Chapter 11

ASTRID

I couldn’t sleep.

The clock on the bedside table glowed 1:07 AM, its soft blue light mocking me in the darkness.

I tossed and turned under the sheets, my mind refusing to quiet. Every time I closed my eyes, the memories rushed back like a cruel tide—my frantic dash from store to store, the confused faces of strangers, the growing horror in my stomach as my voice echoed desperately: “Do you know them? My parents? Have you seen them?”

And then there was the Patriarch’s calm declaration that he would explain everything to me. He wanted me to wait until I was “ready.”

But how could I wait? The uncertainty was eating me alive.

Who was I? Why did these people claim me as blood when my heart ached for my real family that was gone?

The questions burned hot in my chest and the restlessness finally won.

I slipped out of bed, slipped on the baggy dress I wore back from the hospital and left the room.

The floor was cool beneath my bare feet as I padded quietly down the long hallway. The estate was eerily silent at this hour, the grand chandeliers dimmed to faint glows, casting long shadows that made the walls feel alive.

I was only looking for a glass of water, something to soothe the dryness in my throat and maybe calm the storm in my head.

But when I pushed open the kitchen door, I froze.

Kaveh stood at the massive marble island, shirtless, his broad back muscles flexing under the warm overhead lights. He was kneading dough with strong, practiced hands, flour dusting his forearms. The rich, sweet scent of strawberries filled the air.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. This was the powerful eldest son and he was…baking? In the middle of the night?

The dominating energy that radiated off him in every other setting made this scene almost absurd.

He must have sensed me because he glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine. Neither of us spoke at first. The silence stretched, awkward and thick.

“Um… I wanted water,” I mumbled, stepping inside but staying close to the door. My cheeks felt warm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Kaveh straightened slightly, wiping his hands on a towel. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his chest. “You’re not interrupting. This is your house, feel free. Couldn’t sleep?”

I shook my head, moving toward the fridge but hyper-aware of him. “Too many thoughts in my head.” I grabbed a glass and filled it with water, taking a small sip to buy time.

“Is that the same for you? Seeing as you’re baking in the middle of the night.” I paused, then slowly added, “You don’t exactly seem like the type.”

A low chuckle escaped him, deep and surprisingly warm. “What type do I seem like?”

I hesitated, the awkwardness making my words clumsy. “The type who commands people to do the baking for him.”

He turned fully toward me, leaning against the counter, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Even powerful men need outlets. And I found mine in baking. It helps clear my head and my daughter gets a cake out of it in her favourite flavour. So it's a win-win.” His gaze softened just a fraction. “Want to try?”

I blinked, surprised by the offer. “Try? Oh, I… I don’t know…”

Even back home, my Mother did all the cooking and baking. They preferred me to study rather than be in the kitchen and I never had siblings that I would want to bake anything for.

“I’ll ruin your cake,” I said sheepishly.

“No, you won’t. Come here,” he said, gesturing to the spot beside him. His voice carried that natural weight of authority, but there was no force in it tonight.

I approached slowly, setting my glass down. The air between us felt charged, the kitchen suddenly too intimate despite its massive size. He handed me a portion of the dough, his fingers brushing mine briefly.

“Like this,” he instructed, demonstrating. “Press, fold, turn. It’s about rhythm. Not too hard or you’ll bruise the strawberries, but it’s very easy once you get the hang of it.”

We worked side by side for a few minutes. The awkwardness strangely comforting.

“So… Do you do this often?” I asked, my hands sinking into the soft mixture.

“Only when I’m really worked up.” He glanced at me. “What about you? Didn’t you bake with your… with the people you remember?”

The question stung. “I didn’t. My mother wanted me to study and be a big shot. They said I have the brains and it would be a waste in the kitchen.”

He snorted. “You can have brains and still know how to bake.”

I shrugged. “I guess they didn’t want that.” I frowned and continued, “Or I’m remembering it wrong.”

He fell quiet for a beat. “Memories can be tricky. But you’re here now, and you’re going to learn.”

I found myself smiling at the thought. “I’ve never had siblings before. This feels…nice.”

For a fleeting second, the mansion didn’t feel so foreign. Here I was talking and mixing dough. It felt like Kaveh and I were just two people in a kitchen, connected by dough and sleeplessness.

Then Kaveh moved behind me to adjust my technique. His hands covered mine, warm and firm, guiding the motion. “Gentler here. Feel the texture? That’s when it’s right.”

My smile died instantly. My heartbeat sped up, thudding loudly in my ears for reasons I didn’t understand. His chest was close to my back, his breath brushing the hair above my ears.

A sudden warmth enveloped me along with the scent of him—clean soap mixed with strawberries and something distinctly masculine. It made my stomach flutter. But it wasn’t from fear. No, no. It was something warmer, more confusing.

I wondered if such a feeling was the right thing for someone who could be my brother.

My breath grew shallow, I was too aware of every point where our skin touched, too aware of every movement as the dough rolled over the surface and the flutter in my stomach increased.

The moment soon shattered with footsteps entering the kitchen. Our heads moved as one to the door I’d left open.

Soraya stood there in her nightgown, her eyes narrowing instantly at the sight of us. “What is this?” she demanded, her voice sharp with displeasure. “What are you doing with my Dad?”

I stepped away quickly, pulling my hands free. “Soraya, it’s not—”

She cut me off, stepping closer with fire in her young eyes. “Don’t. You think you can just waltz in here and play house? First you take up space, now you’re in the kitchen baking with my father?”

“Soraya,” Kaveh said firmly, but she ignored him, glaring at me.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was only getting water. He offered to show me. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But Soraya wasn’t listening. Her cheeks flushed with anger. “You always have excuses. Always trying to insert yourself.”

Kaveh shook his head at me, his expression calm but decisive. “Go get some rest, Astrid. I’ll handle my daughter.”

I didn’t argue.

The warmth from earlier had vanished, replaced by weariness and that familiar feeling of not belonging. As I moved toward the door, Soraya deliberately placed her foot in my path, trying to trip me. I saw it just in time and stepped over gracefully, avoiding the fall.

“Gold digger,” she hissed under her breath, low enough for her father not to hear.

I sighed as I left the kitchen, the sound of Kaveh’s low, stern voice addressing Soraya fading behind me.

In all honesty, I should’ve been furious with the girl. A girl her age shouldn’t be so rude. Her constant hostility stung.

But as I climbed the stairs back to my room, I remembered my own mother, how patient she had been with difficult people, how she believed kindness could soften even the hardest hearts.

I lived by that principle. People always had good in them. And I knew Soraya did too. I just needed a different approach. To come from a place of understanding.

Back in the room, I crawled under the covers, my body finally heavy with fatigue. As my eyes drifted shut, the last image in my mind wasn’t the painful search for my parents or Elias’s looming revelations.

It was Kaveh’s hands on mine—strong, guiding and unexpectedly gentle. A soft smile lingered on my face, warm and unbidden, carrying me into sleep.