A lie.
The real beauty was back in the kitchen—shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like fractured stars. A reminder of her rage. Of her fire.
Of my effect.
I took it in with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Chaos looked good in this house. Especially when it wore her face.
Persephone was still in there, likely pacing, fuming, trying to swallow her fury without choking on it.
Good.
I wanted her simmering. I wanted her to feel it crawling under her skin. I wanted her to realize she couldn’t burn me down—because I’d already set the fire.
I poured myself a cup of coffee. Watched the dark liquid swirl in the mug like a prophecy I already knew the ending to.
She was my wife.
And no matter how loud she screamed, she was still here.
Still wrapped in the robe I gave her.
Still standing in my kitchen.
Still playing a game she could never win.
She could fight all she wanted. It only made the game sweeter.
“Gideon’s going to be waiting,” I murmured, checking my watch. Practice was soon. The guys would be warming up.
But what was another few minutes?
I wasn’t finished with her yet.
The dining nook was quiet—minimal. Clean lines. Polished wood. I built this house for function, not comfort, but it still felt like control.
Like a throne carved from calm.
And she was the crown I intended to keep.
I leaned against the counter, sipping my coffee, letting silence stretch between us like a net. I could feel her presence—vibrant, blistering—just beyond the doorway.
Then—
A creak.
The soft squeal of a door opening behind me.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t look.
Waited.
“Don’t think you can just ignore me,” she said, voice sharp and low.
I turned slowly, deliberately, savoring every heartbeat it took to meet her eyes.
She was framed in the archway like a painting—barefoot, furious, divine.
