Page 95 of Devotion
He called Dominic.
He told me about it afterward. We were in the kitchen. I was teaching him a basic pasta sauce. His first attempt, he’d left the garlic on too high and it went from golden to black in about four seconds. “That’s carbon now,” I told him. “Not food.” He scraped the pan and started over.
Second attempt, he dumped in salt like he was de-icing a driveway. I tasted it and my face must have said everything because he put down the spoon and said “How bad?” and I said “The Dead Sea called. It wants its mineral content back.”
Third attempt. Low heat. Careful stirring. A pinch of salt, not a fistful. He tasted it, held the spoon out to me, and I nodded. The pride on his face was so genuine, so boyish, like a kid who’d just scored his first goal, that my chest ached with an affection so big it might spill over. I leaned up on my toes and kissed him. He grinned and reached for my waist, trying to pull me closer. I batted his hand away and pointed at the stove. “Sauce first. Romance later.”
“I talked to Dominic today,” he said, leaning against the counter with a dish towel over his shoulder like he’d been cooking his whole life instead of forty-five minutes.
I stopped stirring. “You did?”
“He told me about the cancer.”
I set the spoon down. “Christopher, I wanted to tell you. At the house, during the argument, I almost said it but it wasn’t my secret to?—”
“I know.” He looked at me. “Thank you. For listening to him when I wouldn’t. For caring about my family when I couldn’t.”
“How was the call?”
“Short. Difficult. Full of pauses where neither of us knew what to say.” He picked up a tomato from the counter and turned it in his hands, not looking at me. “He said he was sorry. I said I was sorry. We agreed we could both be sorry.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’s a start.” He set the tomato down. “It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure. But it’s a door that wasn’t open before.”
I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around him. He held me back. I could feel the weight of what that call had cost him, the effort of reaching through years of silence, and I held on tighter.
“Can I help with Sazón’s reopening menu?” he asked into my hair, changing the subject.
“You burned the sauce twice.”
“Third time was perfect.”
“You can taste-test.”
“I accept the position.”
Esmeralda made her move the following week.
She called a press conference. Accused Christopher of orchestrating Dominic’s accident to seize control of the company. Circumstantial evidence: timing, Christopher’s willingness to step in, the board’s rapid acceptance. She called it a coup disguised as family duty.
The story hit the news like a bomb. Christopher’s phone didn’t stop. Trisha appeared at the house within an hour wearing pajama pants and a blazer and a t-shirt that read “NOT MY FIRST CRISIS” and proceeded to set up a command center on our kitchen island. She spread papers and tablets across the counter like a general preparing for war.
“We’re going to destroy her,” Trisha said, scrolling through her tablet. “Legally, professionally, and with impeccable documentation. I’ve been building a file on Esmeralda’s interference for three months.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Christopher said.
“I’m thriving. This is my Super Bowl. My Met Gala. My personal renaissance.”
I was in the kitchen doorway when Christopher read the coverage later that evening. I watched the warmth drain from his face. The emotion pulling back behind the walls.
He looked up and saw me.
“This is going to get ugly,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You might want to.”
