Chapter 6 A Storm in the Kitchen

CHAPTER 6

DAMIEN'S POV

My phone buzzed incessantly on the table, the caller ID flashing "Mother." A sigh escaped me before I answered.

"Damien," her voice barked the moment I placed the phone to my ear. "What in God's name am I hearing about a fiancée?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Good morning to you too, Mother."

"Don't give me that nonsense!" she snapped. "I'm in the Bahamas, trying to enjoy some peace with my husband since he's better, and suddenly I'm bombarded with news of my son proposing to some-some nobody!"

"It's not what you think-"

"Oh, so you're not engaged to some random woman?" Her sarcasm was razor-sharp. "Because that's what it sounds like to me, Damien. Do you know how this makes us look? The Sterlings don't stoop to this level of absurdity!"

"She's not random," I lied smoothly. "She's someone I've been seeing for a while. I love her."

"Love her?" My mother's laughter was cold and incredulous. "Love? Since when do you believe in love, Damien? You're not some starry-eyed fool from a soap opera!"

I gritted my teeth. "I'm not discussing this with you. The decision is mine to make."

"Oh, no, it's not. Not when it concerns our family name," she countered. "You will not marry some nobody, Damien. Do you hear me?"

"She's not a nobody." The lie rolled off my tongue effortlessly. "She's intelligent, kind, and better suited to me than anyone you've paraded in front of me."

"Better suited?" she repeated, incredulous. "Damien, I raised you to be pragmatic, not to think with your emotions. What's her background? What's her family name? Does she even come from money?"

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly to keep my composure. "She's... different. And that's exactly why she's the one. You'll see."

"Different?" my mother sneered. "I've seen plenty of your 'different' choices in the past, Damien. And none of them stuck. You're a Sterling. You don't settle for... for mediocrity. The Duvals are soo pissed."

"Mother," I said, my tone sharp enough to cut her off. "I've made my decision."

"Then I'll make mine." Her tone was ice cold now. "I'm taking the next flight out. I'll be there tomorrow morning to meet this... Rose."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the line went dead before I could get a word in.

I stared at the phone, letting out a long sigh. Of course, she wouldn't make this easy. The walls of my office felt suffocating, and for a moment, I entertained the thought of smashing the damn phone against the wall.

Instead, I ran a hand through my hair, stood, and walked downstairs.

Rose was curled up on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she sipped coffee and stared intently at the TV. She seemed completely engrossed in whatever reality show was playing, her lips twitching into an occasional smirk.

I stopped at the edge of the room, watching her for a moment. She looked... comfortable. Too comfortable, considering the storm that was about to hit.

Clearing my throat, I stepped forward. "Rose."

She turned her head, smiling slightly before noticing the tension in my expression. "What's wrong?"

I sat down beside her, the cushions shifting under my weight. "We need to talk."

Her brows furrowed. "That sounds ominous."

"It's about my mother," I said.

Rose tilted her head, taking another sip of coffee. "What about her?"

"She... just found out about the engagement."

The mug froze midway to her lips. She blinked at me. "Okay... and?"

"And she's not exactly thrilled."

"Oh," Rose said, setting her coffee down. "Well, that's not surprising. I mean, I am pretending to be your fiancée. I doubt any mother would be thrilled about that."

"She's coming here tomorrow," I said quickly, hoping to soften the blow by ripping the bandage off.

Rose looked at me blank. "Tomorrow?"

I nodded. "She's flying in first thing in the morning."

"Oh, okay." Then, as if in slow motion, she picked up her coffee mug, took a long sip, and promptly spat it out all over the coffee table.

"What?" she yelled, coughing as if she just processed the information.

"I said-"

"I heard you!" Rose interrupted, waving her hands in frustration. "Your mom is coming tomorrow? Why?"

"Yes."

Rose shook her head, standing up and pacing the room. "What does she even want to talk about? No, scratch that-what exactly did you tell her about me?"

"I told her I love you," I said, keeping my tone even.

Rose froze mid-step, slowly turning to face me. "You told her what?"

"That I love you," I repeated, leaning back against the couch.

"Damien." Rose's voice was strained, her hands clenched at her sides. "Why... on Earth... would you tell her that?"

"Because," I said, standing and meeting her gaze. "It's the only way she'll even consider accepting you as my fiancée."

"But it's not true!"

