Leila POV
The packhouse kitchen is my sanctuary, a warm haven where the scent of fresh-baked cornbread wraps around me like a hug, its buttery sweetness mingling with sizzling bacon and the faint tang of herbs from Miss Ophelia’s herb garden. The worn wooden counter is dusted with flour, the air alive with the clink of pots and the soft hum of a kettle, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my head since the revelations about my past. But here, amid the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring, I can almost pretend I’m just Leila – the quiet girl who helps in the kitchen, not some lost heir with a price on her head.
Miss Ophelia stands at the stove, her ample frame moving with the graceful efficiency of someone who’s ruled this domain for decades. Her silver-streaked hair is gathered
