The unicorn pajamas and I have become inseparable by the third day. I wear them through breakfast while Lucas briefs me on my schedule, his ears maintaining a steady shade of pink that I pretend not to notice. I wear them while exploring more of the penthouse and opening doors to rooms I don't need. By late afternoon, I'm starting to think the unicorn pajamas are a permanent part of my identity.
But even unicorn pajamas cannot prevent hunger forever. Around six o'clock, my stomach growls with such aggressive determination that Lucas, standing in his usual spot by the window, definitely hears it. His left ear twitches.
"Would you like me to arrange for dinner, Ms. Chen?" His voice is perfectly neutral.
"Vivian," I correct.
A pause. "Vivian. What would you like?"
"I don't know. What are my options?"
He considers the question like it's a business proposal. "The kitchen is fully stocked. I can prepare something simple, or I can contact your private chef. She is on retainer and can be here within the hour."
I stare at him. "I have a private chef on retainer who just... waits for me to be hungry."
"She is compensated very well for her availability."
"Of course she is."
I think about what the old Vivian would have done. She probably would have called the private chef and ordered something elegant and sophisticated. She would have eaten alone at her enormous dining table and felt nothing.
I don't want to be that woman anymore.
"I want room service," I say.
Lucas blinks. "Ms. Chen, you are in your own home. Room service is not typically how one dines in one's own home."
"I don't care. I want to order food and have it delivered like a normal person. I want to look at a menu and pick something myself."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he disappears into the kitchen. When he returns, he's carrying a leather-bound folder filled with restaurant menus—organized by cuisine, price point, and delivery time.
"There is a Japanese steakhouse on page seventeen," he says. "I can recommend the wagyu ribeye if you are interested in red meat."
I flip to page seventeen. A photograph of a steak so beautiful it makes my chest ache. Perfectly seared on the outside, slightly pink in the center, resting on a wooden board with rosemary and garlic and butter melting slowly on top.
"I want this," I say.
Lucas leans over to look. His sleeve brushes my arm.
"That is a wagyu ribeye, Ms. Chen. It is quite expensive—though I recognize that is not a concern. What may be a concern is that you have been a vegetarian since 2015."
I stare at him. "I'm a vegetarian."
"Yes."
"Since 2015."
"Yes."
"And you know this because you enforce my dietary preferences."
His ears go from pink to crimson. "I ensure that your needs are met. All of your needs."
I look back at the photo. The beautiful, glorious, impossible steak that my former self would have rejected on principle. I'm allowed to be different now. I'm allowed to want things the old Vivian didn't want.
"Order it," I say.
"Ms. Chen—"
"Order the steak, Lucas. Medium rare."
He looks at me for a long moment, his ears the brightest red I've ever seen. Then he pulls out his phone and begins typing with quiet resignation.
"The restaurant will deliver within forty-five minutes. I took the liberty of ordering the complementary bread and salad, and their signature butter."
I smile and settle deeper into the couch, pulling my unicorn-clad knees to my chest.
When the food arrives, Lucas unpacks it with surgical precision. The wooden box with the steak goes in the center. The bread on a small linen-lined plate to the left. The salad in a chilled bowl to the right. The butter—shaped like a rose—on a ceramic dish.
He steps back to his usual spot by the window and turns his back to me. His ears are still pink.
"You don't have to watch," I say, picking up my knife and fork.
"I am not watching. I am facing the other way."
"That's not the same thing."
He says nothing, but his ears twitch.
The first bite is everything. Rich and buttery and savory. The crust is perfectly seared, the inside tender and pink. I make a small sound before I can stop myself—something between a sigh and a moan.
"The old Vivian," I say between bites, "was missing out."
His shoulders shift almost imperceptibly. "The old Vivian once fired a chef for suggesting she try beef tartare."
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. "She fired someone for suggesting raw beef."
"Yes."
"That seems excessive. Even for someone who wore only black and gray."
"The old Vivian was particular about her principles. She believed that once a decision was made, it should not be questioned."
I take another bite of steak. The woman I used to be was so certain about everything. So rigid in her principles and her routines. And where did it get her? Alone in a penthouse full of expensive things she never used, crying so hard she forgot her entire life.
"Good thing I don't remember her," I say.
Lucas makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were the kind of person who laughed. It's close enough that I feel it in my chest.
I finish the steak. And the bread. And most of the butter. I leave the salad largely untouched because salad is not steak. When I push my plate away, full and warm and deeply satisfied, I feel more like myself than I have since waking up.
"That was the best thing I've eaten since I forgot my entire life," I announce.
Lucas turns from the window. His ears have softened from emergency red to a gentle pink.
"I am glad you enjoyed it, Ms. Chen."
"Vivian."
A pause. "Vivian."
He clears the plates with his usual efficient precision. I watch him move through my penthouse like he belongs here—which he does, more than I do most days. He has been taking care of me for six years, and I have never once thanked him properly.
"Lucas," I say.
He pauses in the kitchen doorway, plates balanced in his hands, his ears already darkening.
"Thank you. For the steak. For the coffee every morning. For adjusting the thermostat and standing in corners waiting for me to need something. For everything."
His ears go from pink to crimson to burgundy. He nods once. Sharp. Precise.
"You are welcome, Ms. Chen."
"Vivian."
A pause. I watch him wrestle with himself. I watch his ears cycle through shades of red.
"You are welcome, Vivian."
He disappears into the kitchen. I hear the soft clink of plates and the quiet rush of water. I sit alone in the dining room, full of steak I wasn't supposed to eat, wearing unicorn pajamas my former self buried in the back of a closet.
And I smile.
Maybe forgetting everything isn't a tragedy. Maybe it's an opportunity to become someone who actually enjoys being alive. Someone who eats steak and thanks people and notices when her assistant's ears turn red.
I like that person. I want to keep her.