Lila's P.O.V
We flew back to Blackwood two weeks later, the Paris glow still clinging to us like the scent of those ranunculus I'd pressed between the pages of my sketchbook. Ethan had wrapped up the preliminary designs for Victor's alpine retreat, and the press had finally eased off a bit—though not before one last splashy spread in Vogue Hommes featuring him shirtless on a mock-up beam, captioned something ridiculous like "The Architect Who Builds Dreams... and Bodies." I'd teased him mercilessly about it on the plane, but secretly, I loved it. Loved watching the world catch up to what I'd known all along: that my husband was extraordinary.
Blackwood welcomed us with its familiar quiet—the crunch of late-winter gravel under the tires, the greenhouse lights flickering on as we pulled in
