Everything I'm Not.

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before the sun even fully rises. I move on autopilot, cracking eggs, buttering toast, frying bacon, anything to keep my hands busy and my thoughts at bay. I refuse to cry anymore. I did that last night, silently, after Hayden tucked me into bed like something fragile and broken. I don’t want to be fragile. I don’t want to be broken. So I cook. For them. Not for Nico. I don’t bother making his plate. The bruise on my cheek is darker today, a sick shade of plum that crawls toward my temple. Another, faint but unmistakable, rings faintly along the side of my neck where his fingers gripped me too tight. I don’t try to cover them. Let them see. Let them wonder. The first to come down is Hayden, hair damp from a shower. He pauses when he sees me. His eyes drop to the bruise, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and sets a hand gently on my shoulder, the warmth of it grounding me.

"You didn’t have to cook," he says softly.

"I wanted to." My voice is calm, steady. Controlled. "Besides, it’s not for him."

He nods, understanding exactly who I mean, and then sits at the table. One by one, the others filter in, Luca, then Domonic, and finally Marco. They all notice. Every single one of them sees my face and the way my smile doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Luca is the first to speak. “You okay, Ava?”

I nod once. “Fine.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but Hayden gives him a subtle shake of the head. Not here. Domonic, ever the peacemaker, simply says, “Smells amazing. Thanks for this,” and offers me a plate to fill, like nothing’s wrong. I’m grateful for it. Then the front door opens. I stiffen. No. He wouldn’t, he never comes home in the mornings, especially not after one of those nights. But then I hear his voice. Deep, smooth, indifferent. And hers. Laughter, high-pitched, sugary, obnoxious. I turn just in time to see Nico stroll into the kitchen, looking infuriatingly refreshed in a fitted black button-down and slacks, his hand casually resting on the waist of a tall, slender redhead in designer heels and an expensive white blazer. She’s beautiful. Perfectly put together. Smug. My heart sinks.

"Morning, boys," Nico says, his tone chipper, almost smug. Not even a glance in my direction. Not a flicker of regret or acknowledgment. “This is Kerry-Anne. She’ll be staying with us for a while. Working with me. Living here.”

Kerry-Anne beams, her eyes scanning the room until they land on me. They narrow instantly.

“Oh,” she says with an exaggerated smile. “You must be the help.”

Luca chokes on his coffee.

Domonic nearly drops his fork.

“No,” Hayden says sharply. “That’s Ava. Nico’s wife.”

Kerry-Anne blinks, then laughs, flipping her sleek red hair over one shoulder. “Oh, that Ava,” she says like the name leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “You poor thing. You look… tired.”

My grip tightens around the spatula. I don’t reply. I won’t give her the satisfaction. She turns to Nico, brushing her fingers down the sleeve of his shirt in a way that makes me want to scream. “Do you think she’ll put my bags in the guest room? I brought a few extras, had to pack for all seasons, you know. And I’ll need lunch around one. Something light. I don’t do carbs.”

Nico doesn’t even glance my way.

“She’ll manage,” he mutters, already leading her toward the stairs like I’m invisible. Like I don’t exist at all.

When they’re gone, the silence left behind is suffocating. Luca speaks first, voice low and furious. “The fuck was that?”

Marcus shifts awkwardly. “Was she serious? She thought you were staff?”

Domonic gives me a pained look. “Want me to ‘accidentally’ lock her bags in the basement?”

Hayden doesn’t say anything. Just watches me quietly as I continue cooking. His eyes don’t leave me once. I keep my expression neutral. “Don’t bother,” I say, flipping a pancake with a calm I don’t feel. “Let her have her fun.”

“But Ava…” Hayden’s voice is gentle again. Too gentle. “This isn’t okay.”

No. It isn’t. But Nico just paraded another woman into our home, into my kitchen, on his arm. After hitting me. After silencing me and somehow, the worst part is… I still wanted him to come down those stairs and look at me. I wait until they’ve all finished breakfast and the house quiets again, that lingering, awful silence stretching like a noose around my neck. The clink of forks on plates fades, and the scent of eggs and toast is already stale. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head toward the front hallway where Kerry-Anne’s absurdly expensive luggage has been left in a dramatic pile beside the stairs. Three massive designer suitcases, a hatbox, and a tote bag so small it couldn’t possibly hold more than ego and lipstick. I bend down and grab the handle of the first suitcase when a voice cuts through the silence behind me.

“Ava… don’t.”

I turn slightly to see Domonic leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, his brow furrowed. There’s no smirk, no sarcasm, just concern.

“She’s not your responsibility,” he says.

I straighten slowly, my fingers still wrapped around the handle, knuckles white. “She’s a guest. Nico asked me to.”

“No, she told you to,” he replies gently. “There’s a difference.”

I don’t respond. He steps forward, lowering his voice like he’s afraid someone might hear. “You shouldn’t be doing this. Not with…” His eyes trail to the bruises on my face and neck, and his expression hardens. “You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine.”

My stomach clenches. Shame bubbles up in my throat, thick and bitter.

“I’m not pretending,” I lie.

He tilts his head, gently calling me out without cruelty. “Ava, I watched him ignore you. All of us did. And now he’s walking around here with her, like you’re not even worth acknowledging. And yesterday…” He pauses, visibly forcing his voice to stay steady. “We all heard the yelling. And then saw the marks. You think we’re just going to look the other way?”

My throat burns.

“You don’t deserve this,” he says, softer now. “None of it. And I know you’re trying to hold everything together, but maybe it’s time you stopped. Maybe it’s time you stood up for yourself.”

I stare down at the suitcase. I wish his words didn’t crack something in me, but they do. They splinter the dam I’ve been desperately holding in place, that trembling wall I built with obedience and silence.

“I don’t know how,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “It’s not how I was raised.”

Domonic’s brow furrows, and he steps a little closer. “What do you mean?”

“I was taught to be quiet,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the marble floor. “To be obedient. To make peace, not waves. A good wife doesn’t argue. She supports. She waits. She endures.”

I don’t realize I’m shaking until he gently places a hand on my arm.

“That’s not strength, Ava,” he says, voice like a balm. “That’s survival. But you don’t have to survive like that anymore. Not here. Not with us.”

I blink up at him, and the emotion in his eyes nearly undoes me.

“You don’t owe him loyalty when he’s breaking you,” he adds. “You owe yourself more than this.”

My lips part, but no words come. I nod, just once, and let go of the suitcase handle. For the first time, I let someone else carry the weight. Domonic gives me a small, approving nod and gently pushes the luggage aside with his foot. “She can get her own damn bags. Or Nico can.”

I smile faintly, bitter, but grateful. It’s not strength yet. But maybe it’s a start.