Mia POV
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the silence of an empty apartment or a dead street at three in the morning. A thick silence — the kind that costs money. The kind you buy with thick walls, double-glazed windows, and enough land that the ordinary world never quite reaches you.
I walk through the front door with my overnight bag and my diner jacket, and everyone turns to look.
Not rudely. Not dramatically. Just — eyes landing on me, quick and careful, the way people trained to assess everything do it without appearing to. Men in dark suits. A woman with a notepad. Someone speaking into an earpiece who stops speaking.
Luca moves through all of it without looking at any of them. He gives instructions in a low voice — three sentences, maybe four — and I watch the entire household reorganize around him and wonder what it feels like to hold a room in the palm of your hand your entire life.
Someone reaches for my bag.
I take it back. Reflex.
