Dawn crept slowly across the horizon, soft light brushing against the tall windows of Ravenwood Mansion. The house was silent, wrapped in the hush of early morning. Outside, dew clung to the roses, and the faint murmur of wind stirred the branches.
Aveline stirred awake. For a moment, she lay still beneath the faint warmth of the sheets, her eyes tracing the pale ceiling. Last night's confrontation replayed in her mind — Lucian's calm eyes, the quiet in his tone, the way the room had seemed to hold its breath.
She exhaled slowly and sat up. The air was crisp, touched with lavender and cold marble. Her robe hung neatly on the chair. She slipped it on and tied it at her waist before stepping onto the polished floor, bare feet soundless against its sheen.
The mansion was vast and still. Every step she took echoed faintly down the corridor. She could almost hear the pulse of the house itself — the quiet hum of electricity, the faint tick of the old grandfather clock, the whisper of curtains stirring in the soft breeze.
Her path led her to the kitchen.
When she pushed open the door, the familiar scent of metal and spice lingered in the air. The kitchen, bathed in muted gold from the rising sun, gleamed with polished counters and neatly arranged utensils.
Clara, the head maid, stood by the counter, tying her apron. The woman's head lifted immediately at the sound of the door.
"Madam?" Her tone wavered — polite, but touched with uncertainty. "You're up early."
Aveline's expression was calm. "Yes," she replied, walking toward the counter. "I wanted to prepare breakfast."
Clara froze. The words hung between them.
"Breakfast?" she repeated, uncertain, her hands tightening around the edge of her apron. "You mean… you wish to—cook?"
Aveline nodded once, eyes steady. "Yes."
Clara hesitated, the color draining slightly from her face. "Madam, perhaps I should prepare it instead. You may not—"
"I can handle it." Aveline's tone was even, not sharp, but firm enough to end protest.
Clara's lips parted as if to say more, but she closed them again. She gave a small, nervous nod and stepped aside, lingering near the far counter. Her gaze flickered between Aveline's calm movements and the ingredients she began to set out — eggs, flour, herbs, vegetables.
Aveline's fingers moved with quiet precision. The rhythm of her actions filled the silence — the crack of eggs, the gentle hiss of oil heating in the pan.
Clara stood tense, her eyes darting between Aveline's hands and the stove.
In her past life, Aveline would have scoffed at the idea of cooking. She would have tossed the pan aside, demanded a lavish breakfast from the city's best restaurant, and accused the staff of carelessness if the meal was even slightly off. But this Aveline — the one who had lived and died and returned — moved differently.
Each motion was deliberate. Controlled.
As she sliced the vegetables, a faint memory brushed her mind — the clatter of cheap dishes in Damian's cramped kitchen. The sting of oil splashing onto her wrist. The echo of his indifference as she cooked for hours, struggling to make something that might soften his gaze.
He had never looked at her.
She had learned to cook not for affection, but to survive. To feed herself when no one else would.
And now, that skill — born from pain — had become her quiet strength.
When the eggs began to sizzle, Clara blinked in surprise. The aroma that filled the air was warm and inviting. Nothing burned. Nothing spilled.
"Madam…" Clara murmured hesitantly, "you… you've improved."
Aveline offered a faint smile without turning. "People change, Clara."
The maid lowered her eyes, unsure how to respond.
When the food was done — soft omelets, golden toast, and warm tea — Aveline arranged them neatly on a tray. Her movements were silent, graceful. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth and turned toward the dining room.
Clara took a step forward. "Madam, shall I—"
"I'll bring it myself," Aveline said softly.
The older woman froze again but nodded. "Yes, Madam."
---
The dining room was bathed in pale gold. The morning light stretched across the long table, glinting off silver cutlery and polished surfaces. Aveline set the tray down at the head of the table and began arranging the plates with careful precision.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor — slow, measured.
Lucian entered, immaculate in his dark suit, his tie perfectly straight, the quiet strength in his posture unshaken. His expression was unreadable, calm as ever.
He paused at the threshold, eyes flicking briefly to the table, then to her.
Aveline looked up. "Good morning."
Lucian gave a small nod, and said "Good morning. "
"I thought I'd make breakfast," she replied simply.
His gaze lingered on the dishes, then on her — long enough for her to feel it.
He said nothing, but the question was there, silent in his eyes. His composure didn't falter, yet beneath the calm exterior, a faint trace of hesitation passed through his gaze.
He remembered.
Aveline could see it — the quiet distrust, the unspoken memory of mornings when she'd ruined his food out of spite, or when he'd fallen sick after eating what she'd ordered the staff to serve.
The silence between them was taut, unspoken.
Her hand reached for the fork. Without a word, she cut a piece from the omelet and lifted it to her lips. The fork clinked softly against the porcelain. She chewed slowly, then swallowed.
Her gaze met his, steady and clear. "It's safe," she said calmly. "And edible."
Something in Lucian's expression shifted — not surprise, not belief, just quiet contemplation.
He didn't move immediately. His hands slid into his pockets, his stance composed yet watchful.
Aveline set down the fork gently. "I didn't do this to prove anything," she said after a moment, her tone quiet but sure. "I did it because I wanted to. Because I should have, long ago."
Lucian's eyes softened — barely, almost imperceptibly — as if something in her voice had reached him despite his restraint.
He walked toward the table. Each step was deliberate, his presence steady.
Aveline stood beside the chair, waiting.
When he reached her, he paused, his gaze sweeping briefly over the dishes once more. Then, without a word, he pulled out the chair and sat down.
He lifted the fork.
Aveline watched silently as he took the first bite. The soft clink of silver against porcelain filled the quiet room.
Lucian ate slowly, expression unreadable.
When he finally looked up, his eyes met hers — calm, observant, unspoken questions lingering beneath the surface.
Aveline's lips curved faintly. "I told you it's good."
He didn't smile, but his gaze lingered on her a moment longer noticing her change.
He set down the food and rose, adjusting his cuffs.
Aveline stepped aside as he moved past her. "Have a good day," she said softly.
Lucian paused for the briefest second at the doorway, his back to her. The morning light caught his profile — still, restrained.
Then he left.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, leaving behind the quiet hum of sunlight and the faint scent of breakfast.
Aveline stood for a moment, staring at the table. The food was half-touched, but she didn't mind.
Her hand brushed the edge of the table — firm, grounded.
She whispered, barely audible, "One step at a time."