Chapter 13: Unspoken invitation

The morning sun poured through the tall glass windows of the Hayes’s estate, bathing the kitchen in a soft, golden glow. For once, it felt almost peaceful. Almost normal.

Luna stood by the stove, her hair loosely tied in a low bun, wearing a simple ivory robe that fell just below her knees. The air was filled with the warm aroma of eggs, buttered toast, sautéed mushrooms, and freshly brewed coffee.

She moved with graceful ease, plating breakfast on two white porcelain dishes. Everything looked… domestic. But beneath the gentle clinking of cutlery and the quiet hum of the kitchen’s ventilation, there was a different rhythm beating in her chest—a quiet defiance masked beneath calm routine.

Today, she will play the role.

The role of the wife.

But this time, she’d be the one writing the script just like she always does.

She set the table herself, lining everything with an almost obsessive precision. Fork to the left. Knife to the right. Napkins folded into neat triangles. Two cups of coffee. Two plates. Two empty chairs.

The maids lingered just outside the archway, whispering among themselves in hushed tones, watching her move like a ghost in a house where silence had been the loudest occupant.

And then came the sound.

Footsteps on marble.

Measured. Confidence. Heavy.

Luna didn’t look up.

She didn’t have to.

George Hayes entered the room dressed in a dark navy shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. His eyes scanned the table, his usual cold, calculating gaze faltering for a split second when he realized what he was looking at.

Breakfast. Set for two.

His expression remained unreadable, but he didn’t move.

He stood by the entrance, arms at his sides, watching. Waiting.

The maids, who had been watching curiously, began to fidget. One whispered something unintelligible, another gently nudged the other. They were confused too.

Why wasn’t Mr. Hayes sitting?

Why wasn’t he saying anything?

It was as though he needed something. Permission, perhaps. Or an invitation. Some verbal acknowledgment to break the invisible wall between them.

But Luna remained silent a moment longer, her back turned as she rinsed a small bowl.

Let him wait.

Let the silence do what her words couldn't.

When she finally turned around, she met his eyes calm, cool, unreadable. She walked slowly to the table, her fingers brushing the back of her chair. She didn’t look at the maids. She didn’t look at him.

Only the table.

And then, as if commenting on the weather, she said simply, “You can join me… if you want.”

The maids froze.

George’s jaw flexed, the tension sharp across his cheekbones. He didn’t speak right away. He looked down at the table again. Two plates. One invitation.

And for once in his calculated, ruthless life, he moved—not out of dominance, not out of entitlement, but because she had opened a door.

He pulled the chair back and sat.

Still, silence.

But this silence was different.

Not cold.

Not sharp.

But expectant.

Luna took her seat across from him, slicing into her eggs with deliberate calm, not rushing, not performing—just existing. Owning the moment. George picked up his fork slowly, eyes flicking to her before dropping to his plate.

He tasted the food.

Perfect.

Of course it was.

He took another bite. Still no words. But she caught the subtle shift in his shoulders, the smallest exhale he didn’t know he’d released.

This wasn’t about breakfast.

It never was.

It was about control.

About the invitation.

About who leads... and who follows.

And today, Luna had led.

Without force.

Without war.

Just presence.

And that, more than anything, was what shook George the most.