The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 350

“Anything is fine.”

Life on the island ran on a simple rhythm. Three times a day, Julius tied an apron around his suit-shoulders and surrendered himself to the stove.

Ingredients arrived by helicopter, silver blades beating the sky before lowering crates of vegetables, seafood, and spice onto the sun-bleached deck.

Watching him move through the open kitchen, Quinn drifted back to the nights they had shared in the apartment. Then, too, he had experimented with sauces and sauté pans, and though the flavors were never perfect, the meals tasted like home.

Back then, her brother vanished, and not long after, news reached her that their parents had died overseas. In a single night, the word “home” collapsed for her.

Even marrying Trent couldn’t rebuild it. For three years in his mansion, she had felt like a guest wearing borrowed shoes.

Strangely, it was the few months with Julius that made the walls feel solid again. Had he been honest about Rowan from the very start, perhaps their trust would still be standing. Perhaps everything would be different. But the world dealt in facts, not in ifs.

Sensing her gaze, Julius paused mid-chop, looked up from the bright steel countertop, and met her eyes across the room.

“Nothing,” Quinn murmured, dropping her gaze so the sudden mist in her eyes could dissolve unseen.

Quinn cradled a freshly printed research journal, the ink on its glossy cover still smelling of warm machines.

She surveyed the villa’s study, shelves rising to the ceiling and packed with volumes—biographies, field reports, ecology tomes—all the subjects that usually tugged at her restless mind.

It struck her then that the placement was deliberate; Julius had not scattered these titles by chance but chosen each one as though guessing the contours of her curiosity.

“Give it another minute,” Julius called from the open kitchen, his voice low but confident, “then dinner’s ready.”

Moments later, he emerged, balancing a polished wooden tray. Five steaming dishes flanked a porcelain tureen of soup, colors vivid under the chandelier.

To feed only two people, the spread felt almost excessive, a small feast laid out for an unseen crowd.

Yet every plate presented one of her favorites.

“Go on—taste.” The invitation left his lips softly, but there was a flicker of anxious hope in his eyes.

Quinn lifted her fork with her right hand, sampled a morsel, then another. Surprise flashed across her gaze like a quick flare. “This is... miles better than you used to cook,” she murmured, still testing the flavors.

Honestly, the seasoning rivaled any professional kitchen she’d visited.

“I enrolled in a class,” Julius admitted. “If I hadn’t improved, that would’ve been the real disaster, wouldn’t it?”

The bite nearly caught in Quinn’s throat.

She stared at the man opposite her, struggling to reconcile this culinary student with the prodigy who usually commanded boardrooms and laboratories.

Chefs all over the city would gladly cook for him; he had never needed to lift a knife himself.

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