The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 482

Chapter 237-1

The next day

While the city below us grinds under police sirens and hidden war, Willow has spent the entire

day staging a full–scale culinary blitz in the kitchen.

Wearing a floral apron over her flowing dress and bright yellow leggings, she hums a chaotic,

upbeat indie–folk melody to herself while sliding large baking sheets of freshly baked

sourdough rolls, warm cinnamon buns, and savory garlic foccacia out of the oven.

Heavy glass bowls filled with cold herb–tossed pesto pasta, roasted red pepper salad, and thick stackable sandwiches packed with smoky grilled marinated portobellos, sun–dried

tomatoes, creamy avocado, and melted plant–based provolone cover almost every square

inch of the kitchen island.

“Nutritional depletion is an absolute epidemic on the street,” Willow says, frantically

assembling thick double–decker plant–based sandwiches on thick slices of fresh sourdough. “When your body is in constant fight–or–flight, your digestive system shuts down.”

“Oh… yes?” I say. “That – that actually makes sense.”

I sit on the edge of the sofa, resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the array of crystal decanters Jade unceremoniously hauled out of the glass display cabinet this morning, and

set on the dining table alongside stacks of heavy lead–crystal tumblers.

“Willow, you’ve made enough food to feed an infantry battalion,” I say dryly, turning my head to look down at Xena, who is lounging at my feet. I lean down, running my hand over her

sleek, muscular shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of her. “Listen to me, girl. We’re about to have visitors. No biting the kids, no snapping at the working girls. If anyone smells like lube,

cheap perfume, or an alley, you leave them alone.”

Xena lets out a soft, huffing sigh that blows a puff of air against my ankle, then drops her

broad chin back onto her paws with an air of dignified tolerance.

Jade walks out of the private elevator foyer, tossing a heavy set of electronic garage keycards onto the marble table where they land with a sharp metallic clatter. She looks at Willow, who’s currently wrapping warm, golden cinnamon rolls in parchment paper, then at

the rows of expensive crystal whiskey glasses.

+2% Ponte

“This is officially the weirdest damn room I’ve ever stood in.” Jade says. “We’ve got a few

street hustlers, two working girls from the East Side, three alley runners, and a couple of

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