It wasn’t even six a.m., yet Hannah Whitmore was already awake, her apron neatly tied. Her hands trembled slightly as she finished the plate—bear-shaped pancakes, strawberries for eyes, and a maple syrup smile.
She had been married to Michael Whitmore for three months. A wealthy real estate developer originally from Texas, now firmly established in Los Angeles—handsome, polished, commanding.
From the outside, Hannah seemed impossibly fortunate: luxury, security, status. But behind closed doors, her life was a constant, silent battle.
That battle had a name: Ava.
Michael’s five-year-old daughter had lost her mother a year earlier. Fragile, quiet, with enormous haunted eyes. Hannah never believed she could replace her mother—but she wanted to be a safe place.
“Smells great,” Michael said behind her, his voice deep and distant.
She turned to see him already in a tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his cufflinks while scrolling through his phone.
“They’re for Ava,” Hannah said softly. “She said she wanted pancakes yesterday. I thought maybe today she’d eat.”
She reached up to straighten his collar. He kissed her absently without looking up.
“Pour me coffee. Strong. Please, Mrs. Whitmore.”