the light of the kitchen.

The maid looked up, startled. "Oh, no, Mrs. Hemingway. I can manage. You should be resting after... well, after everything."

"I can't rest," Giselle insisted, reaching for a floral apron hanging by the pantry.

She tied it tightly around her waist. "Until the divorce is final, I am still Chase’s wife. I want to make him dinner. It’s the least I can do to keep some sense of normalcy around here you know ."

Amelia sighed, relenting. "If you’re sure, ma’am."

"I’m sure. What did he request for dinner today?"

"His evening usual. Seared sea bass with asparagus. Honey baked chicken and coleslaw."

"Fine then," Giselle said, heading for the sink. "Get the pots ready. I’ll prep the vegetables."

She began washing the greens, the cool water washing over her skin. She tried to focus on the task, but her mind kept drifting back to the study.

She prayed not to cut herself as her mind replayed Richard’s hand on her shoulder. Another part of her wondered if he was acting up about not remembering where he met her, because that damn night was quite intense even though alcohol played a huge role in how everything turned out, or was it the knowing silence between them triggering all her thoughts, she could not tell. She was so lost in thought she didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

"Playing the happy housewife already?"

Giselle jumped, nearly dropping a head of veggies.

Chase stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms and legs crossed. He looked agitated, his tie loosened as if he’d been clawing at his own throat.

"I’m making dinner, Chase," she said, keeping her voice level. "Do you need something?"

Chase paced into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the counters with a sneer. "What I need is for you to stop acting like a victim in all of this, just stop it already Giselle. I saw what you did in the study earlier. You didn't waste any time crying to my Dad the second I turned my back, did you?"

"I wasn't crying to him. We were just talking, that’s all." She replied.

"You are so fucking manipulative, damn! You were manipulative back in there," Chase snapped, stepping into her personal space. "He has pretty much informed me he’s halting the legal proceedings and thinks we need to 'work on things' for the sake of the company image. So, congratulations, Giselle. You got what you wanted so fucking badly. You’re still a Hemingway, but that will be all there is for you honey."

"I just want my marriage to work, Chase." She whimpered.

"There is no marriage any where, dont you fucking get it?," he hissed, leaning down so only she could hear him. "This marriage means nothing to me. It’s a walking dead corpse sort off. You can stay in the house, but you stay in your lane. I expect you to be the perfect, silent wife when the cameras are on or when my father is watching. But don't think for a second this changes anything. I’m still seeing her. I’m still going to her bed when I'm done looking at your pathetic ugly face."

Giselle felt the sting of his words, her eyes welling up despite her resolve. "How can you be so cruel?"

"It’s not cruelty if I am just being honest you defunct dumb woman. You're just a—"

"Is there a problem in here?"

The deep, commanding voice of Richard Hemingway cut through the air like a blade. Just about the right time to intervene.

He stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his presence instantly draining the oxygen from the room.

Chase froze. His face went from a mask of malice to a forced, boyish grin in a split second. He backed away from Giselle, smoothing his hair.

"Not at all, Dad," Chase said, his voice dripping with fake cheer. "I was just here to get milk. Amelia! Get me a glass of milk, will you? I have a bit of heartburn."

Richard walked deeper into the kitchen, his eyes lingering on Giselle’s reddened eyes before shifting to the stove. "What are you making, Giselle?"

"Chase’s favorite, Sir," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she wiped her hands on her apron. "Sea bass…"

Richard gave a small, playful tilt of his head. "Is that so? Well, I suppose if you’re taking requests, I’d like to have my favorite prepared too. Though I doubt Chase would want to share the spotlight."

Giselle forced a managed smile, trying to play along. "I can certainly try, if you tell me what it is you want me to make sir."

"I'm just kidding," Richard said, his gaze softening as it landed on her. "I wouldn't want to overwork the master chef."

Chase tried to suppress whatever emotion he was feeling at that moment, his irritation boiling over.

He couldn't stand the way his father looked at his wife—with more respect than he had ever shown her.

"Actually, Amelia, forget the milk," Chase snapped. "I’m going to my room. Bring a black coffee up there instead. I have work to do."

Amelia looked from Chase to the gas, then back to Richard, her hands hovering nervously over the counter. "I... yes, sir. Right away."

"Wait," Richard intervened. His voice wasn't loud, but it stopped Amelia in her tracks. He looked directly at his son. "Take the milk, Chase. Or leave it. But don't pull Amelia away from the meal being prepared. You and I can clearly see she is busy helping Giselle."

The silence that followed deafening. Amelia looked trapped, her eyes darting between the two Hemingway men, unsure of who held the final authority in the kitchen.

Chase’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle began to twitch in his cheek. He looked at the glass of milk Amelia had poured, then at his father’s immovable expression.

Without a word, Chase snatched the glass off the counter. He didn't look at Giselle. He stormed out of the kitchen, his footsteps heavy and angry as they faded down the hall.

Richard turned back to Giselle. The playful tone he spoke to her in earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet, intense gravity.

"Is he always like that when I’m not in the room?" Richard asked.

Giselle looked down at the vegetables, unable to meet his eyes. "He’s just stressed, Sir. I feel... the company... I don’t just know. it’s a lot for him."

"Don't make excuses for him," Richard said, stepping closer. "He’s a fool. He has no idea what he’s standing right in front of."

Giselle’s heart skipped a beat.

She looked up, and for a second, she wasn't in the Hemingway kitchen. She was back in that dim bar, looking at the man who had made her feel alive for the first time in years. But just the thoughts dissolved.

"I should get back to the veggies," she whispered.

"Yes, please. Carry on" Richard said, though he didn't move. "Don't let it burn."