Page 252 of The Unwilling Bride
I’m more open in outlining my expectations.
It means they know what’s expected of them. And it gives them a chance to deliver without surprises. Within a week, I noticed that productivity in the kitchen went up. There are less excuses, less surprises. It's smooth running, all around. Which seems to increase the tastiness of the dishes delivered to the guests too.
It's certainly a more enjoyable experience. It gives me the confidence that when the Michelin inspectors arrive unannounced, they'll be satisfied with what they sample.
My stress levels have decreased. I find myself taking the time to relish what I'm cooking. And all of this is thanks to my Ember.
I place my other hand over Harper’s, so her much smaller one is enveloped between my mine.
"Thanks to you, I realized I had to stop being the Ice Commander. I had to stop being the perfect Michelin-starred machine and become a man willing to be imperfect for you."
My wife’s eyes shine. And the love I see in them gives me the courage to be even more honest, even if my grandmother is watching us closely.
"The time we spent apart made me realize that if I didn't find the words to tell you the truth, I was going to lose you."
Harper’s expression softens, a tender smile touching her lips. "I know how hard that was. You chose to be vulnerable. You chose the chaos of your feelings over the safety of your silence."
"I had to.” My voice is raw with a seriousness that leaves no room for doubt. "Losing you was the one variable I couldn't live with."
Margot clears her throat.
With reluctance, I tear my gaze off my wife and turn to my grandmother. "So yes, your scheme worked. I found my soulmate. And I am grateful to you for that. And it’s true that if you hadn’t given me a deadline to get married and claim my inheritance, I may not have married my wife. But this is the last time you interfere in my life."
I keep my gaze steady, my tone resolute.
She must sense how strongly I feel, for she nods slowly. "I understand."
I search her features and am satisfied by the seriousness mirrored in hers.
"Good. And now…" I rise to my feet, still holding my wife’s hand. She rises with me. "We should head to the dinner you so kindly arranged." I lead my wife to exit the study.
Harper nudges me.
I glance at her, and she jerks her head in my grandmother’s direction. She wants me to ask her to come along with us.
It’s her home. A meal she’s organized. Surely, she can find her way there. But when I look over at Margot, she’s watching us with a strange look on her face. One I could almost characterize as loneliness. Except,Margot doesn’t get lonely. She’s never lonely. She’s still chasing the next power move through the Hamilton Group.
Looking at her now, the Grand Matriarch title feels like a heavy cloak she’s struggling to carry.
She looks small. Fragile, almost. And dwarfed by the dark expanse of that massive desk. I’d never tell her that; our pride is the one thing we share in equal measure. But I have Harper’s hand in mine. I have a future that isn't just a series of cold, calculated routines.
If I’m serious about learning to speak the language of feelings, if I want my family and my brigade to truly know me, I must continue to reach out to them. To be open with them. To continue to be vulnerable with not just my wife but those I come into contact with daily.
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. "Perhaps…you’d consider accompanying us?"
I frame it like my grandmother will be doing us the favor. It feels only right to give her an out, so she doesn't have to admit she’s lonely.
The tightness in my throat fades. Hearing the words out loud makes me realize I’ve done the right thing. That, with practice, it will get easier to show my more humane side.
For a heartbeat, the room goes dead silent. Margot doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. I’m certain she’s going to retreat behind a sharp remark and send us on our way. But then, she rises. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as she rounds the table. She walks over and hooks her arm through my free one. "Shall we?"
"HasClara been taking lessons from you?" Tristan, who’s seated next to me at dinner at the family room in Margot’s home looks up from sampling the soup. "I can’t remember the food at Margot’s being this delicious."
"I wouldn’t dare tell Clara how to cook."
We both snicker.
Clara is Margot’s cook. She’s been with us since Tristan was a young boy.
