New York, 1995.
By the time her cab reaches the museum, the summer night feels as hot as soup, the air clinging close—thick and cloying against her skin. Weeks of relentless heat has given the city a menacing sheen; the streetlamps sweating dirty yellow halos onto the shimmering concrete, while the traffic drags, slow and mean, through the sweet, garbage-stinking dusk.
From her clutch, Laura Maraschino pulls out the bone-white invitation while the cab idles at the curb. The cardstock is heavy, absurdly elegant, the black ink curling in smug, overpracticed calligraphy: The Gala for American Journalism, in case anyone needed reminding of their own importance. She hasn’t looked at it since it arrived, hand-delivered to the Empire Press newsroom like a royal summons.
Last year, Tommy had been her date. His hand warm at the small of her back, his smile easy and public, while photographers buzzed and snapped around them like flies. She remembers the flashbulbs stuttering as they climbed the marble steps; the former President’s son supporting his young journalist wife. An unlikely pairing the newspapers always said, but a golden couple, polished to a high shine. They had lauded over them back then, lapped up every photo, every headline, every soft-focus profile piece that painted them as the fairytale made real. But perhaps all that ruckus had always ever been for Tommy, because there were no flashing cameras for her tonight. No buzz, no swarm—just the low growl of a cab engine and the smear of sweat behind her knees as she steps into the thick, humming dark.
“Laura, over here!”
She turns toward the voice and spots Natalie at the base of the steps, fanning herself with a crumpled program in one hand and clutching a sweating cup of white wine in the other. Her brick-red lipstick is already half-smudged, and her dark brown skin glows with a fine sheen of sweat. Her curls—usually immaculate in the newsroom—have surrendered to the heat, clinging to her cheekbones in defiant little spirals.
“You came,” Natalie says, surprise in her voice. “I was expecting you to drop out at the last second. You’re always saying how much you hate these things.”
“I couldn’t leave you without a date,” Laura quips, knowing full well Natalie could charm half the room before coat check even opens. “Anyway, it’s our job to represent the women of American journalism; especially since we’re not winning any of the awards tonight.”
“You already know we’re not,” Natalie sighs, sipping her wine. “Tonight’s looking like a greatest hits album of men named Richard and Mark.”
“With the occasional Steve for variety,” Laura jumps in.
Natalie’s eyes roll as she fans herself with the program. “I skimmed the presenter list. Let’s just say it’s not exactly a Benetton ad.”
“Is it ever?” That was the thing about these galas; every year they changed the theme, the menu, the venue flowers, but the faces always stayed the same.
“Is Daniel here yet?” Laura presses, aiming for offhand but missing the mark. Her puddle-blue eyes flicker towards the entrance, not quite landing as her fingers find the strap of her black dress, tugging it in a small, distracted motion.
Natalie doesn’t answer right away—just takes another slow sip of her wine, her gaze steady on Laura like she’s deciding whether to call bullshit or let it slide.
“He got here early,” she says finally. “Last I saw, he was holding court by the press wall. Pretty sure he was quoting himself to that poor kid from The Journal.”
“Classic Danny,” Laura scoffs without thinking.
“Danny?” Natalie shoots her a pointed look, but doesn’t wait for a reaction. “You know how he gets. Big speech, big spotlight. And it’s not like there’s any suspense. He’s bound to win the Hawthorne again.”
The Hawthorne Prize was always given as the final award of the evening. Officially, it was meant to honor “editorial excellence and enduring contribution to the journalistic field.” Unofficially, it was a coronation, a way of spotlighting that year’s favourite. An applause moment for the most beloved journalist in the room.
Daniel Fincher had won it five times already.
Laura says nothing as they start up the steps together, the sticky heat pressing at their backs. Inside, the museum glows with a sickly, overlit grandeur; too much gold, too much glass, everything polished within an inch of its life.
They weave past couples in satin and tuxedos, their name tags catching the light like medals, their laughter soft and staged, rising like steam off the marble.
Laura adjusts her posture without thinking; shoulders back, chin lifted just enough. The reflex of a woman entering a room that was never quite built for her, but one she’d learned how to move through anyway.
She’s not sure what she hates more about nights like this: the spectacle, the sameness, or the fact that part of her still wants to be chosen by it.
