His to Ruin

The Softest War

I turned my cup slowly on the table, the soft scrape of porcelain covering the sudden chaos of my heartbeat.

Alec was still looking at me, his gaze sharp and steady. Too steady.

“He doesn’t need to know anything about you,” I said finally, my voice flatter than I meant it to be. “Because you’re nobody to him.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Heavy. Slow to spread. Stinging.

Alec didn’t respond right away. He studied my face for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Then tell me,” he said quietly, “where is his father?”

I turned my head slowly, trying to keep my expression from betraying me.

Then I smiled.

Small. Fragile. But just enough.

“He’s… not important.” I looked toward the window, letting the sunlight sting my eyes, just enough to give me an excuse not to meet Alec’s gaze. “We met in Paris. He was in med school back then. Smart. Kind. But… young.”

Alec stayed silent. Didn’t interrupt.

I bit my lower lip and added more, piecing together a memory that never existed.

“He went back to his country after graduation. We agreed not to hold each other back. Abraham… was my choice. I never contacted him again.”

My breath faltered at the end of the sentence.

Alec tapped his finger against the table. Once. Then silence again. I couldn’t tell if he believed the lie, or if he was just playing along.

“His name?” he asked softly.

Damn it.

I blinked slowly, pretending to consider whether it was appropriate to say the name of someone from a past that didn’t exist.

“Étienne,” I said quietly. “Étienne Marchand.”

Alec didn’t react.

And I decided to end the story there. To lock it down before the next question cracked it open.

“Abraham doesn’t need to know about him,” I said, faster than I should have. “He’s not coming back. He probably doesn’t even know the child was born.”

Alec raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t think he deserves to?”

“No.” My voice was sharper now. Firmer. “Because not every man deserves to be a father just because he donated the DNA.”

That line was aimed at him. Sharpened. Delivered with calm precision.

We fell silent again.

Alec leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced over his stomach. His eyes stripped me bare without ever touching.

Whether he believed me or not, I didn’t know. Maybe he was already crafting his own version of the truth.

I turned my gaze from the window and took a slow breath. The tension still coiled in the air like a live wire waiting for water. But one thing I knew for sure: fear was Alec Romano’s favorite game. And I wasn’t a pawn he could move whenever he wanted.

I touched the edge of my pancake with my fork, then set it down again without taking a bite.

“Tastes like vengeance left on the stove,” I muttered flatly, not looking at him.

Alec didn’t reply, but from the corner of my eye, I saw one eyebrow lift slightly.

“If you're going to torture someone through food, there are more elegant ways to do it,” I added. “Like mixing wasabi into the jam.”

For a split second, a smile flickered on his face. But it never reached his eyes.

I stood up, taking a deep breath to steady my legs. “I’m using the kitchen. I assume you haven’t signed an execution order for anyone bold enough to open a cabinet without permission.”

His eyes stayed on me. For a long moment. Like he was deciding whether to let me keep standing… or cut down the entire idea with a single, cold sentence.

Finally, he gave a subtle nod.

I turned and walked toward the kitchen at an even pace, even though my stomach felt like it had just been pierced by a thin blade. I wouldn’t let him see a crack. Not now. Not when I knew he was looking for a weakness to slide that poisoned smile into.

The mansion’s kitchen looked like a stage. Grand and far too quiet. The surfaces gleamed, dark wood cabinets stood like silent guards, and the stainless steel tools were perfectly arranged, like no one had ever touched them.

I opened one cabinet. Then another.

“At least it’s not all just for show,” I murmured when I found fresh ingredients in the oversized fridge.

Roma tomatoes. Garlic. Basil. Even a full block of parmesan and a bottle of chilled olive oil. My pulse eased a little.

My hands moved on their own, like they were remembering a home that never truly left me. I chopped tomatoes, sautéed minced garlic in a buttered pan, the scent quickly filling the space with something warm. Something that smelled like home. Like Italy. Like Saturday nights in Mama’s kitchen.

