Misty Blue

by heythereflyboy

Summary:

Kate Lockwood is a force to be reckoned with, and your job lets you watch her tell the board to sod off in corporate language all from the purview of her airtight schedules, precision logistics, and meticulously color-coded item lists.

There’s probably nothing wrong with finding your (very married) boss smoking hot. The only crime is when she’s commanding a room with an unbelievably lethal shoulder line that could assassinate those rich douchebags and aristobrats. After all, you’re doing your job as the perfect executive assistant to the most powerful woman in America, keeping her three steps ahead of the world. You follow every command to the letter, micromanaging the Lockwood dynasty just enough to keep it from imploding.

Even if that means, of course, clearing her calendar to quietly bury a secret or two, especially when the past starts clawing its way into the present like it’s trying to climb the corporate ladder.

You'll do anything to keep her enemies guessing and her sins buried deeper than her PR team and crisis manager would ever admit.

Notes:

I am absolutely in love with the performance Charlotte Ritchie did to showcase Kate's character development from Season 4 to 5. She stood so much on business and was so hot doing so. I couldn't help myself squishing my cheeks together whenever she's on screen. While I am suffering an intense writer's block while writing In Memoriam, my mind couldn't help but whipping this out in just two days after I have watched how You ended.

Cover photo is made by me (heythereflyboy).

Chapter 1: April 2025 - Park Avenue Armory

You don’t belong here.

The veterans room of Park Avenue Armory was filled with mostly Manhattan’s upper class, seeking to put into good use a small percentage of their money for the disenfranchised by purchasing lifeless art displayed in the drill hall. It glittered under carefully curated lighting as you stood near the edge of the gala crowd, tablet in hand, one ear tuned to the event staff, the other half to the board members. However, being on the high horse of moral ascendancy is not part of your job description for tonight. You would rather have wealthy donors and patrons throw their disposable income at a good cause. After all, you were not here to moralize their social status but to keep the machine running and ensure enough oil to grease the gears.

From the sidelines, as you try so hard to wallflower, the gala shimmered around you with a careful orchestra of champagne flutes, soulless black-tie conversations, and uptight million-dollar smiles. 

Everything was perfect, running smoother than you’d expected. You had to make sure it stayed that way, especially since your boss would be announcing that a quarter of the annual profits of T.R. Lockwood Corporation would be funding a new literacy initiative without the consent of the boardroom. Otherwise, they would be having her head on a silver platter for all of the Upper East Side to see.

And, you like Kate Lockwood's head safely attached to her very lovely neck, thank you very much.

So when she finally stepped inside with her creepy himbo of a husband trailing behind, you felt a profound wave of relief as you gave her the rundown before she took the podium. Meanwhile, Joe Goldberg excused himself to the men’s room.

It was a work routine you had perfected and had been comfortable doing with Ms. Lockwood for the past three years. You kept her schedule airtight, her agendas bulletproof, and her item list color-coded to hell, while she emasculated anyone who dared not to see her as anything but a powerhouse of a woman.

After she checked in with the preparations, Ms. Lockwood went straight into business.

She didn’t stop exchanging practiced smiles and pleasantries as she murmured to you, “After tonight, find me another hairstylist because I don’t think she recognizes what a colossal fuck she did to my hair.”

If you were being honest, her hair was a mess. It was pulled into an updo, far from elegance and majestic, like whoever styled her gave no love at all. But that was the least of your concerns when you find it difficult not to check her out in a very public setting within the vicinity of her husband’s presence. At least, that dress was doing numbers for her neck and shoulders.

“Of course, Ms. Lockwood,” you replied diligently as you logged her request in your item list. “But, you do look lovely tonight.”

The compliment was earnest and objective, but professional. It wasn’t the first time you’d said it, so you’d already practiced how to compliment Ms. Lockwood without the air in your lungs being knocked out.

“Well, I don’t think the board would seem to believe so after I launch the grenade at them and skip away merrily,” Ms. Lockwood said grimly. 

You smiled in response. The Lockwood Literacy Initiative was for the greater good as it would force the corporation to its knees to use its power, money, and obscenely rich connections to help those who were not as lucky as the one percent of the world’s population. Ms. Lockwood had deliberately left out a prospectus beforehand, but you have already prepared to mass email it the moment she ends her speech.

You would be bracing for the fallout later on.

Not to mention, your boss looked absolutely gorgeous as she was about to do so. She carefully stepped up to the podium with the help of her husband and proceeded to make her speech.

