Chapter 5: A Pinch of Salt, A Pound of Flesh

Evelyn woke up in her own room, because of course she didn’t sleep in Damien’s. Sharing a bed with that man? She’d rather hug a cactus.

She stretched lazily, slipped into her robe, and headed downstairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, the air was already alive with the sounds of clinking pans and murmuring maids.

Mrs. Davies, the head maid, was giving her usual morning sermon to a nervous junior.

“Remember, no salt. Mr. Damien prefers to season his food himself. The eggs soft, the toast lightly done, the coffee black—”

Evelyn leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glinting. Breakfast without salt? How boring.

Evelyn walked in the kitchen, arms folded, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “My, my. You all know his taste buds better than his wife does.”

The maids froze. Mrs. Davies turned slowly, eyes widening when she saw Evelyn.

“I’ll be handling breakfast today,” Evelyn announced, stepping forward like a queen claiming her throne.

The maids exchanged nervous glances. Mrs. Davies cleared her throat. “Madam, perhaps it’s better if—”

Evelyn cut her off with a tilt of her head and a sugar-coated smile. “Is there a problem with me wanting to serve my husband myself? or perhaps you are married to him?”

Silence. No one dared breathe. Evelyn clapped her hands lightly. “Good. Out.”

One by one, the maids scurried out, their shoes clicking against the marble. The kitchen door shut behind them, leaving Evelyn in a kingdom of gleaming silverware and the aroma of fresh bread.

She rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s make this breakfast unforgettable.”

The eggs were soft and golden, the toast perfect, the coffee strong. But as she prepared the plate for Damien, her eyes narrowed. She reached for the salt shaker and twisted, emptying more than a “pinch” over the eggs. Then another heavy shake. Then another. She sprinkled extra on the potatoes, stirred it into the sauce, even dusted the toast with a fine layer.

Her plate, however, remained untouched. Perfectly balanced.

When she was done, she stood back and admired her work. The breakfast looked like a magazine cover. No one would ever know it was a sodium bomb waiting to detonate.

Satisfied, she set the tray and made her way upstairs. She left the kitchen humming something mean and walked to the study.

----

Damien looked up, pen in hand, eyes cutting through her like he was already reading motives in bold print. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he buried it.

“You’re up early.” His tone was flat, but the edge was there. Neutral never survived long between them.

“I made breakfast,” Evelyn said, smiling just enough to sting. “Thought you might like to eat with me.”

That caught him. Not pleasure. Not annoyance. Caution.

“You want me to eat with you?”

“Yes.” Her hands folded neatly, calm as porcelain.

He hesitated, then rose, following her as if he had a choice. That tiny surrender tasted like victory—for two seconds.

The dining room gleamed, sunlight striping the table. Staff bowed and vanished. Evelyn slid into her seat opposite him, chin propped on her hand, a cat waiting for its prey.

She served him herself, easing the plate in front of him. “I hope you enjoy it, darling. I worked very hard.”

His eyes stayed on her, cool and steady. Then he asked, voice low, not quite joking:

“Are you trying to poison me?”

The words dropped like a stone.

Evelyn blinked. Then laughed, soft and sharp. “No. I wouldn’t poison you.”

“Why not?”

She leaned forward, her whisper slicing the air. “Because poison is too fast. I want you to die slowly. I want everything you’ve built to rot piece by piece. I want your victories to taste like ash. That’s the kind of death you deserve.”

He studied her as if she’d just commented on the weather. Calm. Detached. Dangerous. Then he picked up his fork, cut into the eggs, and ate.

Evelyn leaned forward, waiting for the cough, the grimace, the desperate reach for water.

Nothing.

Another bite. And another. He finished every salted scrap on the plate, his face a mask of composure. Only the faintest flicker in his eyes at the first bite betrayed him—and even that vanished before she could be sure.

He dabbed his mouth, set down the napkin. “Thank you for breakfast. It was… memorable.”

It might as well have been a slap. She felt it across her face.

“You ate it,” she said. The words came out sharper than she intended. “You didn’t—react.”

He smiled then, and it was almost kind. “I asked if you poisoned me. You said no. You said you wanted slow undoing. Very medieval of you.” He paused. “I appreciate creativity.”

The heat in her chest took a new shape. It wasn’t fury now. It was the cold of small failure. Petty revenge hadn’t even shaken him. He took her petty lashing like a man used to storms.

He rose, slid into his jacket, and left without looking back.

Evelyn sat frozen, nails biting her palm. Petty games weren’t enough. If Damien could swallow this and walk away untouched, then she’d need to carve deeper. Break him from the inside. Like if Damien could swallow a declaration of war and call it breakfast, then she would need a weapon he couldn't digest.

Her lips curved into a cold, flawless smile. Fine, she thought. If you're immune to poison, I'll make you fall in love with the antidote. Then I'll take it away.

Her lips curved. “Fine. Let’s play harder.”

She rose from the table, her voice a whisper that promised a storm. "Salt was too simple. Let's see how you handle a diet of pure, unfiltered love, Damien. I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever taste."

Congratulations, Damien," she whispered to herself walking upstairs. "You just graduated from target to prey. The hunt begins now."