Familiar Strangers

Antonio

After Antonio walked Mr. Joel out, he lingered by the door, dragging a hand over his forehead and then through his hair before forcing himself back to work. The man’s words kept replaying in his head whether he liked it or not.

Hours later, on the drive home, the car slowed as they reached the Obsidian Estate gate. Right in front of them was Marissa’s car. She was leaning out the window, chatting with the security guard, who was grinning like he’d just won a lottery. Antonio watched as the guard happily placed a food flask into her car.

Instantly, Mr. Joel’s request echoed in his mind. Eat with her… she prefers company… she’s your responsibility.

When the exchange ended, the gate opened and both cars slipped inside. As Marissa parked, she reached back to grab the flask. Before she could step out, Marcel pulled the second car to a stop and hurried over to open Antonio’s door.

Marissa greeted Marcel with a small smile. Antonio she didn’t even glance at. She simply walked past him, straight into the house.

Antonio’s POV

Watching her brush past me like I was furniture stung a bit. Maybe I deserved that. I felt guilty about reacting so harshly the other day—just a little—but what’s done is done. I don’t rewrite the past; I deal with whatever comes next. If this is how she wants to play it, I guess that’s our new normal.

When I got to my room, my phone buzzed. Without checking the caller ID, I answered, tossed it on speaker, and placed it on the bed while I unbuttoned my shirt.

“Antonio, when are you and Marissa going for your honeymoon?” my grandfather’s voice boomed.

“There will be nothing like that,” I replied flatly.

“What do you mean? Who marries without a honeymoon? Talk to Marissa and get back to me.”

And just like that, he hung up.

I exhaled slowly, grabbed a towel, and headed for the shower. The hot water helped, but only a little. When I stepped out, towel around my waist and another in my hand as I dried my hair, the weight of the day was still there.

I changed into my nightwear and opened the door—just as Marissa stepped out from the other end of the hallway, heading to her room.

“Grandpa called,” I said.

She paused. “And?”

“He was talking about… a honeymoon.”

“Well, I’m sure you handled it,” she said, reaching for her door.

“He wouldn’t listen,” I continued. “But he would, if you talked to him.”

“We’ll see,” she said, pushing the door open.

“Your father came to the office today.”

That froze her for half a second, though she tried to hide it. “And? Aren’t you two in business together?”

She sounded calm, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.

“He said we should be having meals together.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Did he say why?”

I hesitated before shaking my head. “No. He didn’t.”

She hummed, pretending not to care. “So?”

“I’m sorry about the other day,” I said. “And… maybe we could eat breakfast together. Like you said—have an understanding. Live peacefully.”

She studied me. Really studied me.

Then she nodded slowly.

“You apologised, so… that’s a good start,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry, too. So… looking forward to eating with you, Antonio.”

With that, she slipped into her room, closing the door gently behind her.

Hearing her say my name made my heart skip—just a tiny beat—but I ignored it and kept walking to my room like nothing happened.

The next morning, I woke up early, cleaned up, dressed, and headed downstairs. Halfway down the staircase, the smell hit me—warm, rich, delicious. Then it clicked: Breakfast with Marissa.

Great. No backing out now.

I walked into the dining area and saw her in the kitchen, moving around just like the other morning. As soon as she spotted me, she broke into a small smile.

“Have a seat, I’m done,” she called over the counter.

I sat down. Honestly? This part of the house was basically decoration. I usually ate out or with Grandpa. The housekeeper—my so-called cook—only stocked the fridge once a week when she cleaned and then cleared everything the following week. Nobody actually cooked here.

“Food is ready,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen with two plates in her hands.

She placed one in front of me, sat down with her own plate, and we started eating.

I looked at the food suspiciously—not because it looked bad. The plating was neat, the aroma was insane, everything about it screamed good.

But wealthy family daughters don’t usually grow up stirring pots in kitchens… so naturally, I doubted.

“I’m a good cook,” she said around a bite, catching my thoughts like she could read them. “I love cooking. Went for proper training. Even got a certificate.”

That… surprised me. More than I’d ever admit.

I finally took a bite — and damn. It was actually incredible. Perfectly seasoned, warm in that comforting way, the kind of taste that instantly drags you back to real home-cooked meals. The type only someone’s mother or grandma makes when you’re small and life is simple.

When I looked up, she was smiling. Clearly she caught my reaction.

I quickly wiped the expression off my face and went back to pretending I was made of marble.

Before I knew it, the plate was empty. Empty.

That has literally never happened.

Right then Marcel walked into the dining room, stopped, blinked twice like he was seeing ghosts, then snapped back to normal.

I cleared my throat, grabbed my glass, took a sip of water, wiped my mouth, and stood—completely composed on the outside even though the whole morning had definitely done something to me.