I take a few cautious steps forward, reach out my hand, and push through the curtain. On the other side, I see a very fancy sitting room, complete with grand piano, chandelier, and rubber tree plants climbing halfway to the ceiling. Alex and Joanna sit on luxurious armchairs. Little Lucien sprawls out in the middle of his chair, a wheezy snore noise emerging from his open mouth every few seconds. He’s clearly crashed from the heights of his Bridget-instigated sugar high. Alex and Joanna both have little tables set up next to their chairs. Each table is piled high with a selection of sandwiches, cakes, and tea. On the wall, a sixty-inch TV shows black-and-white footage of the building’s historic opening night. Edward Dominion sits, sipping from a teacup, in front of windows that show his stunning view of the city. He is the first to see me enter the room. “Bridget Wilder,” he says, standing up. “Sir Edward,” I say. Why do I keep calling him Sir Edward? “I mean, Mr. Dominion.”
