Chapter 3

The news that Lady Priscilla wanted to turn an abandoned kitchen into a pastry shop traveled through the mansion faster than any rumor from the duke scandal.

The servants whispered in the hallways whenever she appeared. Some thought the broken engagement had finally driven her mad; others figured she was simply bored and would abandon the idea within a week.

Priscilla heard all of it.

And honestly, she couldn't blame them too much.

That morning she stood on a chair trying to clean a window thick with dust while arguing with the mansion's cook.

"Lady Priscilla, get down before you crack your head open again."

"I'm cleaning."

"You're making it worse."

The man let out a weary sigh.

"Never thought I'd live long enough to see you fighting a kitchen."

She climbed down carefully and surveyed the room. It was still a disaster — old boxes stacked in a corner, mismatched utensils, worn-out furniture, and an oven so ancient it looked capable of exploding at any moment.

But she liked it anyway.

Because this place had potential.

"We need new paint," she murmured.

"We need money," the cook corrected.

That shut her up for a few seconds.

Yes.

That was the real problem.

The Van family was practically bankrupt. Dorian did his best to keep up appearances with the nobility, though every week brought more letters from creditors and more servants leaving the mansion to find better work.

Even basic ingredients were starting to run out.

Still, Priscilla kept pushing.

She spent the following days cleaning the kitchen alongside the cook and two young maids who ended up helping more out of curiosity than obligation.

One of them, Lara, watched everything with obvious distrust.

"Lady Priscilla, do you really intend to sell food to people?"

"Yes."

Lara was still confused.

"But noblewomen don't work."

"Then I'll be the first one who does."

"That still sounds weird."

Priscilla looked up from the sack of flour she was trying to move.

"Lara, a week ago the entire capital was saying I abandoned a blind duke because he was ruining my future. I'm past the part where I worry about looking elegant."

The girl didn't know what to say.

And honestly, Priscilla wasn't acting out of pride either.

She simply didn't want to go back to lying in a silent room waiting to die.

That was all.

The first recipes were a disaster.

The oven burned two full trays.

The dough for some small rolls came out hard as stone.

And the caramel ended up stuck to the ceiling after the cook tried to move the pot too fast.

"I'm going to pretend that never happened," he said, staring at the mess.

Priscilla was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I still think we can sell it."

"Lady Priscilla, that could be used as poison."

Despite everything, the atmosphere started to change little by little.

The maids stopped seeing her as a spoiled noble playing at cooking and began helping for real. Lara organized the ingredients, the cook corrected mistakes, and even some of the other servants started lingering near the kitchen just to taste whatever they were making.

Because when something actually turned out right — it turned out really right.

Priscilla knew how to cook.

And it showed.

The sweet aroma filled the mansion's hallways from early in the morning. Freshly baked bread, melted butter, vanilla, and sugar. Even the most serious employees ended up drifting toward the kitchen with increasingly absurd excuses.

"I came to check the window."

"You're the gardener."

"Well, I wanted to check the plants growing on the frame."

Priscilla burst out laughing as she handed him a small pastry.

The man took a bite and his eyes went wide.

"Lady Priscilla... marry me."

"Don't let my father hear that. And no."

The whole kitchen dissolved into laughter.

And even though she still felt strange inside this new life, those small moments made everything hurt a little less.

Dorian started showing up quietly in the afternoons.

He never interfered much. Sometimes he simply stayed.

Priscilla noticed something quickly: he looked worse every day.

More tired. Paler.

He coughed often when he thought no one was listening.

And still he smiled every time she offered him a taste.

"What's this?" he asked one afternoon.

"Apple tart."

"Quite a luxury, tasting one from you."

"Because it is."

Dorian laughed softly before taking a bite.

Then he went quiet for a few seconds.

"It's good."

Priscilla raised an eyebrow.

"That sounded extremely emotional for you."

"I refuse to get emotional over a tart."

"Coward."

He shook his head and kept eating.

After a few minutes he spoke again.

"The staff seem livelier lately."

She looked at him.

"I think everyone needed a distraction."

"Including you."

Priscilla lowered her gaze to the dough she was preparing.

Yes.

Including her.

Because even though she had a different life now, a different face and a different name, she still carried that uneasy feeling inside her chest. That quiet fear that everything would disappear too quickly.

But cooking helped.

A lot.

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