Chapter 139

**Hadassah POV**

Calum and I walk shoulder to shoulder down the corridor, and he keeps casting glances.
“What?”
“You okay?” he says, concern crawling over the edge of his voice. “You’re walking funny.”
I have no choice but to turn my face toward the wall beside me for a thoughtful pause. I force a thoughtful shrug before I glance back to gesture to the heels with a dramatic flourish. And his eyes flick back up at me.
“You see the length of these Valentinos, right?”
He chaffs humouredly and looks forward. “Whatever, where are you taking me, anyway.”
I lead Calum to one of the main kitchens—the place where Henry took me to the night I met him. The expanse is bathed in a soft, golden glow from under-cabinet lights that reflect off the sleek, polished steel surfaces. The air carries the warmth of lingering spices, mingling with the delicate, earthy scent of truffles and the sharp tang of aged cheese. The chef moves with a relaxed rhythm, their laughter low and easy as they dice, sautée, and roast whatever luxurious ingredients hadn’t made it to the evening’s plates.
I scan the interior to find Henry, but someone else finds me instead.
“Eyy,” a tanned girl with a lightly accented voice announces. “Look who it is.”
The small cluster around her spots me and erupts into a welcoming cheer. I recognise their faces but they are nameless characters in my mind—since I was pretty out of it when we met. But clearly they remember me because two other women practically tug me from Calum to envelope me in a group hug. With one of the chefs who comes over to glomp down on the hug.
“Let her breathe,” Henry chides.
I don’t see him as he unpeels limbs to reach me.
“I made a bigger impression than I thought.”
Henry quirks his arched brows. “You have no idea.”
“Hadassah,” the Turkish chef, who stands like a giant who drapes his arm around me and draws me to him with a surprising strength that makes me stumble to his side. “I hope you’re as hungry as the last time. I’m cooking something extra special, hm?” His eyes dart to a confused Calum. “Who’s blonde boy?”
“Calum,” I introduce awkwardly.
“Ah, the one who likes to deliver his eggplant through the backdoor.”
My hand flies to my mouth and Calum’s eyes practically pop out of his head.
“*You told them about that?*” he whispers fiercely, as if half the kitchen isn’t already watching.
“It slipped out,” I whisper back just as irately.
“How does something like that just *slip* out?” he exclaims with a raised voice.
“Kind of like how a certain something slipped *in*,” I say thoughtlessly and that triggers scattered and stifled laughs around us.
All tenets of good-natured humor thaw away to reveal a grim expression. He tosses an exasperated hand as he pivots to walk away. I try to grab his wrist but he wrenches it from his hold but fortunately, Henry has my back as he glides in front of Calum with a rueful smile and shoulder shrug.
“Since when have you ever turned your back on me like that?”
He whips around with an astonished but affronted expression. “You mean the way you turned your back on me when you chose Torin over us—like that asshole was going to do anything other than what benefited him? He’s a narcissist, the only person he loves is in a damn mirror.”
My gaze falls to the floor. The Turkish chef barks an order in Arabic and everyone disperses like smoke in the wind, giving us the illusion of privacy. But what I didn’t realize was the breadth of Calum’s resentment. It goes far… deeply rooted. His trauma is tagged with my name on it.
The Turkish chef leads the three of us to his station. His accent that rolls through each word like honey. He begins to chop onions with a practiced rhythm, then pauses, holding a knife in midair, as he begins to speak.
“Cooking,” he says, looking at us gathered around him, “is not just about the food. It’s about connection. You see—when people cook together, they share more than ingredients. They share memories, stories, and pieces of themselves. And in that process, something magical happens.” He glances down, his large hands carefully folding vine leaves around a savory filling of rice and spices, each motion deliberate and calm.
“When I argued with my siblings or cousins, our grandmother would bring us together to cook. One would cut the vegetables, the other might stir the pot. We didn’t have to speak much at first. But as the meal came together, so did we.”
He gestures to me and motions me closer. I come over reluctantly before he hands a stainless steel spoon and silently directs me to stir. He sets Calum up with a chopping board on the counter beside the stove T stand behind, so he can chop an array of already skinned vegetables. He holds the knife steadily before he starts slicing, sharp and hard as he sneaks a glance at me and when our gaze clasp—he rips eyes away. I continue to stir absently, a pot of fragrant stew, the rich aromas filling the air like a warm embrace around an icy heart.
“Food,” he continues. “When we cook for others, we’re giving them a piece of ourselves, of our hearts. When we cook together, we rebuild bridges, even if they’ve been broken.” He makes it a point to stand behind the both of us. “When you stand shoulder to shoulder with someone in the kitchen, it’s hard to stay angry. The smells, the laughter, the effort—it heals. You learn patience, forgiveness, and joy in the smallest details.”
“What if what you’ve done is beyond forgiveness?” I ask quietly.
“With love’s limitless range. Nothing is beyond redemption,” he answers and with a questioning tone, he says, “Or am I wrong?”
“You’re not,” Calum says so swiftly, it’s comforting.
He glances at me and when I look—neither of us looks away for a while. The chef takes over from there, trading words with Henry. In due course, Henry goes and comes back to place finished kebabs on a wooden platter, their golden crust sizzling under the kitchen lights. The chef serves it to us with the savory rice and mixed vegetables bearing semblance to a simple home cooked meal. It fills me with so much nostalgia, tears form behind my eyes, only to die silently.
“This kind of reminds me of when you made me pull an all-nighter at your house,” I begin with a wistful smile. “Back in high school when you wanted to impress that girl’s parents—Ashley or something.”
He puts the fork down with a pained wince. “I was doing way too much back then like a little puppy dog.”
I dismiss that, staring back at him admirably. “When you fall in love, you fall fast and hard.”
“You would know, you were always there to catch my dumb ass.”
I snort and we share a laugh that’s like the echo of the old days.
“So what’s your story?” Calum questions with a sudden shift in his tone with a sense of distrust and derision. His eyes boring through Henry with a malevolent smile. “You always take in random women?”
“*Calum*?”
“The guy who left his woman alone is going to question me?”
“I’m not his woman,” I say sternly.
“And I’m not perve,” he says with fair firmness whilst glaring back at Calum. “She looked like she needed a friend and so I tried to be that since clearly you weren’t.”
My head now snaps to him. “*Henry*.”
“You guys *need* to try this.”
One of the women that bear-hugged me comes over with a selection. Plates are casually laden with delicacies—slices of Iberico ham, velvety foie gras, and buttery lobster tails, their sweet flesh still steaming from the grill. Calum and I pick and peck. Fortunately, her entrance diffuses the tension as she spurs a conversation between all of us, keeping things mild until they turn amusing. Between bites, we exchange stories of the evening, their voices a comfortable murmur against the background hum of the ship.
A bottle of vintage Bordeaux, untouched during dinner service, sits uncorked on the marble countertop, its deep crimson hue glistening in the dim light. Chef pours us all of us a glass of champagne, the bubbles rising elegantly before he sends Henry to retrieve two more. And I don’t object, every time I finish a refill, another one materializes and I keep drinking.