POV: Iris Hartwell
She moved back to her suite on a Thursday morning.
Julian was in his office when she crossed the penthouse with her suitcase. She didn't speak to him. Just pulled the door closed and locked it. But this time, the lock didn't feel like protection from danger. It felt like a container for thinking.
The suite was exactly as she'd left it weeks ago. Bed made. Windows facing the city. Bathroom stocked with everything she'd need. A space that had been hers only in the technical sense, she'd used it to sleep, but she'd never owned it, never made it distinct from the rest of the penthouse's controlled elegance.
She began by unpacking. Then by sitting on the bed. Then by standing at the window looking at the city below.
Hours passed like this. Movement. Stillness. Movement again.
By Friday morning, she'd begun the work of thinking through everything in sequence.
