My hand is shaking as I gently close the drawer.
The click of the wood settling into place sounds like a gunshot in the silent room.
I just violated his privacy.
I just trespassed into the most sacred, painful corner of his heart.
And all I found was more proof.
Proof that I am a ghost in this house.
A placeholder.
A temporary solution to a problem, living in a space built by a permanent love.
A wave of nausea rolls through me.
I back out of the room, my feet silent on the cold floor.
I need to get a grip.
I am Dr. Elara Voss.
I am a professional.
I am a woman whose career is hanging by a single, fraying thread.
And I am living with the man who is holding the scissors.
I cannot afford to be sentimental.
I cannot afford to see him as a grieving man.
I have to see him as a variable.
A chaotic, unpredictable variable that I must, at all costs, control.
And control requires rules.
I find him in the kitchen.
He's staring out at the ocean, a tablet in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.
He looks like a king surveying his domain.
I walk up to the kitchen island, the marble cool beneath my palms.
I take a deep breath.
"We need to talk," I say.
He turns, one eyebrow raised. "Again? We're so much better at not talking."
"Our contract is insufficient," I state, ignoring his sarcasm. "It covers the public-facing aspects of this… arrangement. It does not adequately cover the private logistics of cohabitation."
"The logistics," he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You want to talk about logistics."
"I want to talk about rules," I say, my voice firm. "House rules. To minimize friction and maintain a baseline of professional distance."
"You want to put a professional framework on sharing a coffee maker."
"Yes," I say, without irony. "I do."
He actually laughs. A real, genuine laugh.
It's infuriating.
"Okay, Doc," he says, setting his tablet down. "I'm game. Let's hear your 'House Rules.'"
I pull out my phone, where I've already made a list.
My voice is crisp and clinical.
"Rule one. A formal kitchen schedule. My designated hours are from 6 a.m. to 8 a.m. and from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. All other times are yours. The space will be left clean upon exit."
He stares at me. "You've time-shared my kitchen."
"Rule two. Our designated 'wings' are sovereign territories. No entry into the other's wing for any reason without a minimum of twelve hours' notice, barring a medical emergency."
"So if I run out of coffee, I should send you a calendar invite?"
"Rule three. No unscheduled guests. Of any kind. Ever."
"My social life is officially over. Got it."
"Rule four. A shared digital calendar will be created for all mandatory public appearances. All events must be added with 72 hours' notice and must be mutually agreed upon."
"You're a tyrant," he says, but he's smiling. He's entertained by my desperate attempt to cage his chaos. "And I find it strangely fascinating."
"These are my terms for living here," I say.
"Alright, fine," he concedes. "I'll agree to your insane domestic treaty. But I have one rule to add."
"What?"
"No talking," he says, his eyes glinting. "At all. Before you've had coffee, and I've had my first call of the day. The mornings are a silent zone."
It's a ridiculous rule.
But it means he won't talk to me.
Which is all I really want.
"Agreed," I say.
I feel a sliver of victory.
A tiny, fragile sense of control.
It's a complete and utter illusion.
And I know it.
The illusion shatters at 6:15 the next morning.
I am on a yoga mat in the living room, facing the wall of glass.
The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.
The house is silent.
Peaceful.
I am in the middle of a warrior two pose, focusing on my breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Find the stillness.
And then, the stillness is obliterated.
A blast of music, some aggressive, thumping rock song, erupts from the kitchen.
It's so loud the floor vibrates.
I stumble out of my pose, my heart leaping into my throat.
Theo bursts into the living room.
He's already dressed in running gear.
He's holding his phone to his ear, a bluetooth speaker blasting music from his pocket.
He's also trying to drink a bottle of water while simultaneously gesturing wildly.
"No, Kenji, that's not acceptable!" he barks into the phone. "The valuation is soft. If they won't meet our number, you tell them to go pound sand! I want it done by lunch!"
He's not a person.
He's a weather system.
A human hurricane of noise and frantic energy.
And he's just made landfall in my quiet, scheduled morning.
He ends his call, throws his phone on the couch, and heads back to the kitchen.
A moment later, the blender starts.
The sound is like a jet engine taking off inside my skull.
It's a violent, mechanical scream that drowns out the sunrise.
"Theo!" I yell over the noise.
He either doesn't hear me or is pretending not to.
I march into the kitchen.
It already looks like a disaster zone.
There's a fine dusting of some green powder all over the white marble countertop.
A bag of chia seeds is spilled on the floor.
The blender continues its demonic shrieking.
I walk over and yank the plug from the wall.
The silence is sudden. And glorious.
Theo turns, a look of mild surprise on his face. He's holding the blender pitcher, a thick, swamp-green sludge inside.
"What?" he asks.
"It is 6:23 a.m.!" I say, my voice trembling with a rage that is completely unprofessional. "My designated kitchen time! And your 'no talking' zone!"
"This isn't talking," he says, gesturing with the blender. "This is a hostile takeover of the Tokyo market. It's different."
"It's chaos!" I counter. "There is green dust all over the island. There is music blasting. We have a schedule, Theo. We have rules."
He has the audacity to look amused.
"Elara, I'm running a multi-billion-dollar global corporation that never sleeps. It doesn't always adhere to your color-coded chart for kitchen usage."
"This is untenable," I say, shaking my head. "My need for order and your… your…."
"My what?" he prompts, a challenging glint in his eye.
Your ADHD-coded hyperactivity and complete lack of executive function, my brain screams.
"…your energetic personality," I finish lamely. "They are fundamentally incompatible."
"So you're saying this marriage is doomed because of my smoothie-making process?"
He's mocking me.
And the worst part is, he's not entirely wrong.
This isn't just about a smoothie.
It's about the fact that we are oil and water.
Order and chaos.
And no contract in the world can change that.
Our silent standoff is interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
Not his business line.
A different ringtone. Softer. A gentle, classical melody.
He ignores it, his eyes still locked on mine.
It rings again.
He finally glances down at the screen with an exasperated sigh.
And his entire demeanor changes.
The CEO vanishes.
The smug antagonist disappears.
The look on his face is something else entirely.
A complicated mix of frustration, fondness, and weary resignation.
He answers the call, his voice suddenly gentle.
"Hey, Maria. Is everything okay?"
He listens, and a faint, tired smile touches his lips.
"She's what? … No, it's fine. Put her on."
I watch, confused. Who is Maria? Who is 'she'?
He turns his back to me slightly, leaning against the counter.
"Hi, Mom," he says softly.
My breath catches.
His mother.
He listens for a long moment, nodding to himself.
Then he looks over his shoulder.
He looks directly at me.
And the look in his eyes is one of pure, unadulterated panic.
It's a look I'm starting to know very well.
He ends the call and turns to face me fully.
"That was my mother's caregiver at the nursing home," he says, his voice strained.
"Is she alright?"
"She's fine," he says, running a hand through his hair. "She's… lucid today. Her memory is having a 'good day,' as they call it."
He pauses, and I can see him bracing himself.
"She's just seen the news."
He takes a slow breath, and delivers the final, devastating blow.
"And she's asking to speak to my new wife."