Epilogue
THE TROLL TAKES FRANCE—AND THE WORLD—BY STORM
“ E lise,” Theo said carefully from behind the camera, “your husband is terrifying another Michelin chef.”
Elise looked up from the copper pot she was stirring and immediately spotted the problem.
Stenrik stood near the prep table in the middle of a tiny countryside kitchen in southern France looking deeply offended by a saucepan.
The French chef across from him looked equally offended right back.
Between them sat approximately three pounds of butter.
“I’m merely suggesting,” Stenrik explained in a tone that implied he was teaching someone intellectually challenged, “that if the sauce requires that much dairy, the recipe is probably inadequate.”
Chef Laurent gasped like a man personally wounded.
“That,” he declared in heavily accented English, “is tradition.”
“Tradition is not always correct.”
Theo leaned closer to Elise. “Do we intervene? ”
“No.” Elise tasted the sauce thoughtfully. “This is excellent footage.”
Three months ago, she would have panicked over this level of chaos during filming.
Now?
Now her husband arguing about emulsification with an award-winning French chef while Theo filmed the entire thing for social media felt weirdly normal.
Especially because Stenrik was smiling.
Not his small reluctant kitchen smile either.
A real one.
Open and warm and alive beneath the afternoon sunlight streaming through the farmhouse windows.
The sight still stole her breath sometimes.
Five centuries trapped beneath mountains and moonlight, and now he stood in a French countryside kitchen sunburning slightly across the bridge of his nose because he refused to wear the sunscreen she packed.
Her life had become wonderfully absurd.
“Tell him,” Laurent demanded dramatically, pointing a wooden spoon toward Elise. “Too much butter?”
Elise looked between them carefully.
“This feels like a trap.”
“It is not a trap,” Stenrik said.
“It’s definitely a trap,” Theo muttered.
Elise hid a smile and crossed toward the prep station. The kitchen smelled incredible—fresh herbs, wine reduction, roasted garlic, warm bread cooling near the windows.
Outside, vineyards rolled across golden hills beneath the summer sky.
Inside, her family occupied nearly every available surface.
Gryla sat on the counter eating strawberries directly from the supply basket while Amanda and Wren were assembling pastries near the far table while discussing Icelandic wool imports.
Gunnar stood near the oven with his arms folded looking deeply skeptical about French bread.
Ketty slept in a patch of sunlight near the doorway like a small furry dictator supervising operations.
And her parents were on the porch discussing the merits of French wine.
Home.
The realization still hit her unexpectedly sometimes.
Not Iceland. Not New York. Not France.
Them.
Elise stepped between Laurent and Stenrik before the butter war escalated into an international incident. Then she dipped a spoon into the sauce and tasted carefully.
Silence fell immediately.
Theo zoomed the camera closer.
Stenrik watched her with that same intent focus he brought to everything important. The bond stirred warmly beneath her ribs. Still there. Still steady. Still home.
Elise swallowed thoughtfully.
“It needs acid,” she declared finally.
Laurent pointed triumphantly. “See?”
“But Stenrik’s right about the butter.”
Laurent looked betrayed.
Stenrik looked unbearably smug.
Theo sighed. “And this is why the network loves you two.”
Elise laughed softly as Stenrik slid an arm around her waist automatically, pulling her lightly against his side. The movement felt effortless now. Natural. Like they’d always belonged in kitchens together.
“Besides,” she continued, stealing another taste from the spoon, “French cuisine survived centuries of chaos. I think it can survive one Icelandic troll chef.”
Laurent squinted at Stenrik. “You are very large for Icelandic.”
“Thank you. ”
“That was not a compliment.”
Gryla cackled from the counter.
Outside, sunlight flooded the vineyard hills in brilliant gold while laughter and overlapping conversation filled the kitchen.
And standing there in the middle of the beautiful chaos—with flour on her jeans, a camera crew in the corner, and her troll husband arguing passionately about butter beside her—Elise realized she no longer felt torn between worlds at all.
They had built something new together instead.
A home big enough for both of them.