Her assistant and stylist linger for a moment, gathering stray items from the living room. They give me polite nods that feel like apologies. Then they disappear quickly, as if awkwardness is contagious and they don’t want to be near it when it fully settles.
The space feels different once they’re gone.
Heavier.
Lila stops near a massive sectional and smooths a throw pillow that does not need smoothing. Then she does it again, slower this time. Buying herself a second.
I hover near the entryway because I don’t know where I’m allowed to exist. Sitting feels invasive. Standing feels like I’m in the way.
She looks around the room like she’s touring it for the first time. Not proud. Not comfortable. Distant. Like she’s unsure whether this place still belongs to her now that I’m in it.
I remind myself why I'm here.
“You can put your bag there,” she says finally, gesturing vaguely toward a console table that probably costs more than my truck.
“Right,” I say. “I’ll try not to dent the art.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
For a split second, I think I’ve messed up. Then she lets out a quick, surprised sound that might be a laugh. It’s small. Unpracticed. Like it escaped before she could catch it.
She nods toward the hallway. “I’ll show you around.”
Her voice is steady, but I hear the strain under it now that I’m listening for it.
I follow her down the hall, quieter than before. More aware of how much space I take up.
This isn’t just a penthouse. It’s her world.
And now I’m in it.
She gives me the tour like she’s reading off a checklist.
“Kitchen’s here. You are welcome to the food that's here. And if you need something, let Sasha know. She'll get it for you,” she says, already moving. “Studio space is soundproofed. Security panels are in the hall and the master wing.”
She doesn’t look back as she walks, and I get the sense she’s afraid if she does, she’ll trip over whatever this is between us.
Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twisting slightly like she’s holding herself together from the inside.
I follow at a careful distance, trying not to feel like a very large, very human wrecking ball loose in a museum.
The place is beautiful. Quiet. Like a stock photo.
We pass a recording nook tucked into one corner. A whiteboard hangs on the wall, half-filled with lyrics and scribbles. Some words are crossed out. Some circled. One line has three exclamation points.
I look away quickly, feeling like I'm intruding.
A stack of vinyl leans against a console. Old stuff. New stuff. A strange mix that feels personal instead of staged. A velvet throw drapes over the back of a chair that looks actually used.
Human. Fragile. I feel like I should be wearing gloves.
She keeps moving, pointing out practical details. Where the panic buttons are. Which windows are reinforced. How the lights can be dimmed remotely if she doesn’t want to be visible from outside.
She stops in front of a door at the end of the hall and pushes it open.
“This is yours,” she says quietly.
The guest room is clean to the point of emptiness. Neutral bedding. Bare walls. Drawers that haven’t been opened. It looks like a hotel room that never quite became real.
