Morning light streamed through the wide windows of the penthouse, warm and golden, spilling across marble counters and polished steel. The place was too perfect—too sterile. No scent of bacon frying, no clatter of pans, no evidence anyone actually lived here. Just silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.
I wanted something normal. Something mine.
So I padded into the kitchen barefoot, my robe brushing against my legs, and opened the fridge. Rows of bottled water, imported juices, and containers labeled in neat handwriting stared back at me. No mess. No comfort. My hand landed on a carton of eggs and a stick of butter.
“Eggs,” I whispered to myself, setting them on the counter. “That’s a start.”
The staff was already stirring, their shoes tapping lightly on the polishe
