Her eyes flick from me to Hakon to Ulf.
Then back to me.
"Well," she says. "Look who finally showed up."
"I'm here to get my stuff."
"Obviously." She steps aside, letting us in. "Angela! Ingrid's here with her bodyguards!"
"They're not bodyguards," I say. "They're friends. They're helping me move."
"Sure they are."
Angela appears from the kitchen, mimosa in hand despite it being barely noon.
Some things never change.
"Ingrid." She looks me up and down. "You look... different."
"I feel different."
"Must be all that club dick you're getting."
Hakon makes a sound behind me—something between a laugh and a growl.
I ignore it and I ignore her.
"My room's down the hall," I tell Hakon and Ulf. "I'll show you."
"We know where your room is," Trisha calls after us. "It's not like you ever had guests."
I keep walking.
Don't engage.
Don't let them get under my skin.
My room is exactly as I left it—small, sparse, impersonal.
Looking at it now, I realize how little of myself I put into this space.
How little I invested in this life.
Like I always knew it was temporary.
Like I was just waiting for something better to come along.
"Not much here," Ulf observes.
"No. There isn't."
We start packing.
Clothes into bags.
Books into boxes.
The few personal items I care about—photos of my family, a necklace my mom gave me, some keepsakes from childhood—wrapped carefully and tucked away.
