Two days later, The penthouse was warm and golden, filled with the soft glow of evening light filtering through the tall windows. The city sprawled beyond the glass, a sea of twinkling lights and distant sounds. But inside, the world was small and intimate—a kitchen filled with laughter, the clatter of pots and pans, the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove.
Ken stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands moving rhythmically. A glass of wine sat beside him, half-empty.
Amy was at the stove, stirring a large pot of sauce. She was wearing an apron over her dress, her hair tied back in a messy bun.
"How much garlic did you put in?" Ken asked.
"All of it."
Ken laughed. "That's not a measurement."
"It's a lifestyle."
Laura walked in from the living room, wiping her hands on a towel. She'd been setting the table—arranging plates and silverware, lighting candles, making everything look perfect.
