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Something flickers across his face as he cuts into the perfectly pink and juicy meat.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes. “This is exactly how she made it.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until now.
Gemma reaches across the table to squeeze Elijah’s hand before trying it herself.
Watching them eat, seeing their reactions, something shifts inside me. The kitchen feels right again. Natural. Like coming home after being away too long.
“Fuck,” Elijah pushes away his empty plate. “I missed your cooking.”
“But?” I brace myself for criticism.
“But nothing.” He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “So, about the?—”
“Let him finish serving first,” Gemma interrupts gently. “Dessert?”
I throw her a grateful look. “Coming right up.”
I plate the dark chocolate soufflés with the same carefulness. Molten centers waiting to burst, dusted with powdered sugar and vanilla bean ice cream. Hot meets cold, bitter meets sweet.
Just like mom taught me. Contrast makes the greatest things.
Her recipe book lies open nearby, its pages stained and dog-eared, her handwriting dancing across the margins.Add more vanilla,one note reads.Brandon likes it sweeter.
“Dessert is served.” I set the last course down. “Best eaten while hot.”
Gemma’s eyes widen at the presentation. Even Elijah looks impressed, though he tries to hide it behind his usual stoic expression.
Elijah breaks into the soufflé. “You haven’t made this since…”
The chocolate center flows out, rich and decadent. He takes a bite, and for a moment, I see the brother I grew up with, not the CEO who took Dad’s place.
“I know,” I say.
That first attempt after Mom died, I burned every single one. Dad and Elijah found me at 3 AM, surrounded by failures, chocolate-smeared and defeated.Some things,Dad said,are better left in the past.
But he was wrong. Some things need to be carried forward, transformed, but not forgotten.
Because this isn’t just the past, it’s the future, too. It’s taking what she left behind and making it my own.
The soufflé was never about getting it perfect.
It was about remembering.
“Brandon.” Elijah sets down his spoon, fixing me with that intense stare. “I was wrong.”
I stare at him, spoon halfway to my mouth, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears, and waiting for the punchline. The condition. The backpedal that always follows.
But it doesn’t come.
Elijah Milton, the brother who has never second-guessed himself, just admitted he was wrong.
I don’t know what to do with it.
“I was wrong.” He gestures at the empty plates. “I shouldn’t have let you join the company. Should have kicked you out way sooner.”
I let out a short laugh. “You always did love telling me to fuck off.”