The dawn was unusually quiet.
No guards outside her door.
No Marco.
No footsteps.
Just the faint clatter of pans from the kitchen.
Linda sat up slowly, every muscle still sore.
She touched her lip—mostly healed. The bruises on her wrists, fading.
But the memory?
Still sharp.
She pulled on a sweater and padded down the marble hallway.
The scent of burnt butter led her to the kitchen.
Alex stood by the stove, frowning at a misshapen omelet in the pan.
“You're up early," she said.
He jumped.
Then turned, sheepish.
“I was going to bring you breakfast."
“Brave of you."
He slid the egg onto a chipped plate. “It's terrible. But… it's mine."
She accepted the dish and sat at the island counter.
They ate in silence for a moment.
Then Alex cleared his throat. “I have no excuse."
