The morning after Zara's gallery opening broke clear and bright, the rain from the previous day having scrubbed the London sky clean. I woke up feeling rested in a way that had nothing to do with the number of hours I'd slept. It was a deep, cellular kind of rest, the kind that comes when your nervous system finally believes you are safe. Marcus was already out of bed, but the indentation of his head remained on the pillow beside me, a physical testament to his presence.
I dressed quietly and went downstairs. The house was silent, the kind of silence that only exists in a home where everyone feels secure enough to sleep in. In the kitchen, Marcus was at the table with his laptop, a cup of coffee steaming beside him. He looked up as I entered, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Good morn
