Chapter 1 not a housewife

The kettle sang at precisely six o’clock.

It always did.

I stood at the stove in the soft amber glow of morning, silk robe tied neatly at the waist, hair perfectly arranged as though the very concept of disarray had never once dared approach me. The curtains were half-drawn to let in a polite amount of sunlight—nothing vulgar, nothing excessive. Just enough to suggest that the day had begun and that I, ever the devoted wife, had begun with it.

Breakfast was already underway.

Eggs—sunny side up. Toast—lightly buttered. Tea—steeping with quiet dignity.

It was, by all outward appearances, a perfectly ordinary morning.

A proper morning.

The sort one imagines from those quaint little domestic fantasies where wives hum softly to themselves and husbands descend the staircase in crisp suits, briefcases in hand, offering a chaste kiss before departing into the world of Important Business.

I even allowed myself the performance.

A faint hum. Something classical. Something respectable.

Footsteps approached from behind.

Ah. There he was.

My husband.

Right on cue.

I turned, prepared to deliver the expected smile—the kind reserved for such mornings—and instead found myself staring at a tall, dark figure in a black trench coat… standing in my kitchen… at six in the morning… already wearing gloves.

And a mask.

Of course.

“…prince,” I said flatly.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied immediately, voice soft, obedient, slightly muffled behind the surgical mask he refused to remove even in the sanctity of our home.

So much for the illusion.

There was no briefcase.

No suit.

No polished shoes.

Instead: black cargo pants, chains faintly clinking as he shifted, spiked boots tracking in with the quiet menace of someone who had absolutely no intention of stepping foot into an office today—or any day, really.

He hovered near the doorway like a cautious specter, eyes flicking briefly to the stove, then to my hands, then back again as if calculating contamination vectors.

“Thou hast already disinfected the counter thrice this morn,” I noted, arching a brow.

“…Four times,” he corrected gently.

“Ah. My oversight. A grievous error indeed.”

He nodded, entirely serious.

I sighed, turning back to the stove.

So much for the cheerful housewife.

Not that I had ever truly been one.

The eggs sizzled. The tea steeped. The performance, such as it was, began to peel away at the edges.

“I trust thou art not planning to leave the house today,” I said.

“…No,” he replied, almost relieved. “I have client work. And the twins requested help with… something.”

Of course they did.

They always did.

Because our children—our darlings—were not the cherubic, obedient little angels such a morning would suggest.

No.

They were already awake.

Already whispering.

Already plotting.

As if summoned by the thought alone, two small figures appeared in the doorway.

“Mother,” Persephone greeted calmly.

“Father,” Hades added, equally composed.

Both dressed in black.

Both perfectly still.

Both watching.

I did not ask what they were planning.

I did not need to.

“…If this involves that insufferable neighbor again,” I said, plating the eggs with clinical precision, “do endeavor to be subtle.”

“We always are,” Persephone replied.

Hades tilted his head slightly. “His grammar has not improved.”

“Tragic,” I murmured. “A fate worse than death.”

Beckett shifted beside them, gloved hand lightly resting against the doorframe.

“…They’ve prepared notes,” he added quietly. “For… accuracy.”

Of course they had.

I handed him his plate.

He accepted it like it was both sacred and mildly dangerous.

There was no bustling husband rushing off to conquer the world.

There was only this—

A gentle, anxious man who stayed at home, who designed quietly brilliant things from the safety of his office, who flinched from germs but never from affection… at least not from me.

I stepped closer.

He stiffened slightly.

Not in fear.

In anticipation.

I reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask, nudging it just slightly—not enough to remove it, never that, but enough to make him freeze completely.

“I can see thee,” I murmured.

“…Mistress—”

“Relax.”

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I am not going to bite thee.”

A beat.

“…That hard.”

His ears flushed faintly above the mask.

Good.

I leaned in anyway, pressing a kiss against the fabric itself.

The gloves stayed on.

They always did.

And yet—

There was nothing distant about it.

Nothing lacking.

If anything, it made it ours.

Entirely.

Behind us, the twins made a synchronized, unimpressed noise.

“Must you?” Hades asked.

“Constantly,” I replied without turning.

“Indefatigably,” Persephone added.

“Precisely.”

I straightened, taking my tea at last.

No humming now.

No performance.

No illusion.

I was not a housewife.

I had no intention of being one.

In a few hours, I would be at school—cold, composed, merciless in the face of mediocrity. Head of my English department. A cultivator of minds, not a caretaker of fragile egos.

And he—

My so-called “husband”—would remain here.

Working quietly.

Caring for our delightfully morbid children.

Avoiding the world with the same dedication others gave to chasing it.

A slacker, some might say.

They would be wrong.

He had simply chosen better.

We all had.

The house fell into its usual rhythm—low voices, soft footsteps, the faint scratch of pencils as the twins began drafting whatever small catastrophe they intended to unleash upon the undeserving.

Outside, the world would continue as it always did.

Loud.

Messy.

Stupid.

Inside—

I took a slow sip of tea.

Perfect.

“Come along, my prince,” I said, already turning away. “Eat before it grows cold.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

No stress.

No drama.

No chaos.

No pointless problems.

Just a life carefully built and carefully protected.

And absolutely, completely, totally, one hundred percent—undeniably perfect.

Everything will always has and always will be fine as it is.

And nothing at all would ever need to be changed.