Page 61 of When Hearts Surrender

Without another word, he spins around and stalks out of the kitchen.

My pulse riots inside my veins as the dull pain appears in my chest, similar to the mysterious ache that pulses through me whenever I open the locket around my neck and read its heartfelt inscription.

A barrage of emotions hit me at once—anger, sadness, the pain of rejection. I don’t understand him, this frigid king who burns hotter than the stars in the nighttime skies.

Before I leave the kitchen, I look at the counter, and my heart hiccups.

On it is a perfectly plated sandwich—a pastrami on rye.

Chapter 22

The flames give offa scorching heat in the traditional brick wood-burning oven as Mora bustles around the kitchen in the dim basement. Morris is whistling under his breath as he tidies up some items in the pantry. I asked him if he needed help, but he shooed me away.

“If it weren’t for this beauty, you wouldn’t be able to pay me to come down here,” Mora mutters, referring to the oven, her blond hair fashioned into a bun at her nape.

She’s in her mid-fifties and has worked at the estate for the last thirty years, ever since her predecessor passed away from a heart attack.

I chuckle before replying, “It is a bit creepy, huh?”

The traditional kitchen is well maintained, with simple gray walls, yellowed with age, well-used wooden cabinetry and prep island, and dark, vintage cast-iron stove and ovens, complete with a concealed grate.

A sole small window lets in the barest amount of dim daylight from the outside, the sun having long disappeared behind the clouds as the evening creeps in.

“Mom makes me come with her every time she uses the ovens down here.” Melody snickers as she hovers over her notepad on the counter.

We are meeting here to start the gala planning—after all, Melody used to work for a large corporation as their event planner, so it makes sense for her to help lead the charge with the charity gala.

It’s also a good distraction from the almost kiss that’s replayed itself in my mind for the last two weeks since the night I bumped into Maxwell in the kitchen.

“There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need company,” Mora huffs and mock glares at her daughter, but her eyes shine with warmth.

My heart pinches at the obvious affection between the mother and daughter, wishing I had the same relationship with my mom.

But it doesn’t matter. There’s no use in pining over the past. I’m going to focus on the future—having children of my own so I can love them the way I wanted to be loved when I was growing up. This is why I’m doing this—this marriage.

But you can’t have kids unless he sleeps with you, Belle.

I groan inwardly—part of me wants to jump his bones and another part of me wants to strangle him. This maddening, exasperating man.

A strange howl whispers down the corridor, followed by the rumble of doors banging and creaking against the hinges. I shudder, the hairs on my forearms rising.It’s just the air circulating from the outside.

Mora says, “Tell me about it. I’m not one to believe in ghosts and curses until I started working here.”

Her words give me pause.

I lean over the wooden counter and ask, “Do you believe it? The curse?”

Mora chooses her words carefully. “I think science can’t explain everything in this world and this family has had a very tragic history.” She strains a smile as she kneads the dough for the flatbread she’s making for tonight’s dinner. “But it’s easy to blame misfortunes on a curse or the supernatural.”

Her words make sense, but her tone sounds unsure.

“Why are you going about spreading rumors, Mora?” Agnes sweeps in and levels a scathing glare at the chef. The two women have a silent standoff before Agnes hands Mora a bag of flour.

“Belle is the mistress, and she has the right to ask.”

“It’s better not to know sometimes.” Agnes shoots a glacial look my way. “Let the ghosts rest where they lie, Ms. Belle.”

Just as I’m about to ask her to stop being so difficult to talk to, her phone beeps. She retrieves it and her face pales.

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