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He has not asked whether I am seeing anyone.

He has not asked if I have children.

Yet.

The possibility sits at the center of my chest like a weight. I know exactly how to answer questions about my work. I have spent years making sure the rest of my life belongs to me.

Ross glances toward the surrounding room before looking back at me.

“I assume the Reinhardt is what brought you to London?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Charlotte Whitcombe retained me to handle the reacquisition.”

“I saw your name on the file,” he says.

“I gathered that,” I say.

“How is the review going?”

“Smoothly,” I say. “Your collection team is very efficient.”

“Our collection team.”

I look at him.

Ross's expression remains composed.

I do not know whether the correction means anything, and I am not interested in finding out.

“The documentation is strong,” I say.

“Assuming the Trust is open to deaccession, I don’t expect the matter to become complicated.”

“That would be a first for anything involving my family.”

I almost smile.

Almost.

Then I remember how easily he once made me laugh five minutes before making a decision that shattered me. The impulse dies.

“I’m sure you’ll survive it,” I say.

His eyes stay on mine.

“I usually do.”

There is enough weight beneath the words that I know he hears it too.

The past.

Not discussed.

Not forgiven.

Still standing between us.