Four personalised lunches lay out before Demi Cole. Three with cupcakes, and the largest with an extra protein shake. She continued to turn the scrambled eggs on the stovetop, as her kitchen timer dinged to take the breakfast muffins out of the oven.

“Well if he doesn’t have those papers on my desk before 9am, a firing will be the least of his concerns! This is a $50 million dollar contract that we’re about to lose because of Jefferson’s incompetence,” her husband’s voice bellowed through the kitchen.

“Good morning, dear,” Demi smiled as Richard followed his voice into the room. He held up a finger up to her.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I expect you and Jefferson to be there too,” he spit into the receiver, and immediately hung up. “Morning Demi” he finally grants her as he drops his case onto the counter. “I’m heading out early, so I’m hoping breakfast’s ready.”

She smiles back tightly, as she lifted a muffin from the tray onto the plate.

“What the hell is this?”

Her tight smile faltered.

“Muffins,” she mumbled.

“I know that! Does anyone listen to me at all? I can’t eat that shit, which you would know if you actually read my new nutrition plan!”

Demi had always tried to be perfect for her husband. She cooked three meals a day, cared for their three children with no help from him. She ran his errands, cleaned the house. Bought his clothes and laid them out. She ate less than 1200 calories a day, and spent more time in the gym than doing anything else. However, nothing was ever good enough.

She had always been a perfectionist. Sometimes because she believed in something, and other times for the people she loved. But this wasn’t either of those. This was the first time that her pefectionism was driven by fear.

Even though she had assumed a dead woman’s identity, and had her face rearranged by the best and most discreet plastic surgeon in Korea, she was still deathly afraid. Afraid that one day she’d slip up, or piss off the wrong person, and somebody would find out who she really was. And she’d finally have to pay.

Demi never dreamed that she’d trade Hollywood for suburbia, or her costar husband for a misogynistic asshole. But she would rather those trades, than to trade her freedom for an orange jumpsuit.

It had been nine years since her birth identity had died mid-trial. Ten years since she’d wired away the remainder of her non-frozen assets to an organisation who had helped her to disappear and die. And eleven years since she’d stabbed her husband through the neck, in her trailer, on the set of her new film.

Demi placed her husband’s lunch bag inside of his briefcase and handed it to him. “Don’t worry, darling. No refined carbs or sugar. And the muffins are almond flour,” she smiled, and stretched up to kiss him on the neck.