Chapter 8

We dressed in silence, the intimacy of the night and morning still wrapped around us like a cocoon. He lent me a shirt—white, crisp, smelling of him—and I rolled the sleeves to my elbows. My dress from the night before was crumpled beyond repair, so the shirt would have to do. The penthouse looked different in daylight. The city views were sharper, the furniture less glamorous, more real. I walked through the living room, trailing my fingers along the back of the sofa where we had made love, and felt a pang of something bittersweet. He found me by the window, his hands settling on my shoulders. "Ready?" "Not really." I turned to face him. "But I don't think I'll ever be ready." "Then let's just go. One step at a time." He took my hand, and we walked to the elevator together. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and we stepped inside. I pressed the button for the lobby, and the car began its descent. The elevator was small, intimate. We stood side by side, our fingers intertwined, watching the floor numbers tick down. The mirrored walls reflected our joined hands, and I stared at the image,