“Do you need something?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. You can take the rest of the night off.”
He hesitates, then nods, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
Someone should probably have emergency services on speed dial. Things tend to catch fire when I’m involved.
I like to make fun of Adelaide, but in the kitchen I might be just as bad, if not worse.
But… I’d sooner catchfirethan admit that out loud.
Chapter 50
Octavia
I glance around the kitchen and pull out my phone, scrolling until I find the cookie recipe I saved on Instagram.
It looks so good.
I check the ingredients list, and set my phone down.
M&M’s cookies.
That’s what I’m making, and I hope that everything I need is stocked somewhere in this house.
M&M’s are, after all, my favourite chocolate, which means there’s a very good chance they exist here.
I raid the pantry, pulling out what I need and lining it all up on the counter. Sugar, eggs, vanilla, flour, butter.
I start mixing, cracking eggs and stirring the sugar until it turns pale and thick. The recipe is vague, which means I have no real measurements, so I pull up another recipe on Google to estimate the quantities and hope for the best.
The dough looks… decent.
I add in the M&M’s, more than the recipe lists, but they’re M&M’s cookies. They’re meant to be overloaded.
I wash my hands, then start shaping the dough, rolling balls between my palms. It sticks to my fingers, and I scrunch my nose.
A loose strand of hair slips free from my ponytail and falls into my face, and without thinking I try to push it aside, smearing dough on my skin instead.
By the time I line them up on the baking tray, they look a little chaotic and uneven. I press them down slightly, then add extra M&M’s on top, just to be sure.
I glance at the oven. The indicator light is off, which should mean it’s preheated.
I briefly consider that maybe I shouldn’t have let the cook go, but it’s Christmas night. And he has a family to go home to. I’m not keeping staff around for cookies.
I slide the tray into the oven, set the timer, and straighten.
My reflection catches my attention, not my face, just my body.
Flour dusts my hands, my cropped top, even my bare stomach. I stare at it for a moment, aware that I would never allow myself to look like this if my father were home.
I would never permit this softness and normality.
As he’s said before, I am meant to be ruthless and cold. Meant to kill people, not bake cookies.
And I am.
Which means this version of me, the one baking cookies in Christmas pyjamas and Santa slippers, doesn’t get to exist openly. Only the people closest to me are allowed to see it.
