Chapter 10: seven years and a breakfast later

Morning arrived like a guest who didn’t want to intrude. Sunlight slipped gently through the half-glass window, brushing across the bed where I had slept soundly all night. For the first time in who knows how many months… I didn’t wake up from a nightmare, an alarm, or a panic attack.

Just quiet. And the soothing scent of wood.

I sat up, letting my feet sink into the warm carpet, and padded, half-asleep, into the walk-in closet. The lights blinked on the moment the door opened, a soft click followed by the calm palette of sage and cream. I paused at the small sink in the corner, splashing cold water on my face before brushing my teeth, eyes locked on my reflection in the round mirror.

My hair was still a mess. But my face… felt lighter.

Maybe it was the mattress. Or maybe I was just tired of fighting things I couldn’t stop or control.

I changed into a clean white tee and dark linen pants, then headed down to the kitchen, planning to make something before the world started calling.

My steps echoed down the corridor, past the dining room and the still-empty lounge. The kitchen revealed itself at the far end like a stage before the show begins. Soft light spilled from the pendant lamps above a large black granite island, and the pale cabinets blended seamlessly into a frosted glass backsplash that made the whole space feel clean, expansive, expensive.

Two women in crisp uniforms stood near the oven racks, chatting quietly as they prepared a tray of fruit and lemon water.

The moment they saw me, they both dipped their heads politely. “Good morning, Mrs. Milano,” one of them greeted.

I nearly choked on my own breath. But I just gave a small smile and winced. “Gretta. Just Gretta.”

They glanced at each other, then nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am… Gretta.”

I didn’t reply, just moved to the fridge. My hands moved on their own, like I was in my own kitchen, pulling out ingredients I knew by heart: eggs, cotija cheese, corn tortillas, tomatoes, onions, fresh cilantro. And of course, serrano chilies.

A mí manera.

I started slicing tomatoes and onions with a knife that was too light and too sharp for any normal house. Borderline excessive, really. Soon, the sound of sizzling filled the air. Hot oil welcomed fresh aromatics, and the kitchen bloomed with that distinct Mexican scent that felt like magic in the morning.

I made chilaquiles verdes with salsa I ground myself, plating it into two containers. One for breakfast. The other wrapped neatly for lunch. I packed an extra one for Dominic.

I’d stop by before heading to the office. Just for a minute. Just to make sure he was still actually eating.

A low voice cut through the air. Husky. Rough around the edges. It sent heat crawling up the back of my neck.

“Hmm.”

I turned around.

Reagan was standing there. His black T-shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat like a second skin. His hair was a mess, and his breathing was still a little uneven, he’d just come back from a run or a workout. His arms and shoulders looked bigger than anyone should be allowed to show off before eight in the morning.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, staring at me.

“So either I’m dreaming… or I just stepped into a multiverse where you’re cooking in my kitchen and the whole place smells like chilies.”

I raised an eyebrow. “This smell is the morning. You should be grateful.”

He walked in slowly, heading for the island. “I’ve never seen anyone chop onions like they were settling a score.”

“Not anger. Efficiency.”

He let out a short laugh. “Gretta Domingo. Efficient in rage and cooking. Dangerous combo.”

I handed him a small plate. “Try it. Before you say something else I don’t need to hear.”

He didn’t argue, just grabbed a fork and scooped up a bite. Tortilla, salsa, cheese. His expression didn’t change, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“If this is what you cook for Dominic every week, I finally understand why your brother refuses to die.”

I snorted, suppressing a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

He held up a hand. “You’re the one who said he’s doing fine. I’m just interpreting that through flavor.”

I cleaned up the rest quickly, slipping the packed food into a small tote bag. “Breakfast is done. I’m going to check on my brother before work. Don’t wait up.”

He leaned against the counter, way too relaxed for someone who was sweating and very much unshowered.

“Gretta.”

“What?”

He pointed at his chest, the soaked black shirt, the obviously-too-attractive body, and looked at me with that crooked grin. “If you want another bite… I’m right here.”

I threw a dish towel at him. He caught it with one hand, laughing, and went back to his food.

