The private elevator ride to the top floor takes exactly forty-seven seconds. I know this because Lucas tells me while we ascend, his voice calm as he explains about wind resistance and Swiss engineering.
"Fascinating," I say, watching the numbers climb. "I own an elevator that compensates for wind, but I can't remember my own mother's face."
His left ear twitches. "Your mother's photograph is in the library. I can show you when we arrive."
I stare at him. "You have a photograph of my mother."
"I have photographs of everything, Ms. Chen. It is my job to preserve what you might need."
The doors open before I can respond, and I step into my home.
The first thing I notice is the light. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire living area, and the city sprawls below like a glittering carpet. I can see the river, the bridges, and tiny cars moving through streets I don't recognize. It feels like standing on top of a world I conquered and then forgot.
The second thing I notice is how cold it feels. Not the temperature—Lucas has probably adjusted that remotely. I mean cold the way a museum is cold. The furniture is expensive and minimalist. The art is abstract and tasteful. Everything is shades of gray, black, and white. There are no family photos. No messy books. No half-empty coffee mugs. Nothing that suggests a human being lives here.
"This is my home," I say slowly.
"Yes, Ms. Chen."
"It doesn't look like anyone lives here."
Lucas is quiet for a moment. His ears cycle through pink before settling. "You preferred minimalism. Clutter was inefficient."
"Inefficient," I repeat. "I looked at this beautiful, empty penthouse and thought it needed to be more efficient."
"You were very focused on optimization. In all areas of your life."
I walk further inside. My footsteps echo on the marble floor. Echo. In my own home. The sound bounces off the high ceilings and comes back to me smaller than it left.
"What about the other two floors?" I ask.
"The floor above contains your private quarters. The floor below contains amenities: a gym, spa, home theater, wine cellar, and a small art gallery you never visit."
"A wine cellar and an art gallery."
"Yes."
"Do I drink wine?"
"You have an extensive collection. I am not aware of you ever opening a bottle."
"Of course not. That would be inefficient."
His mouth twitches. That tiny almost-smile that escapes whenever I surprise him. His ears are pink, and he's looking at that point above my shoulder again. I realize he has probably spent six years in this penthouse without ever feeling like he belongs here either.
"Lucas," I say. His ears go red before I finish his name. "Where do you go when you're not here?"
The question catches him off guard. "I have an apartment in the city. Modest but adequate."
"And when you are here, where do you actually... be?"
"I have a study adjacent to the main living area. You designated it as my workspace."
"So you're always here but not here. In a separate room. Working."
"That is my role, Ms. Chen."
"That sounds incredibly lonely."
His ears go crimson. He stares at that point above my shoulder as if his life depends on it.
"It is efficient," he says finally. "And efficiency is what you have always valued."
"That's not what I asked."
He doesn't respond. His ears stay crimson, and I notice the faint shadows under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping. He's been lying awake in his modest apartment, wondering if I would ever wake up and remember him.
"Show me the rest," I say. "Everything."
He leads me through the penthouse like a museum guide. The kitchen with appliances never used. The dining room where I ate alone at a table that seats twelve. The living room with furniture that exists only to be looked at. Each room is beautiful and cold, and each one makes my chest tighter.
And then we reach the bedroom.
It's enormous—covered in white linens so pristine they look untouched by human skin. But it's the closet that stops me. When Lucas opens the door, I find myself standing in a room the size of a small boutique. Racks of clothing organized by color and type.
Black. White. Gray. Black. White. Gray. Over and over.
"Did I own anything with actual color?" I ask, running my fingers along identical black blazers.
"You preferred neutral tones. They reduced decision fatigue."
"Decision fatigue. Of course."
I keep searching, pushing past black trousers and white blouses. Everything is pristine and soulless. I'm about to give up when I see it.
At the very back, shoved behind a row of black heels like something shameful, is a flash of pink.
Bright. Obnoxious. Unapologetic pink.
I pull it out. The fabric is soft and worn—washed so many times it feels like a second skin. It's a pajama set covered in unicorns with purple manes and sparkly silver horns. There's a small brown stain on one sleeve. Coffee or chocolate. Something that says this was loved.
A sticky note is attached to the collar. Messy, loopy handwriting.
For emergency cuddles. — Sophie.
"Sophie," I say aloud. The name feels warm. Like honey.
Lucas appears in the doorway. His expression softens when he sees what I'm holding. Relief flickers in his eyes.
"Sophie Chen," he says quietly. "No relation. She is your friend. She gave you those pajamas three years ago."
"I have a friend."
"Yes."
"A friend who gives me unicorn pajamas for emergency cuddles and writes sticky notes with terrible handwriting."
"Apparently."
I press the pajamas to my face. They smell like vanilla and comfort. My body remembers what my mind cannot. In this cold, perfect penthouse full of things I never used, this ridiculous pajama set is the only thing that feels real.
"Why is this the only thing in this entire penthouse that feels real?" I ask.
Lucas is quiet for a long moment. "Because it was given with love, Ms. Chen. Not purchased with wealth."
I look at him. This impossibly proper man who has spent six years watching me drown in my own efficiency. His ears are pink, and he's looking at that point above my shoulder like he always does when he's feeling too much.
"Thank you," I say. "For staying."
His ears go crimson. "It is my role."
"No." I clutch the pajamas tighter. "It's not."
I look down at the unicorns, at Sophie's messy handwriting, at the only evidence that the woman I used to be ever let anyone love her.
"I'm going to change," I say. "And then I'm going to find Sophie."
Lucas nods once. His ears stay red, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
I don't know who Sophie is or why she gave me emergency cuddles. I don't know what other secrets this penthouse holds. But I know one thing: I'm done being the woman who owns everything and feels nothing.
Tomorrow, I'll start searching for Sophie.
Tonight, I'll let the unicorns do their work.