I woke up the next morning with a crick in my neck and no memory of how I got to the bedroom. The unicorn pajamas were soft against my skin, and the sheets smelled like lavender. Lucas had probably adjusted the thermostat to exactly the right temperature before he left for the night.
The bed was enormous. The kind of bed that could host a small nation and still have room for diplomatic negotiations. I lay there for a long moment watching the morning light stream through the windows and turn everything gold. It should have felt inviting. Instead, it felt like a stage where I was an actress playing the role of a woman who lived here.
Yesterday's exploration had been a disaster. The sauna I did not use. The cinema I did not watch. The shoe room that contained hundreds of shoes I had probably never worn. The bathtub large enough to drown a horse. I had wandered through my own home like a tourist in a museum, touching nothing and understanding nothing.
Now I had a new mission. I needed clothes.
The hospital had sent me home in borrowed gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that said "PROPERTY OF ST. MARY'S HOSPITAL" in faded blue letters. It was comfortable and simple and the most honest thing I had worn since waking up. But I could not wear hospital clothes forever. Eventually, I would have to face the wardrobe of the woman I used to be.
I stood up and walked toward the door Lucas had pointed out yesterday. The walk-in closet. He had said it with a straight face like that was an adequate description for what was probably another small nation behind that door.
I opened it. The lights turned on automatically with a soft, flattering glow.
The closet was the size of a department store. Racks and racks of clothing stretched into the distance, organized by some system I could not begin to understand. By color first, then by type, then by something else entirely that probably made sense to the old Vivian.
I stepped inside. My bare feet met cool hardwood that smelled like cedar and expensive floral candles. The air was perfectly climate-controlled and completely still, like even the atmosphere had been optimized for efficiency.
I approached the first rack. Black. Every single item was black. Blazers and trousers and skirts and dresses. Different fabrics and different cuts, but all the same absence of color. Like I had been dressing for my own funeral for years and wanted to be prepared for every possible variation of grief.
The next rack was white. Crisp blouses and button-downs and silk tops that hung in perfect rows. Starched and pressed and waiting for a woman who apparently only wore white when she was not wearing black. They looked like they had never been touched by human skin.
The next rack was gray. Charcoal and dove and steel. Fifty shades of nothing. Pencil skirts and tailored jackets that screamed "boardroom" and whispered nothing else about the woman who wore them.
I kept walking. Black. White. Gray. Black. White. Gray. No patterns anywhere. No florals or stripes or polka dots. Nothing whimsical or playful. Nothing that suggested the woman who wore these clothes had ever laughed so hard she snorted, or danced in her living room, or eaten ice cream straight from the tub.
I stopped at a rack of black blazers. Identical in every way. Same cut, same fabric, same buttons. At least twelve of them hanging in a row like soldiers awaiting inspection.
"Why would anyone need twelve identical black blazers?" I asked the empty closet.
No one answered.
I pulled one off the rack. The fabric was soft and substantial. The stitching was perfect. The lining was silk. This blazer probably cost more than some people's monthly rent, and I had twelve of them.
I put it back and kept walking. Past the shoes organized by heel height and color. Past the bags that sat on illuminated shelves like museum artifacts. Past the scarves and belts and watches. I opened one drawer of jewelry and closed it immediately because it felt too intimate, like reading someone else's diary.
And then, at the very back of the closet, shoved behind a row of identical black heels like something shameful, I saw it.
A flash of color. Bright, obnoxious, completely unapologetic pink.
I pushed aside the heels and reached into the shadows. My fingers closed around fabric so soft and worn it felt like a second skin. I pulled it out and held it up to the light.
It was a pajama set covered in unicorns. Pink unicorns with purple manes and sparkly silver horns that pranced across the fabric like they owned it. Some were smiling. Some were winking. All of them were absolutely, gloriously ridiculous.
I had already found these yesterday, but I had not really looked at them. I had not let myself feel what they meant. Now I stood in the cold perfect closet and pressed the soft worn fabric to my face. It smelled like vanilla and something else I could not name. Comfort, maybe. Safety.
There was a small brown stain on one sleeve. Coffee or chocolate. Something that said this had been loved by someone who spilled things and laughed about it. The sticky note was still attached to the collar. Messy, loopy handwriting.
"For emergency cuddles. Sophie."
Sophie. The name from Lucas's briefings. The friend who visited occasionally. The one who had given me these ridiculous, wonderful pajamas that the old Vivian had buried in the back of her closet like a secret she was ashamed of.
I did not remember Sophie. I did not remember receiving these pajamas. I did not remember the emergency that had required cuddles. But my body remembered something my mind could not access. Standing here in this cold perfect closet full of funeral clothes, clutching a pair of unicorn pajamas to my chest, I felt more like myself than I had since waking up in that hospital bed.
I put them on.
They were two sizes too big. The sleeves hung past my wrists. The pants pooled around my ankles. They were absolutely perfect.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was still polished and sharp, but softer now. Wrapped in unicorns and worn cotton and the evidence of someone else's care.
I was still looking at my reflection when I heard the knock. Three sharp raps, precise and professional.
"Ms. Chen, I have your breakfast."
Lucas.
I walked to the closet door and opened it. He was standing in the bedroom doorway with a tray in his hands. Steam rose from a coffee cup. There was toast and fruit and something that looked like oatmeal but probably cost more than oatmeal should.
He looked at me. His eyes went to the unicorn pajamas. He froze so completely I was not sure he was still breathing.
For three full seconds, Lucas Grey did not move or blink or exist in any observable way. His perfect posture remained perfect. His expression remained unreadable. But his left ear turned a shade of pink I had never seen before. Deeper and softer and more vulnerable than the usual embarrassment.
"Ms. Chen," he said. His voice was perfectly steady. "Your breakfast."
I looked down at my pajamas, at the unicorns prancing across my chest. "Sophie gave them to me. For emergency cuddles."
His other ear turned pink now, joining the first. "I am aware."
"You knew about the unicorn pajamas."
"I know about everything, Ms. Chen. It is my job."
"Of course it is."
He still had not looked at me directly. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my left shoulder. His ears were crimson now.
"Would you like me to set the tray on the bed?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
He walked to the bed and set the tray down with surgical precision. His movements were careful and economical and completely devoid of any acknowledgment that I existed in unicorn pajamas.
"Will there be anything else, Ms. Chen?"
I smiled. Watching Lucas Grey be completely undone by a pair of unicorn pajamas was the most human thing I had experienced since waking up. "No, Lucas. Thank you."
He nodded once. Sharp and precise. But as he turned to leave, I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but so close.
And his ears were still pink.
I sat on the edge of my enormous bed and picked up the coffee cup. Oat milk latte with an extra shot and light foam. Exactly the way I apparently liked it. I took a sip and looked out at the city glittering below me.
Somewhere out there, Sophie Chen was waiting with her messy handwriting and her emergency cuddles. I needed to find her. I needed to figure out who I was before I became someone who owned twelve identical black blazers and felt nothing.
But first, breakfast. And coffee. And a moment to sit in these ridiculous, wonderful pajamas and feel like a person instead of a portrait.
Tomorrow, I would start searching for Sophie.
Today, I would let the unicorns do their work.