The scent of vanilla and sizzling batter curled through the air like a warm blanket, wrapping the kitchen in false comfort. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, painting everything in a golden glow. Grace stood at the stove, humming softly, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. She looked picture-perfect in her delicate robe, her golden hair pinned up loosely, like she belonged in a magazine ad for serene domesticity.
Emilia sat at the kitchen island, momentarily lulled into the illusion. It was a rare morning when the house felt calm—no veiled barbs, no tension vibrating in the silence. Grace even smiled at her, offered her a plate, and for a fleeting second, Emilia considered this morning a gift.
Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Sharp. Angry.
Marco stormed into the kitchen like
