Maya closed her eyes.
It would have been easier if he were lying.
Three days later, she left the hospital with a folder of instructions, two updated prescriptions, a blood pressure monitor in a paper bag, and the unnerving sense that something fundamental had shifted while she was lying still.
Taylor drove her home himself. No driver. No assistant. Just the black sedan, the city moving around them in spring light, and his hand on the wheel at ten and two like a man who needed an occupation for nerves he refused to name.
When they reached the penthouse, Maya stopped in the entryway.
It had changed.
Not the architecture. Not the expensive bones of the place. But the counters that had once held decorative bowls and useless sculptural objects were now lined with groceries: fresh vegetables, brown rice, citrus, salmon wrapped in butcher paper, containers of yogurt, oats, beans, herbs, eggs, almond butter, tea. The pantry door stood open to reveal shelves cleared of half the glossy nonsense that had accumulated there in favor of actual food. On the kitchen island sat a stack of cookbooks, a folder labeled CARDIAC NUTRITION, and a legal pad covered with neat columns.
