Page 14 of F*ckboys

Her reply is almost immediate, and I can picture her pouting face.

With Mia mostly off my conscience, I have a productive day of work where we're both so busy we barely interact. I'm mainly occupied preparing course content for an upcoming program. In the afternoon, I have a few consultation meetings with potentialvendors for an innovative personal empowerment framework that critics have been very positive about in its early stages.

Before I know it, it's dark outside. As usual, I'm one of the last to leave the office and I listen to one of my favorite podcasts on the short drive home.

I pad over to my kitchen, the sanctuary where I find solace from the outside world including the demons that haunt me. "Let's see what we have here…" I mutter, rummaging through the fridge. My fingers wrap around an array of fresh ingredients, and my mind races with the potential dishes I could create.

"Ah, perfect," I say aloud, settling on a coq au vin recipe with a double-baked soufflé accompaniment that have been passed down through generations in my family. Both recipes are complicated and time-consuming, requiring intense concentration to make each item just right, but the challenge is exactly what I need to keep my mind occupied.

At first, the rhythmic cadence of chopping vegetables and stirring sauces grants me much-needed respite from thoughts of Aksel and revenge. Tonight, I'll lose myself in the art of cooking and forget the world beyond these walls.

As I chop and sauté, the memories of my past dance behind my eyes like ghosts, never far from the surface. I shake them away, focusing on the task at hand. My determination to drown out the painful echoes fuels my every movement, each knife stroke and seasoning adding another layer of armor against the darkness.

"Shit," I curse under my breath as I accidentally nick my finger with the knife while chopping carrots. Sucking on the small wound, I taste the metallic tang of blood mingling with the bitterness of unfulfilled revenge. In this moment, it feels fitting.

"Focus, Fallon," I remind myself, returning to chopping. The pain subsides as I continue slicing vegetables, losing myself in the repetitive motion. The familiar dance of sautéing,simmering, and stirring initially shields me from the relentless pressures of my mission and the haunting memories of my past.

But as muscle memory takes over, my mind eventually strays, and I can't help but think about why I chose this path, growing my own company and rejecting full immersion into the family business. It was never just about the money or power; it was about preserving a piece of myself, maintaining my autonomy in both my career and personal life. I refuse to be swallowed up by the darkness that surrounds me, and cooking offers an escape, a balm for wounds that are yet to heal.

I pour myself a glass of rich red wine, watching as the liquid swirls and settles. There's something comforting about it, the deep color reminiscent of the blood that courses through our veins—a reminder that we're alive, fighting, and surviving.

"Here's to you, Fallon," I murmur, raising the glass in a mock-toast to myself. The sound of my own voice ripples through the quiet condo, shattering the stillness for a moment.

Taking a slow, mindful sip, I let the velvety warmth of the wine coat my tongue and throat, savoring its bold flavor. I acknowledge that cooking isn't just a skill—it's a refuge, an escape from the chaos that surrounds me. As the simmering dish on the stove crackles with anticipation, I can't help but think of the unresolved tension between Aksel and me. No matter how hard I try to fight it, we're like two volatile ingredients waiting to collide, creating an explosion of heat and passion.

The scent of garlic and shallots sautéing in butter invades my senses, luring me further into the culinary trance I've created for myself. Each chop of my knife against the wooden cutting board is methodical, precise—a distraction from the tangled web of emotions threatening to consume me.

"Fuck going out tonight," I mutter, pouring a generous amount of white wine into the pan. The sizzling sound drownsout Mia's voice lingering in my mind, trying to persuade me to join her at the club. "I'm so glad I decided to stay in instead."

As the fragrant steam wraps around me like a comforting embrace, I lose myself in the rhythm of cooking. My condo, bathed in soft light from the setting sun, becomes a haven where I can momentarily escape the chaos that has become my life. The gentle hum of the stove and the clinking of utensils orchestrate a soothing melody, allowing me to forget—if only for a moment—the vengeance I so desperately crave.

I taste-test regularly as I go. "Bon appétit," I murmur, taking a bite of the exquisite gruyère and époisses cheeses used in the soufflé recipe, followed by a bite of the crispy bacon ready to crumble on top of the coq au vin. The flavors meld together seamlessly and dance on my tongue.

"Ugh, too much again," I sigh, eyeing the overflowing pot on the stove. It's become a habit of mine—making way more food than necessary. Cooking for one kind of sucks. But I know what I'll do with the leftovers: freeze them and take some to work for Grave. He pretends to loathe my "pretentious" cooking, but I've caught him savoring every bite before. It's one of our unspoken rituals, and it brings a rare smile to my face.

"Looks good," I whisper to no one in particular, admiring the rich sauce that has come together in the pan.

"Are you talking to yourself again?" Mia's voice echoes in my head, teasingly. "Crazy cat lady without the cats."

"Shut up," I snap back, even though I know she's not here. "Can't a girl enjoy her own company?"

But as the silence of my apartment settles around me, the weight of loneliness presses down on my chest. I swallow hard, pushing it back, refusing to let it overtake me. I've handled being single and fiercely independent for years. No time for weakness now.

"God, I'm good," I muse to myself as the dish nears completion. The tantalizing aroma of bacon, wine-marinated poultry, fresh citrus and pungent French and Swiss cheeses fills the kitchen, a testament to my little-known culinary prowess.

"Too bad no one else will ever get to taste this the way it's meant to be," I think bitterly, my mind automatically defaulting to Aksel as the primary target. "He doesn't deserve it anyway." I think about Grave feasting on the many Tupperware-filled containers I'll be taking into work for him, and it makes me feel slightly better.

I begin plating the dish with precision and care, each element meticulously arranged for maximum visual appeal. It's an emerging masterpiece that deserves to be admired and I snap a couple of pictures for Instagram. If I don't have anyone special to share it with in person, I may as well demonstrate my plating skills to my social media following. I even set the table for one, adding a candle and a single black rose in a gesture of self-care.

Maybe I'll even have a bubble bath after this and snuggle under my blanket with a good book. And yet, as I look over at the table, another pang of loneliness strikes me. I shake off the feeling, reminding myself that solitude is a small price to pay for the revenge I seek.

"Alright," I say aloud, determination steeling my voice. "Almost time to eat. Just a couple more steps to go."

I finish the glass of wine in one bold gulp, savoring its warmth as it spreads through my body, igniting a spark of determination.

The beeping of my phone startles me from my thoughts, and I realize I've been standing still, lost in my emotions.

Mia: Fallon, are you okay?

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