The next morning, the grand estate kitchen was functioning with the terrifying, clockwork efficiency of a Swiss railway station.
Grayson stood at the dark marble island, wearing his signature charcoal turtleneck and his crisp white chef's apron. With a silver scale and an expression of absolute, solemn concentration, he was currently weighing a portion of organic roasted walnuts destined for the morning porridge.
Mailah leaned against the doorframe, a mug of hot coffee cradled between her hands, watching him with an amused, affectionate smile.
"You know, Lord Grayson," Mailah noted lightly, "Lord Malakor is going to be inspecting our domestic stability today. If he walks in and finds you measuring nuts down to the milligram, he might think we're running a pharmaceutical laboratory rather than a household."
Grayson didn't look up from the scale. He carefully adjusted a single walnut fragment with a pair of silver tweezers, his sharp jaw locked tight.
