The scent of butter and cinnamon filled the small apartment kitchen.
Rosalie stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with steady hands while the early morning light spilled through the window above the sink. The world outside was still quiet—cars passing occasionally, neighbors leaving for work, birds chirping like nothing catastrophic loomed on the horizon.
Normal.
It felt almost insulting.
Behind her, small footsteps padded across the hardwood floor.
"Mommy?"
Rosalie turned.
Evelyn stood at the edge of the kitchen in pink pajamas covered in tiny stars, rubbing sleep from her bright blue eyes.
Eight years old.
Born a month before Rosalie had even turned seventeen.
Too young to remember the worst of their past life.
Too precious to ever experience it again.
"Good morning, Evie," Rosalie said softly.
Evelyn's long blonde hair fell past her shoulders in messy waves. Her heart-shaped face was a mirror of Rosalie's own—fair white skin, bright blue eyes, delicate features. The only thing she inherited from Dean were the freckles dusted across her cheeks and those soft heart-shaped lips.
Rosalie's chest tightened.
She set the spatula down and opened her arms.
Evelyn ran into them without hesitation.
Rosalie held her a little longer than usual.
"You okay, Mommy?" Evelyn asked quietly.
"Yes," Rosalie whispered into her daughter's hair. "I just… really love you."
Evelyn giggled. "I know. You tell me every day."
Not enough, Rosalie thought.
Never enough.
More footsteps thundered down the hallway.
Liam burst into the kitchen first, hair sticking up in every direction. "Is that pancakes I smell?!"
Noah followed right behind him, slightly quieter but just as excited.
The five-year-old twins were opposites in more ways than one.
Liam looked almost entirely like Dean—short brown hair, brown eyes, light skin just a shade darker than Evelyn's. He had the same mischievous grin Dean used to charm strangers.
Noah, on the other hand, was a blend. Short blonde hair like Rosalie, blue eyes, freckles sprinkled across his nose. Both boys had heart-shaped faces and lips.
Seth waddled in next, still half-asleep. Three years old. Blonde hair, brown eyes, light skin, freckles. A soft little face that always looked thoughtful, even when he didn't understand what was happening.
And then Axel toddled in behind them, fourteen months old and determined to keep up with his brothers. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin—he looked exactly like Rosalie had in baby photos. A perfect little copy.
Rosalie's gaze softened.
Seven children.
Seven reasons to burn the world if she had to.
"Wash hands," she said automatically.
Groans followed.
"Do we have to?" Liam complained.
"Yes," Rosalie said firmly, but there was warmth in her voice. "Unless you want green pancakes."
That got them moving.
As the children crowded around the sink, arguing about whose turn it was first, Rosalie plated scrambled eggs, sliced strawberries, and stacked golden pancakes high on two large serving plates.
Her movements were practiced.
Efficient.
In her past life, she had always been the one cooking, cleaning, rationing, stretching ingredients to feed nine people—including Dean.
Dean.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
She remembered thinking it was sweet how helpful he was with Lilith's twins.
Chloe and Caleb.
Chloe had looked almost identical to Lilith—long, slightly curly red hair, fair skin, green eyes. A miniature version of her mother.
But Caleb—
Caleb had Dean's entire face.
Brown eyes. The same nose. The same jawline.
Everything but the red hair.
How had she not seen it?
Rosalie slid pancakes onto Evelyn's plate, her thoughts darkening.
In her past life, Dean had always been so attentive with Chloe and Caleb.
He'd lift them easily. Laugh with them. Change diapers without complaint. Feed them. Play with them for hours.
Rosalie had thought it was kind.
Admirable.
Especially because he didn't show even half that enthusiasm with his own children.
He had never changed one of their diapers.
Not once.
Never woke up for midnight feedings unless she forced him.
Never volunteered for bath time.
But with Lilith's children?
He was attentive. Engaged. Eager.
At the time, it had hurt—but only slightly.
She told herself Lilith was struggling.
A single mother.
Heartbroken by the mysterious man who had "abandoned" her.
Rosalie had loved her sister. She had believed her.
Lilith claimed she'd been seeing a man in secret for a few weeks.
Said she got pregnant and he disappeared.
She'd cried so convincingly.
Rosalie had never questioned the story.
Never questioned how Lilith supposedly met him at her best friend's birthday party—
Even though Lilith hadn't attended that party because she'd been "sick."
Never questioned how she didn't know his full name.
Didn't have a picture.
Didn't even know where he worked.
What kind of woman talks to a man for weeks and knows nothing about him?
What kind of story had that many holes?
A stupid one.
And Rosalie had swallowed it whole.
"Mom?" Noah's voice pulled her back.
She realized she'd been gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that her knuckles had gone white.
"Yes, baby?"
"You're making the scary face again."
She forced her expression to soften immediately.
"I'm just thinking."
"About what?" Liam asked suspiciously.
Rosalie turned, leaning against the counter as her children climbed into their chairs.
"About how lucky I am."
Evelyn smiled shyly.
Seth was already stuffing a strawberry into his mouth.
Axel smacked his hands on the highchair tray impatiently.
Rosalie walked over and kissed the top of each of their heads one by one.
In her last life, she had been too busy surviving to notice everything.
Too focused on protecting everyone.
Too exhausted to see betrayal unfolding right in front of her.
Never again.
She would watch.
She would listen.
She would prepare.
Dean would wake up soon.
He would come into this kitchen with that familiar easy smile.
He would kiss her cheek.
He would act normal.
And this time—
Rosalie would see everything.
She turned back to the stove just as the first knock came from the bedroom door.
Right on time.
Her eyes went cold for a split second before she masked it.
"Morning, babe," Dean's voice called sleepily from down the hall.
Rosalie flipped the last pancake.
Five months.
She didn't need to confront him now.
She didn't need to explode.
She needed him comfortable.
Unaware.
Just like she had been.
She set the spatula down and picked up a plate.
"Breakfast is ready," she called back evenly.
Her voice didn't shake.
Her heart didn't soften.
This time, she wasn't the naive girl who believed family meant safety.
This time—
She was the one preparing for war.