The morning sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling gentle gold across the bedroom floor.
Rayden stirred before the alarm. For once, there was no weight dragging him down the moment his eyes opened—no meetings to dread, no expectations to perform.
Just the soft rise and fall of Anne's breathing beside him.
She was curled slightly toward him, hair messy from sleep, one hand resting loosely over his chest as if she'd been holding onto him even while unconscious.
Rayden didn't move.
He simply lay there, watching her.
There was a faint line between her brows, a trace of yesterday's storm still etched into her expression. And yet, even with that—she looked peaceful. Real. Breakable in all the ways that made him ache to protect her.
How long had it been since he let someone get this close?
No mask. No armor.
Just skin and breath and the terrifying, silent question of what now?
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and exhaled slowly.
And then, quietly, he slipped out of bed.
—
Anne stirred some time later, blinking against the warm sunlight.
The room was quiet. The sheets beside her were rumpled, but empty.
It took her a second to register the smell.
Butter. Eggs. Coffee.
She sat up slowly.
Then she heard it—a soft clatter from the kitchen, followed by the hiss of something sizzling in a pan.
Anne padded out, still barefoot, still a little dazed.
The sight that met her made her stop at the edge of the hallway.
Rayden stood at the stove, shirtless except for his grey pajama pants, one hand flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. His hair was still slightly messy from sleep, and he was humming. Humming.
She didn't know Rayden Lancaster hummed.
Anne leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest. "Should I be worried that you're trying to seduce me with food?"
Rayden glanced over his shoulder, startled—then smiled.
A real smile. Small, but unguarded.
"You're awake."
"I smell breakfast. I assumed I was dreaming."
He chuckled, turning back to the stove. "French toast. And scrambled eggs, if I didn't burn them."
Anne stepped closer, peeking into the pan. "This smells amazing."
"I used to cook all the time," he said casually, plating the eggs. "Before the board meetings. And the suits. And the family dynasty bullshit."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Rayden gave a faint nod. "I wanted to be a chef when I was a kid. Had this whole fantasy about opening a small bistro somewhere no one knew my last name."
Anne blinked. That was not the answer she expected.
"What happened?"
He shrugged, reaching for two plates. "Eleanor happened."
Of course, she did.
"I told her when I was twelve. She said I could 'play chef' in our summer home if I wanted, but that I needed to grow out of it by boarding school."
Anne watched him for a beat. Then, softly, "You didn't grow out of it."
Rayden looked up at her.
"No," he said. "I just stopped talking about it."
—
They ate at the breakfast bar, knees brushing occasionally beneath the counter. Anne took a bite of the toast and let out an audible mmm of delight.
Rayden looked amused. "That good?"
"It's unfair, really. You're rich, handsome and you can cook?"
He smirked, sipping his coffee. "Don't forget emotionally unstable."
Anne laughed. And God, it felt good to laugh.
Rayden watched Anne from across the table as she took another bite of the omelette he made.
"You're seriously good at this," she said, surprised. "This is restaurant-level, I'm not even exaggerating."
He shrugged, hiding a small smile. "Don't tell my mother. She banned me from the kitchen after I turned sixteen."
Anne looked up, fork mid-air. "She banned you from cooking?"
"Apparently, being a Lancaster meant I had no business near a stove," he said, tone dry. "She called it 'undignified.'"
Anne stared at him for a second, then laughed. "No offense, but that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Rayden looked at her.
And for a moment—just one perfect, stolen morning—they were no longer pretending to be in love.
They were just… living.
Then—his phone rang.
The sharp, insistent tone cut through the softness like a blade. Rayden's jaw clenched when he saw the caller ID.
Mother.
Anne watched him, her hand slowly retreating.
He answered. "Yes?"
Eleanor's voice was as crisp and cold as ever. "You're coming to dinner tonight."
Rayden leaned back in his chair, already irritated. "No, I'm not."
"You are. Kayla's parents are flying in from New York, and this dinner matters to more than just your pride. There are investors attending."
Rayden's eyes narrowed. "I don't care about the investors."
"You should. Because whether you like it or not, Lancaster shares are already being questioned since the last quarter's drop. Appearances matter, Rayden."
He didn't reply.
"You can bring your little… guest, if it makes you feel less guilty," Eleanor added, her voice laced with venom.
Rayden's grip tightened around the phone. "She's not a guest. She's my fiancée."
There was a pause.
Then Eleanor laughed. "What a dangerous little game you're playing."
Rayden ended the call.
Anne raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Dinner?"
Rayden looked at her, expression unreadable. "We don't have to go."
She gave a half-smile. "But we will."
"Anne—"
"It's okay," she said softly. "I want to go."
_____
Later that night.
The black car pulled into the circular driveway of the Westley estate—a sprawling mansion lined with columns, all pristine marble and perfectly curated elegance. There were already dozens of luxury cars parked out front.
Anne stepped out first, her dress simple yet stunning. A soft navy-blue satin that hugged her waist and fell delicately to her ankles. Rayden followed, taking her hand.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she replied honestly. "But I look like I am, right?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You do."
They entered through the grand foyer, where waiters passed champagne and the chandeliers glittered like ice.
All eyes turned.
Kayla was the first to see them.
She stood by the fireplace in a pale gold dress, surrounded by her parents and several board members. Her smile froze instantly.
Rayden didn't hesitate. He placed his hand gently but firmly on the small of Anne's back, guiding her forward.
"Thank you all for having us," he said politely, then turned to face the Westleys. "Allow me to introduce Anne. My fiancée."
The room went quiet.
Anne's heart thudded in her chest.
Kayla's mother blinked. "Fiancée?"
"Yes," Rayden said, gaze steady. "We'll be formally announcing it soon."
Kayla's jaw clenched. She stepped forward, her voice tight. "Since when?"
Rayden didn't flinch. "Since I decided to stop lying."
Kayla's eyes burned as she turned toward Anne. "Congratulations," she said, her voice brittle. "You must be very… special."
Anne smiled. "Thank you. I think he's special too."
Eleanor appeared then, her presence as imposing as ever. Her eyes flicked from Anne to her son, unreadable. But she said nothing.
Not yet.
The rest of the evening blurred. Dinner was served. Conversations buzzed around them. Anne played her role flawlessly, charming some guests, deflecting others. Rayden kept her close, his hand never straying far from hers.
But Kayla…
Kayla never stopped watching.
Her wine glass trembled ever so slightly. Her smile was a mask cracking at the edges.
As dessert was served, she excused herself quietly.
She walked to the powder room, locked the door, and stared at her reflection.
Her lips trembled.
She wasn't losing.
She couldn't be losing.
Not to her.
No.
No.
No.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
If they thought this was over—if they thought she'd walk away quietly, with dignity and grace—
They had no idea who they were dealing with.