Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 9

The penthouse kitchen was designed for catering teams, not for cooking. It had six burners, two ovens, and a refrigerator that cost more than a Honda Civic. It was sleek, stainless steel, and completely sterile.

Until tonight.

Tonight, the kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off inside a bakery.

Elodie stood at the massive island, covered in flour. The air, usually filtered to a scentless void, was thick with the smell of roasting rosemary, garlic, caramelized onions, and cinnamon.

"Arthur," Elodie whispered into her phone, wedging it between her shoulder and her ear as she kneaded dough. "Did you get the package?"

"It is on the service elevator now, Miss Rose," the driver’s voice came through, sounding conspiring. "I must warn you... Mr. Sterling has not looked at those albums in twenty years. They were in storage in the basement vault."

"Trust me," Elodie said, though her stomach did a nervous flip. "I know what I'm doing. I think."

"Good luck. You are a brave woman."

Elodie hung up. She looked at the clock on the oven. 6:30 PM. Alistair was in his study on a conference call with Tokyo. She had thirty minutes.

She moved with a frantic energy. She wasn't just cooking dinner; she was performing an exorcism. She was driving the cold spirits out of this house with the sheer force of carbohydrates and holiday cheer.

She pulled the roast chicken out of the oven. It was golden brown, crispy, and perfect. She mashed the potatoes with an obscene amount of butter. She glazed the carrots.

Then, she turned her attention to the tree.

Alistair had allowed "one tree." It stood in the corner of the living room, a twelve-foot balsam fir that smelled amazing. But it was naked.

Elodie opened the box Arthur had sent up. Inside were old leather-bound albums and loose photographs. Her heart ached as she flipped through them.

Alistair as a baby. Alistair on a pony. Alistair’s parents, a handsome man who looked just like him, and a beautiful woman with a radiant smile, holding hands in the snow.

"Okay," Elodie whispered, blinking back tears. "Let’s bring them back."

She didn't have hooks. She used red ribbon she’d found in a drawer. She carefully tied the ribbons around the photos. She also strung up dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks she’d baked earlier, and tied bows around the branches.

It wasn't a designer tree. It wasn't symmetrical or color-coordinated. It was messy, nostalgic, and deeply personal.

She finished just as the heavy oak door to the study clicked open.

Elodie froze. She wiped her floury hands on her apron.

Alistair walked into the living room. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, his "off duty" clothes. He looked exhausted. He was rubbing his temples, likely nursing a headache from the screen glare.

He stopped dead.

He inhaled.

"What is that smell?" he asked, his voice low.

"Rosemary chicken," Elodie said, standing protectively in front of the tree. "And apple pie."

Alistair stared at her. "You cooked?"

"I told you. I have conditions. Real food is one of them."

Alistair walked further into the room. The lights were dimmed. The only illumination came from the fireplace Elodie had lit and the soft lights on the tree.

He looked at the kitchen island, piled high with food. Then he looked at the tree.

Elodie stepped aside.

Alistair went still.

He didn't move for a long time. He just stared at the branches. At the face of his mother smiling down from a Polaroid taken in 1995. At his father laughing mid-throw of a snowball.

The silence was deafening. Elodie held her breath, fingering the rose gold bracelet. If he yelled, if he fired her, she would take it. But she couldn't let him spend another Christmas pretending he didn't have a past.

Alistair reached out. His hand trembled slightly. He touched the edge of a photo—a picture of him, aged five, sitting on his father’s shoulders.

"Where did you get these?" he whispered. It wasn't an accusation. It was a plea.

"I asked Arthur," Elodie said softly. "I hope you don't mind. I just... a tree shouldn't be empty, Alistair. And memories shouldn't be locked in a basement."

Alistair swallowed hard. The muscle in his jaw feathered.

"I haven't seen this photo," he rasped, "since the day of the funeral."

"Do you want me to take them down?"

Alistair closed his eyes. For a second, he looked so young, so broken.

"No," he said. The word was barely audible. "Leave them."

