Nobody thanked the wife who cooked Thanksgiving until her husband saw what the oven had done to her arms

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving passed in a blur of golden leaves, crisp morning frost, and quiet, steady industry. The anniversary of the fourteen-hour shift was approaching, and the media outlets had long since stopped sniffing around the Sterling family ruins, moving on to newer, flashier corporate scandals.

Inside the estate, however, preparations were underway for a very different kind of holiday.

Evelyn had insisted on hosting. Not to show off, not to lord her victory over anyone, but to reclaim the holiday that had been stolen from them a year ago. The guest list was small, intimate, and entirely genuine: Arthur Vance and his wife, two of Grant’s closest business partners who had stood by them through the audit, and Evelyn herself.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Lydia stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the smooth, rhythmic confidence of a master chef. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Her arms were bare, smooth, and strong.

Grant walked in, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and pressing his face into the crook of her neck. He breathed in the scent of rosemary and garlic, smiling against her skin.

“You’re doing it again,” Grant whispered, chuckling softly. “You’ve been in this kitchen for six hours straight.”

Lydia laughed, turning around in his embrace to look up at him. “It’s not fourteen hours, Grant. And this time, I have an oven that actually works on the first try.”

Grant’s smile softened into something deeply tender. He reached down, taking her hands in his, tracing his thumbs lightly over her palms and up her forearms.

“You know,” Grant said quietly, his voice dropping an octave, “a year ago today, I was a coward. I watched you bleed, I watched you burn, and I said nothing. Every time I look at these arms, I remember how close I came to losing you because of my own blindness.”

Lydia reached up, placing her hand gently against his cheek, feeling the warm, steady pulse beneath his skin. “You aren't that man anymore, Grant. We aren't those people anymore. We survived the fire.”

“Yes, we did,” Grant said, leaning down to press his lips softly against hers. “And this year, nobody is going to take Thanksgiving away from us.”

“Good,” Evelyn’s voice chimed from the doorway as she tapped her cane lightly against the floorboards. “Because I brought the champagne, and if either of you tries to back out of carving the turkey tomorrow, I’m cutting you both out of the will.”