The bitter wind cut through the air like needles, but Edward felt nothing. Inside him, everything had frozen—his heart had turned into a block of ice, colder than any winter storm. He stood in the middle of the snow-covered park, wrapped in twilight shadows, his eyes frantically scanning the passersby, searching for that small figure in a bright crimson snowsuit. Alfie. His grandson.
For Edward, the boy had become his entire world. Clutching his phone, he cursed the moment he’d been distracted by an urgent business call. Just one minute of carelessness—now his chest tightened with fear and guilt. He blamed himself mercilessly, each nerve in his body screaming with regret.
A single refrain pulsed in his mind: *I can’t lose him too.* The past year had been nothing but unbearable loss. First, his wife had slipped away—quietly, almost unnoticed, as if fading beneath the weight of illness. Then came the devastating news from the Alps—his daughter and son-in-law, Alfie’s parents, had perished.
That serious-eyed boy with his shy smile was the only thing tethering Edward to his past. His only anchor. The thought of losing him made his lungs burn. He clung to Alfie like a drowning man to driftwood, unable to imagine life without him.
Panic surged. He shouted, his voice breaking—
“Alfie! Alfie, where are you?”
Only silence answered, broken by the howling wind carrying flecks of snow. Passersby shot him disapproving glances—to them, he was just a careless grandfather who’d lost track of a child. None of them knew the agony behind that cry.
Then, just as hope began to dissolve, a thin, frightened scream came from the direction of the river. Edward froze. It was Alfie’s voice—sharp with terror, the kind that turned blood to ice.
Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the bank. He knew this river’s treachery. The ice looked solid, but beneath the soft snow lurked deadly gaps. And there, thrashing in the black water, was a small shape in crimson. Alfie.
Edward’s heart plummeted. He ran, stumbling through snowdrifts, gasping for air. The distance felt impossible. He watched his grandson fight against the icy current, the sodden snowsuit dragging him under. He knew—*he wouldn’t make it.*
But just as despair threatened to swallow him whole, a shadow moved. A woman.
She moved like lightning, almost animal-like—sprawling onto the ice, sliding forward, she reached the gap. One strong motion, and she hauled Alfie onto solid ground, then dragged him to safety.
Edward snatched his grandson, clutching him tightly. The boy sobbed, trembling. Without a word, Edward barked an order—
“Follow me. Home. Warm up.”
She obeyed.
In the car, wrapped in his grandfather’s coat, Alfie slowly calmed. A doctor examined him—mild shock, but he’d recover. Edward tucked him into bed, then stepped into the kitchen, where the woman waited, draped in an old dressing gown. She looked fragile, exhausted, with deep sorrow in her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked, handing her a steaming cup of tea.
“Eleanor.”
“Thank you. You saved my grandson. My only treasure.” His voice wavered. “You can’t imagine what that means.”
He tried pressing money into her hands, but she pulled away.
“I didn’t do anything extraordinary. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
Edward saw truth in her words—no greed, no calculation, just weariness and sorrow.
“Perhaps you need work?” he asked gently. “I own a restaurant. There’s a job in the kitchen—modest pay, but steady. If you’re interested.”
Eleanor lifted her tear-filled eyes.
“Thank you… Yes, I’ll take it.”
Weeks passed swiftly. Edward split his time between Alfie and work, but more often, he found himself watching Eleanor. She worked tirelessly, with precision and intuition. Sometimes she helped the chefs, offering advice as naturally as if she’d spent a lifetime in kitchens.
Then came the crisis—a high-profile banquet with impossible demands. A make-or-break moment for the restaurant.
That night, as Edward braced for sleepless hours of preparation, the head chef, James, called—his voice thick with pain. He’d fallen, broken his leg. The banquet was in jeopardy.
Edward gathered his staff, his face grim.
“James is out. The banquet’s tomorrow. We have no menu, no plan.”
A murmur of shock rippled through the kitchen. Then, from the corner where Eleanor usually kept to herself, came a quiet but firm voice—
“May I see the order?”
Edward handed her the sheet. Suddenly, her shyness vanished. Her movements became deliberate, her posture straight. She scribbled notes, crafting a menu with astonishing expertise—economical yet elegant, each dish perfectly timed.
The staff watched, awed. When she finished, Edward read her notes—and saw salvation. Applause broke out.
Later, in his office, Edward studied her.
“Eleanor, why hide such talent? Why take a kitchen hand’s job?”
She hesitated, fingers twisting the fabric of her apron.
“I used to own a restaurant. Put my soul into it. Then I married… a charismatic, successful restaurateur.” Her voice trembled. “He gambled. Stole from the business. When I confronted him, he took our son, Oliver. The boy had a weak heart.”
Her fists clenched.
“He locked him away, demanding I sign over the restaurant. Oliver… died. Alone. Terrified.”
She swallowed hard.
“I lost my mind. Shot him. He survived, twisted everything—made me look like a monster. I went to prison. The restaurant was sold.”
Edward remembered the headlines now. He looked at her—not with pity, but respect.
“Tomorrow, you’ll lead the kitchen.”
The banquet was a triumph. The guest of honour praised every dish. And at the helm stood Eleanor—composed, brilliant.
Edward realized then—he loved her. Broken, but unbroken.
Later, as the kitchen emptied, he took her hand.
“Marry me.”
She shook her head, tears spilling.
“I’m an ex-convict. A ruined reputation. You deserve better.”
Days later, Edward took her to a derelict building on the city’s edge. She recognized it immediately—her old restaurant. Now restored, gleaming. Above the entrance, a new sign burned:
*Oliver’s.*
Edward smiled.
“I couldn’t marry a penniless woman. Bad for my image. So I made you my equal.”
He slipped a diamond ring onto her finger.
“Now, as one restaurateur to another—will you marry me?”
She laughed through tears. Broken things could mend. Love could rewrite the past. And in the end, justice—finally—prevailed.