"It doesn't have to be true," I said simply.

Rose threw her hands up. "You're insane."

"Possibly."

"What am I supposed to do?" she demanded.

"Just... act natural."

"Natural?" Rose laughed bitterly. "I don't even know what your mother's definition of 'natural' is! What if she doesn't believe me? What if she sees through this whole thing?"

"She won't," I assured her.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm Damien Sterling," I said with a small smirk.

"This is going to be a disaster," Rose muttered, pacing the room like a restless animal.

"It won't be," I reassured her for the hundredth time.

She whipped around to face me, her eyes wide. "How can you possibly say that? I don't even know what your mother's definition of 'natural' is! What if she expects me to, I don't know, know everything about you already? What if I say the wrong thing?"

I smirked, leaning casually against the armrest of the couch. "Then don't say the wrong thing."

Her glare could've melted steel. "Very helpful, Damien. Thank you."

"Relax, Rose. I'll handle her. All you need to do is be polite and-"

"And what?" she cut in. "Smile and wave like a trophy wife?"

"Exactly," I said with a teasing grin.

She groaned, running her hands through her hair. "This isn't funny. What does she like? What's her favorite dish? Does she have any allergies? What are her hobbies?"

"She's not a food blogger," I replied, amused.

Rose crossed her arms and gave me a pointed look. "Damien, I'm serious. If your mother is as terrifying as you're making her sound, then I need to be prepared."

I sighed, realizing she wasn't going to let this go. "Fine. Her favorite dish is coq au vin."

"Coq au vin?" she repeated slowly, as if testing the foreign words on her tongue.

"It's a French dish," I explained. "Chicken braised with wine, mushrooms, onions-"

"I know what it is!" she snapped. "But... seriously? That sounds complicated."

"It's her favorite," I said with a shrug.

Rose groaned again, muttering something under her breath.

Before I could reassure her further, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at the screen and frowned. It was one of my business associates-a call I couldn't afford to ignore.

"Give me a second," I told Rose, picking up the phone.

---

By the time I came back downstairs, the first thing that hit me was the smell.

A sharp, acrid scent lingered in the air, mingled with something vaguely burnt. My brows furrowed as I stepped into the sitting room, scanning the room.

"Rose?" I called out.

No response.

Following the trail of smoke-yes, actual smoke-I made my way to the kitchen. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

Rose was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, a smudge of something brown on her cheek. The counter was a disaster zone: flour, chopped vegetables, and what looked like burnt chicken scattered everywhere. A pot on the stove was billowing smoke, and Rose was frantically waving a dish towel at it, muttering curses under her breath.

It was chaos.

And it was hilarious.

I couldn't help it. Laughter bubbled up before I could stop myself. "What the hell are you doing?"

Rose whipped around, startled.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, struggling to catch my breath between fits of laughter. "Is this your attempt at... coq au vin?"

Her face turned bright red.

"I was trying to learn how to make it," she said defensively, crossing her arms. "I thought if I made it for your mom tomorrow, she'd... I don't know, be impressed."

I stopped laughing, the weight of her words sinking in. For a moment, I just looked at her-the determination in her eyes, the way she chewed her bottom lip nervously. She was doing all of this for me.

"Rose," I said, stepping closer. "You didn't have to do this."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I just thought... if she hates me, this might help."

I reached out and tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at me. "My mother's opinion doesn't define you. You don't have to impress her. You just have to be yourself."

She scoffed. "Yeah, because myself is exactly what she'll be thrilled about."

I smirked, brushing the flour off her cheek with my thumb. "I'm serious. Don't stress over this. And next time you feel the urge to cook, call someone. Preferably someone who knows what they're doing."

Rose cracked a small smile. "Noted."

The moment was interrupted by the sharp buzz of my phone. I sighed, pulling it out of my pocket. Adrian Voss.

My jaw tightened as I stared at the name on the screen. Of all the times...

"Who is it?" Rose asked, noticing the change in my expression.

I glanced at her, debating whether to tell her the truth. "Adrian Voss."

Her brows furrowed. "Who's that?"

"No one you need to worry about," I said, my tone curt.

She frowned, clearly unsatisfied with my answer.

"I'll be back soon," I said, turning toward the door. "Don't touch the stove again."

"Damien-"

"Rose," I said firmly, meeting her gaze. "Trust me. I'll handle this."