I pushed my hair behind my ear, slowly stirring the sauce, and started mixing gnocchi dough from the boiled potatoes I’d found in a drawer. My hands and mind were busy, and for the first time that morning… I almost forgot I was in the lion’s den.

Until I heard the soft sound of breathing behind me.

My body went rigid.

“I thought you were kidding,” Alec’s voice came low, too close. His breath warmed the back of my neck.

I swallowed hard.

Don’t react, Daniella.

My hand kept stirring the wooden spoon, slow but steady.

“You said I could cook,” I replied, keeping my tone flat and uninterested, even though my stomach was already twisting uncomfortably.

Alec didn’t move. But he was too close, too silent.

“And I thought you’d make something that doesn’t take three hours,” he said again.

I kept my eyes on the sauce that was starting to thicken in the pan. “If you’re in a hurry, you can always go back to your burnt pancake.”

I knew he was watching me. My breath, the tension in my shoulders, even the pulse in my neck that was way too easy to read.

But I wasn’t going to give him that.

He wanted me to be afraid.

And I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction again.

“Is this gnocchi?” he asked, surprising me. I didn’t think he’d be this... curious.

“Yeah.”

“I hate gnocchi.”

“Of course you do.” I glanced sideways at him. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes anything too soft.”

Silence.

Then footsteps. But he didn’t leave the room. Just moved to the table by the side of the kitchen, where he sat down, lounging like he was watching a live cooking show.

I stayed focused. Kneading the potato dough and shaping each piece gently with a fork, making those little ridges that would hold the sauce better.

The air filled with the smell of butter, garlic, and tomatoes bubbling slowly. For a moment, the room didn’t feel like a battlefield. It was just a kitchen. Just two broken people who couldn’t speak without drawing blood… and one warm meal that gave us a fragile moment of peace.

But even without touching me, Alec’s presence still felt like a long shadow pressed against my back.

:::

The sound of hurried little footsteps echoed through the marble hallway, followed by the light thud of sneakers I knew too well.

“Mommy! You’re cooking again?” Abraham stood at the kitchen doorway, his eyes wide like he’d just discovered buried treasure.

I turned and smiled, even though my heart was still beating faster with Alec sitting just a few feet away.

“Second breakfast,” I said, nodding to the pot simmering on the stove.

“Like a hobbit!” he shouted, running in. “First breakfast, then second breakfast, then morning snacks, then lunch…”

He was already climbing onto the tall barstool at the kitchen island, right across from Alec. His little hands propped up his chin, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the pan where the golden-red sauce was gently bubbling.

“Gnocchi al pomodoro,” I answered, pouring the sauce into a large bowl. “It’s from Italy. Like pasta, but softer.”

“Like mini pillows?” he asked seriously.

I let out a small laugh. “Yeah. But edible ones.”

Alec watched it all with an unreadable expression. His hand was still wrapped around a half-full coffee mug, but he said nothing. Just those eyes... sharp, alert, following every move Abraham made… and every word I said to him.

“Can I help?” Abraham asked, already trying to roll up the sleeves of his little hoodie.

“Sure. Just not near the stove,” I said, handing him a small bowl of grated parmesan. “Sprinkle this on the plates.”

He took the job like a knight handed a sword. “With pleasure.”

As his tiny hands started sprinkling cheese over the plates of gnocchi I had dished out, Alec finally spoke.

“So, he likes homemade food?”

Abraham answered before anyone else could. “Mommy’s cooking is the best! She can make creamy chicken, lasagna, garlic bread… even her scrambled eggs taste better than the ones in restaurants!”

I lowered my head just a bit, hiding the small smile that tugged at my lips even though I tried to fight it.

“And she once made dragon-shaped pizza!” Abraham added with pride.

Alec turned to me. “Dragon pizza?”

I shrugged. “There was a phase when he was obsessed with dinosaurs.”

Abraham handed a plate to Alec. “Try this, Uncle. But be careful. Mommy might’ve made it spicy on purpose.”

Alec stared at the plate. For a long moment.

Then, calmly, he took it.

No comments.

But when he took his first bite of gnocchi, I saw something rare:

He closed his eyes for just a second.

And didn’t say a single word.