The sky outside was still heavy with the deep blue of early dawn when Serena's eyes opened. No alarm had woken her; years of habit had trained her body to rise before the house stirred. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint aroma of last night's dying embers from the kitchen hearth. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence — the kind that felt both fragile and oppressive. Somewhere in the mansion's depths, a clock ticked with slow, deliberate beats, each one pulling her further into the day she had no choice but to face.
Her limbs ached when she sat up. The bruises — hidden beneath her nightdress — whispered their protest with every movement. But there was no time to linger. A perfect housewife's day began before anyone saw her, and that illusion had to remain intact.
She slipped out of bed and moved toward the dressing table, pulling her hair into a neat knot. No makeup yet; her skin needed to breathe after last night's humiliation. She tied on a soft apron over her simple morning dress, took a deep breath, and opened her door.
The corridor was dimly lit, lined with cold marble tiles that reflected her steps. She padded quietly toward the rear staircase — the one used by servants. It was her preferred route; it meant fewer eyes, fewer questions.
By the time she reached the kitchen, the first signs of life were beginning. The head cook, Mrs. Doyle, was already at her post, her thick hands busy kneading dough. Two younger kitchen maids were scrubbing pots from the late-night party.
"Morning, Serena," Mrs. Doyle said without looking up, her voice carrying that warm Irish lilt that always softened Serena's heart.
"Good morning," Serena replied softly, setting down the woven basket she carried.
She stepped out into the garden beyond the kitchen door. The air was sharper here, clean and damp with dew. Rows of rose bushes, hydrangeas, and lilies still glistened from the night's moisture. She reached for her shears and began clipping roses — a mix of deep crimson and pale blush. Her hands moved gently, almost reverently, as though the flowers were her allies in a world where allies were rare. She chose only those that bloomed perfectly, placing them carefully in her basket.
Once the roses were gathered, she crossed to the orchard. Morning light now brushed faint gold across the leaves, and the air carried the sweet tang of ripening fruit. She reached for glossy red apples, their skins cool beneath her fingers, and placed them alongside oranges and pears. Her hands, though delicate, worked with practiced efficiency.
From the orchard, she made her way back into the kitchen where Mrs. Doyle was shaping loaves for the ovens.
"Beautiful flowers," the cook remarked, glancing at the basket.
"For the breakfast tables," Serena said. "They'll look fresh if I place them now."
She began arranging the roses in small vases, each one destined for a corner of the breakfast room. She set the apples and other fruits in polished silver bowls, ensuring their colors were perfectly balanced — no bruised skin showing, no uneven arrangement. Every detail mattered.
By half past six, she was in the main dining room. The long mahogany table stretched like a quiet river through the room, its surface gleaming. Serena moved along its length, setting plates in precise alignment, folding linen napkins into crisp triangles, and polishing cutlery until it caught the light. She moved silently, her mind measuring the symmetry of every setting.
The servants who passed through — some carrying pitchers of milk, others trays of cold meats — greeted her with a kind of hushed respect. There was no gossip about her here, only pity. They saw more than the family ever did: the careful way she stood to hide a limp, the way she winced if someone brushed her arm.
One of the younger maids, Clara, paused by her side. "You don't have to do all this yourself, ma'am," she whispered.
Serena gave her a faint smile. "I know. But if I do it, I know it's right."
The menu for the day had been decided last night — Serena always ensured it was prepared in advance. She confirmed with Mrs. Doyle:
Poached eggs on toasted brioche for the master, served precisely at 8:00 a.m.
Fresh berry compote for the younger guests who had stayed after the party.
Warm pastries dusted with sugar for those who preferred sweet to savory.
Serena checked each dish as it left the kitchen, ensuring the eggs were just set, the fruit perfectly ripe, the pastries evenly browned.
By quarter to eight, her work was almost done. She returned to the breakfast room for a final inspection — smoothing a crease from the tablecloth, adjusting a vase by an inch, replacing a pear that looked slightly less than flawless.
Outside the tall windows, the sun was climbing higher, flooding the room with warm light. To anyone walking in, the scene would be perfect — the table like something out of a glossy magazine, the flowers blooming as though they'd been grown solely for this purpose.
But perfection came at a cost, one only she and a few loyal servants understood.
Mrs. Doyle, passing through with the coffee service, gave her a look. Not pity this time — something closer to admiration. "You've got the touch, Serena. This house would fall to pieces without you."
Serena smiled faintly but didn't answer. She knew the truth: the house would continue without her, just as it had before she arrived. But while she was here, it would run like clockwork — not for her own pride, but because it was the only thing she could still control.
