Six months had passed, turning the scorching, chaotic days of summer into a crisp, golden Manhattan autumn.
The penthouse no longer felt like an cavernous museum of cold marble and high art. It was alive. A coat rack near the foyer now held Javed’s oversized wool coats alongside Martin’s tailored trench coats. Javed’s architectural sketches and work folders were scattered across the heavy mahogany desk in the study, right next to Martin’s financial dossiers.
They were no longer a secret.
When the news had broken in the high-society columns three months ago, Martin hadn't offered a single defensive statement or issued a corporate apology. Instead, he had walked into the annual Metropolitan Gala with Javed on his arm, his heavy platinum ring gleaming on Javed’s hand, his broad shoulder br
