I hesitate for half a second… then nod. “Yeah. I do.”

“That’s all you need.”

Violet leaves just after nine, promising to check in tomorrow and threatening bodily harm if I don’t text her back. She kisses the top of my head, pulls on her sneakers, and disappears into the hallway like a woman who knows the battle isn’t over—but maybe the tide has shifted.

The apartment is quiet again, but it’s different now. Less haunted. Like something might be stirring in the ashes.

A phoenix.

I pad back into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket that smells like detergent instead of depression. The TV screen isn’t black anymore. Violet switched it off YouTube while I was in the shower. Now, the screen saver displays a photo of a baby polar bear sprawled belly-up in the snow, one paw in the air like it’s waving at the camera. It’s peaceful. Ridiculously cute. And somehow exactly what I need.

It shouldn’t make me feel anything, but it does.

A small tug in my chest. A flicker of quiet.

The tiniest breath of peace.

I don’t turn Alex back on. I don’t reach for the remote. I sit there for a moment, listening to the quiet. Letting it settle.

And then I reach for my laptop.

No more ghosts tonight.

My fingers hesitate over the trackpad before I open a blank browser and start a search: how to start your own interior design company.

It seems stupid at first—silly, even. But I keep going.

A new tab opens. Then another. And another.

I jot down notes. Ideas. Names. Words that spark. I start a Pinterest board, pinning color palettes and spaces I love. Mood boards. Branding ideas. Nothing structured, nothing permanent—just little pieces of who I am, and who I hope to become.

The wound inside me still aches—tender and bruised—but it’s not the only thing I feel anymore.

Movement.

Hope.

I click on a spreadsheet template, half-smiling as I plug in the beginnings of a budget. The numbers blur, and my hand trembles over the mouse pad, but I force myself to focus.

After a few rows, I open a new tab and begin a new search: commercial spaces to rent in Charleston. It’s ridiculous—I don’t even have a name for the business yet. But scrolling through photos of empty storefronts and airy lofts does something to me.

I imagine color palettes on blank walls. Fabric swatches fanned across sleek worktables. My name on the door.

It’s too soon. Too uncertain. But at least the ache in my chest isn’t only grief. It’s a possibility.

Morning’s approaching by the time I close the laptop.

I’m not okay. Not yet. But I will be.

Chapter 16

Alex Sebring