2Her Fiancé Said She Was Unfit to Be a Wife, Then the Mafia Boss Asked If She Could Bake and His Children Began Waiting Before Sunrise

The snow cleared by Tuesday, leaving the Hudson Valley frozen, bright, and blindingly white beneath a hard blue sky.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, a long, sleek silver Mercedes climbed the gravel road of Ironwood Ridge. It was not a local car; it bore Westchester dealer plates and was polished so brightly that the snow reflected off its sides like mirrors.

Inside the kitchen, Grace was preparing a batch of lemon-thyme tarts for afternoon tea.

The kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Gable stepped inside. Her face was stiffer than usual, her thin lips pressed into a tight, flat line.

"Grace," Mrs. Gable said sharply. "There is a man at the gatehouse. He demands to see you."

Grace stopped, her rolling pin hovering over the sweet dough. "A man? Who?"

"He gave his name as Colin Avery."

The wooden rolling pin slipped from Grace’s fingers, landing with a dull thud on the flour-dusted marble.

A cold, familiar nausea bloomed in her stomach.

Four weeks. It had been four weeks since she had left White Plains on a late-night bus, leaving her ring on a marble counter beside a champagne glass.

"Did Mr. Marchetti see him?" Grace asked, her voice tight.

"Mr. Marchetti is in town at the timber office," Mrs. Gable said. "The gatekeeper called up to the house. The man insists he won't leave until he speaks with you."

Grace stood still for ten seconds, taking deep, steady breaths.

She looked at her hands—floury, capable, and steady. She looked at the warm kitchen, at the drawings Leo had taped to the refrigerator, at the three copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

She was no longer the woman sitting behind the wheel of a cold car in White Plains, trembling while promotional banners snapped in the wind.

"Let him up," Grace said quietly. "I'll see him in the side courtyard."

Five minutes later, Colin Avery stepped out of his silver Mercedes into the snow-covered courtyard of the Marchetti manor.

He looked exactly as he had four weeks ago: tailored charcoal overcoat, polished leather shoes entirely unsuited for upstate snow, hair styled to perfection. But as he looked up at the towering stone facade of the estate, there was a tightness around his eyes—a flick of panic he was trying desperately to hide.

"Grace," Colin said, stepping forward, his arms opening as if expecting a tearful reunion. "My God. I've been looking for you for three weeks."

Grace stood on the stone steps, wrapped in her heavy wool coat, her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She didn't move an inch toward him.

"How did you find me, Colin?"

Colin paused, his arms dropping to his sides. He looked slightly taken aback by her coldness, but he forced a reassuring, patronizing smile onto his face.

"I hired a private investigator," Colin said smoothly. "Grace... it was ridiculous of you to run away like that. Buying a bus ticket to some dead-end river town? Hiding out as a cook in some mobster's house?"

Grace stared at him. The sound of his voice—once something she had associated with Sunday coffee and wedding plans—now sounded thin, vain, and utterly hollow.

"Why are you here, Colin?"

Colin adjusted his leather gloves, stepping closer to the stairs.

"Avery Fine Foods opened three more stores last week," Colin began, falling into his familiar, polished presentation tone. "The launch was... complicated. The pastry department failed completely. The signature brioche line you developed was a disaster without your dough formulations. The press noticed. The investors noticed."

Grace let out a soft, cynical breath that condensed into a cloud of white steam in the freezing air.

"You came four hours north in a snowstorm because your bread didn't rise?"

"No!" Colin said, his voice rising with frustration. "I came because I realized I made a mistake! The opening was a mess, Grace. People asked where you were. The story got out that I broke off the engagement right before the wedding, and some of our key demographic didn't like it. It hurt the brand."

It hurt the brand.

Grace almost laughed. The absurd, unbelievable arrogance of the man standing before her was almost breathtaking.

"I need you to come back," Colin said, taking another step up the stairs. "We can renegotiate. I'll give you a proper management contract. We can even talk about rescheduling the ceremony—privately, of course. A small, elegant affair that fits our new press strategy."

Grace looked at him—really looked at him.

She saw the tiny specks of mud on his polished shoes. She saw the desperation behind his carefully maintained smile. She saw a man who didn't love her, who had never loved her, but who needed her talent to rescue his public image.

"No," Grace said quietly.

Colin blinked. "What?"

"No, Colin," Grace repeated, her voice as hard and clear as the ice hanging from the roof eaves. "I'm not coming back. I don't work for you, and I will never stand beside you in any room, private or public."

Colin’s face darkened. The polished, charming facade cracked, revealing the sharp, ugly petulance underneath.

"Don't be stupid, Grace!" Colin snapped, stepping up onto the top porch step. "Look at yourself! You're working as a hired servant in a mafia boss's house! You're baking bread for a man who has half the police force in his pocket! You think this is a life? You belong in Westchester!"