Three days passed before she began to understand the rhythms of the penthouse, and another four before she began to understand some of the rhythms of the man who lived in it.
Lucien left early. She was a natural early riser, and on the mornings when she was up before seven she would sometimes find him in the kitchen — standing at the counter with coffee, reading from his phone with the absorbed attention of someone processing strategy rather than simply catching up with the news. He always acknowledged her when she appeared. A nod, sometimes a brief lift of his coffee cup. She acknowledged him in return and moved to the coffee machine. They had not yet had anything that could be called a conversation, but there was a form of coexistence developing that had its own unspoken grammar.
She s
