Chapter 11 Morning Rant

Chapter 11 Morning Rant
Morning shows up like it couldn’t care less that last night I watched an altar on an auction screen and saw my name traded like a block of stock.
Light slips in through the kitchen windows, thin and gold, bouncing off the wooden floor and marble counters that always look way too clean for a house occupied by a four-year-old and three stray cats who are convinced they’re the legal owners of this place. The sound of the waves is still there, steady, like the beach house’s second heartbeat. I’ve been up since dawn. Not because I’m disciplined. Because my sleep these days is the easily offended type.
I’m standing at the stove with my hair twisted into a messy knot, an oversized T-shirt that could belong to any of us, and shorts that only qualify as clothing if we’re feeling generous. My left hand holds a spatula, my right cracks eggs one by one into the hot pan. Butter, garlic, and toast fill the kitchen, covering the faint leftover smell of champagne from last night.
Near the coffee machine there’s a black mug with a half-moon stain of coffee on the rim and a sticky note slapped beside it.
I had to go early. I’ll be back before Hazel’s nap. Don’t burn the house down. Text me.
—L
The last line is pressed harder, the ink a little darker, like he dug the pen in.
I exhale through my nose, read it again, then stick the note back where it was, like proof that Luca really existed in this room this morning, even if the house now feels like a stage after the lead actor has left and the lights are still on.
Hazel comes down the hallway like a small storm that just woke up.
Her short hair is a wreck, bangs crooked over half her forehead, cheeks round, big eyes full of innocent bad intentions. She’s dragging her little blanket, and behind her, all three cats trail along like a security detail.
“Mommy,” she announces, not greets, climbing onto a barstool like it’s a mountain. “I want cereal.”
“We have eggs, toast, and fruit,” I say without looking back, flipping the omelet. “Cereal is for days when Mommy gives up.”
Hazel wrinkles her nose. “I want cereal.”
I finally turn. “Hazel De Cruz.”
She freezes for half a second, pretending not to be scared. Then her eyes go wide, overly dramatic, and she throws her blanket to the floor like a diva who’s just been betrayed.
“I’m hungry,” she whines, then immediately hops off the stool and bolts toward the dining area, chasing one of the cats who has zero interest in human drama.
I watch her small back and mutter something in Spanish I would not repeat in front of a preschool teacher.
In the dining room, the sound of two adult women has been going like a radio left on all night.
Jade and Gemma sit across from each other, each with a coffee cup, and their energy is like two different knives: one sharp because of glitter, one sharp because of law.
Jade is already dressed like she’s headed to a paparazzi brunch, even though she’s just sitting at my sandy dining table. Hair perfect, eyeliner razor-precise, and she’s wearing a “simple” white sweater that’s only simple because it’s probably expensive. Gemma’s in a pale blue button-down, hair twisted into a neat bun, laptop open next to an empty plate, and her expression is the exact one she uses when she smells a bad contract from two meters away.
The second I walk in, Jade points at my spatula like she’s cross-examining a witness.
“So,” she says, her voice pitching up a full octave, “Rafael Bernardi. Rafael. Bernardi. Your ex-fiancé. The man who—”
“—who we curse out every time we drink,” Gemma cuts in, flat, pushing her glasses up. “Who we erased from the record. Who showed up last night as the main patron at Moreau.”
Hazel sprints past behind Gemma’s chair, wrapping her arms around the fattest cat until he lets out an offended little noise. “Mommy, look! Bruno wants breakfast too.”
“Bruno wants to live,” I say, setting a plate of omelet on the table. “Let him go, baby.”
Hazel squeezes tighter in protest. The cat stares at me like he’s begging for legal representation.
I step over and pat Hazel’s butt lightly. “Hazel.”
She drops the cat instantly, then throws both arms up like a victim of injustice. “I just love him!”
“I love him too, but I don’t strangle him,” I shoot back.
Jade makes an impatient sound, like a kettle about to scream. “Maya. Focus. Rafael Bernardi.”
I set down the toast, spread a little butter, and sit with a calm that’s just barely not fake. “You say his name one more time, I’m charging you per syllable.”
Gemma levels a measuring look at me. “You gave us a twenty-second voice note last night and then turned your phone off. That is not how normal humans deliver information.”
“That is how a human who wanted to sleep does it,” I say. “And who didn’t want to hear Jade screaming at one a.m.”
