The kitchen welcomed me like an old friend—cool tile under bare feet, sunlight bleeding across the countertops in warm streaks of gold. The air smelled of espresso and butter and something soft and sweet—crêpes, thin and delicate, filled with warmth and nostalgia.
I moved with precision, shirtless and calm, every action measured. Quiet dominance baked into ritual.
The batter poured smooth into the pan, the sizzle greeting me like applause. I flipped each crepe with a flick of my wrist, folding them gently onto a warmed plate beside fresh berries and dark maple syrup.
There was something about this moment—this lie—that made me smile.
The kitchen looked like a dream: golden light, the scent of comfort, every corner touched by quiet, curated warmth.
It would disarm her.
That was the point.
I wanted her to walk in wearing that robe I gave her, still dazed from sleep, drawn in by the scent of something soft and inviting.
I wanted her to sit at this counter and feel safe.
Just long enough to realize it was me—only me—who had built this illusion.
The man who fed her.
Dressed her.
Undressed her.
I wanted her off-balance. I wanted her to confuse comfort with control.
Because once she understood that even her pleasures were designed by my hand?
She’d stop reaching for escape.
Chains made of silk are still chains, Persephone.
The crepes finished perfectly—edges golden, scent divine. I plated them with care, drizzled syrup in slow, syrupy spirals, and added a dusting of powdered sugar.
And just as I set the plate down, I heard it?—
Footsteps.
Soft at first.
Growing louder.
Slower than a threat.
More hesitant than anger.
She was coming.
Still wrapped in that robe. Still raw from the night before. Still simmering with defiance she thought I hadn’t noticed.
Good morning, wife.
Let’s see how she tasted rage when it was served with sweetness.
She stormed into the kitchen like a hurricane wearing silk.
Robe cinched too tight.