Joe dutifully stood at the sidelines in public support of his wife, whereas you stood back in the shadows, preparing yourself to make necessary damage control of the board members when she ended her speech. 

Your attention mostly gravitated toward the fact that the curated lighting of the veterans room made Ms. Lockwood shine bright with her sparkling silver gown. She stood out from the rest of the crowds of black and white suits and gowns, making her look as if she were the starry night itself. 

Perhaps, there was nothing wrong with finding your very powerful and happily married boss smoking hot with an amazingly lethal shoulder line. After all, you behaved exactly as the perfect executive assistant to the most powerful woman in America. You followed every command to the letter—schedules, logistics, item lists—everything engineered to make her day run like a Lockwood-funded bullet train, so she could tell the rich douchebags and aristobrats to kindly sod off in corporate language.

When Ms. Lockwood went on to explain the new initiative, your fingers deftly moved across your tablet, triggering the mass email blast with the full proposal. The request to put out the accessible document link on the corporate website was already done. Too late for backpedaling. The Lockwood Literacy Initiative was live, and so was the fallout. 

You could see the board’s reserved table from where you stood. They were not smiling at all, let alone joining in the applause. As predicted, the board was stunned, which was replaced by a mix of disappointment and resignation. No doubt that their thoughts were trapezing towards being out-of-touch with their precious pockets for the succeeding months. 

Most of all, Reagan Lockwood-Jacobs was already fuming in her seat as she exchanged glances with her younger twin, Madison Lockwood, who half-laughed, half-winced. You could already guess what they were thinking. Reagan would try to corner Ms. Lockwood later on, but at least when your boss would diffuse her half-sister’s rage more easily while they are still here in the gala than in the boardroom. 

You turned back to Ms. Lockwood. Your years of working with her made you easily recognize that she was holding back a shit-eating grin, despite that the board was already shooting daggers with their glares. Like always, she did not give a damn about it. As she stepped back from the podium, she still looked regal as ever, like she was watching those rich douchebags and aristobrats burn in the fire that is the literacy initiative, and you were proud of her.

She really looked damn good.

Joe reached for her elbow with all the performative grace of a trophy husband. She didn’t take it. She didn’t need to. Although he looked proud as well. Chin tilted slightly. When he turned to you, something simmered in that look—not quite accusation, not quite admiration. But it made the back of your neck prickle.

Did he know?

Nevertheless, you followed Ms. Lockwood through the crowd as she made a beeline towards the bar area, as her husband excused himself back to their accommodations upstairs in one of the company rooms. You could still feel the lingering stare from him, so you kept your gaze fixated on his wife instead and kept your job running smoothly. 

“I’m assuming that email’s out?” she asked without looking at you, leaning on one of the cocktail tables.

“Ten seconds after you made your announcement, with a follow-through of making the public link live on the website,” you replied.

Ms. Lockwood exhaled with quiet relief. It was the calm before the storm that would be the meeting tomorrow. For the first time all night, she turned and looked you in the eye.

The sparkle of the silver gown made her look like an apparition, unreal and untouchable as the world seemed to dim around you. But the tension in her jaw was real. So was the shake in her hands as she tried to smooth her hair, vividly still pissed at her hairdresser.

“Come here,” Ms. Lockwood said quietly.

You stepped forward, heart too loud.

Her voice dropped to a hush. “How bad was Reagan’s face?”

You smiled faintly as you leaned forward, only for her to hear. “Smug. Calculating. Mildly homicidal.”

Her lips quirked. “As expected. Thank you for making this go smoothly,” she said, softer now. “I know you’re the reason nothing exploded onstage.”

Your voice was quieter than you meant. “It’s my job to protect you.”

Her gaze caught yours and held it. Something flickered there. Not quite gratitude. Not quite vulnerable.

But before either of you could say anything, Reagan drifted towards the table like a storm cloud. “Katie,” she said sweetly your ears could rot. “You’ve certainly set the tone for the evening. Stunning gown. Absolutely nuclear announcement.”

“Reagan,” Ms. Lockwood said with a lightness that didn’t fool you for a second. “Enjoying the event?”

“Oh, immensely. Nothing gets the blood pumping like watching my CEO half-sister bypass board authorization in front of half the philanthropic elite and a few camera crews.”

You stayed silent. Still and obedient. Always on-call. Tablet clutched loosely in your hand.

But Reagan’s eyes didn’t stay on your boss. They slid to you.

Up. Down.

Calculating. Cold.

“And you,” she said, her tone syrupy. “The assistant. You must be tired after all that tap dancing behind the scenes.”

