Coming home was strange.
The penthouse looked the same—same marble floors, same floor-to-ceiling windows, same city sprawled out like a offering. But something had shifted. The edges felt softer. The air felt lighter. It smelled like us now, not just him.
Pickles greeted us at the door with a meow that clearly said, "You abandoned me."
"We were gone a week," I said, scooping him up.
"Seven days," Adrian translated. "In cat years, that's forever."
"He'll forgive us."
"Cats don't forgive. They just wait for the right moment to retaliate."
I looked at Pickles. He looked at me. His tail flicked.
"He's going to poop in our shoes."
"Probably."
I kissed the top of the cat's head. "Worth it."
---
Ms. Vane had left a folder on the kitchen island.
Not work—Adrian had made her promise no
