The new apartment was not a home. It was a workshop, a fortress, and a nursery, in that precise order.
Elias had, as promised, "handled it." He had used Aurora's grandmother's money to lease a sprawling, light-filled apartment in his own building, all under the legal, paper-thin identity of "Ariane Rousseau."
But the grand, empty rooms, with their high ceilings and herringbone floors, had been colonized.
The living room was now a studio. Bolts of wool and silk were stacked against the walls like firewood. The floor was a minefield of pins and chalk marks. A single, pristine white rack stood in the center, holding the "Phoenix Rising" collection.
It was no longer a sketch. It was an arsenal.
And in the corner, by the tall, sunlit window, was the bassinet.
Aurora’s life had become a rh
