They found the apartment two weeks later, a bright, modest space with good light and none of the sterile grandeur of Sterling's old penthouse, chosen specifically, at Ivy's insistence, because it felt like somewhere two actual people could build an actual life rather than a stage set for photographs.

Moving day arrived on a Saturday that felt, for once, blessedly ordinary, boxes and mismatched furniture and Ivy's mother directing traffic from a folding chair, still recovering but steady enough now to insist on supervising despite everyone's protests.

"You're not lifting anything," Ivy said, for the third time, catching her mother reaching for a box.

"I'm not lifting. I'm supervising. There's...