Page 31 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

The chef claps his hands together. “Bien sûr! I am Chef Marcel, and I will be taking care of you during your stay. Tonight, I have prepared a delicate filet mignon, seared to perfection, with a red wine reduction, accompanied by truffle mashed potatoes and a winter greens salad.”

I blink at him, completely thrown. Piers, for once, is at a loss for words.

Chef Marcel continues, undeterred by the silence. “For dessert, a crème brûlée with the slightest hint of orange zest. And, of course, a bottle of our finest cabernet sauvignon to pair with your meal.” He gestures to a bottle chilling in an ice bucket, beaming like he’s just announced we’ve won the lottery.

Thank god there’s wine.

“It is my honor to provide the finest dining experience for our guests. You’ll find everything you need in the kitchen, and if you require anything else, I am but a phone call away.”

Before either of us can respond, he executes a dramatic bow and heads for the door. “Bon appétit!”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving us in stunned silence. The cabin is quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace. Piers helps me settle into one of the chairs at the small, elegantly set table. His hands are steady as they guide me down, but as soon as I’m seated, his attention turns to the kitchen.

“I’ll grab us something to drink,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing behind the counter.

I barely hear him as I zero in on the bottle of cabernet sauvignon, its deep ruby hue glinting in the soft light. Condensation beads on its sleek surface, and the sight of it is magnetic- impossible to ignore. My fingers twitch with an old, familiar need as I reach for it.

The cork is already loosened, practically inviting me to indulge. My hands move with anxious speed, pouring the wine into the nearest glass. The rich aroma fills the air, intoxicating even before the first sip. My mouth waters as I bring the glass to my lips-

“Not happening.”

Piers’s voice slices through the moment, calm but firm. Before I can react, the glass is plucked from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. I snap my head up, locking eyes with him as he sets the wine and my glass on the far end of the table, just out of reach.

“What the hell?” I snap, heat rising in my chest.

“You don’t need that,” he replies, his tone maddeningly even as he moves to the counter.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” I shoot back, my voice cutting through the quiet cabin. “After what I’ve been through, I deserve this.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at me as he reaches for a pitcher of grape juice and pours two glasses.

I stare at him, incredulous. “Fruit juice? Are you kidding me? Do you think that fixes anything?”

“Think of it as a reset,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. His eyes hold mine, unyielding but not unkind. “You’ve been through enough without adding this to the mix.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter as I grab the glass. “A reset? For what? There’s nothing left, Piers. No plan, no future. Just this cabin and…” My voice cracks, and I hate the way it betrays me.

“And what?” he presses, his voice softer now, as if he’s afraid I might shatter.

“And nothing!” I slam the glass down, the juice sloshing onto the table. “This is it! This is all there is. You dragged me here to play house like some twisted honeymoon fantasy, and for what? To pretend everything’s fine when it’s all falling apart?”

Piers’s jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening against the table. “We’re not playing house, Fantasia. We’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

“Surviving for what?” I demand, rising to my feet. My chair scrapes against the floor, the sound grating and loud. “There’s no future for me! Don’t you get that? I’ve lost everything- my home, my title, my country. England’s gone. My life is gone. It’s over!”

His eyes gleam, edge-hard, like a blade catching light. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth!” The words erupt from me, raw and jagged, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

My chest heaves as the weight of my confession settles, the truth too heavy to hold in any longer.

“You’re wrong,” he says at last, his voice low but steady. He stands and crosses the space between us in one stride, his presence overwhelming. His hands grip my shoulders, grounding me even as I try to twist away. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here. With you.”

My throat tightens, the fight draining out of me as hot tears blur my vision. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice cracking.

“Then let me help you,” he murmurs, pulling me close. At first, I resist, my fists weakly pushing against his chest, but he doesn’t let go. His warmth seeps into me, his steady heartbeat anchoring me to the moment.

Piers’s arms come around me, warm and all-encompassing, a blanket thrown over reality. I’m too tired to fight, too tired to be proud. I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the smell of his clothes and his skin. His hand cups the back of my head, his fingers dipping into my hair. His other hand paints soothing circles on my shoulder blades.

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