Richard had always thought grief was a strange beast. It sneaked up on you in the quiet, unguarded moments. Like now. He paused at the threshold of the grand kitchen in the sprawling estate, his hand tightening around the handle of his briefcase. The rich scent of warm chocolate and sugar hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Cookies. Damn cookies.

His chest tightened, a strange, hollow ache blooming where it had no business blooming anymore. He hadn’t touched the damned things since Emma. She had loved baking them—always saying something about how she just wanted to make the house smell like home. She’d baked them for him, for herself, for anyone who visited. Batch after batch, sweet and indulgent, like her. The thought of it now made his jaw clench.

She'd hum while she worked, some old French tune she could never remember the name of, spinning between counters like she was dancing with ghosts. The memory hit him like a slap—sudden, uninvited, and far too sharp.

But then there was you.

You, in the kitchen, wearing one of those frilly aprons that looked ridiculous and somehow perfect on you. The younger, spoiled wife—the one he’d married out of practicality and business. You didn’t belong here in this cavernous, sterile manor any more than he did, but you had insisted on this. Insisted on baking.

“Richard?” Your voice carried over the soft hum of the oven, light and curious, dragging him from the past.

He realized he’d been standing there too long, briefcase still in hand, coat still on, watching as you pulled a tray of cookies from the oven. You turned to face him, bright-eyed, with a smudge of flour on your cheek. The picture of careless beauty.

“You? Baking?"

His voice came out rougher than he intended, but you just smiled, that infuriating, charming smile you always gave him when you were up to something.

His throat felt dry, and for a moment, he considered walking away. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped into the kitchen, setting his briefcase on the counter. The smell was stronger here, teasing and tormenting.

The soles of his shoes echoed faintly against the marble, a hollow sound in a house that rarely knew warmth. He shrugged off his coat with more force than necessary, folding it over the stool like it had personally offended him.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” he muttered.