Eggs and Empty Promises

Brielle Morgan woke up disoriented.

For a moment, she forgot where she was—until the velvet headboard, the silk sheets, and the skyline view reminded her: she was in a billionaire’s guest room, wearing a ring that didn’t mean love and sleeping in a marriage built on desperation.

Right, she thought. I got fake-married yesterday.

She dragged herself out of bed, wincing at how her legs still ached from the courthouse heels. Padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, she found her way to the kitchen, following the smell of fresh coffee and… was that eggs?

She slowed.

The penthouse was too quiet, but the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain gave her an unexpected hint of life.

When she rounded the corner, she stopped cold.

Alexander Hayes stood at the stove, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping eggs in a pan like he wasn’t a man who usually had chefs for breakfast duties. His hair was tousled, still damp from a shower. No tie, no armor.

Just a man in his kitchen.

Cooking.

For her.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw her.

“You’re awake.”

She blinked. “You cook?”

“I’m capable of basic tasks,” he said dryly. “Contrary to popular belief.”

He turned back to the pan and plated the eggs. “I figured it would look strange if we didn’t at least share a few meals. People might talk.”

“Of course. Everything’s about appearances.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and for the briefest moment, something softened behind his eyes.

“You don’t eat eggs?” he asked.

“I do. I’m just… surprised.”

He slid a plate toward her and gestured to the island stool. She sat slowly, still unsure whether this was part of the act or something else entirely.

“I thought you had staff for this sort of thing.”

“I gave them the day off.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“I didn’t feel like being watched today.”

A beat passed. Their forks clicked against the plates. The eggs were perfect—fluffy, seasoned, not too dry. She hated how impressed she was.

After a while, she asked quietly, “So… what now? We just play house? Smile for pictures and pretend we know each other’s middle names?”

Alexander sipped his coffee. “We manage our image. Appear at a few events together. Coordinate our lives for the next 364 days.”

“And after that?”

“After that, we sign divorce papers and go our separate ways.”

Brielle tried to ignore the strange pull in her chest. She should’ve been relieved—this was what she signed up for. No attachments. No mess.

So why did it feel a little like losing something she hadn’t even had?

“I want a few ground rules,” she said, setting her fork down.