Chapter 150

Ella

Two days after the engagement party, I found myself pacing the cobbled pathways of the downtown farmer’s market, a canvas bag slung over my shoulder.

The sun was just starting to rise, casting a golden light over the market stands brimming with fresh produce, homemade jams, and fragrant bouquets of flowers. Today was the day. Logan was coming over for dinner, and my plan was to make him realize how good life could be in my modest apartment.

I hated to say it, but it wasn’t necessarily out of the goodness of my heart. I couldn’t exactly tell Logan that I had to cut him off because his brother’s fiancee had hitmen trained on both me and my sister, so this felt like my only option. It was all part of the larger scheme to shift the family fortune to Harry, protect my sister, and give Marina what she wanted.

I was just reaching for a head of cabbage when my hand brushed against someone else’s. I looked up, and my eyes met a familiar sight. It was Devon, the guy who I had miraculously run into not once, not twice, but three times. Make that four now.

“Ella?” Devon said, his brows arching in surprise.

I blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Devon! Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He laughed, a warm, inviting sound that seemed to chase away the morning chill. “Yeah, I come here every weekend. Supermarket produce is a rip-off, full of pesticides.”

“Same,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “It feels like you’re buying a chemical cocktail rather than fresh fruits and veggies.”

Devon grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Exactly! You get it.”

We started walking together, meandering through the stands filled with vibrant red tomatoes, sweet-smelling peaches, and freshly baked bread. “So, what are you cooking?” he asked as he put some fresh herbs into his basket.

“I’m making a home-cooked meal for my...fiance,” I answered, the word feeling like a foreign object in my mouth.

“Your fiance, huh? Logan, right? He must be a lucky man. It’s not often you find a beautiful woman who can cook.”

His words made my cheeks flush, and I thanked him, suddenly feeling a strange warmth seep into my skin. “Well, cooking is a passion of mine. I’ve always enjoyed it.”

We reached a stand with homemade sauces and spreads, and Devon turned to me. “You should try some of this pesto. It tastes amazing on pasta.”

“Sounds delicious,” I replied, already contemplating if pesto would be a good addition to tonight’s menu. Finally, I decided to grab a jar, just to try it out.

We parted ways shortly after, saying our goodbyes amidst the backdrop of the market’s early morning bustle. “Good luck with dinner,” Devon said, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll run into you here again,” I said, my voice carrying a hint of hope in it that I didn’t intend.

His eyes met mine, holding my gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. “I look forward to it.”

As I walked back to my apartment, his kind words echoed in my mind, making me feel oddly bashful. It was a sensation I didn’t fully understand, and I wanted to talk to my wolf about it, to dive into the familiarity of her wisdom and strength.

But of course, she was dormant, an absent confidante in this complicated mess I had found myself in.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Tonight was about proving a point, about convincing Logan to move in with me so I could go through with my plan.

With that in mind, I doubled down on my plans, thoughts of Devon momentarily pushed aside. However, as I unpacked my market finds and laid them out on my kitchen counter, I couldn’t shake off the nagging thought—why did Devon’s simple praise make me feel so... affected?

As much as I wanted answers, I saved my questions for now. I had a dinner to prepare, a point to prove, and a scheme to execute.

…

It was nearing sundown when Logan walked into my apartment, dressed impeccably as always, and immediately began scanning the space with a discerning eye. When his gaze landed on my tiny kitchen, he sighed.

“Ella, how do you even cook in such a cramped space?”

I chuckled, already anticipating his reaction. “You don’t need a sprawling kitchen to make good food. You just need the right ingredients and a little skill.”

I handed him an apron, its fabric adorned with cartoon chickens wearing chef hats. “Here, put this on.”

Logan looked at the apron and then back at me, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” I said, flashing him a grin. “What, did you think I would cook everything myself?

“Well, sort of,” he said. “You did invite me, after all.”

I shrugged. “I don’t care. Put it on.”

With a dramatic sigh, Logan put on the apron, his face flushing a shade of red that nearly matched the tomatoes on the counter.

“Very handsome,” I said, barely holding back my laughter.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbled, clearly embarrassed but also oddly endearing in his pouty state.

I handed him a knife and guided him to a cutting board full of veggies. “First lesson: chopping.”

He picked up a carrot and awkwardly held the knife, clearly unsure of what to do. Suppressing a smile, I took his hand in mine, gently guiding him through the process.

“Like this, Logan. Keep your fingers curled inward and let the knife do the work.”

The tension eased from his frame as we continued, and he seemed to take genuine interest. “Okay, this isn’t as hard as I thought.”

I let out a small laugh. “See? You’re a natural.”

As we moved on to herbs, marinating the chicken, and setting the pasta to boil, my conscience nagged at me. The laughter and chatter filling my small kitchen were in stark contrast to the scheming that brought us here.

I had to remind myself that this was all part of a larger plan—a plan designed to make Leonard look down on his son, a plan to save my sister. The hitman was a looming, invisible presence. For all I knew, our voices could be carried through a device straight to him, our words becoming potential landmines.

The oven timer beeped, snapping me back to reality. Logan and I pulled out the trays and set them on the counters.

For a moment, we both just stared at the colorful array of dishes before us—baked chicken resting in a sea of herbs and spices, pasta glistening with a fresh coat of homemade sauce, and a vibrant salad made from the freshest ingredients the farmer’s market had to offer.

Logan broke the silence. “Wow, it actually looks like a real meal.”

I raised an eyebrow, feigning shock. “What did you expect? Charred remains?”

He chuckled, a sound that warmed me despite the inner turmoil I was grappling with. “Honestly, with my involvement, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

I looked at him, my eyes meeting his, and it felt as if we were the only two people in the world. For a moment, I allowed myself to forget the larger, darker machinations at play. I was just Ella, and he was just Logan, and we had just made dinner together.

But it was a dangerous thought, one I couldn’t afford to entertain. So I pushed it aside, storing it somewhere deep and locked away, a memory to be revisited at another time—another life, perhaps.