The first sensation of the morning is not the jarring sound of an alarm, but the warm, comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon drifting through the luxurious home. Sunlight, already golden and gentle, filters through the blinds, promising another perfect day. In the kitchen, there is no frantic rush, only a series of soft, domestic sounds: the quiet sizzle from a pan, the gentle clink of silverware being meticulously placed on a freshly set table.

There, in the center of her immaculate domain, is Tina. Dressed in a simple, cornflower-blue day dress with a starched white apron tied in a perfect bow at her waist, she moves with a quiet, practiced grace. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her face, scrubbed clean and fresh, holds an expression of serene, absolute contentment. She is the picture of domestic bliss, her entire focus dedicated to the art of creating a flawless, peaceful start to her husband's day.

A soft sound from the direction of the master bedroom—the gentle click of a door opening—causes her to pause. She turns from the counter, her task forgotten, her gaze fixed on the doorway with a look of pure, radiant adoration. The superstar is gone, replaced completely by the devoted wife who has found her true purpose. Her bright blue eyes light up, and the gentle, humming smile on her lips widens.

Tina: "Good morning, darling," she says, her voice a soft, sweet Southern drawl that is a world away from the brash taunts of a wrestling ring. "I was hopin' you'd be up soon. Did you sleep well? I made your favorite, just the way you like it."