Chapter 1

When I opened the door to my second-floor studio, everything that belonged to me was gone.

Two movers were carrying the last box out.

I stood in the doorway, frozen.

One of them noticed me and politely stepped aside.

"Sorry, ma'am. We're almost done."

"Where are you taking all this?"

He hesitated, clearly unsure how to answer.

"The basement. I think."

When I went downstairs, Adam was crouched by the entryway, unpacking a box of new non-slip mats.

He looked up when he saw me, and there was almost a hint of relief on his face.

"You're back. I was hoping to get everything done before your client meeting was over."

I looked at him.

"You cleared out my studio."

Adam stood up and brushed the bits of cardboard from his hands.

"It's only temporary. Mom gets discharged the day after tomorrow, and the doctor said she shouldn't be going up and down stairs for the next few weeks. Your studio is the closest room to the bathroom."

"So you decided she'd stay there."

"Claire." His tone made it sound like he was reminding me of something obvious. "She just had hip surgery."

"I know."

I knew the date of Diane's surgery very well.

I'd even helped Adam look into the kind of grab bars she would need after surgery, and I'd agreed that she could stay with us for a while after she was discharged.

I had never objected to that.

"What I'm asking," I said, "is when you decided to give her my studio without telling me first."

Adam was silent for a second.

"Yesterday."

"We had dinner together last night."

"I know."

"You didn't mention it."

"Because I didn't think this needed to become a discussion."

That shut me up.

Adam didn't seem to notice.

He walked to the foot of the stairs and glanced up.

"The guest room is too far from the bathroom. It wouldn't be safe for Mom if she needs to get up at night. This room makes the most sense."

"What about my work?"

"Just use the basement for now."

He said it so casually.

As if he were telling me the coffee machine was temporarily broken and I could just use the one downstairs.

"It's only three weeks, Claire."

I didn't answer.

Adam came over and lightly touched my arm.

"I know it's sudden, but it's not permanent. Don't you meet with most of your clients online anyway? You can work downstairs."

"I have models, material boards, samples, and color swatches I need natural light to see properly."

"Then bring them upstairs during the day."

"Where?"

There were three rooms upstairs. One was our bedroom, one was now for his mother, Diane, and the other was the guest room.

His gaze shifted away for a moment.

"You could use the dining table."

Suddenly, I didn't want to ask any more questions.

I walked past him and went down to the basement.

The moment I turned on the light, I saw my things piled beside the washing machine.

Sample books were crushed beneath cardboard boxes, rolled-up plans leaned against the water heater, and several material boxes had been left open, with a tile sample sticking out over the edge.

My model was sitting on top.

Or rather, what was left of it.

The scale model of a house I was supposed to take to a client meeting that afternoon had a collapsed terrace on the right side. Two thin wooden columns were snapped, and the clear acrylic canopy had cracked in half.

I lifted it off the boxes.

Adam followed me downstairs.

When he saw the model, he frowned.

"Can't you just glue that back on?"

I looked up at him.

He quickly added, "If there isn't enough time, I can pay for the materials to remake it."

I looked down at the broken columns.

I had spent four days building this model.

Tomorrow afternoon, the client was supposed to use it to decide whether to move forward with the next phase of the design.

Adam stood beside me, clearly still waiting for me to say something.

Finally, I asked only one question.

"Were you here while they were moving all this?"

"Yes."

"You knew this was a client model?"

He paused.

"I knew it was for work."

I nodded.

Somehow, that hurt more than if he hadn't known.

Upstairs, I heard the sound of a cardboard box scraping across the floor.

Adam checked the time.

"I need to finish setting up the things Mom needs. We can talk tonight, okay?"

He went upstairs.

I stood alone in the basement.

Eight years of my work were piled beside the washing machine.

What bothered me most wasn't that Adam had taken over my studio.

It was that from beginning to end, he had never once asked what I thought or how this would affect me.