Eggs, Expectations and Silence.

Nico’s arm is heavy around my waist, his chest pressed firm to my back, his legs tangled in mine like he couldn’t stand to be apart, even in sleep. I lie still, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, trying to memorize the warmth of him against me. Last night wasn’t how I imagined my wedding night would be.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But in the haze of heat and rough hands, there were moments, quiet, fleeting moments where I swear I felt something crack in him. Something shift. The way he kissed my forehead before he moved. The way he held me after. The way he didn’t let go. Maybe there’s more to him than cold stares and clipped words. Maybe under the suits, the stone walls, and the iron will, there’s still a man capable of love. Maybe… if I love him hard enough, fiercely enough, I can bring that version of him to the surface. I want this to work and if being a good wife, a devoted, patient, attentive wife gives me even the smallest chance to crack his armor, then I’ll give it everything I have. I’ll pour every ounce of love into this marriage and pray it’s enough. With that fragile hope stitched to my heart, I let my eyes flutter shut and fall asleep in the arms of the man who doesn’t love me...yet.

The morning breaks gently. Sunlight trickles through the edges of the curtains, brushing over the sheets like gold-dusted fingers. I shift slowly, careful not to wake him, and turn just enough to see his face. Nico looks… different in sleep. Peaceful. Younger. The tension that usually anchors his brow is gone, his features relaxed and unguarded. This version of him feels almost human. Almost mine. I let myself look, soaking in every detail like they’re clues to a softer man I haven’t met yet. The one I think lives deep inside him. Carefully, I slip from his embrace and rise, walking quietly toward the bathroom through the expansive walk-in closet. My feet pause the moment I step inside. It’s full. Last night, it was barren. This morning, it’s overflowing. Dresses, jeans, silks, knits. Shoes lined up like art. Bags, jewelry, everything. A perfect wardrobe tailored to my size, my style… my unspoken self. Someone did this while I slept. I run my hand along the smooth fabric of a blouse and wonder: Was it him? Did he have this planned? Did he think about me… at all?

The questions follow me into the bathroom, but I let the warm water drown them for now. I close my eyes under the spray, the ache in my muscles reminding me of everything that happened between us. Of what could be possible, if only I’m brave enough to try. Once I’m dry, I choose a simple outfit, fitted jeans, a soft black blouse, and no makeup. I don’t want to look perfect. I want to look real. Relatable. Like a woman worth staying for. Maybe if I give him something to miss, he’ll start to see me. I slip out of the bedroom, the house so still it feels like it’s holding its breath. I walk quietly, letting my fingers trail along the bannister as I navigate the unfamiliar halls. It takes time, but eventually, I find the kitchen. It’s massive, gleaming countertops, polished silver appliances, and too many cabinets for one person to ever use. Everything feels too big, too cold, too perfect.

Still, I smile. I can make this feel like home. One morning at a time. Maybe if I show him what love looks like… he’ll learn how to give it back. I tie my hair up with a ribbon I find in a drawer and start pulling ingredients from the fridge. A pan on the stove. A spark of hope in my chest. Because this is what a wife does. She shows up and I’m going to show up for him, even if he doesn’t know how to ask. Even if he doesn’t yet know what to do with someone who stays.

The smell of buttery toast, sizzling bacon, and fresh eggs fills the oversized kitchen, warming the sterile air with something that feels almost… domestic. I work quietly, methodically, whisking, flipping, seasoning, plating. I don’t know what Nico likes, so I make everything. Sweet, savory, heavy, light. Enough food to feed an army. Or, apparently, a mafia house. Footsteps echo from the hall. Voices, deep, low, casual but tired trail in behind them. I pause with the spatula still in my hand as one by one, tall suited men begin to filter into the kitchen. At first, they don’t see me. They're caught up in conversation, sleep still clinging to their eyes, tension wound in their shoulders. But then one of them looks up. His steps falter.

"The hell is this?” he mutters, confusion knitting his brow.

I swallow and force a polite smile, nerves prickling at the back of my neck. “Breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the spread across the marble island. “Please, help yourselves.”

There’s a beat of silence before someone lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

One of them grabs a plate, then another follows. Soon, the awkward stillness melts away, replaced by clinks of forks and plates and low sounds of approval.

“This the missus?” someone asks around a mouthful of eggs.

I nod, suddenly shy. “Ava.”

“Well, Ava, if this is how you treat Nico, he’s the luckiest bastard alive,” one of them grins, reaching for a second helping of bacon. Another raises his fork in salute before taking a bite of pancake like it’s the best thing he’s eaten in months. They introduce themselves between mouthfuls, Dominic, Luca, Marco, and a few others whose names blur in the haze of nerves and warm gratitude. For a moment, I feel like I belong. Like I’m part of something. I quickly fix up a plate for Nico, eggs over-easy, crispy bacon, two pancakes stacked with syrup on the side, just in case. I wrap it carefully in foil and slide it into the oven to keep warm. He might still be asleep, but I don’t want him to miss out. Especially not today. Especially not after last night. As the kitchen quiets down and the table begins to empty, the men thank me again, genuinely, like they weren’t expecting kindness in this house and don’t quite know what to do with it. One of them even helps me rinse a few of the dishes, mumbling something about “real wife material” before retreating after the others. But Nico still hasn’t come down. I glance at the staircase. Still nothing. No footsteps. No shadow. No sign of him. The oven hums quietly, his breakfast still warm inside. Something tugs in my chest.

I search through a drawer near the fridge until I find a pad of paper and a pen. On it, I scribble a small note in neat cursive:

Nico,

I made you breakfast—it's in the oven if you want it.

Hope you slept well.

– Ava

I fold it and leave it on the counter beside a fresh mug of coffee, steam curling gently into the air. Then I turn toward the back door. A walk. That’s what I need. Air. Space. Something to clear the mix of hope and worry churning inside me. I did everything right this morning, everything a good wife should do. So why do I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop? I slip on a pair of flats by the door and step outside into the crisp morning sun. The estate grounds stretch wide before me, manicured lawns, tall hedges, and a wrought iron fence that reminds me just how easy it is to mistake a gilded cage for a palace. Still, I take a deep breath. Because I want this to work. Because love has to be enough.