The alarm buzzed sharply, cutting through the pre-dawn silence like an unwelcome reminder of why I was up so early. I slipped out of bed, the floor cold beneath my feet, and padded into the kitchen. It was quiet, the kind of stillness that wraps around you and makes you feel like you’re the only one awake in the world. This was my domain, the heart of my sanctuary, and today it was going to serve a purpose beyond breakfast.
I started by brewing the coffee—strong, dark, and with a twist. I added a secret ingredient, an old trick I’d learned from my grandmother. It wasn’t harmful, just enough to unsettle a stomach and sour a mood. I knew Derek’s type; they thrived on control. So I’d give him control, then watch it slip through his fingers.
As the coffee brewed, I prepared breakfast. Eggs, perfectly scrambled, but with a pinch too much salt. Toast, beautifully golden but with a thin layer of butter that would make it just slightly soggy by the time it reached his plate. Everything looked perfect, but perfection was never my goal.
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