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I sigh. “Fine. My life is a little dramatic.”

“A little?”

“I said I know.”

Chloe softens slightly as she puts the soup into the microwave.

There have been more inquiries than I expected since I came back. Private collection reviews, advisory work, cataloguing projects, provenance research and introductions to people who would not have known my name before the Kensington assignment. Some came through contacts I already had. Others came through people I met in London.

Professionally, I came home better positioned than when I left. That should make me excited. Instead, every time I open my inbox, I find myself staring at the opportunities without knowing what I want to do with any of them.

“I’m not trying to throw anything away,” I say.

“I just don’t know if I want to jump straight back into exactly what I was doing before.”

Chloe leans against the counter.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is allowed.”

“I think I need something different,” I say.

Her expression becomes more attentive.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The microwave beeps, and Chloe turns to take out the soup.

“I just know I came back here and everything is exactly where I left it,” I say.

“Same apartment. Same office. Same routines. It should feel comforting, and somehow it does not.”

Chloe carries the bowl toward me and slides it across the counter.

“Then maybe you do need a change,” she says.

“You just don’t need to decide what that change is while you are surviving on crackers and spite.”

“I am not surviving on spite.”

“You absolutely are.”

I take the spoon from her and sit on one of the stools.

The first mouthful of soup is warm and bland enough that my stomach does not immediately object.

Chloe watches me take another bite.

“I am giving you one more week,” she says.

I look up. “For what?”

“For this.”