The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 436

The Rothschild Estate, early morning.

The sky hadn't fully lightened, but the lights in the kitchen were already blazing. Sebastian Thorne stood at the stove, wearing an apron, a chef's knife in hand, meticulously julienning potatoes. His movements were noticeably smoother than a few days ago; the blade rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence, turning the potatoes into perfectly uniform matchsticks. Next to the cutting board sat several neat dishes of prepped ingredients—sliced bell peppers, minced garlic, and chopped scallions.

Felton stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his busy silhouette with an amused smile. "Mr. Thorne, you're up rather early."

"Yeah." Sebastian didn't lift his head. "She'll be hungry when she wakes up, so I wanted to prep early. Besides, the oatmeal tastes better when it simmers longer."

Felton walked in, glancing over the stovetop. The oatmeal was already in the pot, simmering on low heat, the grains bubbling in the hot water and releasing a rich, comforting aroma. Beside it sat several small side dishes—crispy bacon, sliced fruit, and a light salad, all prepared in advance.

"Your culinary skills are steadily improving," Felton remarked sincerely.

Sebastian didn't reply, simply sliding the julienned potatoes into a bowl of cold water to soak. He checked the clock on the wall; it was just past seven. She usually didn't come downstairs until around nine, so he had over an hour. He turned down the heat, wiped his hands, and walked over to the window.

The garden outside was still cloaked in the morning mist, the faint sound of the fountain trickling in the distance. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Last night, she had sent a single word: 'Thanks.' He had replied: 'No need to thank me. Let me know what you want to eat. If I don't know how to make it, I'll learn.' She hadn't replied since.

He pocketed his phone and returned to the stove. Felton was still standing there, watching him.

"Mr. Thorne, wouldn't you like to rest a bit? You barely slept a few hours last night."

"No need." Sebastian opened the fridge and pulled out a few eggs. "I'm going to make an omelet. I heard her appetite hasn't been great lately, and this is easy to digest."

Felton watched him crack the eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a fork, his focus so intense he looked as if he were managing a multi-million dollar acquisition. Felton shook his head lightly, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

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At eight-thirty, Evelyn Sullivan came downstairs. She wore a light gray knit dress, her hair cascading loosely over her shoulders, her face still carrying the soft languor of sleep. She walked to the dining table and saw the array of side dishes, a bowl of oatmeal, a plate of crispy hash browns, and a fluffy omelet.

Charles sat at the head of the table, holding a cup of coffee, beaming at her. "Awake?"

Evelyn nodded and took her seat. "Where is he?"