Novels by Ann Lottimore

The afternoon lay over the apartment like warm glass — heavy, unmoving, clear enough to see every particle of dust turn gold where the light caught it. The city beyond the half-closed shutters hummed in a faraway key: a scooter passing two streets over, a window creaking somewhere higher up, the soft insistence of summer trying to outlast itself.Lucia had fallen asleep on the sofa, one arm draped over a small herd of toy animals she’d left mid-adventure. A marker rolled lazily from her open hand, leaving a pale green streak on the pillow. Siena moved it aside, brushed a curl from the child’s forehead, and stood there for a moment, watching the even rise and fall of her chest. The rhythm grounded the room.The air was thick enough to slow thought. Siena crossed to the bookshelf and opened the lowest drawer — the one she hadn’t touched in months. Inside lay a small wooden box, its corners worn smooth, its velvet lining faded from blue to a kind of thoughtful gray. She lifted it with bo

The morning entered without knocking — soft, wide, yellow. It slid over the tiled floor and climbed the edges of the table, finding what the night had left behind: two cups, a half-folded towel, and the smell of boiled water cooling in the kettle. Siena opened the kitchen window with the slow precision of someone who hadn’t slept properly but refused to let exhaustion decide the day. The latch clicked; air moved in. Milan’s hum rose from below — coffee machines, early scooters, someone dragging a chair across a terrace. The apartment was no longer a refuge under siege. It was simply awake. She moved quietly through her small rituals: kettle refilled, flame lit, cups arranged in a straight line though no one asked her to. Her hands carried a faint tremor of fatigue, the kind that lingers after vigilance rather than fear. Steam began to bloom again, and the kettle started its first shy hiss. The front door lock turned. Footsteps, unhurried. Adriano entered, sleeves rolled, jacket fo

Morning came quietly, like it didn’t want to wake anyone.No alarms, no noise from the street yet — only a pale kind of light slipping around the curtains.Siena sat on the edge of the small bed, shaking down the thermometer. The red line climbed, then settled. 36.9. Good.She breathed out. “Okay, piccola. All good.”A small voice, still fogged with sleep: “Mama?”“I’m here,” Siena said, brushing a curl from her daughter’s face. “Morning.”Lucia blinked. “Bath?”“Just a little one. Warm water.”Lucia smiled, eyes still half-closed. “Bubbles?”Siena laughed softly. “Always bubbles.”---Steam filled the small bathroom, smelling of soap and something like almonds.Siena tested the water with her wrist, nodded once, and poured in a handful of bubble mix.Lucia’s eyes went wide. “Look! It’s puff-puff!” she said, slapping the surface gently.“The bubbles are laughing,” Siena answered, rolling her sleeves higher.Lucia blew at the foam until it scattered, then squealed when a drop landed on

Morning arrived the way hospitals prefer it — orderly, fluorescent before it was golden. The corridor lights brightened by degrees, the night monitors handed off their pens, and the soft wheels of the vitals cart resumed their half-hour pilgrimage from door to door. Through the thin, pale blinds of Observation 7, daylight gathered itself into a sheet and laid it across the floor.Lucia slept on her back, the blanket a neat line under her arms, the pulse-ox clip blinking its tiny red heart at the tip of her finger. The monitor read it in calm numbers: oxygen 99, heart rate in the high eighties, respirations even, blood pressure a narrow, sensible bookend to the night. Siena, who had not closed her eyes so much as taught them how to rest while open, sat where she had sat for hours, one hand on the blanket at Lucia’s shoulder, the plastic parent band warmed to her skin.A nurse slipped in first, wristwatch set five minutes fast the way some people bait time. “Good morning,” she said in a

They transferred Lucia upstairs when the sun was still a rumor at the edge of the city. The elevator doors opened onto a quieter floor, the kind built for waiting rather than crisis — low voices, long corridors, daylight that would arrive slowly and take the edge off metal and glass. Observation Room 7 was small, rectangular, and cleared of everything that could make a mother feel in the way. A narrow bed. A recliner that pretended to be comfortable. A monitor mounted high, its screen already alive with thin lines and numbers. A rolling pole with a saline bag hung but capped — ready if needed, unnecessary if luck held. Lucia lay on her back, blanket tucked under her arms, a tiny adhesive band across the crook of her elbow where the cannula sat like a promise not yet called in. The pulse-ox clip glowed red against her finger, a little jewel that pulsed with each artifact of the heart’s work. The blow-by nozzle had been removed; the mask coiled at the base of the pole like a snake out

The hour before dawn makes every room honest. Color drains to ash; sound thins to a thread. The safe apartment breathed in long, even measures — vents whispering, pipes settling, the city outside reduced to a pulse behind glass.Siena had stopped pretending not to sleep. Somewhere between three and four she’d let her body fold into the chair by Lucia’s bed, a throw blanket slid haphazardly over her knees, her head tilted against the high back. She kept one hand free, palm resting on the mattress, two fingers lightly touching the edge of Lucia’s blanket where the rise and fall would tell her more than any clock. The bandage over her palm tugged when she flexed; it itched the way healing does when it decides to, not when you ask.Lucia lay on her side facing her, hair looped into soft curls against the pillow, breath a quiet tide. A line of stuffed animals kept sentinel at the foot of the bed — fox, rabbit, a soft bear whose ear had been loved thin. The nightlight in the corner had surr

