Hilary learned that mornings were the hardest.
Not because of pain.
Not because of fear.
But because every morning began with loss.
She woke up to light without meaning.
Shapes without names.
A ceiling she had seen a thousand times—yet felt like a stranger.
Her first instinct was always the same.
She reached out.
Sometimes, her hand touched warm skin.
Sometimes, it grasped empty air.
This morning—
it found him immediately.
Her fingers brushed fabric, solid and real.
She exhaled.
Before she could speak, the familiar ritual began.
"Good morning," the voice said gently.
She didn't open her eyes.
She waited.
"I am Gerard," he continued.
"Your husband."
A pause, always deliberate.
"I love you."
Her chest tightened anyway.
No matter how many times she heard it,
the words still landed like a bruise and a blessing at the same time.
"Morning," she replied softly.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"A little," she said. "Did you?"
He didn't answer immediately.
She smiled faintly. "You didn't."
"No," he admitted.
She opened her eyes.
The man beside her bed—
the man she *knew* was her husband—
was once again nothing but a blur of height and presence.
Her mind refused to supply a face.
But her body reacted without permission.
Her pulse quickened.
Her breathing shifted.
"You're too close," she said.
He froze instantly. "I can step back."
"No," she corrected. "I meant—"
She inhaled.
"You smell different when you're tired."
His shoulders loosened.
"That bad?"
"No," she said. "Just… thinner. Like you forgot to rest inside yourself."
A quiet chuckle.
"You always said strange things in the morning."
"I still do," she said. "That means I'm still me."
"Yes," he agreed. "You are."
He sat down slowly.
She tracked the sound, the movement, the subtle change in air.
"I'm going to do this every day," he said.
She tilted her head. "Do what?"
"Introduce myself," he replied. "Even when you remember. Especially when you don't."
She swallowed.
"What if I get tired of hearing it?" she asked.
"Then I'll change the wording," he said calmly.
"But not the truth."
She didn't respond.
Silence settled between them.
It wasn't awkward—
just careful.
"What day is it?" she asked.
"Thursday."
"And the time?"
"Seven forty-two."
"Location?" she pressed.
"Our bedroom," he replied immediately. "Top floor. East wing."
She nodded.
"Okay," she said. "I'm oriented."
He exhaled, relieved.
A small weight shifted on the bed.
"Mom?"
Jessica's voice.
Hilary turned her head too quickly.
The room spun.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Jessica," she said, forcing calm.
"Yes?" her daughter answered, closer now.
Hilary's hand shook as she reached out.
She touched hair.
Soft.
Familiar.
Relief flooded her so hard she had to close her eyes.
"Red ribbon?" she asked quietly.
Jessica lifted Hilary's wrist and brushed the ribbon gently.
"Still here," she said proudly.
Hilary smiled.
"Good," she whispered.
Gerard watched the exchange silently.
Jessica climbed down from the bed.
"I'll get ready for school," she announced.
"Okay," Hilary said. "Blue socks today."
Jessica grinned. "You remembered."
"I remembered *you*," Hilary corrected.
The door closed behind her.
The room felt larger again.
Gerard spoke carefully.
"The board meeting is at ten."
Hilary's spine stiffened.
"I'll attend," she said immediately.
"You don't have to."
"I do," she replied. "If I disappear, they'll smell blood."
"They already do," he said quietly.
She frowned. "That's not reassuring."
"I know."
She pushed herself upright.
Her balance wavered.
He was there before she could fall.
Hands steady.
Familiar.
"Warn me," she murmured.
"I did," he said softly. "You leaned faster than I expected."
She steadied herself, breath uneven.
"Don't catch me like that in public," she said. "They'll notice."
"I won't," he promised.
She reached for the bedside table, found the glass of water by memory.
"Tell me what you're wearing," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "What?"
"Describe yourself," she clarified. "I need a reference."
He hesitated.
"Dark suit," he said slowly. "No tie. White shirt."
She frowned slightly.
"Wrinkled?"
"Yes," he admitted.
She smiled faintly. "Good."
"Why?"
"Because if you were perfect, I'd worry."
He watched her with something dangerously close to pain.
She stood.
The mirror loomed across the room.
She faced it.
A woman stared back.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
Eyes too focused for someone who couldn't see.
She recognized *herself*.
But beside her—
Nothing.
No anchor.
No familiar shape.
Her breath hitched.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"I am Gerard," he said immediately, stepping closer but not touching.
"Your husband."
"I love you."
Her reflection didn't change.
She did.
Her hands curled into fists.
"I know you're behind me," she said. "But I can't see you."
"I know."
"What if one day I turn around," she continued, voice shaking,
"and the scent is wrong—but I believe it anyway?"
His answer came without hesitation.
"Then it means someone has already crossed a line," he said. "And I will end it."
She laughed weakly. "You sound very confident."
"I am," he replied. "Because no one knows you like I do."
She closed her eyes.
"You don't get to be wrong," she said. "Not even once."
"I won't be."
A knock echoed from the hall.
This one was softer.
Careful.
"Mrs. Vale?" a voice called.
Hilary stiffened.
