Chapter Twenty Three
The penthouse felt different when I walked back in. Not colder. Not emptier. Just... waiting. Like the building itself had been holding its breath until I returned. Pickles shot out of his carrier and sprinted toward his favorite spot—the sunbeam on the living room floor. Within seconds, he was sprawled on his back, paws in the air, purring like a motor. "He remembers," Adrian said from the doorway. "He never forgot." I set down my bag. Looked around. "Neither did I." Adrian crossed the room. Stopped in front of me. Didn't touch. Just stood there, close enough that I could feel his warmth. "You're really back." "I'm really back." "Not because of the contract?" "The contract is ash in a fireplace somewhere." "Not because you feel sorry for me?" "I don't feel sorry for you. You're
- Writer
