Chapter 8: Good morning wife

The morning light crept through the tall glass windows of the penthouse, painting soft gold across the marble floor. Dahlia eased open her bedroom door, careful not to make a sound. Her heels clicked lightly as she tiptoed into the hall, purse in hand, determined to make it out before he woke up.

Her plan was simple: she had timed everything perfectly - wake up early, get dressed quietly, leave early, avoid conversation and avoid the man.

If she could avoid Nate for even one morning, maybe she’d reclaim a sliver of normalcy. Nate was many things, but punctual wasn’t one of them-at least, that’s what she’d assumed.

She was halfway to the door when a smooth, deep voice filled the air.

“Good morning, wife.”

Dahlia froze mid-step.

No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t be up already.

She turned slowly, her hair falling over one shoulder as her eyes landed on him-in an apron. An apron. Standing at her stove like he owned it. A sizzling pan of eggs in one hand, a wooden spatula in the other.

“Breakfast?” Nate asked, flipping the eggs effortlessly. “Aren’t you going to eat before you rush off?”

For a second, she forgot to breathe. Her brain scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing: Nate. Cooking. In her kitchen.

Breakfast. He was actually cooking breakfast. For her. Dahlia’s carefully built plan - to stay detached, composed, unaffected - crumbled a little under the smell of butter and toast. Her stomach betrayed her first with a quiet growl and then her mouth water against her will

Dahlia squared her shoulders, putting on her best unimpressed face as she crossed the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she demanded, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Nate didn’t even look up. “Making breakfast for my wife. What does it look like I’m doing?” He slid the eggs onto a plate like a professional chef.

Dahlia sat down on the stool, glaring at him. “You don’t have to do this. All this -” she gestured vaguely “-is fake. None of it is real. In a year, you’ll be out of my life and everything will go back to the way it was before.”

Her words were firm, deliberate- like she needed to remind herself of them.

Nate stopped for a moment, then looked up with that maddening smile. “Till then,” he said gently, “let me cook for you. And you go out there and do your best.”

Dahlia blinked. That was… not the reaction she’d expected.

He set the plate in front of her and nodded toward the fork. “Now don’t bite your tongue.” He chuckled lightly

Then, with that easy confidence, he walked away - leaving her sitting there in the quiet, staring down at perfectly plated food.

Her stomach betrayed her first. The smell was too good. She picked up the fork, took a tentative bite-then another.

It was delicious. Infuriatingly delicious.

She hated that she liked it. Hated that for a moment, her chest tightened with something that wasn’t irritation. It had been a year -since her mother died-since anyone had cooked for her. The warmth of the food spread through her, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected.

When she finished, she stood to load the dishes, wanting to distract herself. But the dishwasher refused to cooperate. She pressed one button, then another, frowning.

“Why won’t it turn on?” she muttered.

Nate leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded, watching Dahlia wage war with the dishwasher like it had personally wronged her.

She pressed one button. Nothing happened.

Another. Still nothing.

She bent down to inspect the plug, muttering something under her breath about “faulty design.”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

For someone who could slice through a room full of investors with a single sentence, Dahlia Reyes was utterly, spectacularly helpless in a kitchen.

His eyes flicked around the space - pristine marble counters, spotless stove, utensils that looked like they’d been purchased for a photo shoot rather than actual cooking. Half of the appliances he had used in cooking this morning still had that fresh, unused gleam, like they’d never been touched. Except one.

The coffee machine.

The poor thing sat in the corner looking overworked and underpaid - like it had been milked to its last drop every single morning.

He smirked.

A woman like her probably ran on caffeine and sheer willpower alone. She didn’t live here; she simply existed between her office, her board meetings, and her bed.

And yet here she was, frowning at a dishwasher like it was an unsolvable riddle.

He stepped closer, finally giving in. “You’re going to break it at this rate,” he said lightly, brushing past her to press the right buttons. The machine beeped and came to life with a low hum.

Dahlia froze, then slowly turned her head toward him with that icy, dignified look of hers - the one that was supposed to intimidate.

Yeah. He wasn’t intimidated.

“That’s how you do it” he said, voice teasing but warm.

Her expression wavered for half a second before she straightened, gathering whatever was left of her pride. “Right. Of course,” she said briskly, as if she’d known it all along, and swept away with her head high.

Nate chuckled quietly, watching her go.

So the queen of steel doesn’t know how to run her own castle.

He couldn’t help it - the thought made him grin wider.

Snatching her purse from the counter, she headed for the door “I left a black card on the table for your expenses.”

She was halfway out the door when his voice stopped her again.

“Wait.”

There it was. The test. The moment she’d been expecting.

He was going to ask for the pin, wasn’t he? And when she left, he’d max it out- on designer clothes and champagne. Typical.

She turned slowly, ready to slice him down with words- only to find him closer now, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.

“What’s your number?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your number” Nate repeated, holding the phone toward her. “So I can reach you.”

For once, Dahlia was speechless. He’d passed her test without even knowing it.

She hesitated, then took the phone, typed in her number, and handed it back to him.

“Have a great day” he said, that easy smile tugging at his lips.

Dahlia nodded quickly, closing the door behind her.

As she walked down the private hall to the elevator, she couldn’t stop replaying his voice in her head. His steadiness. The way he hadn’t asked for a single thing from her.

Maybe… he wasn’t so bad after all.

Her car was waiting outside, sleek and black against the morning sun. The driver straightened as she approached.

“Good morning, Miss Dahlia,” Edward greeted with his usual warmth. He had driven her since she was a child - old enough to call him Pa Ed back then.

“Good morning, Pa Ed” she said softly, sliding into the back seat.

“Where to?” he asked.

Dahlia straightened, slipping back into her sharp, commanding tone. “To the company.”

Edward nodded, and the car purred to life, gliding into the busy city streets.

Dahlia took a long, steadying breath, watching the skyline pass through tinted glass.

She straightened her shoulders.

Time for things to change around here.