Things moved quickly from there. I had the down payment in hand, and I’d been preapproved for the rest, including a home improvement loan to handle the renovations. My agent was connected well enough to expedite the inspection process, and she provided a strict list of paperwork that I supplied nearly on signing the contract. As difficult as it had been to find time in my already hectic days for all the extra running around—faxes and notaries and meetings galore—everything had gone off without a hitch. And yesterday, I’d picked up my keys.

It was a prime location, just around the corner from Longbourne and Ivy, and after renovations, I could not only sell it with ease, but make a good bit of money too. The perfect location and perfect apartment, with two bedrooms to grow into. I’d always heard that buying a house was one of the most stressful things one could do. But the truth was, I hadn’t felt it, not beyond the frenetic pace and the constantly growing checklist of things to do. I processed it all, absorbing the tasks with a businesslike detachment and the certainty that the investment was not only sound, but a boon. Of course, I felt that bit of buyer’s remorse that hit everyone when they made a major purchase—there was no way to walk away from a deal that large and feel like you unquestionably did the right thing.

But the most stressful part of the process was keeping it from Kash.

I couldn’t have said why, not exactly. In fact, I hadn’t told anyone, not even my sister. It all happened so fast, and there was, of course, the fear that it would fall through. The process was more like a strange, stressful dream than any kind of reality. And if it did fall through, I didn’t really want an audience for the disappointment. It was a secret, one I guarded with the quiet solitude of a miser, holding my dream in the dark like a golden coin. It was my secret, one I didn’t want to have to defend or answer for, one I’d made strictly because I could, autonomously and decisively.