The kitchen was the only room in the Hemingway mansion that felt warm, it had been Giselle’s safe haven since the whole drama with Chase started. It was the only place she went to clear her head, embarking on one spontaneous culinary adventures or the other.
Amelia was busy at the gas cooker, the clatter of pans echoing against the tiles.
"Amelia, let me help you with that," Giselle said, stepping into the light of the kitchen.
The maid looked up, startled. "Oh, no, Mrs. Hemingway. I can manage. You should be resting after... well, after everything."
"I can't rest," Giselle insisted, reaching for a floral apron hanging by the pantry.
She tied it tightly around her waist. "Until the divorce is final, I am still Chase’s wife. I want to make him dinner. It’s the least I can do to keep
