Saskia’s Brooklyn apartment was a shoebox compared to the Abernathy mansion.
One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in. But it had something the mansion didn’t: freedom from judgment. Freedom from watching Leander’s broken heart every time he looked at her.
Freedom from the ghost of Dashiell in every room.
“You can have the bedroom,” Saskia said, hauling Liora’s suitcase through the narrow hallway. “I’ll take the couch.”
“I can’t kick you out of your own bed—”
“Liora. You’re thirty weeks pregnant. You’re taking the bed.” Saskia’s tone left no room for argument. “Besides, my couch is surprisingly comfortable. I’ve passed out on it enough times after double shifts.”
The bedroom was small but cozy. Plants on the windowsill, books stacked everywhere, medica
