The first couple of weeks in Los Angeles felt quieter than any silence Willow had ever known.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet—the kind that came after a storm, when the world was still rearranging itself and everything fragile was left exposed in the aftermath.
Her new apartment was a little larger than her old one in the city, but warmer. Softer. The furniture Victor had selected was modern and understated, all pale wood and muted fabrics, as if designed specifically not to overwhelm her now-fragile senses. Light poured in through wide windows every morning, drawing gentle shapes across the floors. The air always held a faint scent of eucalyptus from the candle she burned each night.
And because Victor was Victor—subtle as a tidal wave—he'd had the second bedroom transformed before she even arrived:
A gorgeous white crib with carved edges.
A sleek changing table.
Cream curtains that softened the sun into honey.
A lamp that glowed like candlelight.
