I scanned the elegant lobby as we entered—the creamy handwoven wallpaper decorating the walls begged my fingers to mark it. I resisted the urge, turning my gaze to a hand-painted masterpiece on the domed cathedral ceilings where a crystal-drop chandelier hung from the center.

It was more opulent than any theater I’d ever been to, and my mom had dragged me to a ton of Broadway performances as a kid. I still cringed, remembering all the times we’d walked the red carpet at a Broadway premier, and she reminded me to straighten my back and smile for the cameras like I had a secret. The camera loved a secret, she always cooed a gentle reminder.

“Nice digs. Looks like it’s turned up for the Price family since the last time I saw you.” I watched her profile as she punched the button for the top floor.

“It’s nothing impressive.”

“Seen one penthouse, seen ’em all?” I huffed, unable to stand the stench of wealth dripping from her unimpressed tone. She may have grown more beautiful in the years since we’d known each other, but she’d also grown more spoiled.

“Something like that.” Her tone was flat as the elevator doors dinged open, and we stepped inside. Alone and quiet, we rode to the top.

When the doors dinged open again, she walked out without a word, slipping both her heels off and tucking them under her arm as she touched the keypad to unlock her door.

I heard the soft snick of the deadbolt, and she pushed the door wide. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the entire wall, from the kitchen to the living room to the hallway leading to the bedroom and the rest of the apartment. The city night was lit up like fireflies in the darkness, and the blanket of black that was Central Park was almost mesmerizing in the sea of stars.

“Eighteen through twenty-two.” I hummed, walking past her, drawn to the windows like a moth.

I could see my next piece dancing before my eyes, the soft swirls of navy mixed with amber. Like a modern starry night, the yellow orbs of Park Avenue hummed to life as far as the eyes could see.

“Excuse me?” She tossed her shoes onto the white sofa and padded to the open-concept kitchen, with white cupboards flanked by white marble counters and white tile swirls underneath. It was modern luxury, understated and minimalist, and fit her perfectly.

“Your balconies. There are twenty-four of them across the facade of your building. You are eighteen through twenty-two,” I offered, my gaze finally settling on hers.