Page 48 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

I grin, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code for breakfast prep.”

“Breakfast prep?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so much as boil water.”

“First time for everything,” I shoot back, pushing past him toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Franklin. I’ve got this under control.”

He follows me, of course. His steps are measured and precise, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. Always the picture of unflappable calm, Franklin looks as though he could serve tea at a royal gala without spilling a drop.

“May I suggest, Master Vincent, that perhaps I?—”

“Nope. This is personal,” I cut him off, glancing over my shoulder with a smirk. “For Willow.”

At her name, his lips press into a tight line, and I catch the faintest twitch of disapproval in his brow. He doesn’t argue, though. Franklin may be stoic, but even he knows better than to question me when it comes to her.

The kitchen feels like a trek—down the grand staircase, past the hallway lined with ancestral portraits, and around a corner that leads to the expansive, gleaming kitchen.As I enter, the sheer size of the space mocks me. Stainless steel appliances line the walls, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft morning light. Everything is perfectly in place, and for a moment, I hesitate. I half expect Franklin to offer a running commentary on my inability to locate the coffee grinder, but he remains silent, trailing me like a well-dressed shadow.

Franklin clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Before you begin your culinary venture, Master Vincent, I should inform you that your father and stepmother have returned fromMumbai. They’ve requested your presence at breakfast in two days’ time.”

I groan internally. Of course, they’re back. Nothing like a mandatory family breakfast to derail my plans. “Fine,” I mutter, grabbing a frying pan from a rack. “Tell them I’ll be there.”

“As you wish,” Franklin replies smoothly, his tone neutral but ever so slightly smug. “Will Willow be joining you?”

I glance at the stove, staring at the array of buttons and knobs like they’re written in a foreign language. I’ve never turned this thing on in my life. “Franklin,” I say, dragging his name out with a sigh. “How do I... uh, make it do the thing?”

“The ‘thing,’ Master Vincent?” Franklin asks, raising a single, judgmental eyebrow.

“The fire. The stove. You know what I mean.”

He steps forward, adjusting the cuffs of his pristine white shirt. “I presume you’re referring to igniting the burner.”

“Yes, Franklin. That’s exactly what I meant,” I say dryly, motioning toward the stove. “Help me out here.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Franklin leans in and twists a knob, igniting the flame with practiced ease. “There you are, sir. Shall I prepare a manual for future reference?”

I wave him off. “Don’t push it.”

Franklin lightly chuckles. “One more thing sir.”

“I know where the toaster is Franklin,” I mock.

“Yes sir, I remember your love of toast and peanut butter as a kid,” he speaks fondly, a low tremble in his voice, and then heclears his throat. “Will Miss Willow be joining you at breakfast with your parents?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten. I don’t have an answer—not a real one, anyway. Willow isn’t exactly the type to make a quiet appearance, let alone sit through a breakfast with my father and stepmother. She’d either charm them with that fiery confidence of hers or set the entire evening on fire with a single word.

“I don’t know,” I say finally, trying to keep my tone indifferent, though the uncertainty gnaws at me. “We’ll see.”

Franklin doesn’t respond immediately. His silence is loaded, the kind he uses when he’s silently evaluating one of my decisions.

“She is living here, sir,” he says eventually, carefully choosing his words. “It may be difficult to avoid... introductions.”

“I know that,” I snap, a little too harshly, as I turn back to the stove. “It’s just... complicated.”

Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. My father and stepmother will want to know everything about Willow—why she’s here, what she means to me, how she fits into the pristine image they expect me to maintain. And I have no intention of letting them drag her into their world of veiled insults and calculated manipulation.

But at the same time, I can’t keep her hidden away forever. Franklin’s right—she’s here now, in my house, a part of my life in a way no one else ever has been. And sooner or later, they’ll find out.

“Should I prepare for her presence at dinner, then?” Franklin asks, his voice calm but insistent.

“I said I don’t know,” I mutter, my grip tightening on the frying pan. The egg sizzles, the sound a welcome distraction from the storm of thoughts in my head.

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