Page 58 of Arranged with Twins
The domesticity of cooking together feels both foreign and natural. I can do the basics, though I’ve eaten meals prepared by professional chefs for most of my adult life, but watching Sienna move around her kitchen with easy confidence makes me understand what I’ve been missing.
I focus on separating eggs while she sautés mushrooms, filling the kitchen with rich, earthy aromas. “How was your afternoon with Nadia?”
“Productive. She’s creating something beautiful that will actually fit properly.” Sienna adds cream to her pan, stirring slowly. “Mother’s going to hate that I rejected her stylist’s selection.”
“Your mother’s opinion matters less than your comfort.” I whisk egg whites until they form soft peaks. “This is my foundation’s event. I want you to feel confident, not like you’re being displayed for someone else’s benefit.”
She pauses in her stirring to look at me. “You know, four months ago I would have worn whatever she told me to wear without question.”
“What’s changed?”
“You. Us. This.” She gestures between us with her wooden spoon. “I’m tired of letting other people make my choices for me.”
“As you should. You have a life too.”
We work in comfortable silence for several minutes. She tosses pasta in her cream sauce while I fold chocolate into my whippedegg whites. The soufflé goes into the oven just as she plates our main course.
“Perfect timing.” She carries our plates to the small dining table by her windows, where Manhattan glitters below us.
The pasta is excellent, tasting rich and satisfying without being heavy. Sienna eats with more appetite than I’ve seen from her in weeks, which relieves some of my concern about her pregnancy symptoms. “This morning’s brunch sounded particularly unpleasant,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork.
“It was the usual criticisms and control tactics.” She takes a sip of sparkling water. “Though there was something different this time.”
“Different how?”
“I overheard them arguing before I went inside.” Sienna sets down her fork to look at me. “Father was talking about missed payments and someone pressing him for something he didn’t want to do. Mother offered to handle it herself, but he told her to stay away from someone named Adrian.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Vincent’s been more reckless than I thought if he’s discussing Adrian openly enough for Sienna to overhear. “Adrian,” I repeat, keeping my voice neutral despite the fury building in my chest.
“Father said he was dangerous. The whole conversation felt serious, like they were discussing something that frightened them both.” Sienna studies my face. “Do you know who Adrian is?”
The question remains unanswered while I calculate how much truth I can tell her without causing panic. She’s already dealingwith pregnancy stress and her parents’ manipulation. “Adrian Petrov runs a rival organization.” I choose my words carefully. “If your father’s involved with him, it explains some of the financial pressure he’s been under.”
“Is he someone you’ve dealt with before?”
“He used to work for me. I trained him and groomed him to help lead the organization one day.” I grimace. “Too bad ambition made him impatient. He split away five years ago, taking men and resources with him.”
Sienna nods slowly. “Should I be worried about Father’s connection to him?”
“I’m handling it.” The words come out hard, and I force myself to soften my tone. “You don’t need to worry about your father’s business problems. That’s not your responsibility.”
She accepts this answer, though she clearly still has questions. We finish dinner while discussing safer topics, sticking to her morning sickness symptoms, my upcoming legitimate business meetings, and plans for the weekend.
After clearing the plates, I insist on washing dishes while she relaxes on the couch. The soufflé has risen perfectly in the oven, and I just need to plate it.
“You don’t have to clean up,” Sienna calls from the living room. “I can handle it later.”
“I want to.” Taking care of these small domestic tasks feels like caring for her in concrete ways. I scrub the cream sauce from her pan, using the repetitive motion to process what she told me about Vincent and Adrian.
After that, I sever dessert in the living room, where Sienna has curled up in the corner of her sectional couch. “It didn’t collapse.” She accepts her bowl with a smile. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t celebrate until you taste it.” Despite my words, I’m pleased with how it turned out.
She takes a bite and closes her eyes in appreciation. “This is incredible. Did you already know how to make soufflé?”
“Nope. I used your recipe from YouTube.” Her surprised laugh makes me smile. She settles against my side when I join her on the couch, her head finding its natural place on my shoulder.
We eat dessert while soft music plays in the background. Sienna’s breathing gradually deepens, and when I look down, her eyes are closed, the empty bowl balanced precariously in her lap.