Part of being Kate Lockwood’s assistant meant that you would be caught in the crossfire of Reagan’s wrath. This was nothing new, but you were often at a loss for how to deal with it. At least, you are being paid twice. Aside from being her executive assistant, you also organized her personal life, which meant that you had the best shrink in New York at your disposal. Working for Kate Lockwood personally meant that you would be micromanaging her six siblings so they wouldn't go after their late father’s family house and empire that he bequeathed to her.

You opened your mouth, not sure whether to respond or stay silent, but your boss answered for you.

“She did exactly what I asked of her, Ray,” she said coolly. “If you have a problem, take it up with me.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Reagan replied, eyes locked on her half-sister now. “At the next board meeting, you’ll have your thirty minutes to explain how a Lockwood initiative magically appeared in the books without oversight.”

Ms. Lockwood’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I look forward to it.”

Reagan stepped closer. Close enough that only you and her half-sister could hear her next words. “Daddy may be dead, Katie, but some of us still remember what the Lockwood name means.”

Your boss’ jaw tightened, but she didn’t flinch. You saw the war behind her eyes. You also saw how fast she slammed the walls on it. “I’m not here to preserve the past,” she said. “I’m here to build something better.”

Reagan’s smile sharpened. “Then, I suggest you build faster because the board isn’t in the habit of backing unstable leadership. You think I won’t find a way to walk this back? Couldn’t win the board over the proper way, not so much as a fucking prospectus?”

“It’s the right thing for the company. You’ll see.” 

Reagan blinked and drowned whatever thought she had in mind with a drink. Your boss had a way of placating people like Reagan by daring them to reveal their resentment, indignation, and resistance over their company’s financial standing during talks of charity and philanthropy. It effectively shut her half-sister down, but this meant steering her towards another matter.

Reagan’s eyes flicked to you again, and Ms. Lockwood stepped forward once. You stayed beside her—steady, quiet. You didn’t need to ask what came next. You’d already started the contingency folder.

Reagan held her ground—but only just. “See you in the boardroom, sister.”

Ms. Lockwood’s shoulders deflated slightly, sensing the storm was already brewing. So, she turned towards the most amicable twin, who sauntered her way to the bar for a vodka and soda when she saw Joe there.

“Maddie!” Ms. Lockwood called, almost relieved.

The twin in question squealed and held out an arm to pull your boss for a cheek-to-cheek kiss. You liked Maddie more in terms of the personal realm and the workplace since she had no qualms about political intrigue in the boardroom and her being the head of public relations, so she is warm with your boss, and you get to work with her from time to time as an executive assistant. 

“You look amazing,” your boss complimented her. “Need the name of your hairdresser. Don’t know what I’m doing with mine these days.”

“Oh, well,” Maddie chuckled. “Who’s noticing your hair when you’re saving the world?”

You noticed the awkwardness in her tone. Of course, Maddie would feel a tinge of jealousy at her half-sister’s influence, even if she was a social media influencer and socialite himself.

But unlike Reagan, she had not acted out whatever scornful feelings she may be harboring. Directly. 

Indirectly? An emotional warpath by flirting with Joe.

Saved by the music, a smooth and sensual saxophone played through the sound system, followed by the sultry voice of Sade passionately singing about the king of her heart. Your boss recognized the song and turned towards her husband, caught in the thoroughly unpleasant position of being between the twins.

“I love this song,” she said. 

It was an opportunity to escape, you recognized it. 

Like the perfect husband, Joe immediately stopped drinking and set his glass down. “Me too.”

“Yeah.”

With that, he pulled his wife to the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by other couples and investors chatting amongst themselves. When he spun her around to the beat of Your Love Is King, you felt your own heart deflating, so you slipped back to the Armory’s library to finalize the evening report—the event files synced, the itinerary scrubbed clean.

All for your boss to pore over tomorrow.

Just what you were meant to do.

On the other hand, assisting the daughter of the late Tom Lockwood gave you access to a multitude of contacts and informants ever loyal to her as the chosen successor. This meant that you could prepare her to be three steps forward from the world and whatever chaos could be thrown her way.

Tonight was no different.

When you got the anonymous tip, you were not surprised. You didn’t flinch, but your blood ran cold. 

Hit piece w/ Forbes. 
Alberta pipeline.
Target: Katherine Lockwood
Publication: Thursday

There were whispers about the pipeline project, but never in detail and never controversial at all. It was one of the few things your boss never discussed. Not even with you. Your mind was racing too fast—already calculating damage control strategies, PR spins, and legal defenses. Already thinking, in the most shameful, secret part of yourself, that Kate Lockwood didn’t deserve this.

