Aria's POV
The apartment feels different when I walk through the door.
It's the same space Damien gave me during the divorce, a modest two-bedroom in SoHo with exposed brick walls and large windows that let in the city lights. The furniture is minimal, the walls are bare, and everything still smells faintly of fresh paint and new carpet. It's nice. Pleasant. Safe.
But it's not home. Not yet.
I set my purse on the kitchen counter and toe off my heels, the cool hardwood floor a relief against my aching feet. The silence settles around me like a blanket, not oppressive like it was in the penthouse during my marriage, but peaceful. Liberating. This silence belongs to me.
I pad across the living room, my feet making soft sounds against the wood, and I look around with new eyes. Soon, I'll