The first light of morning bled through the half-closed curtains, soft and golden, cutting faint lines across the floor. The city outside was barely awake, its noise still a rumor that hadn’t reached the penthouse yet. Katherine stirred first. The sheet slipped from her shoulder as she shifted onto her side, her hair a loose tangle that caught the early light. For a moment she just looked — the kind of quiet observation she’d never allow herself in daylight. Sebastian lay beside her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting over the blanket that had half fallen to the floor. His face, usually sharpened by tension and strategy, looked different now — softer, almost peaceful. The faint shadow of stubble traced his jaw, his lips parted slightly with each even breath. Katherine let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “You look almost human when you’re unconscious.” His eyes didn’t open right away. “I’d say the same,” he murmured, voice roughened by sleep, “but I’m afraid yo

The office had begun to empty, leaving behind only the mechanical hum of air conditioning and the faint glow of monitors that no one had bothered to turn off. The city outside was shifting from gold to indigo, the sun bleeding into the skyline like the aftertaste of something that had finally burned out. Katherine sat at her desk, posture still perfect, though her shoulders had long since given up pretending they weren’t sore. The glow from her laptop painted her face in cold light, catching the delicate exhaustion beneath her composure — a quiet proof of the hours she’d spent fighting to keep her pulse steady through numbers, questions, and power plays. The cursor blinked on an unfinished email, and for the first time that day, she didn’t rush to finish it. Her reflection in the screen stared back — the same blazer, the same tied hair, the same eyes that refused to betray how drained she truly was. The soft click of a door pulled her from the trance. Sebastian stood there.

Los Angeles looked too calm for what the morning was supposed to be. The streets were washed in soft light, the kind that made glass shine and nerves hide. The city, always loud and restless, seemed to be holding its breath — as if even it knew that something was about to be decided. Katherine stepped out of the car and smoothed the front of her blazer, though her hands were already cold. She caught her reflection in the glass doors of the Mason Equity building — hair pinned back neatly, shoulders straight, every inch of her composed. No one could tell she hadn’t really slept. No one but him. The moment she entered the lobby, she felt it: the silence under the surface. Phones still rang, shoes still clicked across the floor, but voices were lower than usual, glances shorter, movements tighter. People greeted her with polite nods, but every “good morning” carried the same hidden question — Did you hear? Did you see the email? Are we ready? She didn’t answer any of it. She jus

The next morning unfolded with an almost deceptive calm.The city outside glimmered under a pale, early light — cool, washed clean after the night — and for the first time in days, Katherine didn’t wake with that familiar tightness in her chest. The echoes of yesterday — the uncertainty, the chaos, the pressure of Halworth’s judgment — still existed somewhere in the background, but they no longer felt immediate.Instead, her mind drifted back to the terrace. The light on the horizon. The quiet certainty in Sebastian’s voice.This feels inevitable.By the time she stepped into the Mason Equity building, she was steady again — or at least steady enough to fake it. The lobby buzzed softly with restrained tension: clipped footsteps, phones pressed to ears, whispered mentions of Halworth Group. Everyone moved like they were holding their breath, waiting for an answer that hadn’t yet come.But Katherine felt oddly separate from it. She greeted people with a small nod, ignored the side glanc

The hallway outside the conference room still buzzed faintly with the echoes of footsteps, murmured speculation, the scrape of leather folders being carried away. But inside Sebastian’s temporary office, the silence was almost heavy.Katherine sank into one of the chairs near the desk, her tablet still in her hands though she hadn’t looked at the screen since leaving the meeting. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw tight, her pulse still out of rhythm. The adrenaline had drained out of her, leaving her hollow, as if Halworth’s eyes were still on her even though the room was empty.Sebastian closed the door behind them with a soft click. Not the polite nudge of a handle, but a deliberate push, sealing them off from the building and its noise. He didn’t speak right away. He simply studied her — the faint pallor of her face, the way her hand trembled as she tried to set the tablet down, the way she pressed her lips together to stop them from quivering.Finally, he moved across the room and

The conference room was too cold, both in temperature and in tone. The Halworth delegation sat in a neat row along the polished table, their suits immaculate, expressions carefully neutral. Not one smile. Not one trace of warmth. Their briefcases rested at their feet like silent weapons, their notepads open, pens poised as if ready to strike. The air itself felt clinical, heavy with the unspoken fact that Halworth had the leverage, and they knew it. At the head of the table, Sebastian Mason was the only figure who looked entirely unbothered. His jacket was buttoned, his posture precise, his tone measured as he began. “Gentlemen, ladies. Welcome to Los Angeles,” he said evenly, his voice filling the room with the kind of authority that left little room for argument. “I trust your flight was smooth.” A murmur of acknowledgments followed — clipped, formal. The senior partner from Halworth, a silver-haired man with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, gave the faintest incline of hi