Only a 400 million pound fiscal report of a pipeline built in western Canada was tied to Kate Lockwood, who approved the environmental reports on well-water toxicity. She was just a teenager at that time, so how on earth would the media be using this as dirt on her? 

You didn’t even glance up when the door swung open, trying to pull up old files that could reference the tip, but you found nothing further, even with admin clearance.

Then, the chief of staff, Teddy, strolled into the library like he was hosting a reality show for his dysfunctional family. He looked too good for someone who only slept three hours and definitely drank enough to make a lesser man implode.

“Well, if it isn’t Kate’s emotional support assistant,” he sang, voice smooth and merciless. “How’s the hangover from watching the board collectively shit itself in tuxedos?” 

You gave him a weary look, but couldn’t help the tug at your mouth. Teddy had a way of dragging a smile out of you even on the worst days. “Good evening, Mr. Hayes.” 

“Oh, don’t do that! Mr. Hayes makes me sound like a tax scandal.”

You snorted. Aside from Maddie, you actually liked Teddy best of your boss’ siblings, despite being the one ostracized from family gatherings and his father’s will, as the Lockwood family barely tolerated him being the product of their father's affair with the help.

Except for your boss. She loved him, in the rare way she loved anyone.

"Long night," you said. “We anticipated the fallout when the announcement was made.”

He whistled low. "I caught the tail end of Reagan's meltdown. She’s going to need a new face by morning. I think she cracked this one." Then, he plopped himself into the chair that he pulled for himself. “I saw you slink off,” he continued, lazily inspecting his nails. “Right before Kate and Joe did their little swan song dance. You disappeared like a character in a thriller novel. Everything alright?”

You paused, returning your gaze to your work. “Of course. Ms. Lockwood will be needing the gala reports by morning.”

He hummed. “Not buying it, sweetheart. You’ve got that tight thing going with your mouth. Like you’re pretending everything’s fine when you’re actually screaming internally.”

You sighed. “I was organizing the files.”

“Mm-hm.” Teddy leaned back with a grin. “That’s why I like you. Efficient. Deadpan. Secretly in love with my sister.”

Your fingers stilled on your screen. Slowly, you looked up.

Teddy lifted his sunglasses. His eyes were kind. Disarming. Dangerous in the way only someone who genuinely knew you could be. “I’m kidding,” he said lightly. “Mostly. But I do notice things.”

You didn’t respond because he’s not wrong. Eventually, you found your voice. "Shouldn’t you be inside?" you asked, trying to divert the conversation somewhere else.

"Shouldn’t you?" he shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Trust me. You’re going to want to hear this."

Against your better judgment, you pulled yourself a chair and took a seat. He didn’t speak right away, which was how you knew it was bad.

Surely, a Kate Lockwood hit piece kind of bad. 

Finally, he turned to you, serious now in a way that stripped away all his usual armor. "There’s a story dropping," Teddy said. "Big. Ugly."

You swallowed, pretending that you did not know beforehand. "What kind of story?"

"Something about a pipeline project? I don’t know why they are digging up something from Katie’s big prodigy era a decade ago. If it was so bad, then why now?"

You pressed your hands to your thighs to stop them shaking. Whatever information you had was also the same and limited. "How bad?" you asked.

Teddy exhaled slowly. "Bad enough to tank her image. Maybe worse, if it was airtight." He hesitated before continuing. "I looped in Joe already. Figured he should be in the know. But, like the golden retriever husband that he is, he wanted to keep this between us until we had something solid."

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

Teddy’s gaze softened as if he could read the storm inside you. "She’ll need you," he said, voice quieter now. "Not just in the way she thinks."

You looked away, finding the old volumes of the Armory’s collection suddenly fascinating. "I’m her assistant." The words tasted hollow on your tongue.

Teddy smiled—a real, sad smile. "Sure," he said lightly. "And I’m just a Lockwood bastard."

Regardless of his point, she was married. Sure, it did not stop Maddie from flirting with her husband, but the boundaries of you choosing her were limited to serving her within your job description, always at her beck and call. Besides, Teddy actually favors his brother-in-law, so he would not even encourage you to be the other woman to his sister at all. 

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “I like you,” his tone turned more serious than it was before, “which means I’m going to say this once, and gently: If you’re going to fall for her, make sure you know what you’re falling into.”

For a moment, you both sat there in the library, the weight of what was coming pressing down like a second skin.

