Lily laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “I might be a little tired of always being in motion. Sometimes I think I just want to settle down. Stay in one place long enough to feel the ground beneath my feet.”
Bethany doesn’t hesitate. She steps in and slings an armaround Lily’s shoulders, squeezing her close. “You know I’d love to have you nearby.” Then she turns to me, her smile widening. “And Rowan’s interested in VOC. So I think the three of us are going to have our hands full running this place.”
Something loosens inside my chest at that.
I didn’t expect to feel included so easily. Or welcomed. These women don’t know the full scope of me—not the sharp edges, not the choices I’ve made. And yet, standing here with them, I don’t feel like an outsider. I feel like someone who belongs.
Lily meets my gaze again, her expression thoughtful.
“You’d be good at this,” I imagine. “Helping people. Listening.”
I think of the girl I used to be. The one who needed someone to step in before grief calcified into something harder. I think of how different my life might have been if a place like this had existed for me.
“Maybe,” I muse. “Or maybe I just don’t want anyone else to feel as alone as I once did.”
Lily’s eyes soften. “That’s usually how it starts.”
Bethany checks her phone, already slipping into logistics, talking about schedules and paperwork and how much coffee we’re all going to need. I listen, but my attention drifts.
I think about Justin. About the way he watches the room even when he’s standing still. About how carefully he holds space for me without trying to cage me inside it.
I think about Lily—about survival, about love that doesn’t demand erasure, about choosing to stay.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to outrun.
It feels like something I might finally step toward. Not alone or afraid of my own shadow. But rooted—here, in the quiet aftermath, where something new is beginning to take shape.
36
ROWAN
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.
There’s no hallway. No buffer. Just space—wide, uninterrupted, stretching outward until it meets glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a living map, all steel and light and motion far below. Up here, everything is quiet. Controlled. Still.
I step out slowly, my hands hovering at my sides like I don’t quite know what to do with them. My fingers twitch once before I still them.
The place is beautiful.
The living room is expansive but restrained. Low charcoal couches with clean lines face a wide, empty wall. There’s no television. There are no family photographs of happy memories. A single piece of abstract art hangs there instead—sharp angles, muted colors, something fractured and deliberate. It’s striking. Cold. It feels chosen specifically for the space.
The coffee table is glass and concrete, untouched. It’s not littered with books or ashtrays or beer bottles. There’s no evidence that this place has ever been lived in.
It’s expansive but it feels… unused. Like a space designed for someone who would never see this as a long term option.
I drift further in, my footsteps soft against the polished floor. The kitchen runs along one side of the penthouse, open and seamless. Stone counters with handle-less cabinets. Appliances built so cleanly into the walls you’d think there were none. Everything gleams in that shiny, brand new and unused state. There are no dishes in the sink. No half-empty mug by the coffee machine. No crumbs on the counter.
The room is lifeless. And yet—somehow—it doesn’t feel empty.
Justin moves through the space behind me, unhurried, letting me take it in at my own pace. He doesn’t explain unless I ask. Doesn’t point out features like this is something he’s proud of. That tells me more than the penthouse ever could.
“Do you even live here?” I ask eventually, my voice quieter than I intend.
He doesn’t take offense.
“I don’t,” he replies easily. “Not really.”
I turn to look at him.
