His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 86

Sophia kept showing up.

Every day.

Sometimes with food. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes with nothing but red eyes and a heart too stubborn to give up on me.

I kept saying no. No to visits. No to talking.

Until one morning, I heard her crying on the porch through the thin crack in the front door. My mother came into my room, gently brushed my hair back and said, “Let her in. She needs this. And I think you do too.”

I nodded.

The door opened.

Sophia didn’t waste a second. She ran straight to my bed and hugged me like she was trying to piece me back together with her arms.

I sank into her arms and cried. Sophia didn’t try to stop me, she just held on tighter, her own tears slipping quietly into my hair.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “If I could take this pain from you, I would. Emily…”

I nodded against her shoulder, my voice barely a breath. “I know.

”

We stayed like that for a while. No mask. No forced strength. Just two women holding onto each other, hearts in pieces, and no clue how to make the world feel steady again.

“Does Liam know?” I asked finally, voice paper–thin.

Sophia swallowed hard. “Yeah. I told him.

My stomach twisted. “What did he say?”

”

“He barely spoke,” she murmured. “Just kept blaming himself. Said he broke you… and he doesn’t know how to live with that.’

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I winced at the word broke, even though I’d whispered it to myself more times than I could

count.

“He’s out of town,” she added. “Disappeared again. But this time, it’s different. He’s not running from you. He’s running from guilt. And it’s eating him alive.”

I stared at the ceiling. “I’m not even mad at him anymore.”

Sophia’s eyes searched mine. “You’re not?”

I shook my head slowly. “I’m just tired. I don’t have energy for anger. Or hope. Or what–if’s. I just need space. I need to feel like me again.”

She looked at me, eyes brimming again. “What can I do?”

“You’re doing it,” I said. “You came.

”

We shared a long, quiet moment. The kind that says everything without needing words.

“I’m going back to school next week.” I told her.

She nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

“You’ll keep in touch?”

“Like a rash,” she said, forcing a smile. “You’re stuck with me. Sisters for life, remember?”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Sophia stood, brushed her palms against her jeans. “I’ll let you rest.

As she reached the door, she paused.

”

“I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” she said softly, “but you’re going to be okay.”

“I hope so.”

”

She gave me one last look, the kind only real friends can give, and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And I sat there in the silence, thinking about everything I’d lost, and everything I still had to fight for.

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I didn’t know what would come next. But I couldn’t wait for someone else to decide it for me.

The air at LAX always had a strange kind of weight. Maybe it was all the hellos and goodbyes stitched into the walls. Or maybe it was just me, standing there, suitcase beside me, staring at the departure gate like it might eat me whole.

Mom parked the car in the quiet section of the terminal lot, but neither of us made a move to get out right away. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, a quiet echo to the silence sitting

between us.

“I had six miscarriages before you,” she said.

I turned to her, stunned. Her eyes didn’t waver, just stared ahead like she was watching the memory replay through the windshield.

“The doctors gave me a name for it, but your father… he just called it heartbreak. After the last one, we both just stopped hoping. We said maybe it wasn’t meant for us. Maybe we weren’t meant to have a child.”

She looked at me then, really looked.

“And then, you came.”

”

My throat closed. “Mom…”

“You were our miracle, Emily. You still are.” Her voice cracked. “So if anyone deserves another miracle, it’s you. I know what they told you. I know what that word, infertility does to a woman. But you are the proof that miracles happen. You are the impossible that became real.”

A tear slipped down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it.

She reached over and took my hand. “You’re allowed to grieve, baby. But don’t ever let anyone tell you this is the end. The story doesn’t stop here. You hear me?”

I nodded, too choked up to speak.

She pulled me into a hug across the console, holding me like she did when I was a child with scraped knees and bad dreams. “I love you. So, so much.”