The scent of garlic and rosemary filled the polished kitchen air as Raine plated the herb-roasted chicken with a practiced hand. The Vaughn estate was a well-oiled machine of cold marble, modern silence, and untouched luxury. She'd been working here for over a week now—eight hours a day, five days a week—and she still hadn't seen a single picture of the man who owned it all.
Not even one.
She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing up at the blank walls. No portraits. No family photos. No framed magazine covers. Nothing.
Not even a damn high school yearbook photo.
It was like Tristan Vaughn didn't exist outside contracts and power suits. No face. No warmth. Just rules and presence.
She leaned against the counter, chewing her lip, trying not to let her curiosity become obsession. She didn't even know what he looked like. Not his eye color. Not his voice. All she knew was his silence... and the strict schedule that kept her out of his way.
Yet she still left the notes.
Every time. A folded paper next to the dish. A few lines in neat handwriting.
"Chicken is best reheated in the oven at 160°C for 8–10 mins." "Pasta sauce is on the bottom shelf. Garlic-heavy. You're welcome." "Don't microwave the steak. Please. I'll cry."
Just little things.
Instructions. Thoughts. A soft way of existing in the same space as someone she'd never meet.
Later that night…
Tristan arrived home late.
He stepped into the quiet kitchen, jacket slung over his shoulder, face drawn from a day of back-to-back meetings and soul-draining negotiations. His tie was loose, shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms and the soft inked edge of a tattoo just barely peeking past his wrist.
He paused when he saw the dinner tray waiting for him. Chicken. Roasted vegetables. Homemade sauce in a glass container with a label that read: Not spicy, just bold. Like you, probably.
A single folded note sat by the edge of the plate.
He picked it up.
Read it.
A flicker of something crossed his face. Brief. Barely visible. But it was there.
A smile.
So faint it almost didn't exist. The kind of expression that hadn't touched his mouth in a long time.
Nick Montgomery, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen with his arms crossed, arched a brow when he saw it.
"You smiled," he said casually, pushing off the frame.
Tristan gave him a look. "I didn't."
"You did. That tiny twitch. The one your face makes when you remember people exist."
Tristan ignored him. Instead of throwing the note away like he usually did, he folded it and slipped it into his suit pocket without a word.
Nick watched him. "She doesn't even know what you look like."
"She's not here to know," Tristan replied smoothly, already heading toward his office.
But Nick was still watching.
And for the first time, he didn't remind Tristan to throw the notes away.