“Sloane is not our designer,” I said. “And she certainly does not have a key.”

“I gave her one,” Nathan said, his voice smooth and untroubled. “For convenience.”

The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

“Sloane Vale is an interior designer, not a member of this family,” I said. “And she did this without my permission.”

Nathan walked past me and ran his hand along the wet charcoal wall.

“You are being emotional,” he said softly. “Sloane is doing us a favor.”

I looked at the brass tray on the changing table.

My grandmother, Evelyn Crane, had built this building.

She had placed this penthouse into a strict family trust before she died.

Nathan did not own a single brick of this place, though he lived here as my husband.

“She was in my home,” I said.

“Our home,” Nathan corrected, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“The trust dictates the terms of residency, Nathan,” I said.

I remembered the domestic conduct clause Margaret Crane, our family attorney, had warned me about.

It was a silent clause, designed to protect the Crane bloodline from predatory spouses.

If Nathan permitted an unauthorized third party to alter or occupy the estate, he violated the terms of his residency.

“Sloane was just doing her job,” Nathan said, his voice dropping to a dismissive whisper.

He walked out of the room, leaving me alone in the dark gray nursery.

My hands trembled as I picked up the leather-bound lookbook from the changing table.

Inside the front cover, a detailed invoice was tucked into a small pocket.

The client name listed was not Nathan’s personal account.

It was billed directly to our shared household operations account, funded by my family trust.

The project title at the top of the page read: *Project Celeste.*

Celeste was my grandmother’s middle name, the name we had chosen for my daughter.