He turned away from the tree, as if looking at it for too long would burn him. He looked at Elodie. His eyes were bright, shimmering with unshed emotion.

"You did all this?" He gestured to the food, the fire, the tree.

"It’s Christmas Eve," she shrugged, feeling shy under his intense gaze. "It’s what people do."

"Not my people," he murmured. He walked toward the kitchen island. "My people hire caterers who serve amuse-bouche on square plates. This..." He picked up a piece of crispy potato with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

He chewed. He closed his eyes again. A sound rumbled in his chest—half groan, half sigh.

"My God," he whispered. "That is actual food."

"Sit," Elodie commanded gently. "I'll make you a plate."

Alistair sat on one of the high stools. He watched her. He watched her carve the chicken, spoon the gravy, arrange the plate. He watched her like he had never seen a woman before.

They ate in comfortable silence. The food was rich and warm, settling in their stomachs like a heavy blanket.

"This is the best meal I have had in twenty years," Alistair said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked at his empty plate. "Thank you, Elodie."

"You're welcome."

"I mean it." He reached across the island and took her hand.

His skin was warm. The bracelet hummed a soft, golden note.

"You brought ghosts into my house," he said, looking over her shoulder at the tree. "And somehow, you made them... welcome. I thought it would hurt. But it doesn't."

"That’s the magic," Elodie smiled.

"Perhaps."

Alistair squeezed her hand. "I didn't get you anything. I didn't think... I wasn't prepared for this."

"You gave me a place to live," Elodie said. "And a job. That’s enough."

"It’s not enough," Alistair muttered.

He stood up to clear the plates. As he walked around the island to the main table, he stopped.

"Elodie."

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

Elodie turned. Sitting on the end of the kitchen island, right where the light from the pendant lamp hit it, was a wooden box. It wasn't wrapped. It was simple, dark polished walnut.

"I didn't put that there," Elodie said, frowning. "Did Arthur leave it?"

"Arthur left an hour ago."

Alistair picked up the box. There was a tag tied to the latch.

For the things you cannot calculate.

"It’s from him," Elodie whispered, her eyes widening. "The Santa guy. Nick."

Alistair looked skeptical, but he unlatched the box. He opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, was an old-fashioned compass. It was brass, heavy and tarnished. But instead of North, South, East, and West, the face had different words.

Fear. Ambition. Past. Home.

The needle was spinning wildly.

"A compass," Alistair scoffed, though he looked intrigued. "Broken, apparently."

He held it flat in his palm. The needle spun and spun.

"Maybe it works like the bracelet," Elodie suggested. She stepped closer to him. "Maybe it needs... contact."

She placed her hand over his, covering the compass.

Immediately, the needle stopped spinning. It snapped into place with an audible click.

It pointed directly at Elodie.

The word under the needle was Home.

Alistair stared at the compass. Then he looked up at Elodie. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin.

"Home," he read aloud. His voice was rough.

"It’s just a toy," Elodie breathed, her heart hammering. "A parlor trick."

"Is it?"

Alistair set the compass down on the counter. He didn't step back. He stepped closer. He was now standing inside her personal space, looming over her, smelling of roast chicken and expensive soap.

"You have turned my life upside down in four days, Elodie Rose," he said. "You crashed my car. You flooded my lobby. You hung photos of my dead parents in my living room."

He reached out and cupped her face in both hands.

"And I don't want you to leave. Ever."

Elodie’s breath hitched. "Alistair..."

"I can't calculate this," he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I can't put this in a spreadsheet. But when you are here... the noise stops. The cold stops."

He leaned down.

"Merry Christmas, Elodie."

He kissed her.

This wasn't a practice kiss. It wasn't a survival kiss. It was soft. It was sweet. It tasted like apple pie and gratitude. It was the kind of kiss that promised things, futures, mornings, forevers.

Elodie melted into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The rose gold bracelet glowed bright and steady, casting a warm circle of light around them in the dim kitchen.

For the first time in a long time, the penthouse wasn't just a building at the top of a tower. It was warm.

It was a home.