I sit alone with the ficus on a quiet Sunday morning.
The penthouse is golden with early light. The city sprawls below me—glittering and endless, full of lives I'll never know.
Sophie and Kevin went home hours ago, full of Marlene's celebration cake and plans for Phase Four of Operation Red Notebook. Lucas is in his study, pretending to work but probably just watching the ficus grow, thinking about everything he said to it when he thought no one was listening. The penthouse is quiet. Still.
And I'm here. Alive. Starting over.
The ficus has three new leaves now. Small. Green. Stubborn. Each one a tiny miracle. Each one proof that healing is possible—even when everything seems lost.
"I forgot I'm a billionaire," I say to the ficus.
The words feel strange in my mouth. Familiar and foreign at the same time. I've said them before—in the hospital when Lucas told me about the island, when I discovered the shoe room, when I tipped Sophie a million rupiah by accident. Each time, they were an expression of shock. Disbelief. The absurdity of my situation.
This time, they feel different.
"I forgot I'm a billionaire," I say again, slower. "And somehow, I'm happier than I've ever been."
The ficus doesn't respond. But the new leaves catch the sunlight—bright green and impossibly alive. And I swear it looks like it's smiling.
---
I think about the old Vivian.
The woman who built this penthouse. Filled it with black and white and gray. She owned an island and never visited it. She was so lonely. So scared. So completely unable to let anyone in. I don't remember her—not really. I have fragments. Impressions. The way Lucas's voice softens when he talks about her. The way Sophie's eyes get sad. The way Kevin's spreadsheets document a life that looked successful from the outside and empty from within.
But I don't need to remember her to know that I'm not her. Not anymore.
The old Vivian was a billionaire. Rich beyond measure. Powerful. Respected. And completely alone.
I am not alone.
I have Sophie. Chaotic and loud and fiercely loyal. She gave me unicorn pajamas for emergency cuddles and cried when I wore them. She fainted when I tipped her a million rupiah and then laughed about it for weeks. She appointed herself my best friend without my consent and refused to leave.
I have Kevin. Quiet and steady and always documenting. He created spreadsheets for my amnesia and my notebook search and my ficus recovery. He caught his laptop mid-air and called it a near-death experience. He calculated the statistical probability of Lucas's romantic interest with a seventy-eight percent confidence rate.
I have Marlene. Sharp and warm and always feeding me. She made me soup the first day we met and cake for every crisis since. She told me about her own lost years and reminded me that I can choose who I want to become. She made a three-layer celebration cake for a plant.
And I have Lucas.
Lucas, who has been my assistant for six years, three months, and twelve days. Lucas, who drew me a map with a tiny coffee cup and covered me with a blanket and adjusted my thermostat and pretended he'd done nothing. Lucas, who held my hand during a panic attack and said "always" like it was a promise. Lucas, who talks to my ficus every morning and tells it secrets he can't tell anyone else.
Lucas, whose ears turn red every time I thank him. Compliment him. Touch him. Look at him like he matters.
Because he does matter. More than I know how to say.
---
I look around the penthouse. The cold, perfect, empty penthouse.
It doesn't feel empty anymore.
Sophie's pastry crumbs are on the coffee table. Kevin's laptop charger is plugged into the wall. Marlene's celebration cake sits on the kitchen counter—half-eaten and perfect. The ficus is thriving in the corner, its new leaves reaching toward the light.
This is my home now. Not because I own it. But because the people I love are here.
I pull out my phone and text Sophie: Thank you. For everything.
Her response comes immediately: Are you dying? Do I need to call an ambulance? Why are you being sentimental?
I'm not dying. I'm just grateful.
A pause. Then: I'm grateful too. For you. For this. For all of it. Even the parts that are hard.
Another message from Kevin—Sophie must have added him to the conversation: I've documented your gratitude. It's in the spreadsheet under "Significant Emotional Moments."
I laugh. Of course he has.
---
I think about the red notebook.
Still missing. Still waiting somewhere in my forgotten life. We've searched the penthouse. My office. Everywhere I've ever been. And still nothing. Just the faint, persistent feeling that it matters. That it's important. That finding it will change everything.
But maybe it doesn't need to be found right now. Maybe some things take time. Maybe healing isn't about finding what was lost.
Maybe it's about building something new.
I look at the ficus and its three new leaves. Bright green. Stubborn. Surviving.
"You and me both," I say.
The ficus doesn't respond. But I feel like it understands.
---
Lucas appears in the doorway.
His sleeves are rolled up. His tie is loosened. His ears are pink. He's probably been listening from the study. He probably knows I've been sitting here talking to a plant, feeling everything I can't say out loud.
"The ficus looks well," he says.
"You look well."
His ears go from pink to red. "I came to see if you needed anything. Coffee. Breakfast. A schedule update."
"I need you to sit with me."
He hesitates—just for a moment. Then he crosses the room and sits beside me on the floor. Close enough that I can feel his warmth. Not close enough to touch. But close.
We sit in silence for a long moment. The city glitters below us. The ficus glows in the morning light. Everything feels fragile and important and exactly as it should be.
"I've been thinking," I say.
"About what?"
"About the old Vivian. Who she was. Whether I should try to become her again."
Lucas is quiet. His ears are crimson now. "And what have you decided?"
"I don't want to be her. I don't want to be cold and lonely and unable to let anyone in. I don't want to own an island I never visit and a penthouse that feels like a museum. I don't want to wear only black and white and fire people for suggesting beef tartare."
His mouth twitches. "The beef tartare incident was unfortunate."
"I'm sure it was. But I'm not her. I'm someone new. Someone who laughs at Sophie's jokes. Asks Kevin about his projects. Thanks you for things that are just your job."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I want to."
His ears can't get any redder. They've reached maximum capacity. Somewhere, Kevin is probably documenting this moment in a spreadsheet.
"What do you want?" Lucas asks quietly. "If you're not becoming her again—what do you want?"
I think about it. The answer comes easily. More easily than I expected.
"I want this. The penthouse full of people I love. Sophie's chaos. Kevin's spreadsheets. Marlene's cake. I want to find the red notebook—not because it will tell me who I was, but because it matters to the person I'm becoming. I want to take care of the ficus and watch it grow new leaves and remember that healing is possible."
I turn to look at him. His dark eyes. His careful expression. His ears that tell the truth his mouth won't.
"I want you. Whatever this is. Whatever we're becoming. I want to figure it out together."
He's very still. His ears are so red they're almost glowing. His hand, resting on his knee, trembles slightly.
"Vivian," he says. His voice is rough. Strained. I've never heard it like this. "I have wanted you for six years. I have waited. Hoped. Told myself it was impossible. And now you're here. You see me. And I don't know what to do with that."
"You don't have to do anything. Just stay. Keep being here. Keep talking to my ficus every morning."
"You heard that."
"I hear everything. I notice everything now. That's who I'm becoming—someone who notices."
His hand finds mine. Warm. Steady. Terrified and brave at the same time.
"I can do that," he says. "I can stay."
"Good."
---
We sit together as the sun rises higher. The ficus grows. The city wakes up.
I woke up in a hospital bed with no memory and no identity and no idea who I was. I was terrified. Alone. Completely lost.
But somewhere along the way, I found myself. Not the old Vivian. Not the billionaire who owned everything and felt nothing. Someone new. Someone who laughs and cries and lets people in. Someone who notices when a plant is dying and asks for help. Someone who is learning—slowly and painfully and beautifully—how to be human.
I forgot I'm a billionaire.
And it's the best thing that ever happened to me.