Trevor’s POV
I arrived home just before five o'clock. As I pushed open the heavy oak front door, the first things I saw were several high-end boutique bags perched on the hallway dresser. The usual sterile silence of the manor had been replaced by a chaotic symphony of chatting and laughter drifting from the kitchen.
As I walked down the hallway, the scent of slow-simmered tomato sauce and baking chocolate cake hit me – a sensory overload that felt more like a "home" than this house had felt in a decade. I pushed open the kitchen door and found a literal warzone.
Freya had evidently been teaching the girls to make fresh pasta, but the lesson had clearly devolved into a flour-based riot. As I stepped over the threshold, I was caught square in the face by a stray strand of raw tagliatelle
