Chapter 6: The Least I Can Do
The car was a silent vault gliding through Manhattan’s electric dusk. Bags, soft and imposing, occupied the seat between them like a silent third passenger. Stephanie watched the city blur, her knees pressed together, the memory of mesh against her skin more vivid than the velvet dress she now wore.
Malik drove them to a tower of steel and glass that speared the twilight. The lobby was a cavern of polished stone, silent but for the whisper of a fountain. The elevator didn’t have buttons; it knew where to go.
Veronica’s penthouse was not a home. It was a fortress of curated space. Vast, open, all cold lines and hard surfaces bleeding into a panoramic view of the city’s nervous system. It felt like standing inside a jeweled watch.
“Your things go in my room,” Veronica said, shedding her coat onto a chair that probably cost more than a car. She didn’t look back as she walked toward the kitchen, her boots echoing on the polished concrete. “The second closet. Use it.”
Stephanie obeyed, dragging the bags down a hallway. The master bedroom was similarly severe, dominated by a low platform bed draped in grey linen. The walk-in closet was the size of her old sitting room. One side was all Veronica—racks of tailored suits, shelves of polished boots. The other side stood empty, ventilated, expectant.
She spent nearly an hour unpacking, her fingers smoothing the impossibly fine fabrics. Each piece felt like a artifact from a different, braver version of herself. Hanging the black mesh set, she felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks and quickly closed the closet door.
Silence pressed in. The penthouse hummed with its own climate control, a sterile breeze. She could hear Veronica on a call in another room, her voice a low, sharp patois that cut through the air. Business. Something about a shipment, a meeting on the docks.
Stephanie wandered back to the great room, feeling adrift. The kitchen was a spectacle of black marble and professional-grade steel, utterly spotless. It looked like a museum exhibit. Do Not Touch.
But boredom was a familiar, anxious companion. And in her childhood home, the kitchen had been the one room where she could sometimes find a semblance of peace, of control. Her maman’s old cook, Claudette, had been her only real teacher.
She opened the fridge. It was stocked with precision: organic produce, vacuum-sealed proteins, bottles of water with Scandinavian labels. Not ingredients. Components.
An idea, reckless and domestic, took root.
She found a apron hanging inside a pantry door—stiff, unused. She tied it on. She began to work quietly, a supplicant in a temple. She diced an onion, the knife sharp enough to make the task soundless. She minced garlic, crushed cumin seeds with the heel of a heavy pan. The scents bloomed, earthy and warm, a rebellion against the sterile air.
She lost herself in the rhythm. Searing scallops, building a sauce of white wine and butter and a splash of cream, wilting spinach from a ceramic bowl. It was a simple coquilles Saint-Jacques à la crème, something Claudette had taught her to make when she needed comfort.
The rich, buttery aroma began to weave through the penthouse.
Stephanie was reducing the sauce when she felt the change in the atmosphere. She looked up.
Veronica stood at the edge of the kitchen island, one hand resting on the marble. She had changed into loose black trousers and a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. Her Afro was loosely tied back. She wasn’t on the phone. She was just watching, her expression unreadable. Malik was nowhere to be seen.
“You cook,” Veronica said. It wasn’t a question.
Stephanie’s stirring slowed. “I… yes. I was bored. I hope that is alright. I used your things.”
Veronica’s nostrils flared slightly, taking in the scent. “You weren’t bored. You were making a point.”
“I was not,” Stephanie said, a little heat in her voice. She turned back to the pan, swirling the creamy sauce. “I was hungry. And kitchens… they are for using.”
A beat of silence. Then Veronica moved, circling the island to stand on the other side of the stove. She looked into the pan, then at Stephanie’s hands, now flecked with pepper.
“What is it?”
“Scallops in a cream sauce. With spinach. It is simple.”
“Nothing about you is simple, Stephanie James.” Veronica leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. The tattoos on her forearms shifted with the muscle. “An heiress who cooks like a Parisian grandmother. A scared rabbit who stands her ground. What next?”
Stephanie plated the food, her movements precise. She didn’t have an answer. She carried two plates to the island, setting one before Veronica. She fetched simple cutlery, ignoring the drawer of designer steak knives.
She stood, unsure, her own plate in hand.
“Sit,” Veronica said, nodding to the stool beside her.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds were the clink of forks and the distant hum of the city. Veronica took a bite, chewed slowly. Her eyes closed for a second.
“This is good,” she said finally, her voice stripped of its usual edge. It was just a statement. Fact.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t. You don’t thank me for stating a fact.” Veronica took another bite. “Who taught you?”
“Our cook. Claudette. She was… kind to me.”
Verricane watched her. “The only kind one.”
It wasn’t a question either. Stephanie nodded, looking down at her plate. The scar on her wrist seemed to pulse under the kitchen lights.
“My mother,” Veronica said, surprising them both. She spoke while looking at her food. “She worked two jobs in Kingston. Came home exhausted. But Sunday mornings, she would cook. Ackee and saltfish, fried dumplings. The whole place would smell like heaven and habanero.” She took a sip of water. “That kitchen was hotter than hell and about the size of this island. But it was the only place in the world that ever made sense.”
Stephanie held very still, afraid to break the spell.
Veronica finished her last scallop, wiped her mouth with a napkin. She turned on her stool, her knees almost brushing Stephanie’s. The green of her eyes was softer in the warm kitchen light.
“You put your clothes in my closet,” she said.
“You told me to.”
“I know what I told you.” Veronica reached out. Not for Stephanie, but for her empty plate. Her fingers brushed Stephanie’s as she took it. The contact was brief, electric. “Tomorrow, someone will come. They will take your measurements for the closet. So your things fit properly.”
She stood, taking both plates to the sink. She didn’t wash them, just left them there. A small, profound rebellion against the order of the place.
“The food was good,” she said again, her back to Stephanie. “Do it again whenever you want.”
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Stephanie surrounded by the lingering warmth of cumin, cream, and a confession that felt more vulnerable than any touch they’d shared all day. The city glittered, a cold tapestry beyond the glass, but in the kitchen, the air still held the fragile, buttery heat of a meal made by hand.