Morning sunlight seeped slowly across the penthouse windows, climbing over the marble floors, the velvet curtains, the massive king-sized bed that took up the center of the room like a throne. Rafe Cameron blinked awake before the sun finished its climb, as he always did. His internal clock was sharp, disciplined—merciless, even.
But when he turned his head and saw you asleep beside him, all the steel inside him softened.
Your hair was spread across the pillow, your cheek resting on his bare shoulder where you must’ve shifted into him sometime during the night. Rafe barely breathed, afraid to wake you. You looked peaceful in a way he rarely ever felt, and he secretly loved mornings when he woke before you—loved seeing you untouched by the world for a little longer.
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers gentle, unusually gentle for a man like him.
A quiet knock sounded on the bedroom door, soft and respectful.
“Sir?” came Hale’s voice, the butler who had been with the Camerons since Rafe was thirteen. “Breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it in?”
Rafe glanced at your sleeping form and answered in a low voice to avoid waking you. “Yeah. Bring it.”
Hale rolled a silent cart inside—two plates of fresh fruit, eggs, toasted bread, honey, your favorite pastries, and a pot of coffee that smelled strong enough to revive the dead. The older man placed everything neatly on the low table beside the bed and bowed his head.
“You have meetings beginning at nine, sir.”
Rafe waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
Hale left without another sound. Rafe’s attention returned instantly to you.
You stirred, eyelashes fluttering before you opened your eyes. Rafe watched the moment you recognized him—how your expression softened, how your body relaxed again as if his presence meant safety.
“Morning,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep.
Rafe leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Morning, princess.”
Your eyes drifted to the breakfast cart. “Hale already brought food?”
“He did.” Rafe shrugged. “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He tried to play it off like nothing—like the infamous, sharp-tongued CEO wasn’t a complete melt when it came to you—but his face warmed anyway.
The two of you ate together in bed, Rafe drinking his coffee black while you stole bites off his plate. He pretended to be annoyed each time but passed you the plate closer every time.
“You're going to be late,” you teased.
“I own half the city,” Rafe muttered. “They can wait.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Rafe.”
He sighed dramatically, finishing his coffee. “Fine. I’ll go.”
He showered, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that looked like power stitched into fabric, fixed his cufflinks, and gave you one last lingering kiss before leaving the penthouse. You stayed wrapped in the comforter, watching him walk backward to the elevator just to keep looking at you until the doors slid shut.
That was how Rafe Cameron left for work: pretending he wasn’t obsessed with his wife.
The elevator carried him straight from Floor 5 to Floor 1—the private lobby only he, you, and Hale could access. From there, a second elevator took him into the rest of the world.
As soon as those lower elevator doors opened to Floor 40, the entire atmosphere changed.
Assistants ran. Phones rang. Shoes clicked. Papers rustled. The normal buzz of Cameron State Tower filled the air like a beehive.
And they all stiffened the moment they saw him.
“Mr. Cameron, good morning—”
“Sir, the contractors called—”
“The meeting with the finance team—”
Rafe cut through the chaos with long, purposeful strides, eyes forward, expression sharp and unreadable. He didn’t respond to anyone, didn’t even blink at the nervous greeting from his new assistant—who was scrambling after him with mismatched folders in her arms.