The mansion had a way of keeping its own time—slow when it wanted to, urgent when called. After the small, private ceremonies and the retreat and the tumult of audits and leaks, something in the house settled into a quieter rhythm. It was as if the wood itself exhaled, grateful for the steadiness we’d built. For me, that steadiness felt like a new, fragile luxury: to move through days knowing there were two people who would meet me when the world tried to strip me of shape.
Conley left early that morning with a briefcase and an uncharacteristic softness in his goodbye kiss. Angel lingered at the door a second longer than usual, her hand tucked into the sleeve of her jacket like a small talisman. I watched them go with a private swell of warmth that was equal parts affection and hunger—lov