It was only cut through with Teddy tapping the varnished wooden table in front of you with his fingers.

Then, he snapped back into his usual sardonic energy. "Get some sleep, darling. Tomorrow’s going to be bloody."

You nodded numbly as you watched him get up, fix his tuxedo, and leave you alone with the creeping certainty that everything—your job, your loyalty, your heart—was about to be tested in ways you weren't ready for.

Your chest tightened, but you nodded anyway because you already knew.

You always knew where your loyalties belonged.  

Chapter 2: April 2022 - T.R. Lockwood Corporation Main HQ

Notes:

I'm on a writing frenzy, and TikTok edits of Kate aren't helping me to ease my gay suffering. Whoever made that Sweet Brown Shuga edit should be arrested because I cannot handle all lot of her.

Anyways, this is probably a favorite chapter of mine since I have always loved Kate since her "ice queen, sex-friend" personality in Season 4. We will definitely see a stark contrast between 2022 Kate (Post-Season 4) and 2025 Kate (Season 5)!

The last assistant reportedly cried in a stairwell and then joined a cult in Idaho.

Before you, Kate Lockwood’s latest assistant apparently lasted for two weeks. And before that, she had five others. 

Everyone looked terrified when you signed a mountain of non-disclosure agreements without so much as a blink. Richard from HR watched you like a liability as he handed you a clearance badge and a company phone with twenty unread texts.

You were just a fresh hire—a last-minute, desperate recruit. They told you it won’t be your fault if you get fired. Interns blamed Mercury retrograde. Whatever the hell it was. HR called it triage. 

The death of the founder and last CEO left a power vacuum that threw the original board members into chaos. His daughter assumed the CEO position against their better judgment because the first-born daughter, Reagan, was preferable for them at best. You heard that the family house in the Hamptons almost imploded during the reading of the will when all seven of his children gathered.

Rumors had that Kate Lockwood promptly told everyone that they were cunts in corporate language and managed to do the smoothest takedown of the century. In writing, she replaced half of the board and senior management and released a new corporate social responsibility. She rebranded the company to align profit with purpose. A move that delighted young investors and horrified the oil-and-guns legacy donors her father had kept in his pocket.

It would be a tough pedestal to climb and get behind her at this point.

The floor that held the press room smelled expensive, while the lower-level staff wore the same terrified look as the HR Department. She had her cybersecurity team and an entire army of publicists working overtime for the past months since she took the reins, so everyone was anticipating the tidal wave of workload. 

Everyone’s eyes were on the ongoing interview of the power couple by Ricardo Elliott II, watching with bated breath the inaudible discussion from this periphery.

For the first time, you saw her. 

Not in the news or tabloids, but just a few feet in front of you.

She sat on the loveseat sofa cross-legged and had a haughty expression, dressed sharply in a crimson suit with her chin-length hair curled wildly. Her new boyfriend was pale in contrast to her, who had this deep, brooding stare that you could detect from where you were standing.

They didn’t look up when you hovered near, but Ms. Lockwood’s presence from a near distance was enough to rearrange the air in your lungs. You could hear parts of the interview where she shared about the new art schools in New York City and back in London before the year’s end, and how art had been her passion and career before taking over the company. 

After they wrapped up and exchanged handshakes, your stomach climbed up to your ribs when she finally looked at you.

From her insouciant stare, she was waiting for you to speak first, so you introduced yourself as the newly hired executive assistant, and that you were absolutely ecstatic to start worki—

“Why the hell did HR send you up when any of my team hadn’t spoken with you yet?”

Shit .

You weren’t aware that such a protocol existed. They already gave you your very own clearance badge, so you were under the impression that you were already cleared . But, you guessed it should have been an unspoken one since she was propelling towards becoming one of the powerful persons in the city. 

What in the actual fuck did you walk into?

Her boyfriend stepped forward with a patient smile. You recognized him from the countless articles that narrated his narrow escape from his abusive and troubled late wife. The media painted him as passionately taking in his role as a supportive partner to the high-powered CEO. 

Joe looked calm, handsome, and mildly patronizing as he eyed you. “Don’t scare her off just yet, darling,” he told her gently.

Ms. Lockwood sighed, her clear green eyes never leaving you. “Fine, I’ll be the one to brief you instead. God knows no one else will do it properly. Lucky you. I’m in the mood to explain myself.”

You took this as a cue to follow her back inside, but before you entered the press room, Joe called out to you. His voice stuck to you like a trickle of cold water down your spine. “Take care of Kate. She works too hard,” he said, then he turned to leave through the elevator.

