Zaire’s POV
The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls and espresso hit me before I even opened my eyes. For a second, it almost felt like peace. Like I had a normal life. No press. No chaos. No curveball pregnancies.
Then the sound of the television drifted in.
I sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. The soft buzz of the house told me the chef had already started his day music playing low in the background, cabinets opening and closing in rhythm.
I threw on a T-shirt and joggers, walking barefoot down the long hallway. When I entered the kitchen, the chef gave me a polite nod and motioned toward the breakfast table.
“Morning, Mr. Cruz. Breakfast is ready.”
The table was immaculate. Fluffy scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, croissants, and a glass of cold pressed juice. A second plate was