Beside her, Natalie scans the crowd with the ease of a woman who’s worked too many rooms like this to be impressed by any of them. Her eyes flick from name tag to name tag, already cataloguing who’s important, who’s drunk, and who’s just pretending not to be looking for a byline bump. “Ten bucks he quotes his Watergate column,” she murmurs dryly.
Laura doesn’t answer. She’s just seen him.
Daniel.
Standing near the far end of the room, talking to a small, rapt audience, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around a lowball glass of something amber. His suit is charcoal, a little boxy in the shoulders; the kind that has to be fitted by the best and most expensive tailor to still look effortless. His silver hair is combed back, precise as always, and the crooked smile playing at his mouth lands right where it always does: somewhere between smug and charming.
It hits her in the sternum, sudden and unwanted—how handsome he looks, this man who’s twice her age.
She hates that it still lands. Despises even more that he hasn’t spotted her yet, which makes her feel both relieved and vaguely insulted. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since she was last in his apartment, barefoot and wearing only a bedsheet, while he read aloud from the Sunday editorial and traced his fingers along the back of her knee like it was nothing.
And maybe it was. To him.
“Bar?” Natalie suggests, already half-turned to the open doors of the cocktail lounge.
“I’ll catch up,” Laura replies, too quickly to pass for casual.
Natalie pauses mid-turn, one masterful brow lifting. “Laura.”
“What?” She avoids her eyes like she’s thirteen and about to do something reckless.
“It’s not cool to talk to the boss at work events,” her friend deadpans, taking a slow sip of her wine. “It’s the first rule they teach you if you don’t want to be square.”
“I’m just going over to say hi,” Laura insists innocently, tucking a cornflower-blonde strand of hair behind her ear, as if the gesture might make her look less obvious, less desperate, less achingly young in this chandelier light. “It’s not like I’m breaking protocol.”
Natalie’s eyes linger on her second too long, and for a moment Laura wonders if she’s about to accuse her of something. But all Natalie says is, “Fine. Suit yourself. Just don’t hover. Remember, you’re not an intern.”
Then she turns, her tall heels clicking against the marble as she melts like caramel into the crowd, leaving Laura alone with the hum of conversation and the rising prickle of heat at the back of her neck.
For a beat, Laura lingers, letting the crowd shift around her like slow-moving tides. She doesn’t go to him, at least not directly, but drifts towards a nearby exhibit; something ornate and historical kept behind glass, a precious piece too delicate to touch, too steeped in reverence to be out in the open. There’s a caption that goes with it but Laura barely reads it, the words blurring as if she’s reading them under water.
She doesn’t look at him, not at first. But she feels the heat of his attention—a burning instinct sharpened by proximity and secrecy. When she finally dares herself to steal a glance, his gaze is already looking out past the crowd; past the polite circle gathered at his elbow, and directly at her. He’s still talking—some anecdote, some clever quip, judging by the small, obedient laughter rippling around him. But his eyes never shift.
A heartbeat passes. Maybe two.
Laura’s mouth goes dry, and then Daniel is bending his head and saying something low to the man on his left, making his excuses, polite as ever. Not rushing at all because he knows as much as she does that she’ll wait for him. The group around him parts like water, none the wiser to the game they’re both playing.
He crosses the floor, his glass abandoned somewhere behind him. As he reaches her, he doesn’t say her name—doesn't say anything—and in the moment, Laura can’t think of anything clever to say either. He slips a hand around her wrist, firm and careful, the way someone might lead you out of a fire.
“Come with me,” he murmurs, low enough that it barely lands above the music. And then, just like that, he’s walking away again, not waiting to see if she will follow because of course, he knows she will.
Laura hesitates only a second, just long enough to feel the annoying tug of her better judgement. Then she follows, her heels softly tapping against the marble, the sound swallowed by the swell of string music and conversation. No one watches them go. Or if they do, they know better than to ask questions.
Daniel weaves through the edge of the gala, cutting a quiet path towards one of the museum’s side-wings; cooler, quieter, empty. A red velvet rope has been stretched out across the archway, a polite suggestion to tonight’s patrons to keep out, but Daniel ducks beneath it anyway like it’s not there; like the rules don’t apply to him, because maybe they don’t.
Laura slips in after him. The gallery is hushed and echoing, the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Marble floors stretch into shadow, dimly lit displays cast soft reflections onto the glass. The noise of the gala fades into the background, leaving only the hum of recessed lighting and the soft echo of their breath.
Laura doesn’t wait for him to speak first.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your wife,” she says lightly, like she’s commenting on the weather.
