~ Camilla

I wasn’t prepared for breakfast.

Not physically, not mentally, not spiritually, nothing in me was built for the shock of waking up to the smell of eggs and butter and actual coffee drifting through the penthouse like we lived in some domestic alternate universe where Stephano Maddens cooked. The Stephano I knew ordered breakfast like royalty: one text, no thanks, no acknowledgement, no eating alongside me. The idea of him cracking eggs with his own hands didn’t even exist in the same galaxy as reality.

But there he was. Standing at the stove. Fork in one hand. Spatula in the other. Barefoot, shirtless, hair slightly messy in a...