Atticus and Lyra's Working Room - 6:15 AM
Atticus carefully arranged the breakfast on a wooden tray—avocado toast, scrambled eggs, fresh berries, and the perfectly brewed coffee. He'd already finished his own portion at the kitchen counter, eating alone in the quiet morning.
Waiting for Lyra.
But she hadn't come.
Of course she hadn't.
He picked up the tray and headed down the hall to her working room.
The door was ajar. Inside, Lyra was slumped over her desk, her cheek pressed against a stack of financial reports, one arm draped across her laptop, still wearing yesterday's clothes.
Atticus wasn't surprised.
He set the tray down gently on the corner of her desk and nudged her shoulder. "Lyra. Wake up."
She stirred, mumbling something incoherent.
"Lyra," he repeated, a bit firmer.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and bleary. She blinked at him, disoriented. "Atti...?"
"Breakfast." He gestured to the tray.
"Oh." She sat up slowly, wincing as her neck protested the awkward sleeping position. "Thank you."
She rubbed her eyes and immediately reached for the coffee, taking a long sip before picking up her fork and digging into the eggs.
The silence grew.
Not comfortable. Not companionable.
Loud.
Atticus began tidying her workspace—stacking papers, closing folders, organizing the chaos she'd created in her work frenzy.
Lyra ate mechanically, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
Finally, she set down her fork. "Atti, about yesterday—"
"I'm sorry," he cut her off, not looking at her. His hands kept moving, straightening a pile of contracts. "I shouldn't have exploded like that. Shouldn't have scared you."
Lyra paused, then nodded slowly. "I... I'm sorry too."
Atticus stopped, turning to look at her. "For what?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. But I feel like I should apologize. For... something."
The words hit him like a slap.
Of course you wouldn't know, he thought bitterly.
"Of course you wouldn't know," he said aloud, the jab slipping out before he could stop it.
Lyra flinched as if he'd physically struck her.
The hurt flashed across her face so quickly she almost managed to hide it. Almost.
She opened her mouth—probably to ask what he meant, to demand an explanation for the "are you that blind?" comment from last night—but then closed it.
Don't ruin the atmosphere, she told herself. Don't push. Not now.
Instead, she just nodded and picked up her coffee again, hiding behind the cup.
But the dismissal didn't bring relief.
It brought distress.
A cold, creeping sense of insecurity that settled in her chest like ice.
Something bad is going to happen.
The thought came unbidden, instinctive.
I'm going to lose him.
She kept staring at Atticus as he moved around her office, this man who'd been her constant for five years. Her supportive husband who never complained, who always put her first, who took care of everything so she could focus on work.
What am I missing?
Am I interpreting him wrong?
What does he need that I'm not giving him?
But even as the questions formed, she couldn't quite grasp the answers. They slipped through her fingers like water.
No, she told herself firmly. I won't lose him. I can't. I'll make sure of that.
Because Atticus was the best gift the universe had ever given her. Her partner. Her anchor. Her... everything.
She had to hold onto that.
"Atti," she said suddenly, her voice softer than before.
He looked up from organizing her papers.
"I love you."
The words hung in the air.
Atticus froze.
It had been months since she'd said that.
Maybe longer. He couldn't remember the last time she'd initiated those words without him saying them first.
Lyra stood up and crossed the small distance between them, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.
She pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
Atticus stood rigid for a moment—surprised, uncertain—before slowly relaxing into the embrace.
A genuine smile finally broke through his exhaustion. Small, fragile, but real.
"I love you too," he whispered.
And for just a moment, in the quiet morning light, they held each other.
Pretending the cracks weren't there.
Pretending everything would be okay.
City General Hospital - Kalina's Room - Later That Morning
"Absolutely not."
Kalina crossed her arms, glaring at her father with the full force of her stubbornness.
Mr. Levesque stood at the foot of her hospital bed, unmoved. "You're being discharged today. You'll recover at home and work from there."
"I'm injured," Kalina protested. "I have a concussion. I need rest—"
"Which you'll get. At home. Where you can also fulfill your responsibilities."
"What responsibilities?! I'm on medical leave!"
Her father's expression turned knowing. Dangerous.
"The responsibilities of running five companies, Kalina."
The room went silent.
Kalina's face drained of color.
"While searching for you," her father continued calmly, "I had our investigators dig a bit deeper. Imagine my surprise when I discovered my 'lazy' daughter owns LOMIKA Fashion, Fruit Shakers Beverages, and three other thriving enterprises."
Oh no.
"You've been bullying your friends and sister," he said, his tone sharp. "Making them think you're too lazy to contribute, making us think you need financial support, when all along you've been building an empire behind our backs."
"Father, I can explain—"
"You'll explain while recovering at home and taking proper responsibility for your businesses. No more hiding. No more pretending."
"But the accident—"
"Is exactly why you need to be home where we can monitor your recovery and your work." He pulled out his phone. "I've already arranged everything."
From the corner, Pa Castillon—who'd arrived earlier with flowers and had been quietly watching the exchange—nodded approvingly. "Recovering at home is much better than the hospital. Better food, better rest, and you'll relieve my poor grandson of his self-imposed guard duty."
Rhys, leaning against the wall, shot his grandfather a betrayed look.
Pa just smiled innocently. "I'll visit you at home, dear. We can continue our card games there."
"This is a nightmare," Kalina muttered.
"This is accountability," her father corrected. "You wanted to run companies? Fine. Run them. Properly. No more hiding behind a lazy persona."
Kalina looked desperately at Ophelia, Mireille, and Logan—who'd all arrived to check on her.