It was only forty-five minutes until your first hour, and already, someone was warning you to protect her. You just didn’t know from what. 

Nevertheless, she sat back on the loveseat and crossed her legs while her fingers steepled over one knee. She eyed you with the precision of a laser as she slowly took you in. 

Meanwhile, you sat on the Lawson chair across from her when she gestured for you to. Your credentials were solid, but she looked like someone unimpressed by anything less than impossible. The curriculum vitae you submitted was impeccable and pristine, but this job description was becoming more vague in how she regarded you, as if you’d cry in the washroom anytime. 

Then, she waved her hand towards a woman with a British accent and looked remotely close to a school superintendent. “This is Cynthia Bell, my publicist,” Ms. Lockwood introduced. “You’d be working with her as well if you could survive at least a day without breaking down in front of me.” 

You nodded in understanding as you glanced at Cynthia, who had a mild interest in being here, let alone meeting you. She excused herself, saying that her job in stir the interview early to the right direction and was prompted to leave with the approval of your new boss. 

You were left alone with her in the press room. This allowed you to scrutinize your new boss up close and personal. That was if she would not fire you on the spot. Ms. Lockwood wasn’t beautiful in the way tabloids said. She was dangerous in it, like how her jawline could file you down to nothing if she smiled too long. 

“I’d like to be briefed early on the status of my schedules, logistics, and item lists, especially if there would be morning meetings and even on weekends,” she continued. “Any unscheduled calls, including from my mother, would go through you first before they could reach me. Most of all, I never speak to siblings who are not working in this building unless it’s to prepare a legal counterstrike. I eat twice a day, but if you schedule three, make sure it’s a life-or-death situation because I will not attend the third. I hate anything parsley, greasy American fast food, and men who talk in metaphors. Keep all three away from me.”

You nodded once again without blinking as you rapidly typed on a note-taking app on the company phone the bullet points of her requests. You were confident in your skills to keep up, but your brain was still catching up from the metaphor line. Was it a joke?

From your periphery, you saw Ms. Lockwood leaning back slightly, her gaze sharper now. Her eyebrow quirked as your fingers raced across the on-screen keyboard. The corner of her mouth tugged slightly up. Was she impressed?

Nevertheless, she continued, “And, I don’t have time to teach people how to swim. So if you’re drowning, please do say so. I hugely prefer it, but don’t fake it. I fire people who lie to me, but I forgive mistakes and I do not forgive cowardice.”

“Understood, Ms. Lockwood,” you replied, trying not to swallow your words. 

Her mouth twitched again. Was this woman really incapable of smiling at anything other than in front of PR stunts? 

She stood, extending her hand with manicured nails and a statement ring that caught the light. You could smell the faintest scent of raspberry, amber, rose petals, patchouli, and mocha from her. Timeless and alluring. 

You stood upright, took her hand, and shook it. And God, her palm was warm. Her grip was firm, confident, her thumb brushing your knuckles just once before pulling away. 

“Welcome to T.R. Lockwood Corporation. Try not to disappoint me.”

You blinked. "That's it? No 'Where do you see yourself in five years?' No 'What's your greatest weakness?'"

Ms. Lockwood frowned. Her sharp eyes with a smokey eyeshadow locked onto yours with an exasperated look that made you feel that the answer should have been more obvious. "Your greatest weakness is that you're overqualified for this job but desperate enough to take it anyway,” she replied with a mirthless chuckle. “And, in five years? You'll either be running this company or running away from it."

By your first hour in the company, you already had access to the fifteen-digit password to her late father’s encrypted archive. In the second, you found out that the job description of “executive assistant” to her is equivalent to being a chaos wrangler. She also didn’t ask for coffee, unless it was her doting boyfriend who had brewed it. 

The executive floor was a sprawling, modern open-plan office with an inner sanctum feel. Everything was glass, gloss, and tension. Your desk was just outside her office, but yours was bigger and had an opportunity for personal space as compared to the rest of the executive assistants on this floor. 

You had been welcomed by the chief of staff, who, from what you heard, happened to be a surprise hire by the CEO herself and was also an ostracized half-brother from Harlem. 

“You survived, wow!” was the first thing Teddy Hayes ever said to you in exclamation. More surprised than in disbelief. 

The eyes hit you immediately. Every head pretended not to turn, but you felt it. The appraisal. The silent math of who you were, how long you’d last, and whether you’d be a threat or just another splatter mark on the glass wall.

“Barely,” you said with a wince. 

“That’s already a high A+ to her,” he replied. “I’m Teddy, her chief of staff.”

