Chapter 92

• The morning had begun the way most did after a storm of change. Not with a bang or a declaration, but with a return to rhythm. The boutique had been opened earlier than usual, the locks turned with a familiar weight, the lights flicked on in quiet sequence. The air was cooler than the forecast had promised, as though the city itself had paused to exhale after everything that had passed.
• Julian had not said much the night before, and I had not asked him to. We had walked together down the hallway of the apartment, brushed shoulders in the kitchen while water boiled, and exchanged glances that held more than language could contain. Some days had no need for words. Others required the stillness between them.
• That morning, I had dressed without urgency. No cameras waited outside. No press storm circled overhead. There was no headline that could carry the weight of what this day already meant. I pulled my hair back loosely, wrapped myself in a slate-blue coat I had not worn in months, and slipped on the shoes I once kept near the studio entrance—ones worn in comfort rather than performance.