But before he reached the couch, something stopped him.
A smell.
Sweet. Warm. Impossible.
Vanilla.
He frowned. The chef had been on vacation for three days. No one should have been cooking.
Still, the scent was clear — cake, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon.
He followed it down the marble hallway, past artwork chosen by an interior designer, and slowly pushed open the kitchen door.
He froze.
The kitchen looked different. On the granite island sat a homemade cake with white frosting and slightly crooked blue letters that read:
“Happy Birthday Mr. Michael”
There were small plates of chocolate truffles, mini chicken pastries, and yellow and blue balloons tied with string. In the center stood a candle shaped like the number 48.
And beside the counter stood Angela Brooks.
Thirty-two years old. Dark eyes. Hair pulled into a simple messy bun. Hands that had scrubbed these same marble floors for two years without complaint. She wore an apron dusted with flour and a nervous smile.
Next to her stood her three children, staring at him with wide, excited eyes.
“Surprise!” they shouted, wearing paper party hats.
Michael couldn’t speak.