You introduced yourself to him with a firm handshake. 

“I’ll be praying to every saint that you’d last longer than the others,” he said. “They were brilliant ones. Polished. Efficient. But none of them stayed past six. None of them knew her favorite brother’s birthday before she did. And, none of them ever learned how Kate takes her tea without asking.”

Somewhere in your mind, you made a mental note to draft a format of your resignation letter in case of need. Then, check how much a one-way ticket to Idaho would cost. 

Teddy showed you around the executive floor, then pointed out where the senior management could be found and contacted. You could sense that he was already assessing your shoes, your posture, and your pulse as he did. His verdict on you was still pending.

He rattled off names and departments, but the subtext was louder than his voice. The Lockwood dynasty drama was too galactic. This meant that you’d have to choose whose leadership you need to side with. In your cause, by default, you had to back up Kate Lockwood while fending off the vultures sent by the Reagan Lockwood-Jacobs faction.

At the back of your mind, you found it odd that her boyfriend, who was merely an associate, had his own glass office on the executive floor.

You’re ushered to your glass cubicle. It's close to her office but not too close. You sat down; the chair’s too stiff. The silence was too thick when Teddy left you to “spread your wings.” 

You were visible enough to be observed, but also invisible enough to be forgotten at the same time.

Around the third hour, you were double-checking notes for a late board call while you were seated at one of the couches in her office. You were enjoying the mutual silence you shared with your boss when you heard designer heels clicking like gunshots against the marble floor.

“Who’s this?” the woman sneered, looking you up and down like something stuck to her shoe. Blonde hair tied up, perfect and sharp as a blade. Her perfume was rich enough to make a statement.

Ms. Lockwood didn’t even spare a glance from her contracts. “She’s my new assistant, Rey.”

Reagan smirked, standing up straight. “Cute. But you should know, honey, the help doesn’t last long around here.”

The words landed like a slap. You didn’t respond. Because no one briefed you on how to handle a Lockwood sibling that ruthless to your boss. You stiffened, still pretending to be focused on your notes, refusing to give her your dignity.

“ Reagan .”

“I’m just saying to Assistant no. 7,” Reagan continued, ignoring the warning tone. “There’s a fine line between competent support and co-dependence, but I suppose we all find comfort where we can. Some of us in Chanel. Others in… well,” her eyes flicked to you, “the help.”

“Be careful,” she said. The coldness in Ms. Lockwood’s voice made you turn. She finally glanced up with an eyebrow raised. “You’re confusing class with cruelty again. It’s embarrassing.”

Reagan smirked. “Very touchy today, Katie?”

“No,” Ms. Lockwood replied, rising to full height. “Just a tad observant. You insult people when you’re bored. And, you’re always bored, Reagan.”

You could feel Reagan’s smile tighten from across the room.

Your boss turned to you. Her voice was calmer, meant only for you. “Can you give us the room, just for a moment?”

You nodded, gathering your notes as quickly as you could, while keeping your face neutral as you walked out. Just as you turned around outside the glass wall towards your desk, you heard her firm and clear, catching the words that would be very difficult to scrub out of your mind for days.

“Talk to me like that again in front of her, and I’ll make sure you won’t ever be bored again.”

---

Nearing just before evening, an unread email marked “URGENT” had just appeared in your inbox. You opened the email with bated breath. 

Subject: NEED THIS FIXED BY 6.

[email protected] (via internal secure line)

“Board deck attached. Find the discrepancy in Slide 14. Cross-check with Legal and PR. Fix it. Quietly. Then come upstairs and explain why I shouldn’t fire everyone on the ESG committee.”

Attachment: Q1_2022-ESG_Deck_FINAL_REALLY_FINAL.pptx

You thought you would have an aneurysm by just reading the file name. Glancing at the time, it was already 4:37 PM.  You heard the elevators ding close. Your boss was away from her office. Teddy was nowhere in sight.  

It was up to you, then. 

You wasted no time going through the presentation. It was dense, brutal data, and glossy infographics. Slide 14 made your stomach twist. It cited donations made to an environmental fund that was publicly condemned last week for embezzlement.

Fuck . 

You double-checked the file. That line wasn’t just sloppy or carelessly written like a typo error. It was radioactive, so you had to react fast.

You hastily called Legal, and someone named Minka picked up.

“Slide 14,” you said. “The donation—”

“We told them not to use it. PR overruled us.” Minka sounded irritated, as if she had already repeated herself numerous times only to be met with disappointment at the end.

