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She looks back at me.

"Do you usually sleep in here," she asks quietly, "or was that because of me?"

I don't answer right away. It would be easy to give too much away.

Then I shrug. "Sometimes, when I have deadlines."

Her eyes flick to the blanket again.

"Do you have one now?"

I should lie. Tell her I'll be drowning in deadlines for the next year and not to expect me upstairs much. It would be the smarter play.

But I can't bring myself to do it.

Maybe because lying to her for a full year sounds more exhausting than the truth. Lying catches up. It always does.

"No."

She nods once, absorbing that without pressing.

Then, very carefully, she says, "If having me in your space is a problem, I'm sure my landlord can find me another apartment to lease."

"You have to stay for the optics," I say. "You need to be seen here. Coming and going. Using the private entrance. If you stay somewhere else, it weakens the narrative. If the trust finds out that you have a separate apartment away from me, it won't look good."

Even I hear how that sounds.

She hears it too but she accepts them anyway.

"Right," she says. "Of course."

Before I can make any of that worse, Everly reappears in the doorway with the coordinator behind her.

"Tux fitting," Everly says. "Do not even think about escaping."

"I wasn't." I reach for my jacket. "You've tortured me with enough cake for one day. Tux fitting, I can do."

"Good," she says cheerfully. "Then you'll be in a compliant mood for tailoring."

I leave before any of them can say another word.

The tailor pins and measures and says words like timeless and elegant while I stand there thinking about vendor binders and peonies and Aria asking if I slept in my office because of her.

By the time I leave, I am exhausted in a way spreadsheets have never managed.

I drive back to the Kauffman building, park in the private garage—the one only my siblings and I use—and take the elevator.

I hit PH1. Then, as it starts moving, I think better of it and press the button for my office floor. Eight floors lower.

I'm not avoiding home, I tell myself. I just have a lot of work to do.

My office is quiet when I return.

No flowers. No linen samples. And most importantly... no Aria.

Just my desk, my couch, a blanket still in the corner, and a pillow.

I open a sponsorship proposal, read the same line seven times, and get exactly nowhere.