Chapter 363

A jolt of warmth coursed through Vincent's chest, subtle yet undeniable. Hannah was cooking for him?Because she'd noticed he hadn't been eating well? He watched her in silence, his gaze unwavering.

When he didn't respond, Hannah gestured toward a basket brimming with vibrant tomatoes and crisp asparagus, her tone light and effortless. "Don't just stand there-rinse those."

Vincent blinked, caught off guard. The formidable head of the Jones Group, a man who could shift markets with a single call, was being asked to wash vegetables. It was ludicrous.

Yet, as he observed her graceful movements in the kitchenette, enveloped in a rare,tranquil calm,he found himself stepping forward without protest. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing toned forearms, and began rinsing the produce under the faucet, his motions tentative but precise.

The gentle rush of water, the steady rhythm of chopping, the occasional clatter of a pan filled the air-no words were exchanged.

But the space hummed with the aroma of fresh ingredients and something far more elusive-the fleeting illusion of a home.

The meal came together quickly: three simple dishes and a soup.

They sat at the table, eating in companionable silence.

Unlike before, the quiet wasn't laced with tension or frost. No piercing glares, no sharp words. Just the soft clink of cutlery and the faint sounds of their meal.

To Vincent, this unassuming, home-cooked spread outshone any Michelin-starred feast. His stomach warmed. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, so did his heart. For a fleeting moment, they felt like an ordinary married couple. The thought jolted him. His fingers stilled briefly around his fork.

In the days that followed, that feeling became a quiet obsession. He began to anticipate lunch with an unfamiliar eagerness. Each day at noon, his butler would appear at his office door, carrying a thermal food

box. "Mr. Jones, this is from Mrs. Jones."

Inside, Vincent would find a carefully crafted meal-warm, balanced, and tailored precisely to his tastes.He even suspected she was studying his preferences, subtly refining dishes based on what he seemed to enjoy the day before, presenting them with delicate precision the next.

He noted that she had changed. Was she really this softer and more attentive? Not quite. Her words remained sparse, her gaze never fully softened. A faint detachment lingered behind her composed exterior.But it was this understated care, this quiet dedication, that drew him in irresistibly.

That evening, they sat across from each other at the table, sharing another meal Hannah had prepared herself.

The atmosphere was serene, even comforting.

Vincent set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. His gaze settled on her, deep and unreadable. "Starting tomorrow, you'll cook in the kitchen."

Hannah's hand froze, her fork suspended over her plate. She looked up, confusion flickering in her eyes."I've been cooking in the kitchen..." she said softly, referring to the suite's kitchenette.

Vincent clarified, "I mean the main kitchen."

The main kitchen. Her heart gave a single, heavy thud. That meant leaving the confines of the suite and moving freely through the house.

Her fingers tightened àlmost imperceptibly around her fork. She frowned slightly, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You're really letting me out of this room?"

Vincent caught the subtle shift in her expression, and a quiet tension gripped his chest. He looked away,choosing his words with care. "Think of it as gratitude," he said, "for the meals you've made these past few days."

He paused and then added quietly,"My appetite's been better lately."

A glint of cold triumph flashed in Hannah's eyes. He was falling for it. She tilted her chin, her lips curving

into a carefully measured smile, laced with just the right hint of playful charm. "Well, naturally! I know how particular you are about food. That's why I've been mixing things up, just for you."

Seeing this rare, lively spark in her-the quiet pride, the flicker in her gaze-Vincent felt his lingering unease ease,if only slightly. "Thank you," he murmured.

Hannah seemed to catch herself, her expression slipping back into neutrality. She lowered her gaze,prodding her food with her fork, her tone tinged with feigned awkwardness. "I-I didn't do it for you," she muttered. "I have to eat too. Steak every night was getting old."

He didn't challenge her. A faint smile tugged at his lips, impossible to restrain.

They spoke no more after that.

Later that night, long after dinner had ended and the house had fallen silent, Vincent slipped into Hannah's room once more,the door opening soundlessly.

He approached her bedside. She lay still, her breathing even and calm, as if lost in deep slumber.

He stood there, simply watching. She seemed so at peace now, as if she'd truly settled into this life. Cooking for him, showing flashes of spirit, even hints of care-it all wove a picture that felt achingly real. Too perfect to be surreal.

Yet, just as he began to believe she would stay by his side, when he dared to lower his guard, a familiar dread crept in. A quiet fear that it was all a facade. That she would still disappear.

He lingered there for a long, long time. Finally, he turned, preparing to slip away as he always did.

But just as he moved, Hannah's hand darted out, her fingers closing gently around his wrist.