He turns to her slowly, and there’s something unintelligible in his expression. Not shame though. Never that.
“She hates these things,” Daniel says. “And I knew you’d be here.” That’s all he gives. No apology, no elaboration. Just the facts, presented like copy.
Laura crosses her arms, pretending she’s not already breathless. “Credit where it’s due, Danny. You always know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” he teases, stepping in just a little too close as his voice lowers a fraction above a whisper. “You know exactly how special you are.”
Laura laughs and her eyes roll, but of course it’s all for show. The breath catches in her throat anyway.
Daniel reaches for her, fingertips grazing the inside of her wrist before finding her waist, drawing her gently, inevitably, backward until her spine meets the cool marble wall. It’s not forceful but there’s a dominance to it, as if he knows she’ll bend to the pressure of his fingers. A reed in his palm, pliant and poised to snap.
Laura inhales, sharp and shallow, the chill of the wall seeping through the silk of her dress just as his palm settles at her hip. His touch isn’t greedy. It’s worse than that, it’s confident. Certain. Like he’s done the math and already knows where this will lead.
“Tell me you missed me,” he grins as he leans in, his voice husky at the edges.
“You know I did.” Laura blushes girlishly as she admits it, thankful for the dim light, embarrassed by how easily the truth slips out. She hates that he can pull it from her like thread—effortless, inevitable. And yet it doesn’t stop her. She kisses him anyway, quick and hungry, as if the wanting has been pressing against her ribs all night, just waiting to be let loose.
Daniel smiles like the cat who got the cream as he kisses her back, fast and sharp. It’s the kind of kiss that’s less about affection and more about need; about everything they shouldn’t want and yet always, always do. His hands slip higher, fingers splaying along her ribcage, his thumb grazing the curve of her breast through silk as her back arches toward him.
She barely notices him turning her until her cheek is against the marble, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the clicking sound of his belt behind her. Her dress is already sliding higher, his hands sure and hurried—no hesitation, just a need to take her right there and then in the darkness of the museum.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs at her ear, his voice low and coaxing. But before she can answer, he’s already there—pressing into her with a stinging, heated thrust that steals the breath from her lungs. Her lips part, but no sound comes, just a soft gasp as her palms find the cold marble for balance.
All words gone, only feeling as he fucks her against the museum wall.
Laura is under no pretenses. Whatever this thing is between them—this pull, this pattern—it isn’t love. She’s not naïve enough to believe that. Not with his beautiful, dark-haired wife in Westchester, the one he visits every other weekend, the one he takes to the theater and to quiet, tucked-away restaurants when she comes into the city. They still share vacations together, a dog, a house with ivy curling up the walls. Laura knows all of this because he tells her, in the same casual, nonchalant tone he uses to talk about the traffic or a work deadline.
They’ve never talked about what this is, not really. Not in the clear light of day, or in any way that might be pinned down and made to be real. ‘It’ exists in the negative space, between their late-night calls and apartment visits, between longing stares across the newsroom and the quiet, guilty way he touches her when no one’s looking.
Whatever ‘it’ is, it’s always been easier to leave unnamed.
A moan slips from Laura’s mouth before she can catch it; short and sweet, and startling in the hush of the gallery. Instinctively, Daniel’s hand comes up to cover her mouth, pressing her flush against the marble just as another sound rings out.
A sudden shriek. Distinctly female.
Not the theatrical kind that bubbles up from champagne or a joke gone sideways, but something sharper. Frantic. Real. It echoes down the hallway like a crack in glass.
It stops them dead.
Behind her, Daniel freezes, every muscle tense. Laura’s breath catches beneath his hand, her pulse spiking as silence rushes in between them. The spell breaks, cleanly and completely shattered by the sound of something bigger than them both.
More voices follow, rising fast and uncoordinated. Shouts. Footsteps. Not the gentle drift of partygoers but the urgent rhythm of people moving with purpose. Panicked.
And just like that, it’s over.
Not just the moment. The night.
The world, maybe.
Daniel’s hand falls away. His body steps back. The air around them changes.
Laura turns to look at him, but he’s no longer looking at her.
He’s listening.
Then, quietly, grimly, he fixes his belt.
“Something’s happened,” he says. And in his voice, for the first time that night, there’s no charm at all.
He moves toward the noise. And Laura follows—barely breathing—as the echo of panic spills like water down the hall.
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