The apartment was beautiful in a way that hurt a little to look at.
I stood in the middle of it while Matteo moved through the rooms with the focused, contained energy of a man conducting an inspection, which was exactly what he was doing. He touched nothing. He just looked, his eyes moving across walls and windows and the gaps between furniture with systematic patience that made it clear this was not admiration. He was reading the space the way I imagined he read courtrooms. Looking for the thing that was wrong.
I watched him for a moment and then stopped watching him, because watching him was starting to feel like a habit I couldn't afford.
I put my bag down on the sofa and went to the window.
Paris was right there. I had known it would be, and it still felt like an ambush, the way t
