Page 72 of Forbidden Billionaire Rockstar

Epilogue

Seven years later

Mallory

The oven dings, andI brace myself for disappointment. As I pull out the tray, my fears are confirmed, another batch of sunken cupcakes stares back at me.

The scent of vanilla and sugar wafts through the air, mingling with the faint smell of something not quite right. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and a thin layer of flour dusts the countertops like freshly fallen snow. The sound of the mixerwhirring in the background fills the room, a constant reminder of my culinary ambitions - and failures.

I glance at the recipe on my phone, wondering if it’s written in some secret baker’s code I can’t decipher.

Stella, perched on a stool at the counter, eyes my creation with the brutal honesty only a five-year-old can muster.

How hard can it possibly be to make these things?

Stella is sitting at the counter, eyeing my creation with a frown on her face, and I sigh heavily while brushing a strand of my hair from my face. “I know they don’t look the best, but I’m sure they taste great.”

My daughter looks up at me, blinks, then glances back at the lopsided cupcakes in front of us. Two dozen cupcakes, each looking like someone, shoved their fingers into them, and only further proving that I’m not cut out for this shit.

“I want Daddy to make them,” Stella says, her voice a mix of apology and hope. “No offense, Mom.”

I can’t help but chuckle. My daughter, the diplomat. “None taken, kiddo. Looks like we’re both learning a valuable lesson about my baking skills.”

Here’s the thing about Stella — she doesn’t take any bullshit, but she’s also the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet. Even though she’stelling me that my cupcakes are too horrible to present at her girl scout party, my little girl is also trying to soften the blow because she’s too sweet to resist the urge.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, then flash her a smile and dump both batches of cupcakes into the trash. “As soon as he gets home, I’ll get him on it, lovebug.”

Jace would’ve done them in the first place, but I insisted that he take Koen, our son, to the ballpark like he’s been begging and leave the baking to me. I should’ve known from the odd look my husband gave me that I shouldn’t have attempted the impossible, but it was yet another way to prove that I could do something important.

It's funny how old habits die hard. Even after all these years, a part of me still feels the need to prove myself, to show that I can handle everything. But I've learned that it's okay not to be perfect at everything. My baking skills or any single ability doesn't determine my worth. It's in the love I give, the family we've built, and the life we've created together.

As if sensing the dire need for him to save me, the front door swings open, and in walks my personal superhero - though his cape is more likely to be covered in grass stains than flowing majestically behind him.

Jace walks through the door with Koen following closely behind him, and the two of them come to a stop in the middle of our kitchen. There’s dirt caked on their pants, showcasing the funthey’ve had the last couple of hours, and Jace’s hair is sticking to the side of his face from sweat.

My belly dips at the sight of him, but Stella rushing up to him with a big smile sends any dirty thoughts to the back of my mind — we’ve always got when they go to sleep. I can wait.

Jace scoops Stella up, planting a kiss on her forehead. His eyes find mine over her head, a silent conversation passing between us. Seven years, and we’ve perfected the art of parental telepathy.

“So,” he says, his tone light, “how’d the great baking experiment go?”

Stella, ever the traitor, points dramatically to the trash can. “We’re desperate, Daddy.”

My mouth pops open in shock, and I place my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, I never said I was desperate.”

“Okay,” Stella says, smirking. “Fine.I’mthe desperate one.”

Sometimes it surprises me that she’s not a teenager, her attitude definitely doesn’t add up to a five-year-old little girl, and she’s smarter than most of the kids in her grade. I see a bright future for our little girl, but I don’t want to get too ahead of ourselves — these stages only last so long and it’s already going by too fast.

Jace smirks as he walks further into the kitchen, his steps separating the distance between, and he glances at the bowl of batter waiting to be poured down the drain. “What happened this time, sweetheart?”

“Hell if I know,” I mutter. “The directions were right in front of my face. There’s only so much I can do.”

He nods, then dips his finger into the batter and sucks it off with his eyes closed. “Hm, there’s something missing.”

I watch as he repeats the action, then hold his finger out to me as if waiting for me to lick it off, and I lean forward with my eyes focused on him. I’m about to open my mouth, more than ready to entertain whatever he’s doing, but as soon as I get close enough, he wipes the batter all over my cheek with a chuckle.

“There, that’s much better,” he states with a grin, then looks toward the back door. “Right kids?”

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