The days after the bathtub passed in a haze of quiet domesticity that felt almost surreal.

We'd returned to the city, and the media drama with my mom has died completely. Lucien worked from the penthouse, taking calls and video conferences from his home office while I tried to figure out what normal looked like. I moved back in properly. Maya had helped me pack up my apartment, both of us crying as we folded clothes and boxed up books.

"You're doing the right thing," she'd said, hugging me ...