Eleanor's house was everything the penthouse was not.
Warm rooms. Furniture chosen for use rather than appearance, cushions that had been sat on for years, surfaces with actual things on them. A kitchen that smelled like something had been cooking since mid-afternoon. Photos on every wall, the accumulated evidence of a life lived in a specific place by a specific person who had not curated it for anyone's impression.
Roman was in one of the photos in the hallway. Eight or nine years old, laughing at something outside the frame, his face completely unguarded. He did not remember the moment but he recognized the quality of the expression. Before he had learned to manage what his face did.
Eleanor put food on the table and sat across from him and did not ask about Isabella. She did not ask
