Sunday was Julian's religion.
For ten years, his Sunday routine had been immutable, a sacred ritual of restoration and preparation.
06:00: Wake.
06:15: 10-kilometer run on the treadmill (set to a 2% incline).
07:15: Shower (hot, then exactly 30 seconds of freezing cold).
07:30: Black coffee (Single origin, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, poured over at exactly 93 degrees Celsius).
07:45: Review of the Asian market opening bells in absolute silence.
Silence was the key ingredient.
On the first Sunday of the occupation, Julian completed the run and the shower on schedule. He dressed in his "casual" wear—cashmere joggers and a fitted slate-grey t-shirt that cost more than most people's cars—and descended to the kitchen at 7:30 AM sharp.
He stopped in the doorway.
The silence was gone. In its place was a low, rhythmic humming. A tune he vaguely recognized—something pop, something irritatingly cheerful.
And the smell.
The sharp, clean scent of his sterile kitchen was being assaulted by the aroma of... vanilla? Burnt sugar? Butter?
Elena was there. She was wearing a pair of silk pajamas in a soft blush pink—tasteful, modest, yet undeniably intimate. Her hair was loose, tumbling down her back in dark waves, still slightly damp from a shower. She was dancing. A subtle, swaying motion as she flipped something in a pan.
Julian felt a twitch in his left eye. "What are you doing?"
Elena jumped, spinning around. She held a spatula like a weapon. "Good morning! You walk quietly. Like a vampire."
It is 7:30," Julian stated, walking to the coffee machine. He checked the settings. She hadn't touched it. Good. "Why is the kitchen active?
I was hungry," she said, turning back to the stove. "And since we are cohabitating, I made extra. Pancakes.
"I don't eat pancakes." Julian started the grinder. The noise was comforting, drowning out her humming.
Everyone eats pancakes, Julian. It's a biological imperative." She slid a plate onto the marble island. "Blueberry and lemon zest. I found some frozen berries in the back of your freezer. They were next to a bottle of vodka that looks like it's been there since the Clinton administration.
I don't eat carbohydrates before noon. It slows cognitive function.
"Your cognitive function is fine. Your soul, however, needs carbs." She hopped up onto one of the high-backed barstools.
Julian watched her. He had owned these stools for four years. He had never seen anyone sit on them. He usually stood while he drank his coffee, reviewing data on his tablet.
He poured his coffee, black, and leaned against the counter, as far away from the plate of pancakes as possible. "We need to review the schedule for the week. The Charity Auction is Tuesday. The press will be there.
I know, Elena said around a mouthful of pancake. She pointed her fork at him. "We need a backstory for the ring. They're going to ask.
Julian glanced at the diamond on her hand. It was massive, flawless, and cold. "I bought it. You said yes. That is the backstory.
Boring,she sang out. Zero engagement factor. The press wants romance, Julian. They want a fairytale to distract them from your corporate raiding. We need a moment. The 'Click'.
The Click?-julian asked
The moment you knew. The moment the great Julian Thorne fell." She rested her chin in her hand, studying him with amused eyes. "So? How did you propose? Was it sunset? Was it spontaneous? Did you get down on one knee and weep?.
I handed you a velvet box in my office and demanded you sign a non-disclosure agreement.
Right. Terrible. So, here's the pitch: You proposed on the roof of the Tower." Her eyes lit up, her artist's imagination taking over. "It was midnight. The city was loud below us, but up here, it was quiet. You told me that you spent your whole life building this tower to look down on the world, but you never realized the best view was standing right next to you."
Julian stared at her. He felt a strange sensation in his chest—like indigestion, or perhaps a mild allergic reaction to the melodrama. "I will not say that. It sounds like a Hallmark card written by a teenager."
"You don't have to say it," she countered. "I'll say it. I'll tell the reporters, blushing, looking at you with adoring eyes. All you have to do is stand there, hold my hand, and look smugly in love. Can you do 'smug love'?"
"I can do smug," Julian admitted, taking a sip of coffee.
"Halfway there." She pushed the plate of pancakes toward him again. "Eat. Just one bite. If you pass out from low blood sugar during the auction, it'll ruin the narrative."
Julian looked at the pancake. It did smell good. The vanilla was warm, inviting.
He cut a tiny, surgical square of the pancake and put it in his mouth.
It was... exceptional. Sweet, tart, fluffy. It tasted like a Saturday morning used to feel when he was six years old, before his father sent him to boarding school.
"Acceptable," he muttered.
Elena beamed. "Victory."
She turned back to her plate, humming that song again. Julian watched her for a moment longer than necessary. The kitchen wasn't silent anymore. It was messy. There was flour on the counter. There was a woman in pink silk eating carbohydrates on his barstool.
He should have hated it.
He took another bite of the pancake