By noon, the reality of our new life had fully settled in—not like a revelation, but like something heavy finally finding its resting place and refusing to move again.
I tried to leave the penthouse anyway.
I wanted the Gable & Star cafe. I wanted the wreckage of the diner. I wanted to stand where the air had split open and decide, with my own eyes, what version of me had survived it.
The elevator panel chimed before I even reached it.
"Access restricted," Marcus said over the radio, and for the first time his voice wasn't professional—it was strained. Almost apologetic. "There are three news crews in the lobby and a crowd of four hundred people waiting for a blessing or a statement. If you go down there, we'll have a riot on our hands."
I stopped mid-step.
The marble beneath my feet suddenly felt too polished, too intentional.
"So I'm a prisoner in my own home?" I asked, staring at the closed elevator doors like they might answer differently if I looked long enough.
A pause.
