Eli’s POV

I told myself it was curiosity. The professional kind, a designer scoping out a space, reading a room the way you read a color palette. That was the reason I walked down Cortland Street on a Thursday night with my hands shoved in my pockets and my heart doing something I refused to acknowledge.

The Amber Room was easy to miss if you weren’t looking. A narrow door between a dry cleaner and a place that sold vintage records. No sign out front yet, just the kind of quiet that meant something was happening inside. I almost turned around twice.

I didn’t.

The door opened into warmth. Actual...