Dante returned to his penthouse that evening and saw, with sudden clarity, that he hated it.
The realization was not dramatic. It arrived as he opened the door and stepped into the broad entry hall, where polished stone reflected recessed lighting and a vase of white orchids stood perfectly arranged by someone paid to notice when petals aged. Everything was flawless. Nothing was alive enough to be out of place.
No blue bowl in the sink.No dinosaur abandoned under a chair.No crooked drawings.No height marks climbing a closet door.
He walked through rooms that had once felt like proof of success and now seemed like evidence of a life designed to avoid attachment. His home had views, temperature control, museum-quality art, security systems, and silence. Livia's apartment had scuffed furni