They looked back with varying expressions of sympathy and amusement.
Traitors. All of them.
"Moreover," her father added, "you'll have full support. I'm assigning you a personal assistant to help manage your schedule and—"
"WHAT?!" Kalina's voice went up three octaves. "A PA?! Father, no—"
"It's already arranged. She starts tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?! I'm being discharged today—"
"Exactly. Which gives you tonight to prepare."
Kalina stared at him, then at the pitying faces around her, then back at her father.
Her space—her beautiful, peaceful, private space—was about to be invaded.
Work. Schedules. Responsibilities. Meetings.
No more sleeping until noon.
No more pretending to be lazy.
No more freedom.
"This is the worst nightmare ever!" she screamed.
Several nurses in the hallway jumped at the sudden outburst.
A doctor poked his head in. "Is everything alright—"
"NO!" Kalina wailed. "NOTHING IS ALRIGHT!"
"She's fine," Mr. Levesque said calmly. "Just dramatic. We'll be checking out within the hour."
"I'M NOT BEING DRAMATIC! THIS IS A TRAGEDY!"
Mireille was barely suppressing laughter.
Logan had given up and was openly grinning.
Ophelia looked torn between sympathy and relief that the attention was off her attempted murder for a moment.
Rhys just looked exhausted.
And Pa Castillon was thoroughly entertained.
"Come along, Kalina," her father said, gathering her discharge papers. "Let's get you home."
"I don't want to go home! I want to stay here! In peace! Alone!"
But she was already being gently but firmly ushered out of bed by nurses who'd been briefed on her dramatic tendencies.
"This is kidnapping!" Kalina protested as she was practically dragged toward the wheelchair hospital policy required. "I'm being abducted! Someone call the police!"
"The police already know where you are," her father said dryly. "They took your statement yesterday, remember?"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"
And so Kalina Levesque was discharged from City General Hospital—kicking, screaming metaphorically, and mourning the death of her peaceful vacation.
Levesque Manor - Kalina's Quarters - Next Morning, 8:00 AM
Kalina woke to someone knocking on her bedroom door.
Loudly.
Persistently.
"Go away," she groaned, pulling her pillow over her head.
"Miss Levesque? It's Patricia Stones, your new personal assistant. Your father sent me. May I come in?"
My new personal assistant.
The horror of yesterday came flooding back.
"NO!" Kalina shouted. "I'm sleeping! Come back never!"
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss. I have your schedule for the day."
"I don't WANT a schedule!"
"It's eight AM, Miss. Your first video conference is at nine."
Kalina sat bolt upright in bed, her head throbbing from the sudden movement.
Nine AM?!
"That's in an HOUR!" she yelled.
"Yes, Miss. Which is why I brought your schedule early. Shall I come in?"
Kalina stumbled out of bed and yanked open the door.
A young woman in her late twenties stood there, professionally dressed, holding a tablet and looking far too cheerful for this ungodly hour.
"Good morning, Miss Levesque! I'm Patricia. I'll be living in the guest quarters to assist you during your recovery period. Here's your schedule for today—"
She handed Kalina the tablet.
Kalina's eyes scanned the list.
DAILY SCHEDULE - KALINA LEVESQUE
8:00 AM - Wake up, breakfast
9:00 AM - Video conference with LOMIKA design team
10:30 AM - Review Fruit Shakers quarterly reports
12:00 PM - Lunch
1:00 PM - Call with Company #3 investors
2:30 PM - Strategic planning session for Company #4
4:00 PM - Email correspondence and administrative tasks
6:00 PM - Dinner
7:00 PM - Personal time (limited)
10:00 PM - Prepare for bed
The list went on.
Every. Single. Hour. Accounted for.
Kalina looked up at Patricia with growing horror.
"This is basically house arrest," she whispered.
Then louder: "THIS IS HOUSE ARREST!"
She spun around, grabbed her duvet and pillow from the bed, and marched straight into her en-suite bathroom.
"Miss Levesque? What are you—"
Kalina slammed the bathroom door, locked it, and proceeded to make herself a nest in the bathtub.
Duvet arranged. Pillow fluffed. Earbuds retrieved from her pajama pocket.
"MISS LEVESQUE!" Patricia's panicked voice came through the door. "Please come out! I don't want to lose my job! Your father will fire me on my first day!"
"You won't lose your job!" Kalina called back, settling into the bathtub. "I just need one hour! One peaceful hour!"
"But your meeting—"
"Can wait!"
"Your father said—"
"I DON'T CARE!"
Kalina plugged in her earbuds, turned on her "Relaxation Sounds" playlist, and closed her eyes.
The sound of ocean waves filled her ears, blissfully muting Patricia's continued pleading.
One hour, she told herself. Just one hour of freedom before my life becomes a corporate nightmare.
And in the bathtub of her luxurious bathroom, surrounded by expensive marble and fixtures, Kalina Levesque—secret CEO of five companies—fell asleep.
Like the lazy person she'd always pretended to be.
Because some habits died hard.
Even when your cover was blown.
Outside the Bathroom
Patricia Chen pressed her forehead against the door, calculating how long she could let this go on before Mr. Levesque fired her.
One hour, she thought desperately. I'll give her one hour. Then I'm breaking down this door if I have to.
She pulled out her phone and texted her sister:
"New job, Day 1: Boss locked herself in bathtub. Send help."
The response came immediately:
"LOL. Rich people are weird. Good luck!"
Patricia sighed and settled in to wait.
This was going to be a long assignment.