Chapter 3

Frieda stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

Her hands nervously twisted the fabric of her yellow apron. The elderly woman's presence was overwhelming. She radiated a quiet, intimidating power that made the cheap apartment feel even smaller.

Eleonora reached out and gently took Frieda's hands.

"I am Dewitt's grandmother," Eleonora said. Her voice was surprisingly soft and warm.

Frieda's eyes widened. She gasped softly.

"Oh! Please, come in. Sit down," Frieda said, her voice shaking slightly. She quickly stepped aside, gesturing toward the worn sofa.

Eleonora smiled and sat down gracefully. Maura stood silently behind her.

Dewitt marched across the room. His jaw was locked tight.

He stopped right in front of Eleonora. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "What are you doing here? You didn't call."

Eleonora scoffed. She lifted her polished wooden cane and struck the cheap laminate floor with a loud thwack.

"You've been married for three months. You haven't brought your wife home once. Did you expect me to wait forever?" she snapped.

Dewitt's face turned a dangerous shade of pale. He couldn't say a word. He couldn't tell her he was running a psychological test on his wife to see if she was a gold digger. Not with Frieda standing two feet away.

Eleonora ignored his silent rage. She turned her sharp gaze around the room.

She took in the peeling paint on the baseboards, the cheap furniture, and the absolute, spotless cleanliness of the space.

Her eyes landed on the small coffee table. A cheap glass vase held a handful of wildflowers, arranged with an elegant, effortless beauty. Her eyes softened with approval.

Eleonora turned back to Frieda.

"Have you eaten breakfast, my dear?" Eleonora asked. "I rushed over here so early, I haven't had a bite."

Frieda's face flushed with embarrassment.

"I... I only have some basic things in the fridge," Frieda stammered. "Just eggs, some toast, and bacon."

Eleonora waved her hand dismissively. "That sounds wonderful. I would love to taste my granddaughter-in-law's cooking."

Dewitt stepped forward, his chest tight with panic.

"No," Dewitt said sharply. "I'll take you out. There's a French place downtown-"

Eleonora shot him a glare so lethal it made him snap his mouth shut.

"I said, I want to eat here," she commanded.

Frieda took a deep breath. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

"I'll be right back," she said, turning and practically running into the kitchen.

She pulled open the refrigerator door. She grabbed the carton of eggs, a stick of butter, and the package of cheap bacon.

She stood in front of the counter. She closed her eyes for a split second.

A strange, familiar calm washed over her. It was a feeling she couldn't explain, a deep-rooted instinct that lived in her blood. The ghost of her mother, Emelie, guiding her hands.

Frieda opened her eyes. She moved.

Her hands flew across the cutting board. She minced fresh herbs with terrifying speed and precision. The knife blurred.

She didn't make a complicated dish. She cracked the eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and began to whisk with a steady, practiced rhythm. She was making a simple but careful scramble.

She dropped a pad of butter into the hot skillet. It sizzled loudly.

The rich, heavy scent of browning butter and roasting bacon exploded out of the kitchen and drifted into the living room.

On the sofa, Eleonora stopped glaring at Dewitt. She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring slightly. A look of genuine surprise crossed her face.

Ten minutes later, Frieda walked out of the kitchen.

She carried two plain white ceramic plates. She set them down gently on the small dining table.

The omelettes were massive, golden, and perfectly puffed. The bacon was arranged on the side, crisp and glistening. It looked like a dish pulled straight from a three-star Michelin kitchen.

Eleonora stood up and walked to the table.

She picked up a fork and knife. She cut a small piece of the fluffy egg and placed it in her mouth.

Eleonora's eyes flew wide open.

The egg practically melted on her tongue. It was fluffy and incredibly tender, cooked to the exact right temperature, carrying a rich, distinct aroma of browned butter. It was the most thoughtfully prepared breakfast she had tasted in years.

Eleonora stared at Frieda in absolute disbelief. Women from the rust belt rarely had such an intuitive touch with simple ingredients. This required a natural, raw talent for the kitchen.

Eleonora dropped her fork. She reached out and grabbed Frieda's hands, squeezing them tight.

"This is the most incredible breakfast I have ever had," Eleonora said, her voice thick with emotion.

Frieda's cheeks burned bright red. She looked down at her shoes. "It's just eggs. I just threw it together."

Dewitt stood in the shadows near the hallway.

His eyes were locked on the perfect, golden food on the plates. His chest tightened. A dark wave of suspicion crashed into him.

He had read her background check ten times. She grew up in a trailer park. She couldn't afford a culinary degree.

Eleonora looked at Frieda like she had just found a diamond in the rough. The approval in her eyes was absolute.

Dewitt clenched his fists at his sides.

His plan was falling apart. His divorce was slipping right through his fingers.