Chapter 4 - The Midnight Baker
At 2:14 AM, the Southampton estate was wrapped in absolute, tomb-like silence.
Beatrice lay wide awake in the center of the massive king-sized bed. The Atlantic wind whistled against the double-paned glass of the balcony doors, carrying the faint, rhythmic roar of the surf. Her mind raced. Every shadow cast by the moonlight through the cedar beams looked like a shifting threat.
What am I doing here?
She threw off the heavy duvet, stood up, and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor toward the private kitchen inside her pavilion. She didn't turn on the overhead lights; instead, she flicked on the warm under-cabinet strip lighting, illuminating the gleaming copper pots and stainless steel counters.
She needed flour on her hands. She needed the physical, repetitive rhythm of kneading dough to quiet the storm inside her head.
Opening the industrial refrigerator, she found blocks of French butter, farm-fresh eggs, heavy cream, and Madagascar vanilla beans—perks of living in a house where the grocery budget probably exceeded the annual revenue of her entire bakery.
An hour later, the kitchen was filled with the rich, buttery, intoxicating aroma of laminated croissant dough.
Beatrice stood at the marble island, her emerald silk dress swapped for a loose gray cotton t-shirt and yoga pants, her hair falling in messy waves around her shoulders. She was deeply focused on rolling out the dough with a heavy wooden pin, turning and folding it with practiced, graceful precision.
She didn't hear the heavy oak doors of her pavilion open.
She didn't hear the soft, silent tread of footsteps across the hardwood floor.
“I thought the kitchens on the ground floor were for the staff,” a low, raspy voice broke through the silence.
Beatrice gasped, spinning around with the rolling pin raised defensively like a baseball bat.
Theodore stood leaning against the kitchen archway. He had removed his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle and faint scars along his forearms. He looked tired, the hard lines of his face softened slightly by exhaustion and the dim kitchen light.
Lowering the rolling pin slowly, Beatrice let out a shaky breath. “Don't sneak up on people like that! You almost got a face full of French pastry dough.”
Theodore’s gaze traveled past her, taking in the neat rows of unbaked croissants resting on parchment paper, the dusting of flour across the marble, and the relaxed, unguarded look on her face.
“What are you doing up at three in the morning?” he asked, walking slowly into the kitchen.
“I couldn't sleep. The ocean is too loud, the bed is too big, and your house feels like a museum dedicated to stress,” she retorted, turning back to her work.
Theodore didn't get angry. He walked closer, stopping just on the other side of the island. He picked up a small lump of leftover dough, turning it over in his large, calloused fingers.
“You smell like vanilla,” he observed quietly.
“That tends to happen when you bake pastries for a living,” she muttered, dusting flour over her rolling pin.
“My mother used to bake,” Theodore said, his voice dropping into a register so vulnerable that Beatrice stopped moving entirely. She turned her head to look at him. The arrogant, untouchable crime lord of Manhattan had vanished, leaving behind a man haunted by ghosts.
“What did she bake?” Beatrice asked softly, her defensive walls dropping an inch.
“Sourdough bread,” Theodore said, looking down at the dough in his hand. “Every Sunday in a cramped kitchen in Queens before my father took over the docks. It was the only time the house was quiet. The only time nobody was screaming about money or turf.”
Beatrice felt a tight knot form in her chest. She looked at Theodore—really looked at him—and saw the heavy invisible chains he had been carrying since he was a boy.
“Do you know how to knead?” she asked suddenly.
Theodore blinked, looking up in surprise. “What?”
“The dough,” she said, stepping aside and patting the marble surface next to her. “Wash your hands at the sink, roll up your sleeves, and I’ll teach you. If you’re going to lurk in my kitchen at three in the morning, you’re going to earn your keep.”
May you like
For a second, Theodore looked as though he might refuse—as though the very idea of manual labor in a bakery was beneath the mighty head of the Castellan family. Then, slowly, a faint, genuine smile touched the corner of his mouth.
He walked to the sink, washed his hands with brisk efficiency, rolled his sleeves up another turn, and stepped up beside her at the island.
