The eggs sizzled softly in the pan, the scent of butter and queso fresco melting into something comforting and familiar. I had the bread warming in the oven and the coffee brewing slowly on the side—just the way María José liked it. The kitchen was warm with morning light, humming, and for once, I felt grounded. This was peace and like it was home.
But it wasn't and it didn't last.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
The sound of slippers shuffling across the marble floor warned me seconds before she entered.
"Mmm," Camilla's voice drifted. "Something smells amazing."
She turned the corner, her silk robe tied lazily at the waist, her hair a mess of tangled waves. She stopped short when she saw me at the stove. Her eyes lit up.
"Oh my god," she gasped. "You're cooking? Brother-in-law, qué tierno, that's so sweet of you to wake up and cook for us."
Cook for 'us'? Her delulu had just attained a greater height if she thought I was cooking for her. I didn't even look up from the pan.
