“Mr. Vance?”

Elena Miller.

She had cleaned my penthouse for six months.

Quiet, efficient, entirely invisible, the kind of woman that people like Chloe spoke around freely because they never once considered her important enough to notice, or to lower their voices for.

I had, I am ashamed to say, barely known her name.

She came in to replace the white lilies beside my bed, and as she worked, she murmured, half to herself, “I hate these things.

They smell like a funeral home pretending to be a wedding.” And I nearly smiled, motionless as I was, because it was exactly right.