er linen now held the faint scent of cardboard and dust. Every luxury she had known every framed photo, handbag, jewelry box, and soft cashmere throw was gone. Either t

astle had become a tomb. She pulled the door shut, sealing it behind her like the last page of a book she hadn't finished reading. ⸻ They didn't go far. A tiny apartment on the east side of the city, with a cracked elevator and peeling paint, became their new home. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and neighbors who shouted through the walls. The smell of fried onions and car exhaust clung to the hallway like wallpaper. Lana had never seen her mother carry a box before. Watching Celeste Kingsley once the face of an Italian perfume brand lug a suitcase up four flights of stairs was something out of a parody movie. Inside, the apartment was... livable. Barely. A couch that sagged in the middle. A fridge that buzzed constantly. No dishwasher. No walk in anything. No Valentino, either. Lana sat on the edge of her new bed if you could call a twin mattress on a metal frame a "bed"and stared at her chipped nail polish. She didn't even have the energy to take it off. Her mother was in the next room, f