My mother didn’t bother knocking.
She unlocked my apartment, walked through the door as though the place belonged to her, and smiled at me while my younger sister pulled two massive pink suitcases across the hardwood floor I had spent an entire summer refinishing.
Then Mom opened her arms and said the six words that changed everything.
“Sweetheart, meet the new owner of your apartment.”
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Behind her, Chloe smiled.
Not awkwardly. Not apologetically.
She looked thrilled.
Like I was some hotel guest who had ignored checkout time.
My name is Grace Miller. I was twenty-eight years old, and Apartment 4B was the first thing in my life that had ever truly felt like mine.
Fourth floor.
Exposed brick.
Tall windows overlooking a narrow downtown street.