At precisely 7:58 a.m., Serena stepped back and surveyed the room one last time. Everything was in place. The roses glowed in their crystal vases. The fruit caught the morning light. The cutlery gleamed like silver promises.
Her work was done — at least for this part of the day. By the time the household woke, they would never know how much of her morning had been given to make this scene flawless. And perhaps that was the point.
The clock struck eight. The first footsteps echoed in the hall.
Serena straightened her posture, smoothed her apron, and stepped back into the shadows — ready to serve, invisible but essential, like the quiet heartbeat of the house.
When the sound of heels clicked in the hall, she knew Adrian's mother was awake. Serena excused herself to her room, closing the door softly behind her.
Inside, she moved quickly. She chose a long, pale dress that covered her arms, pairing it with a shawl to conceal the thinness of her frame. The mirror reflected a face that looked far too tired for her age. She reached for the powder, dabbing it lightly to even her skin tone. A faint blush to her cheeks, a touch of kohl to her eyes—it wasn't vanity, it was armor. She had learned to wear it as a shield, a way to appear composed when inside, she felt anything but.
By the time she stepped back into the hallway, her features were calm, her smile faint but present.
Adrian entered just then from the far side, the sound of his footsteps deliberate. He was still in the same clothes he had worn to last night's party—black shirt, tailored trousers, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. There was a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of amusement or exhaustion, she couldn't tell which.
His mother's face lit up the moment she saw him. "Adrian," she greeted warmly, moving to kiss his cheek. "You came down early. Come, sit."
He offered her a half-smile and sank into the chair at the head of the table, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested the weight of the night hadn't touched him.
Adrian's mother began speaking about business—shares, meetings, the expansion of one of the family's holdings. Adrian responded with that same measured tone he always used in such discussions, his eyes glancing occasionally toward the window, never toward her.
Serena's hands folded neatly in front of her, her posture mirroring that of the servants beside her. The soft clink of silverware against porcelain filled the air. She could smell the tea, the butter melting into fresh bread, the tang of citrus from the fruit she had chosen. But she did not touch any of it.
She only waited, silent and still, until they were finished. But her mother-in-law's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"There is no fig jam."
The room fell silent. Even the gentle clinking of cutlery from the servants stopped. Serena's breath caught, and her eyes instinctively flicked to the end of the table where Adrian sat
The woman's chair scraped harshly against the polished floor as she stood.
"How many times have I told you?" her tone dripped with disdain. "Breakfast is not breakfast in this house without fig jam. You think you can stand here and pretend you belong, but you can't even get one simple thing right."
Serena opened her mouth to apologize, but before she could form the words, the sharp sting of a slap landed across her cheek. The force of it tilted her head to the side, a wave of heat blooming under her skin. The sound echoed in the silent dining hall.
Her eyes burned, but she didn't let a single tear fall. She had learned that showing pain only fed them more.
"I… I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered, her voice steady despite the knot in her throat.
Adrian's jaw tightened, his eyes briefly meeting hers — there was no comfort there, only irritation. "You heard her," he said, his voice low but firm. "Pay attention next time."
Serena lowered her gaze. "Yes."
This was how it always went. If she didn't make a mistake, they would find one. If everything was perfect, they would invent a flaw. It was a daily ritual — one designed not to correct her, but to remind her of her place.
After the plates were cleared and the family had left, she retreated to the kitchen. The scent of warm bread still lingered, and the room was blissfully quiet. On the corner of the counter, a small tabby kitten — barely old enough to walk steadily — sat looking up at her with wide, curious eyes.
Serena smiled faintly, the first genuine curve of her lips that morning. She tore a small piece of bread and placed it on the floor. The kitten batted at it before nibbling, its tiny whiskers twitching. She crouched down, sitting on the cold tile, taking her own breakfast in slow, quiet bites — bread, a little butter, and a sip of tea gone lukewarm.
The kitten rubbed against her hand, purring softly. She stroked its head, feeling the delicate bones beneath the fur. "You're just like me," she murmured. "Small… and not really meant to be here. But we stay, don't we? We stay quiet."
It curled into her lap, and for a brief moment, the heavy weight of the house lifted. Here, in the kitchen's quiet corner, she wasn't the unwanted wife or the constant mistake. She was just a girl with a piece of bread and a small creature that didn't care about fig jam or perfection.
Still, when she rose to wash her plate, she caught sight of her reflection in the silver of a tray — the faint redness on her cheek, the lowered eyes. She straightened her back, because that was the only armor she had.
It was just another morning. And tomorrow, it would happen again.