Three months after Paris, I returned to the New York penthouse. The security teams had repaired the water damage, restored the art, and replaced the ruined furniture.
My footsteps carried through every room.
There was no turpentine in the air, no tube of paint left uncapped, no movement from the studio. Only filtered air and the climate system.
I had called this place a fortress. Aria had called it a cage. With nobody left inside, the locks kept clicking behind me.
I stopped at the bulletproof glass of the closet Valeria had controlled. After staring at the keypad, I entered Aria's birthday.
The lock clicked open.
Rows of velvet and silk gowns hung inside, many sewn with jewels. I pulled one from the rack and checked the label.
The rest carried the same measurements, cut for a woman
