SIX MONTHS LATER
The design studio was on the thirty-ninth floor.
This had been his suggestion, which she had examined from multiple angles before accepting it on her own terms — not the penthouse, a separate floor, entirely mine, my clients, my billing, my decisions. He had agreed. He had had the space renovated while she was in Pune for a client review, and when she came back it had been done: an open studio with the same east-facing light she'd claimed in the reading room, a work surface long enough for her layout spreads, storage she'd specified herself, a door that locked from the inside.
Her name on the lease: Maya Sharma Design. Not Raisinghani.
She had kept her name professionally. He had not commented on this. She had waited for him to comment and he had not, and she had under