"That voice—" she said.
"Housekeeping supervisor," Gerard supplied quickly.
"Is she supposed to be here?" Hilary asked.
"No."
Silence stretched.
The scent reached her.
Something unfamiliar.
Sharp.
Floral—but wrong.
Her stomach twisted.
"Gerard," she whispered. "Don't move."
He stilled instantly.
"Ask her to leave," Hilary said.
"Why?"
"Because," Hilary replied, voice low,
"that scent doesn't belong in my morning."
A pause.
Then Gerard turned toward the door.
"We don't need assistance today," he said firmly.
The silence outside lingered a second too long.
"…Of course, sir," the voice replied.
Footsteps retreated.
Hilary exhaled slowly.
Her heart raced.
Gerard turned back to her.
"How did you know?" he asked.
She swallowed.
"I don't know," she admitted.
"But my chest hurt when she spoke."
He studied her.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
"This is only the beginning," he said quietly.
Hilary nodded.
"Yes," she agreed.
"And I'm already tired."
He stepped closer.
"Then lean on me," he said.
She hesitated.
Then she did.
Resting her forehead against his chest.
She breathed him in.
Cedar.
Warmth.
Home.
"I don't see you," she whispered.
"I'm here anyway," he replied.
And somewhere beyond the walls of their room,
beyond scent and memory,
someone else was learning how Hilary Vale navigated the world—
and smiling.
Bianca noticed it before anyone else did.
Not the stumble.
Not the hesitation.
But the pause.
That half-second when Hilary Vale stopped reacting like a woman who *saw* the world—
and started reacting like someone who *listened* to it instead.
Bianca stood at the far end of the kitchen corridor, clipboard pressed to her chest, watching through the narrow glass panel.
The queen was still standing.
Perfect posture.
Controlled breathing.
Hands steady on the counter.
But something was wrong.
Bianca tilted her head.
Interesting.
Most people didn't realize this about chefs—
but great chefs didn't just look.
They sensed.
And Hilary Vale…
had stopped using her eyes.
Bianca remembered the earthquake.
Everyone did.
The chaos.
The screams.
The moment Hilary Vale collapsed after pushing her daughter out of danger.
A hero.
Heroes were supposed to come back whole.
Bianca smiled faintly.
She stepped closer.
"Chef Vale?"
Hilary turned.
Too slow.
There it was.
That hesitation again.
A breath taken not to *see*—
but to *recognize*.
Bianca felt a chill slide pleasantly down her spine.
So that's it.
Hilary's eyes flicked—searching, not landing.
Bianca kept her voice gentle. Professional.
"Yes?" Hilary replied.
Bianca didn't answer immediately.
She moved instead.
One step to the left.
Hilary's gaze followed the sound, not the body.
Bianca almost laughed.
"Oh," Bianca said softly. "I'm sorry. Did I startle you?"
Hilary's smile was polite. Practiced.
"No," she replied. "I was just… thinking."
Liar.
Bianca leaned in slightly.
Just enough.
The scent changed.
Subtle.
Controlled.
Not expensive.
Bianca filed that away.
"So," Bianca continued, "the board asked me to assist you today."
Hilary nodded.
"Of course," she said. "Thank you."
Bianca waited.
No eye contact correction.
No subtle cue of recognition.
Nothing.
Hilary Vale did not know who she was talking to.
Bianca's pulse quickened.
She had spent years clawing her way up kitchens where talent mattered less than politics.
Where women like Hilary Vale were crowned while others were told to wait their turn.
Now—
Now the crown had cracked.
Bianca straightened.
"I admire you," she said suddenly.
Hilary blinked.
"That's kind of you."
"I've followed your work for years," Bianca continued smoothly. "Your plating philosophy. Your sensory layering."
Hilary's lips curved, grateful.
"You understand food," she said.
Bianca smiled.
No.
I understand weakness.
She glanced down at Hilary's hands.
No tremor.
No shaking.
The damage wasn't motor.
Interesting.
"May I stand here?" Bianca asked, stepping slightly behind Hilary's shoulder.
"Yes," Hilary replied automatically.
Bianca leaned close enough to whisper.
"Tell me if I'm too close."
Hilary stiffened.
Bianca watched the reaction with clinical fascination.
She smelled it then.
Fear.
Not panic.
Not hysteria.
Fear sharpened by intelligence.
Bianca stepped back.
"Forgive me," she said lightly. "I forgot my place."
Hilary nodded, breathing uneven.
"It's fine," she said.
But Bianca knew.
It wasn't.
Later that afternoon, Bianca stood alone in the staff restroom, reapplying perfume.
Not her usual scent.
Something warmer.
Deeper.
More… masculine.
She inhaled.
Test one.
Tomorrow, she would move again.
A step closer.
A scent altered.
A voice repeated.
Gaslighting wasn't cruelty.
It was education.
And Hilary Vale was about to learn a devastating truth—
When you cannot see faces,
love becomes a liability.
Bianca capped the bottle.
Her smile returned, sharp and patient.
"I don't need to steal her husband," she murmured to her reflection.
"I just need her to choose the wrong one."