April arrived like a promise kept.
The city was blooming — cherry blossoms in the parks, tulips pushing through the soil, the kind of light that made everything look possible. The penthouse windows were open for the first time in months, letting in the smell of spring and the sound of distant traffic.
Pickles was asleep in a sunbeam. Adrian was in his study, painting. And I was sitting on the couch, surrounded by papers, running a business I'd built with my own two hands.
It was a Tuesday.
An ordinary, unremarkable, absolutely perfect Tuesday.
---
The business was thriving.
Not because of Adrian's money — though that had helped. Not because of Ms. Vane's connections — though those had opened doors. But because I was good at what I did. Because I told stories that mattered. Because I
