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

Morning doesn’t rush in.It slips through the tall windows slowly, pale gold stretching across the bare floorboards, softening the sharp edges of the empty rooms. The house feels different in daylight — less mysterious, more honest. The walls don’t echo as loudly. The space doesn’t feel unfinished.It feels quiet.They are still on the floor.No blankets. No furniture. Just the cool expanse of wood beneath them and the warmth they created sometime between dusk and midnight.Katherine wakes first.Not fully at once — just enough to realize where she is. The unfamiliar ceiling above her. The slant of sunlight touching the far wall. The steady, grounded rise and fall beneath her cheek.Her head is resting on Sebastian’s chest.His arm is wrapped around her waist — not tightly, not possessively. Just there. Like it settled there hours ago and never considered leaving.The position looks accidental.It isn’t.She stays still for a moment, listening.His heartbeat is slow. Deep. Calm in a w

The door closes with a soft, almost careful click.Not a slam. Not a declaration. Just the quiet sound of something being sealed — a line crossed without ceremony.Katherine stays where she is, her back against the door, fingers still resting on the handle as if she hasn’t fully decided whether she’s arrived or merely paused. The house around them exists in half-light: tall windows catching the last gold of evening, empty rooms breathing softly, walls still unfamiliar enough to feel like a held breath.Sebastian doesn’t move.That’s the first thing she notices.No steps toward her. No instinct to fill the space. He lets the silence stretch, lets the quiet settle into the bones of the place like it belongs there. It’s a rare kind of restraint — not calculated, not strategic. Present.Katherine exhales slowly.Her voice, when it comes, is low. Thoughtful. Almost surprised by itself.“It’s strange,” she says.A pause.“Being alone somewhere that’s supposed to become… something.”The word

The conference room is immaculate in that very specific, pre-audit way — chairs aligned to surgical precision, screens glowing with frozen dashboards, water glasses placed as if someone measured the distance with a ruler. The air smells faintly of coffee and ambition. At exactly 8:30 a.m., the doors open. The Board of Directors enters as a unit — dark suits, tablets tucked under arms, expressions carefully calibrated to serious. No wasted movement. No unnecessary smiles. This is the kind of entrance meant to remind everyone that today is about governance, compliance, and consequences. Sebastian steps forward to greet them. He does it perfectly. Firm handshakes. Calm eye contact. A voice that lands somewhere between reassuring and commandingly precise. The kind of tone that makes people trust him with money they’ll never personally see again. “Good morning. Thank you for being here. We’re ready when you are.” Several heads nod in approval. Then — because the universe ha

The office was barely awake when Katherine arrived. The lights were still too bright for that hour, the kind of sterile glow that made everyone look more tired than they were willing to admit. Desks hummed quietly, screens flickered on, and the smell of burnt coffee drifted through the floor like a warning rather than an invitation. Katherine stepped out of the elevator, already skimming through emails on her phone, mind half a step ahead of the day. And then she stopped. Her desk was gone. Not literally — but it had been overtaken. Completely. A massive bouquet sat at its center, absurdly large, unapologetic in its presence. Pale peonies, blush roses, soft greenery spilling over the edges, arranged with the kind of care that suggested intention rather than obligation. It didn’t whisper. It announced itself. For a moment, Katherine just stared. Someone down the row pretended very badly not to notice. Sophie froze mid-step near the printer. A junior analyst actually w

The day released them slowly, like it wasn’t quite ready to let go. By the time Katherine stepped out of the building, the glass façade of Mason Equity was already catching the last of the sun, reflecting it back in muted gold instead of its usual cold steel. The lobby behind her hummed with departure — heels clicking, voices loosening, the collective exhale of people who had survived another day without collapsing. She paused for a moment on the steps, rolling her shoulders back, letting the tension settle where it always did — between her spine and her pride. Her phone was already in her hand, thumb hovering over the screen, ready to check emails she knew would still be there no matter how long she pretended otherwise. “Hey.” Sebastian’s voice came from her left, low and unhurried. She turned. He stood a few feet away, jacket slung over one arm, tie gone, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he’d stopped performing hours ago. The setting sun caught in his hair, softening

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