CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER 92 HE COOKED FOR THE FIRST TIME

Serena’s POV

I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing as I carefully moved through my prenatal yoga routine.

My doctor had recommended gentle exercise to help with the pregnancy discomfort, and yoga had become my daily ritual.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft meditation music playing from my phone.

Just as I completed a modified downward dog, the doorbell rang, interrupting my zen moment. With a sigh, I slowly rolled up my yoga mat and padded to the door.

"Who is it?" I called out, peering through the peephole.

"It’s me." Ryan’s deep voice came through the door.

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t expected him today. Glancing down at my fitted yoga pants and loose tank top that hugged my growing baby bump, I hesitated before opening the door.

When I did, Ryan stood there looking impossibly handsome in a casual button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His usually perfect hair was slightly tousled, and he carried several bags that smelled deliciously of food.

"I brought dinner," he announced, lifting the bags as if I might not have noticed them.

I stepped aside. "Come in. I wasn’t expecting company."

"I should have called first." His eyes traveled over my yoga attire, lingering on my bump. "You were exercising? Is that safe?"

I resisted rolling my eyes. "It’s prenatal yoga, Ryan. Perfectly safe and recommended for pregnant women."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer as he moved toward the kitchen to unpack the food. I quickly freshened up in the bathroom, splashing water on my face and changing into a more presentable oversized sweater.

When I returned, Ryan had arranged everything on my small dining table - steaming plates of pasta, a colorful salad, and garlic bread.

"This looks wonderful," I said, sliding into a chair across from him. My stomach growled embarrassingly loud, and Ryan’s lips quirked into an almost-smile.

"The baby approves, I take it?"

"The baby is always hungry these days," I replied, helping myself to the pasta.

We ate in silence for a few moments before Ryan cleared his throat.

"I fired Sophie today," he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

I nearly choked on my water. "You did what?"

"She’s no longer employed at Blackwood Enterprises." His eyes met mine, gauging my reaction. "Her position has been terminated, effective immediately."

A wave of satisfaction washed over me, though I tried not to let it show. I kept my expression neutral, twirling pasta around my fork.

"I see." I asked, pretending I wasn’t absolutely thrilled by this development.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could see right through my composed facade. "Don’t you have anything you want to ask?"

I shrugged, taking another bite. "It’s your company. Your decision."

An uncomfortable silence settled between us as we continued eating.

After a few tense moments, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with unsettling intensity. "How are you finding the food?"

I took another thoughtful bite. The pasta was... decent. Not terrible, but definitely not up to the standards I’d grown accustomed to at the Blackwood mansion.

"It’s different from Milton’s cooking," I answered diplomatically. "The sauce is a bit heavy on the garlic, and the pasta is slightly overcooked, but it’s satisfying."

Ryan’s expression fell almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensing. I noticed his knuckles whitening around his fork.

"If it’s not to your liking, don’t force yourself to eat it," he muttered.

I frowned, confused by his sudden change in mood. "Hey, what’s wrong? It’s not inedible or anything. Just different."

"Nothing’s wrong," he insisted, his tone clipped.

I studied him more carefully now - the slight stiffness in his posture, the way he avoided my eyes, the faintest smudge of what looked like flour on his sleeve that I hadn’t noticed before.

"Wait," I said slowly, my eyes widening. "Did you... did you cook this yourself?"

A faint flush crept up his neck—something I’d never seen before on the usually unflappable Ryan Blackwood.

"First attempt," he admitted gruffly, not meeting my eyes. "I followed some recipes I found online."

My heart did a dangerous little flip. Ryan Blackwood, billionaire CEO who probably hadn’t boiled water in his entire life, had cooked for me—for us. For our baby.

"It’s actually really good for a first try," I said softly, taking another deliberate bite to prove my point. "I’m impressed."

His eyes snapped to mine, searching for any sign of pity or mockery. Finding none, his posture relaxed slightly.

"I wanted to make something healthy for you and the baby," he explained, his voice low. "The nutritionist said salmon is good for brain development."

The thought he’d put into it—researching nutrition, following recipes, bringing it all here himself—made my throat tighten with emotion I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

I forced myself to focus on my plate, afraid he might see too much in my expression.

Then we finished dinner with lighter conversation, Ryan asking about my doctor’s appointments and how I was feeling. It felt strangely... normal. Domestic, even.

After we’d eaten, I tried to clear the dishes, but Ryan firmly steered me to the couch.

"You rest. I’ll clean up."

"But you cooked," I protested weakly.

"And you’re growing our child," he countered, his hand briefly touching my stomach before he pulled away, as if catching himself being too familiar.

Too tired to argue, I sank into the cushions, watching as he moved efficiently around my kitchen.

His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms as he washed dishes, his broad shoulders and back creating a silhouette that seemed strangely right in this space.

As I watched his broad shoulders and strong back while he moved efficiently around my kitchen, I couldn’t help but imagine what life might be like if things were different between us.

If we were a real family. The image formed unbidden in my mind: Ryan teaching our child to ride a bike, family dinners around a table, bedtime stories...

My hand drifted to my bump, feeling the slight flutter of movement inside. "What do you think, little one?" I whispered so softly that Ryan couldn’t hear over the running water. "He’d make a good dad, wouldn’t he?"

The baby responded with a gentle kick, as if in agreement. I smiled to myself, allowing just a moment of hope to bloom in my heart.