Sunlight streamed through the massive windows of the breakfast room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a beautiful room, cold and perfect, like a picture in a magazine that nobody actually lived in.
Anaïs walked in, her cane tapping rhythmically on the marble floor. She hadn't slept well. The bed in the guest suite was too soft, the sheets too expensive, and the silence of the mansion was deafening.
She stopped at the doorway.
Bastian was already there. He wasn't wearing his usual armor—the three-piece black suit. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms. He looked... domestic.
He was standing by the espresso machine, carefully frothing milk.
"Good morning," Bastian said, not turning around. "You used to like your latte with oat milk and two pumps of vanilla. I assume that hasn't changed?"
Anaïs stiffened. "I drink black coffee now, Mr. St. Yves. Life is bitter, so is my drink."