And with everything already crammed into my head this morning, all I could do was shake mine and head for the door.

But even from the hallway, the scent of chilaquiles and the sound of his laughter still hung in the air.

:::

When the elevator doors slid open at the top floor, for a second I thought I’d gotten off on the wrong level.

This didn’t look like a hospital.

The lighting was warm, not the usual blinding white. The carpet was plush, like it belonged in a five-star hotel. The antiseptic smell was almost gone, replaced with a subtle mix of wood and citrus.

And as I passed the small reception desk, a nurse smiled politely and said, “Domingo room is down to your left, miss.”

I nodded and kept walking.

I stopped in front of the door marked with a black plaque that read: Domingo, Dominic —Private Suite 3.

Took a breath. One, two, three.

I opened the door slowly.

And my mouth fell open.

The room… made no sense.

High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a rooftop garden with miniature trees and white benches. A cream leather sofa tucked into one corner. A massive TV mounted on the wall with no visible cables. And the hospital bed....God. It was the most luxurious bed I had ever seen in a clinical setting. There was an alpaca wool blanket on it. Alpaca wool.

Who uses alpaca wool in a hospital?

I stepped inside, slow and quiet.

Dominic was sitting up in bed, head resting against a pillow, wearing the same sullen expression as a teenager dragged out of a party.

“Ruan sent a text. Long one. It’s just about football,” he mumbled, not bothering to look at me.

I set the tote bag down on the table and walked over. “Must be torture, huh? Becoming the family’s favorite celebrity after vanishing for seven years, only to end up in a suite fit for a cartel boss,” I said flatly.

“And Mom. She sent a voice note. Eight minutes long.”

I held back a laugh. “She probably threatened you with a sandal.”

“And holy water.”

I sat at the edge of his bed, legs crossed. “Honestly, that might work.”

Dominic finally looked at me. His eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be. There was a weight there now, fatigue he couldn’t hide. But the look was still him. Stubborn, sarcastic, and trusting no one but me.

“Did you arrange all this?” he asked, glancing around the room.

I shrugged. “You think I have time to bribe the hospital director while juggling two projects and a boss I fantasize about stabbing with a letter opener?”

His eyes narrowed. “So… that bastard did?”

I stood and opened the container from Reagan’s kitchen. The smell of chilaquiles immediately filled the air.

“Don’t call him that,” I said, rummaging for a spoon. “Bastards don’t book you into the penthouse suite of recovery, Dom.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I don’t like him being involved.”

I turned to him, sharp. “You don’t like replying to Mama’s texts either. And where did that get you? A room with panoramic windows and a blanket that costs more than my car.”

Dominic snorted.

I held out a spoonful of food. “Open your mouth or I’ll dump this on your face.”

He stared at me. Long and hard. But finally, he opened his mouth.

I fed him slowly, bite after bite, talking the whole time like an old radio without an off switch.

“Look, I don’t care how stubborn you are. I don’t even care if you want to keep hating Dad until the world implodes. But Mom didn’t do anything wrong. And Ruan...yeah, his brain is mostly filled with league scores but he’s still our brother.”

Dominic chewed silently, expression unreadable. But I knew. I knew his mind was a hurricane of thoughts crashing into each other.

“I didn’t know he still remembered I like chilaquiles,” he murmured.

“He doesn’t. I do. And I cooked them.”

“I meant… Reagan.”

I paused. Just for a second.  “You give yourself too much credit.”

“But he really picked the room with the view and the couch you can lie on. That’s not an accident.”

“Reagan doesn’t do accidents. He does full control.”

“So you slept at his place?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you want to keep eating, or should I have you moved to general care?”

He raised both hands in mock surrender.

I gave him another spoonful, slower this time. The room fell quiet, except for the hum of the AC and the soft beeping of monitors in the corner.

But somehow, my thoughts were louder than all of it.

I loved my brother. And he knew that. But he also knew I wasn’t the kind of person you could reach in and change.

I was a small flame. The kind that burns slow, and quietly, until it scorches everything.

And Reagan… he was the gasoline someone spilled on purpose.