Jade slaps her palm on the table. “I have the RIGHT to scream. He’s not just an ex. He’s the ex-fiancé who cheated with your best friend and now he’s… what? Buying your painting? Keeping it? Claiming it? Buying your ALTAR?”
I sip my coffee and let the heat slide down my throat like medication. “He’s a rich collector, Jade. They buy tragic-looking things so they can feel like they have depth.”
Gemma lifts one eyebrow. “He bought The Altar.”
“Yes.”
“For a not-small amount of money.”
“Yes.”
“And he asked for first refusal on all your work.”
I look at Gemma, fighting the urge to shove my face into my plate of eggs. “Yes. I’m aware.”
Jade snorts. “That’s not a collector. That’s a predator.”
Hazel suddenly climbs up onto her chair, then stands on it, hands on her tiny hips. “I’m a predator too.”
I turn my head slowly. “Hazel.”
“I’m a predator,” she repeats, louder this time, then looks at her cats like they’re her audience. “I eat dinosaurs.”
Jade stares at her, then at me again, half laughing, half despairing. “Your child is a nonstop show.”
“She hasn’t had breakfast yet, that’s why,” I say, then look at Hazel. “Sit. Eat. Or no sand time for you.”
Hazel scrunches up her face, then climbs down from the chair and drops into it with enough drama to make it squeak. She eyes the little plate I’ve made for her: fruit slices, toast, a bit of egg.
She picks up a strawberry, glares at it like it insulted her, then tosses it in Bruno’s direction.
“HAZEL.” My voice comes out in full Latina mode, non-negotiable.
Hazel freezes for a beat. Her eyes go big, her lower lip pokes out, then she starts stirring her eggs with her fork without actually eating them.
Gemma points at that with one finger. “See? Even your kid is coping.”
“Do not psychoanalyze my child before eight a.m.,” I protest.
Jade props her chin on her hand, looking at me like I’m the movie of the day. “Okay. So you saw him. You shook his hand. And he… pretended he didn’t know you?”
I shrug. “Yep. Like we were two strangers at a gala. Very civilized.”
“Civilized, my ass,” Jade mutters. “He’s the kind of person where, when he walks into a room, the room changes temperature.”
Gemma gives a small nod, agreeing without wanting to look like she agrees. “He definitely has an agenda.”
I cut a piece of toast and pop it into my mouth. It tastes good. That’s the problem. I cook better when my brain is on fire.
“I have an agenda too,” I say lightly. “I want to eat breakfast without discussing a man who should’ve been an urban legend in my life by now.”
Jade narrows her eyes at me. “Maya.”
Gemma leans in a little. “Have you told Luca?”
My bite stalls halfway.
I set the toast back on the plate, lift my coffee cup again, and sip slowly like I have all the time in the world to answer that.
“Luca doesn’t know,” I say finally, casual, like it’s just a tiny detail along the lines of I forgot to buy milk. “He just knows Rafael is his half brother. And last night… Rafael was a patron. That’s it.”
Jade’s eyes go wide. “You HAVEN’T told him?”
“Not yet,” I answer. “And before you both start, I want one thing: do not turn this into a telenovela.”
Gemma taps the table, that lawyer rhythm that means she’s building a case. “This isn’t a telenovela, Maya. This is… relationship complication. Luca is your boyfriend. He has a right to know that the man who just bought your highlight piece is—”
“—the man who betrayed you,” Jade cuts in, her voice shaking with anger. “And Hazel’s biological father, right? Because please, we’re not idiots.”
I look at Jade. I don’t deny it. I don’t confirm it. I just… go quiet.
The room suddenly feels a lot quieter. Even Hazel stops stirring her eggs, probably because she can smell drama the way sharks smell blood.
Gemma swallows. “Maya…”
I lift a finger. “Don’t. Not right now.”
Jade swears under her breath, words no four-year-old should hear, then seems to remember Hazel is watching and swaps them for a cleaner version that still explodes. “God. God. This is… this is insane.”
Hazel cuts in suddenly, her voice sweet and clueless to the gravity of the room. “Who’s Rafal?”
I almost choke on my coffee.
Jade makes a strangled sound, Gemma closes her eyes like she’s silently calling on a higher power, and I turn to Hazel with a smile that comes way too fast.
“Rafal is…” I repeat, forcing normal. “The name of a very boring grown-up.”