The penthouse had become a museum of politeness.
Personal chefs made Emma's favorite teas. Housekeepers folded her clothes into geometric perfection. Ryan scheduled “quiet dinners" with nostalgic playlists and recounted childhood memories as if they shared a past worth remembering.
Emma answered every attempt with professional courtesy and emotional distance.
Each “How was your day?" was met with “Productive."
Each “You look tired" was met with “I'm fine."
Each gaze he held too long was deflected with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She was a guest.
But also a ghost.
---
On Tuesday, she asked to go for a walk.
“Just a few blocks," she told the concierge. “It's clear outside."
He smiled tightly. “I'm afraid that's not permitted."
“Why not?"
“Security risk."
Emma's lips par
