Chapter 9 - THE HEALING OF WARS
By mid-December, the media storm had completely vanished, replaced by the relentless, freezing beauty of a Chicago winter.
The Lake Forest estate was blanketed in three feet of fresh, pristine snow. Inside, massive stone fireplaces crackled with oak logs, filling the grand halls with the scent of pine, cedar, and roasted chestnuts.
Lydia stood in the massive professional kitchen, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater, her bandaged arms finally healed enough to be free of gauze, leaving behind faint, silvery pink scars that faded a little more every day.
She was stirring a pot of spiced apple cider when strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and a familiar chin rested gently on her shoulder.
“You’re doing it again,” Grant murmured against her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
“Doing what?” she smiled, leaning back into his embrace.
“Working yourself into the ground. It’s Saturday morning, Lydia. We have no board meetings, no charity galas, and no unexpected guests.”
“I’m just making cider for the staff,” she protested playfully, turning around in his arms to wrap her hands around his neck. “And besides, Christmas is in three days. Your mother sent another floral arrangement this morning.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Did she? Let me guess—white lilies with a note complaining about the weather?”
“Actually,” Lydia laughed, reaching for a small white envelope on the counter, “it was an apology. Sort of.”
She handed him the card. Grant scanned the neat, rigid handwriting of Celeste Holloway: ‘Grant and Lydia, I trust you will spend the holidays in peace. Your father’s portrait in the east wing requires dusting. I expect you to uphold family traditions properly this year.’
Grant let out a dry, amused chuckle, tossing the card into the recycling bin. “Translation: She realizes she has no leverage left, she misses her son, and she wants an invitation to dinner.”
“Are you going to invite her?” Lydia asked softly.
Grant looked down into her warm, expressive brown eyes, his expression softening completely. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the faint scar on her left wrist—a permanent reminder of the night that had changed everything.
“Only under one condition,” Grant said quietly.
“And what’s that?”
“She admits, out loud, that you are the best cook in Lake Forest.”
Lydia laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed off the stone walls of the kitchen—the sound of a woman who had finally stopped running, stopped hiding, and found a home where she was truly loved.
May you like
Grant pulled her closer, his lips brushing hers in a slow, tender kiss that melted away every remaining shadow of the past.
The contract was dead. The debts were gone. And their real life was just beginning.
