"Even in the middle of a crisis," Mike said, his voice dropping to a register that felt intimate despite the open space of the garden, "the house wasn't just functioning; it was responding to you."
"The lamp in the sitting room was positioned exactly where it gave the room the version of itself you preferred, not the one the interior designer intended, but the one you needed..."
"The books on the side table weren't the leather-bound trophies meant for display; they were the ones you had actually been reading, the ones that mattered."
"Even the staff moved at the specific rhythm you had unconsciously set for them." He paused, letting the cold air carry the weight of his observation. "The house wasn't alive because of its architecture, Aveline."
"It was alive because you were in it."
The accusation of truth hung between them, naked and undeniable. She turned to face him fully, her silhouette framed by the dying amber light.
