Chapter 8 - The Reconstruction of Tribeca
The apartment on North Moore Street in Tribeca didn't look like a museum anymore. The minimalist white leather sofas had been replaced by heavy indigo velvet, and the expensive glass sculptures that used to sit on the low tables had been moved to the high shelves, well out of reach of three boys who believed everything in the world was a projectile.
It was New Year’s Eve, 2026.
Manhattan glittered outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the Financial District reflecting off the dark, churning waters of the Hudson River like a million fallen stars.
I stood by the kitchen island, a glass of champagne in my hand, watching Blake show Lucas how to construct a suspension bridge out of silver cocktail toothpicks and blocks of cheddar cheese. He was completely focused, his jaw set in that familiar Harrington line, but when Lucas accidentally knocked over the main tower, Blake didn't flinch—he just laughed, a loud, bubbling sound that filled the high loft with a warmth it had never possessed during our first marriage.
"The residency paperwork was approved by the New York court this morning, Emma," Vance Croft said from the doorway, his leather briefcase tucked under his arm as he stepped into the kitchen. He looked around the messy room with a smile that was entirely un-lawyer-like. "The Harrington Trust has formally acknowledged the dual-domicile agreement. The boys are officially New Yorkers for the winter term, and Chicagoans for the summer."
"Thank you, Vance," I said, clinking my glass against his. "For everything."
"Don't thank me, child," the old man whispered. "Thank the flight manifest from LaGuardia. If Blake hadn't been stubborn enough to sit in that specific first-class seat, we’d still be spending forty million dollars a year on public relations firms to prove he had a soul."
He walked out, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft, solid thud that didn't hurt at all.
Blake stood up from the floor, wiping the cheese crumbs from his trousers, and walked over to where I stood by the glass window. The boys had migrated to the far corner of the living room, where Arthur was currently helping them count down the minutes until the ball dropped in Times Square.
"Emma," Blake said, his hand rising to touch the small silver ring I had started wearing again—the simple, unpolished band we had bought from the street vendor in Greenwich Village before the billions arrived.
"Yes, Blake?"
"Do you still think I confuse cruelty with confidence?" he asked, his voice low, his green eyes reflecting the silver light of the city outside.
May you like
I looked at his face—at the lines around his eyes that had been put there by three months of midwestern laughter, at the jaw that had learned how to soften when a four-year-old asked for a story, and at the fingers that were currently holding mine with a gentleness that felt like a permanent contract.
"No," I said, leaning my forehead against his shoulder, the smell of his vanilla cologne and fresh cedar wood filling my senses. "I think you finally learned how to tell the difference between an asset and a home."
