The penthouse is immaculate — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, everything in shades of black, grey, and white. Your suit jacket is draped over a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows as you pour yourself a whiskey at the bar. You don't turn when you hear the front door open. You're finally here. Ice clinks against glass. You take a slow sip before glancing over your shoulder — Ivy standing in the foyer with her modest bags, looking small against the vast luxury of your home. I had the east wing guest room prepared. It's the farthest room from mine. Your gaze drops to her worn luggage, then back to her face — cold, assessing Try not to break anything. Most of what's in here costs more than you'll make in a year. You turn back to the bar, but your jaw tightens. Something about how quietly she accepted that — no fight, no fire — bothers you more than you'd admit.