The next morning, I woke up early, too early.
Sleep had barely touched me, and even when it did, it felt shallow, restless, like my mind refused to fully let go. For a few seconds, I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house… and then I remembered.
The cameras.
That alone was enough to pull me out of bed.
If they were already installed and knowing Victor, then every movement, every expression, every careless reaction could become a mistake.
So I dressed quickly and headed downstairs, smoothing my face into something softer, calmer, something harmless.
By the time I reached the kitchen, the helps were already moving around, the faint clatter of utensils, the low hum of conversation, the rhythmic chopping and stirring blending into something almost domestic.
I stepped in like I belonged there.
"Let me help," I said lightly, tying an apron around my waist before anyone could question it.
