Chapter 4 ~ operation burnt lunch
846 Words
(Seraphina’s POV)
The moment Lucien’s car disappeared beyond the gates, I stood at the balcony like a general sending her troops to war.
“Two days,” I murmured. “Two whole days of freedom. What could possibly go wrong?”
Answer: everything.
By midmorning, I had a list. Visit my parents, check. Call my best friend who still thought I’d lost my mind, check. Make the staff stop treating me like a ticking bomb work in progress. But first… I was going to cook.
Don’t ask me why. Maybe I was tired of everyone calling me “Madam” like I came with a warranty. Maybe I just missed the smell of real food. Or maybe I wanted to prove to myself mostly that I could do something normal without burning down a multimillion-dollar mansion.
Spoiler: I could not.
The kitchen was a gleaming cathedral of marble and chrome, the kind of place you’d expect a Michelin chef to conduct seances with butter. Pots hung like polished armor, and the maids stared at me as if I were about to commit high treason.
“I’m cooking lunch,” I announced proudly, tying an apron around my waist. It read ‘Kiss the Cook’. Very on-brand for chaos.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, looked like she’d aged ten years in five seconds.
“Madam, please. The chef will be here shortly"
“The chef needs a break,” I interrupted. “He’s been feeding everyone perfection for years. It’s time you all taste mediocrity with love.”
The poor woman almost fainted.
“Mediocrity with… love?” she echoed weakly.
“Exactly,” I said, clapping my hands. “Let’s make spaghetti!”
It took me ten minutes to find the pasta. Five more to figure out how to turn on the stove without summoning the fire alarm. The maids hovered like horrified angels, whispering among themselves.
When the first puff of smoke curled from the pan, I waved it off.
“It’s just the garlic,” I said confidently. “Garlic likes drama.”
Then came the oil incident. One wrong move, and a splash of olive oil hissed across the stove. I yelped, jumped back, and flailed straight into a stack of utensils.
The clang echoed through the kitchen like a declaration of war.
“Madam!” cried one of the maids, rushing forward with a towel.
“I’m fine!” I said, hair sticking up, apron now decorated with mysterious sauce stains. “Totally fine. This is part of the process.”
Mrs. Grant pinched the bridge of her nose. “Madam, with respect, you are how do I put this gently terrifying.”
I laughed, half hysterical. “That’s fair.”
By the time the spaghetti was done, the kitchen looked like a battle scene. There was sauce on the counter, on me, and somehow… on the ceiling. I didn’t even know how.
I plated everything dramatically, ignoring Mrs. Grant’s horrified expression, and called the maids over.
“Lunch is served!” I declared.
They exchanged worried glances.
“Come on,” I said. “If I die, at least you’ll know I tried. But I promise it’s edible. Probably.”
The youngest maid brave soul took a tentative bite. Her eyes widened.
“It’s… actually good,” she whispered.
I blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”
Mrs. Grant tasted a forkful next. She chewed slowly, suspiciously, then sighed.
“Well, it’s not poison.”
“High praise!” I grinned, holding up my fork. “To not being terrible wives and terrible cooks!”
They laughed softly at first, then for real. For the first time, the mansion didn’t feel like a museum. It felt alive.
When lunch was over, I helped them clear the table, humming to myself. Somewhere deep inside, I knew Celeste Laurent would never have done this. But I wasn’t her. Not anymore.
Just as I was stacking dishes, my phone buzzed on the counter.
Incoming call: Tessa
My best friend. The human megaphone of opinions.
I wiped my hands and answered. “Hey, sunshine!”
“Oh my God, you sound alive. Is it true you’re living with Lucien Laurent? Like, actually living?”
“Long story.”
“Girl, he’s trouble. I Googled him. He has that face that says ‘I own both the yacht and your soul.’ Don’t get attached.”
I laughed, even though her words pinched something in my chest. “Relax. He’s just… quiet. And confusing. And kind of nice when he’s not glaring at me.”
“Uh-huh. That’s how it starts. First it’s confusion, next thing you know you’re cooking spaghetti in lingerie.”
I nearly choked. “What no! I was wearing an apron!”
“Same thing,” she said smugly. “Be careful, Celeste”
The call ended, but her words lingered. Be careful.
I turned toward the window, where sunlight spilled across Lucien’s empty seat at the garden table. Two days, he’d said. Just two days.
So why did the house already feel lonelier without him?
- Writer
