His Reluctant Obsession

Breakfast, Billboards and Birthday

The soft clatter of plates and the occasional burst of voices from the dining hall downstairs, drifted into Elena’s ears each time the swinging doors creaked open, gently pulling her from sleep. She stirred, stretching her arms above her head before rising to her feet. With a graceful tug, she drew the curtains apart, letting the golden morning sun flood her room in a warm, radiant glow.

Descending the grand staircase, she was greeted by the inviting aroma of fresh bread, eggs, and brewed coffee. The dining table downstairs was adorned with an extravagant spread of breakfast—pancakes stacked high, bowls of fresh fruit, crisp bacon, and gleaming pitchers of juice. Along the adjacent wall, a line of maids stood silently, attentive and poised, awaiting her instructions.

As Elena stepped into the dining hall, the soft click of her heels against the marble floor commanded the attention of the maids, who bowed their heads respectfully.

She paused for a moment, taking in the perfection of the setup—the way the silverware gleamed, how each dish looked curated like art. It was a far cry from the quiet breakfasts of her old life. Here, everything screamed power, wealth, and expectation.

It wasn't that she didn't experience this kind of luxury back at home but this was on a whole new level as she was now experiencing being the “Don’s wife”.

"This is my life now," she thought, her fingers lightly grazing the back of the chair at the head of the table. "The wife of a Don. The queen of a kingdom I barely understand.”

“Good morning Ms. Moretti. Would you like to eat breakfast here or in the garden?” Clara asked, stepping out of the kitchen, dropping two bottles – one of maple syrup and the other of honey on the dining table. “I wasn't sure which one you'd prefer so I brought both.”

“Here is fine.” Elena said softly, taking a seat at the head of the table. “And I prefer Maple syrup too. Where is Nikolai?”

“Mr. Moretti won't be joining you for breakfast. He had some urgent business to attend to.”

“Okay.” She mumbled, clearly not used to this kind of attention and grandeur that seemed to follow her like a second skin since marrying into the Moretti family.

Back home, the silence had been hers alone, unbroken and safe. She always enjoyed her privacy, a rare comfort that allowed her to live on her own terms. As long as she stayed out of trouble and followed the house rules, no one questioned her choices or tried to control her. It was in those quiet moments alone that she felt most alive and in control of her own world.

Here, even with all the grandeur, it felt like a thousand eyes watched her every move. The unspoken rules wrapped around her like a velvet cage. Sometimes, she longed for the simple lock on her bedroom door—the freedom to close it tight and be just Elena. No titles. No expectations.

She reached for her fork, slicing into the fluffy pancakes, letting the warm syrup drip lazily down the edges. She chewed slowly, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular, thoughts drifting far from the luxurious breakfast before her.

Her fork hovered mid-air, the pancake forgotten as her gaze flicked toward the empty seat beside her. She wondered what Nikolai’s “urgent business” was this time.

It had only been a few weeks since their wedding, and already, Elena was growing used to waking up alone in this massive house. The echo of silence in the vast dining hall served as a daily reminder. A faint crease formed between her brows as she stared at the empty seat across from her—a whisper of unease tightening in her chest. There was a tension here, subtle but constant, like an invisible weight woven into the very walls of this grand estate. Being married to a man whose name carried power in places she'd never even heard of came with its own quiet burdens.

“Shall I bring you the morning papers or some magazines, Ms. Moretti?” one of the maids asked, breaking her reverie.

Elena nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, please.”

As the maid left, Elena glanced out the tall windows overlooking the garden. The roses were in full bloom, swaying gently in the breeze like dancers in a waltz. She wondered if she’d find comfort out there—among the petals, the silence, and the sunshine. A small part of her longed for normalcy, for simplicity… for a life where breakfast didn’t feel like a performance.

She traced the delicate edge of her napkin with a fingertip, the smooth fabric a reminder of how far she’d come and how far she still was from the life she once knew.

But she was Elena Moretti now. And here in this world, beneath the crystal chandeliers and whispered power, simplicity had become a forgotten dream.

The maid walked in holding a stack of magazines, her steps light and measured as she approached the table.

“Here you go, Ms. Moretti,” she said with a polite nod, placing them carefully beside Elena’s untouched glass of orange juice.

Elena gave a faint smile in return. “Thank you.”

She glanced down at the covers—fashion, politics, society columns—all carefully curated, glossy reflections of the world she was now expected to be a part of. The headlines screamed names she was just beginning to recognize, faces smiling with secrets behind their eyes. It all felt so far from the Elena she used to be.

Her fingers hovered over the top magazine before pulling it closer, not out of interest, but out of routine—like everything else these days.

The silence returned once the maid left, wrapping itself around her again like an old friend she didn’t ask for.

She picked the next one and seeing it was a fashion magazine, flipped open the first page, her eyes darting around it's contents with profound interest. A name caught her attention—hers. Elena Sinclair. Her eyes narrowed as she read the feature headline:

"Elena Sinclair: The Silent Storm Revolutionizing Modern Fashion"

A profile by Camilla D’Angelo — in honor of her best friend’s birthday.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Just then, her phone buzzed with notifications. She opened i********: out of habit, scrolling aimlessly—until a familiar logo caught her eye. Her thumb stopped. Her breath hitched.

And there it was! A video, already racking up thousands of views, showed a massive billboard in Times Square, New York City.

Her brand.

Her campaign.

Her face.

Lit up in the heart of Manhattan.

She gasped, sat upright, and turned on the sound. The caption read:

“The next big thing in fashion has landed — Elena Sinclair takes over New York!”

She blinked, then blinked again, just to be sure it wasn’t a glitch. But no—it was real.

Without thinking, she grabbed her phone and hit the call button.

“Girllll!” Camilla shrieked the moment the line connected. “You won’t believe this—WE MADE THE BILLBOARD!”

A beat.

“No, like… I’m looking at it right now. My brand. My face. Everything. We’re up there, baby!” Elena’s laughter echoed through the dining hall as she paced around in pure joy and disbelief, still staring at the photo like it might disappear if she looked away.

Camilla laughed too. “Well, that’s only the part you saw. Girll, you’re all over Manhattan, Paris, London, and Italy especially Milan!”

“What?” Elena gasped.

“Check the entertainment news. Remember the billboard beside Champs-Élysées? Your image is on it. And Sunset Boulevard too!”

Elena’s jaw dropped as she switched apps—Twitter, t****k. Video after video. Street shots. People tagging her. Influencers posing in front of her ad.

Her heart raced.

“Oh my God…” she whispered, eyes wide.

“This is real. This is actually happening.”

“Yes, girl. You got your birthday wish. I’m so happy for you.”