Chapter 3: Kitchen Table Diplomacy
The Sterling kitchen was a chef’s dream, outfitted with industrial-grade stainless steel appliances, gleaming granite countertops, and two massive islands. Usually, it was the domain of the estate’s private chef, a space where elaborate, multi-course meals were plated with exacting precision. Today, however, it smelled delightfully ordinary. It smelled like warm vanilla, melted chocolate, and home.
Julian paused at the threshold of the kitchen, feeling like a trespasser in his own house.
At the far island, sitting on a high velvet barstool, was Matteo. His small hands were wrapped around a tall glass of milk, and his mouth was smeared with chocolate. Across from him stood Elena. She had discarded her formal apron and was leaning casually against the counter, sliding a fresh, gooey cookie from a baking sheet onto a small ceramic plate.
"The trick," Elena was saying, her tone conspiratorial, "is to dunk it for exactly three seconds. Any less, and it’s too crunchy. Any more, and it breaks off into the milk. And losing a cookie in the milk is a tragedy we simply cannot allow."
Matteo offered a tiny, genuine giggle—a sound that struck Julian straight in the chest. It was a beautiful, musical note that he realized he hadn't heard in months.
Julian cleared his throat softly as he stepped into the room. Matteo’s giggle instantly vanished, his posture stiffening. The boy pulled his half-eaten cookie closer to his chest, his eyes darting down to the countertop.
The shift was agonizingly clear, but Julian remembered the promise he had made to himself in the foyer. He wasn't going to retreat to his office. He wasn't going to hide behind his work.
"Is there room for one more?" Julian asked, keeping his voice light as he walked toward the island.
Elena smiled, immediately sliding a plate and a fresh napkin across the granite. "Of course, Mr. Sterling. The three-second rule applies to executives, too."
Julian pulled out the stool next to Matteo. He sat down awkwardly, his tailored suit jacket crinkling. He looked at the plate in front of him, then poured himself a glass of milk from the frosted glass pitcher. He picked up a warm cookie, acutely aware of his son’s nervous peripheral gaze.
"Three seconds, right?" Julian asked, looking at Matteo.
Matteo gave a small, hesitant nod.
Julian dipped the cookie into the cold milk. "One... two... three." He pulled it out, but he had squeezed too hard. The soggy bottom half of the cookie detached and plunged into the depths of the glass with a soft plop.
Julian stared at the glass in mock horror. "Oh no. A tragedy."
Elena covered her mouth to hide a laugh, and beside him, Matteo let out a sudden snort. The boy quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, looking at his father with wide, fearful eyes, expecting to be reprimanded for laughing at him.
Instead, Julian smiled. It was a rusty, unpracticed expression, but it was entirely genuine. "I suppose I need a rescue mission," Julian said, grabbing a silver spoon and fishing the soggy chunk of cookie out of the milk. He ate it anyway, making a grand show of how messy it was.
Matteo watched him, the fear slowly draining from his small face. "You did it wrong," the boy pointed out softly.
"I clearly did," Julian conceded, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. "I guess I need more practice. I'm... I'm out of practice with a lot of things, Matteo."
The weight of the unspoken words hung between them. I'm out of practice being your dad.
Matteo looked down at his own glass, swirling the milk around. "It's okay," he mumbled. "You work a lot."
"I do," Julian agreed gently. "But work isn't the most important thing in this house. You are. And I haven't been acting like it."
Matteo didn't respond, but he didn't pull away, either. He took another bite of his cookie, chewing thoughtfully.
"So," Julian said, desperate to keep the fragile connection alive, "what do you usually do on a Tuesday afternoon when I'm at the office?"
Matteo shrugged his small shoulders. "Play in my room. Sometimes I watch a movie."
"By yourself?"
"Ms. Beatrice used to watch them with me," Matteo said, referencing the nanny who had quit the week prior. "But mostly by myself."
Julian felt a familiar pang of guilt. He had built an empire to give his son the world, only to leave him entirely alone in it. He looked across the counter at Elena, who gave him a subtle, encouraging nod.
"Well," Julian said, sitting up a little straighter. "I happen to have a completely open schedule this afternoon. Are there any good movies we need to catch up on?"
Matteo looked up, his dark eyes wide with cautious disbelief. "You want to watch a movie? With me?"
"I would love nothing more," Julian said.
May you like
Matteo hesitated for a moment, then slid off his barstool. "Okay," he said, a tiny spark of excitement finally breaking through his guarded exterior. "But we have to make popcorn. The microwave kind with extra butter."
"Lead the way," Julian smiled. As he stood to follow his son toward the media room, he shot one last look back at the kitchen counter. Elena was already wiping down the granite, humming softly to herself. She didn't look up for praise or acknowledgment; she simply continued her work, having quietly orchestrated the most important meeting Julian had taken in years.
