Chapter 5 Ten Minutes Late

I woke up at five as usual. But today, I wasn't rushing to scrub oatmeal off a toddler's face or hunting for missing socks. I was moving through Edward's luxurious kitchen like I had always belonged there. By seven-thirty, the vast mahogany dining table was barely visible beneath a spread that could have fed a small army. I made fluffy scrambled eggs seasoned with fresh chives, thick-cut maple bacon glistening under the bright lights, golden-brown pancakes stacked high, and a bowl of vibrant seasonal fruit. A pot of French press coffee sat steaming beside a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

I was plating the last of the sourdough toast when I heard Edward's heavy footsteps coming from across the hall; he didn't do his morning ritual of boxing today. He was dressed for the office already, a bespoke navy suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie that screamed authority. He was looking down at his phone, his thumb scrolling through a legal brief, his face set in that familiar, frozen mask of professional seriousness.

Then, he reached the entrance of the kitchen. Edward stopped. His thumb froze on the screen. He blinked, his nostrils flaring as the scent of butter and maple syrup hit him with the force of a physical blow. He looked at the dining table, then at me, then back at the table.

"What is this?" he asked. His voice was low, free of its usual sharp edge. He looked genuinely baffled, as if he had walked into the wrong apartment.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel, a small, nervous smile forming on my lips. "It's breakfast, Ed. I know you said the coffee machine is automatic and I shouldn't bother, but... well, I'm a creature of habit. I can't help but feed people."

Edward didn't move. He stared at the pancakes as if they were a complex piece of evidence he couldn't quite resolve. "I usually just have a protein shake in the car," he said. "Or a black coffee at the firm."

"A protein shake isn't a meal," I replied, pulling out a heavy chair for him. "Sit. Please. You have a long day of being a lawyer ahead of you. You need real food."

Edward hesitated for a moment before moving toward the seat. As he sat, he looked at the incredible variety of the food. "You did all of this... this morning? Alone?"

"Edward, I used to make breakfast for seven people in a kitchen the size of your coat closet," I laughed, dropping a plate in front of him. "This was actually relaxing. No one spilled juice on my shoes once."

He picked up a fork, his movements unusually slow. He took a bite of the eggs, and I watched as his eyes went shut for a second. A low, soft sound - almost a groan of satisfaction - escaped his throat.

"Is it okay?" I asked, suddenly nervous. "I didn't know if you had allergies or—"

"It's incredible," he interrupted. He looked up at me, and for the first time, the "lawyer" was gone. He looked like a man who was suddenly, violently aware of how hungry he had been - not just for food, but for companionship.

"No one has ever... I mean, I've had private chefs. I've had assistants bring me five-star catering. But no one has ever just... cooked for me."

"Not even Eleanor?" I asked, the name slipping out before I could hold my tongue.

Edward's countenance darkened for a second, but it wasn't the cold anger of the previous night. It was a sad reflection. "Eleanor wouldn't have known how to turn on a stove if her life depended on it. She thought the kitchen was a place for the staff to hide. If she wanted to 'treat' me, she booked a table at a Michelin-star restaurant where we could be seen by the right people."

He took another bite of a pancake, shaking his head. "This is... this is about me. Isn't it?"

I leaned against the table opposite him, my heart softening. "It's just breakfast, Edward. But yes. It's for you. Because you had a hell of a night, and because you stood up for me. In my world, we show gratitude with full stomachs."

Edward ate with a quiet, intense focus. He didn't check his phone once. He finished the eggs, the bacon, and a stack of pancakes, his posture losing the rigid tension that usually defined him. He looked younger, more human.

As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, he caught me watching him. "What?" he asked, a hint of a smirk - a real one - tugging at his mouth.

"You have a bit of syrup right there," I said, pointing to the corner of my own lip.

Edward reached up to wipe it, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. "You're making this very difficult, Serena."

"Making what difficult?"

"The contract," he said, his voice dropping to a low tone. He set the coffee cup down and stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. "I brought you here to be a quiet, orderly convenience. I brought you here to check a box for my father's will so I could inherit a firm and keep my mother at bay. It was supposed to be a business transaction."

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the aroma of the breakfast I'd made, made me feel dizzy instantly.

"And now?" I whispered, my breath hitching.

"And now," Edward said, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my skin, warm and surprisingly gentle. "I find myself actually wanting to come home. I find myself wondering what you're going to do next to disrupt my perfectly miserable life. It's... amazing. And it's completely terrifying."

I felt a rush of pride - not just for the meal, but for the crack I had just made in his armor. "Maybe your life doesn't have to be miserable to be perfect, Ed."

He looked at his watch, then back at what’s left of the buffet. "I'm ten minutes late for a partner meeting. I haven't been late in six years."

"Should I apologize?"

Edward grabbed his briefcase, but before he turned to leave, he did something that made my knees go weak. He leaned in and kissed my cheek - a lingering, soft press of his lips that felt more intimate than anything we had done at City Hall.

"Don't you dare apologize," he whispered against my ear. "I'll see you at eight. And, Serena?"

"Yes?"

"Keep the leftovers. I want them for dinner."

As the front door closed behind him, I leaned against the table, my heart racing. The "Ice King" was melting, and I was the one holding the flame. But as I looked at the empty plate, a thought crossed my mind: when a man like Edward Vance starts to feel, he feels everything. And his family was not going to let him go soft without a fight.