It's early.
The sun hasn't fully risen, and the penthouse is quiet.
I woke up before my alarm, something about the silence tugging at me. Maybe it's the tension from last night. Or maybe… I just needed something to feel normal.
So I crept out of the room and into the kitchen.
I don't cook often. I don't cook at all.
But I find bread, butter, and eggs. It's not much, but I want to do something kind. Something soft. Something mine.
I pop two slices of bread into the toaster and try to fry eggs like I remember from YouTube. I'm halfway through scrambling when the toaster starts smoking.
My eyes widen. "Oh no."
I rush to it, but it's too late. The toast is black—black. Not golden. Not crispy. Just burnt.
I wave my hand through the smoke and cough. The toaster beeps angrily. The smell is terrible.
And that's when I hear it.
A low chuckle.
I turn around, eyes wide, and see Kairo leaning against the kitchen doorway. He's in grey sweatpants and a black tee, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"You're trying to kill us with toast?" he asks.
I blink. "It was supposed to be breakfast."
He walks in slowly, eyes on the smoking toaster. "Looks more like arson."
I grab the plate and hold it up. "It's a little… extra crispy."
He laughs. Not the cold smirk I'm used to, not the polite nod he gives clients. But a real, low, quiet laugh that pulls at something inside me.
I stare at him.
"You laugh?" I tease, surprised.
He raises an eyebrow. "I do. Just not often. Especially not here."
Something soft settles between us.
I offer him the plate again, and he dramatically recoils. "Nope, not happening."
"Coward."
He leans over, picks a burnt slice with two fingers like it's toxic. "This belongs in a museum. Or a crime scene."
I swat at him with a kitchen towel. "You're so dramatic."
His eyes shine with amusement, and for the first time, I realize he's… just a man.
Not the cold CEO.
Not the intimidating boss.
Just Kairo.
And I like this version of him.
"Thank you," I say suddenly.
He looks up. "For what?"
"For laughing," I say. "For not making this weird."
He shrugs. "Everyone burns toast."
"Do they?"
"Okay, maybe not like this," he adds, holding up the slice again.
I giggle, covering my mouth.
He sets it down, still smiling. "I'll order breakfast. And please, step away from the stove."
I lift my hands. "No promises."
He gives me one last look before walking away, still chuckling to himself.
And I stand there in the middle of the kitchen, heart warm, something new blooming in my chest.
Maybe, just maybe… we're more than what we pretend to be.
The kitchen still smells faintly like burnt toast.
I'm standing there, holding my coffee, when Kairo returns, phone pressed to his ear, face serious again.
He hangs up and looks at me. "Some people will be here soon."
I blink. "People?"
He nods. "Designers. Stylists. Hair and makeup. They're coming to get you ready for tonight."
I blink again, feeling a little stupid. "Me?"
He shrugs like it's nothing. "It's a big event. Eyes will be on us."
Us.
The word hits harder than it should.
He notices my silence and adds, voice a little gentler, "I just want you to be comfortable."
I press my fingers into my coffee cup. "Right. Okay."
Kairo leans against the counter, crossing his arms. His sleeves are rolled up, his watch glinting under the kitchen lights. "There are dresses in the guest room closet. Pick whichever you like."
"You bought dresses?"
He nods once, like it's a normal thing to do. "A few. Different styles. You'll find something."
My chest squeezes painfully. Nobody's ever... thought ahead for me like that. Not even for something as simple as a dress.
I mumble a soft, "Thanks."
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Don't burn down the place before they get here."
I manage a small laugh, and for a second, the tension eases.
The doorbell rings.
Two stylists unpack boxes of shoes and jewelry. A makeup artist sets up by the wide windows, brushes and palettes fanned out like weapons. A tall designer in black fusses over a row of gowns hung carefully along the wall.
I stand awkwardly in the center of it all, feeling a little lost.
Kairo stays back, near the stairs, arms crossed, as he watches the chaos unfold.
Every time our eyes meet across the room, something twists inside me.
This is our life now.
A marriage built on paper.
But the cracks are growing wider every day.
"Try this one first," the designer says, holding up a shimmering midnight-blue gown.
I nod obediently and slip into the nearest room to change.
The fabric slides against my skin like water. Cool, elegant, perfect.
When I step out, the room falls silent.
Even Kairo.
His gaze drags over me, slow and heavy.
For a heartbeat, it feels like there's no one else here but us.
He clears his throat, breaking the spell. "It'll do," he says, voice low.
The stylist claps her hands together. "Hair next!"
I let them sweep me away, my heart thudding too hard in my chest.
Hours later, when they all finally leave and the penthouse falls quiet again, I stand by the window, staring out at the city.
Kairo appears behind me, his reflection a tall shadow in the glass.
"You look..." He pauses. "Beautiful."
I turn slightly, meeting his eyes.
"Thank you," I whisper.
The words feel too small.
He studies me like he's memorizing something he'll never say out loud.
"We'll leave in an hour," he says, stepping back.
I nod, even though my heart is racing.
Another gala.
Another night pretending to be something we're not.
Except... every day, every stolen glance, pretending gets harder.
And harder.
And harder.