22
Marcus
“Stop apologizing,” I tell Emma as I lead her into the bedroom, my hand resting on the small of her back. “I’m the one who insisted you bring them with you.”
“Yes, but I knew better than to listen. You’ve never lived with Mr. Puffs; you don’t know how destructive he can be. That cat is an absolute menace.” She sounds so disgusted I can’t help but laugh—though there’s really nothing funny about losing a piece of art that cost two-and-a-half million dollars.
“It’s fine,” I say, and to my surprise, I mean it. The broken sculpture was one of the first collectibles I acquired when I started making serious money, and each time I’d looked at it, I’d felt a sense of satisfaction at the knowledge of how far I’d come. And for years, that satisfaction, that feeling of acquisitive pride,
