The two days following the statement were a study in surreal normalcy. The city, having feasted on its scandal, seemed to sigh and move on to the next spectacle. The alerts on my phone dwindled from a torrent to a trickle. Lydia forwarded client compliments about my “poise under pressure.”. Derek’s bar settled into a steady, elevated hum of business—the curious had come, been served excellent whisky, and many had stayed as patrons.
We allowed ourselves to breathe. The war, it seemed, had entered a stalemate on the public front. The silence from Marcus was a cold, static line, but we had built a life around it, a life that was becoming surprisingly, deeply sweet.
On Thursday evening, Derek cooked. It was simple pasta aglio e olio in my kitchen; the air was rich with garlic and chilli flak
