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I reviewed Emilia’s schedule three times over coffee. Nothing on it had changed in a week. I set it down and did not pick it up again. That required discipline.

I looked at my watch. Emilia had already arrived. She was somewhere below me, moving through my house for the first time. The reality of it came in small increments. Some arrivals felt accidental. Hers did not.

Margaret’s tour covered what it was meant to cover. Everything after that, I had kept for myself.

Winston opened one eye and gave me a look that suggested he had already reached his own conclusions. “You’re judging me,” I said as I rubbed his belly. His tail thumped against the floor. I interpreted that as agreement.

A knock sounded at the door and I opened it. Marcus stood there with a folder in his hand.

“Come in.”

We settled onto the chairs in the living room.

“Orientation is proceeding according to schedule,” he said. “The laboratory transfer is complete, the research team has settled into their apartments, and Dr. Rossi received her access credentials.”

I nodded. None of it was unexpected. The relocation had been carefully planned, and the people responsible for executing it were exceptionally good at their jobs.

“Any issues?”

“None. Margaret said Dr. Rossi appeared impressed by the research facilities.”

That surprised neither of us. The laboratories had been designed for scientists. “What did she notice?”

“The layout first. Then the equipment. She spent some time at the ambr 250.”

I smiled. Of course she did.

Marcus glanced at me. “She asked Margaret who designed the laboratory layout.”

That got my attention. “Did she?”

“Apparently, she noticed the placement of the workstations and equipment.”

She had noticed something I had designed before she knew it belonged to me. More than that, she had recognized its purpose. The laboratory would give her the one thing she had spent years fighting to obtain: the freedom to do her work without first asking what she could afford. The satisfaction was unexpectedly personal. She had understood what I intended without knowing the intention had been mine.

Marcus stayed long enough to review the remaining details before leaving me to prepare for Emilia.

Once the door closed behind him, my attention returned to Emilia and the glimpse I’d had of her earlier that morning. I had been walking the upper gallery when I noticed Emilia stop on the staircase below near the Opera House. She had made no attempt to conceal her delight, no instinct to temper it because someone might be watching. She remained there only briefly, but the image stayed with me.

Even from that distance, I had recognized the necklace.

She had not seen the quieter parts of Blackwood Hall yet. The rooms that slowly became home rather than institution. The conservatory was only the beginning. I wondered which she would love most.

Many people saw a contradiction in the Hall’s design. I never had. The pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of beauty had always belonged together. Judging by her face on the staircase this morning, I suspected she already knew that.

I looked at my watch. One more hour. Her apartment was being prepared and would be ready for her by the time our day together ended. There were larger suites available, but I had chosen hers with intention. The morning light reached her windows first, and in my experience, people rarely remembered the largest room they had occupied. They remembered the one that felt it had been waiting for them.

I knew exactly how long it took to walk from the penthouse to the Research Pavilion. I timed my departure accordingly. I arrived seven minutes early. I checked my watch, then slipped my hand into my pocket before I could check it again. The door to the Security Office opened and she stepped out. For a moment, memory and reality ceased to feel like separate things.

The distance had created an illusion. Conference programs, journal articles, and grant applications had given me a familiarity that wasn’t real. That distinction vanished the moment my eyes met hers. Memory had preserved the obvious things. Her dark hair. The intelligent eyes. The composure that seemed to come naturally to her. It had failed entirely to preserve presence.

I walked over to her. She offered her hand. I took it. The warmth of her palm stayed with me for only a moment before she withdrew. Four years of distance had ended with something as ordinary as a handshake.

“Dr. Rossi,” I said.

“Mr. Blackwood.”

Hearing her call me Mr. Blackwood reminded me just how far there was still to go. I knew far more about her than she knew about me. If that was going to change, it would have to happen on her terms. Her voice carried the same warmth I remembered from the conference ballroom. The same voice that had stopped me from walking out of a room I had every intention of leaving.