“Well, PR’s about to get a live grenade shoved down their throat,” you replied, already pulling up contacts from that department. “Who from Public Relations approved this slide, anyway?”

“Looks like Ms. Lockwood did.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I mean, Mrs. Maddie Lockwood-Bierhals,” Minka corrected herself. “She’s kind of the head of PR.”

You hummed. “Interesting.”

From what you had seen all over social media, the younger Lockwood twin, Madison (or more popularly known by her user handle @maddiemlockwood), was the frequent subject of tabloids, celebrity news, and gossip columns since she was twelve years old. No one was surprised when she was appointed by her CEO half-sister, but it was vague whether or not what she was doing in PR was anything other than scrolling through her TikTok’s For You Page and posting stories on her Instagram. 

Minka merely sighed. “Better make sure you’re not standing in the blast zone when Kate Lockwood finds out, yeah?”

You hang up. Your heart was racing now. This was it. Your first real test, and it was a sinkhole that would be going to swallow you whole if you weren’t able to comply. 

Pulling verified data from ESG-approved partners and the accompanying finance spreadsheet, you rewrote the slide as efficiently as you could, then called the finance liaison. 

“You did your homework,” Herbert spoke through the telephone, mildly impressed as he went through your revision. “Okay, I’ll greenlight it from our side. But if she hates the colors, you’re on your own.”

You hit send once you slammed the receiver back. The confirmation notification bubble appeared by 5:56 PM.

To: Katherine A. Lockwood ([email protected])

Subject: SLIDE 14 – Corrected and verified. 

“Attached deck approved by Legal and Finance.”

Attachment: Q1_2022-ESG_Deck_REVISED.pptx

At 6:03 PM, your company phone buzzed with a text requesting your presence inside her office. You spun from your chair slightly and glanced back through the glass wall of her office, where you could see her clearly from your view.  The city skyline outside the windows was painted gold with sharp edges behind her.

You’re not sure why, but your instincts told you to assess her mood as if you were entering a war room. 

She was standing at the far window with her back towards you, but you could see that she was wearing an earpiece in one ear, speaking rapidly in what you could faintly hear from your position was in French. You didn’t even notice when she came back in. 

Joe was seated on the arm of her couch, leafing through a used novel that you didn’t recognize the cover while sipping what looked like ginger tea.

Still, you slowly walked inside and tapped the glass wall.  He didn’t look up when you entered, but your boss did.

“Tell me what you fixed,” she demanded as she pocketed the earpiece.

You did and kept it clinical and short. Legal flagged the donation. Finance confirmed the partners. PR overstepped, and you quietly swept the mistake before the board presentation. You did not use the word “hero,” but you might have earned even just a syllable of it.

Ms. Lockwood looked at you for a long time and placed her hands on her hips. You were beginning to understand that her face was highly incapable of showing whether she was impressed or disappointed. Then, finally, she asked,  “Who told you to speak to Finance?”

“No one,” you admitted. “But the discrepancy needed a second source for verification. It won’t hurt if it’s armed with triple-checking.”

Her expression shifted into something hard to read, which you took for satisfaction and praise over your work. “Good. Don’t wait for permission when the house is on fire.” Then, she looked over her boyfriend and calmly said, “I guess I don’t have to make more applicants cry, darling.”

Joe smiled, lowering the novel. “We should send our regards to HR.”

A vein on your temple throbbed in confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time, Ms. Lockwood smiled. Not the uptight smile reserved for galas, photoshoots, or press releases. The one that showed she was pleased as clear as day. “No, in fact, I was actually trying to find a personal assistant. Although it seems to me that you already called bagsy on this.”

Jesus Christ.

Then, she went over to her desk and produced a brown leather folio from the neat pile, which she presented to you. “Everything you need to understand and memorize is inside. All that I need this week—contacts, holdings, issues to bury—is also included. You’d find the printed employment contract, benefits, emergency and medical contact, and other documents there. Everything you need to sign by tomorrow is tabbed.  Go home and sleep because I’ll be needing you at my flat by 6 AM sharp. I’ll be texting you my address.”

She handed you the leather folio, her fingers brushing yours, just barely enough for your mind to register. Enough to made you question if she’s doing it on fucking purpose because it’s making your brain go haywire. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just nerves, adrenaline, the residual terror of almost being fired.

But then she looked at you. Really looked as compared to hours earlier, when you looked like a name she could strike out with a red pen. Something in her expression knocked the wind out of your professionalism.

You should have turned down the offer. Walked away with your dignity. Instead, you were holding a leather folio, staring at her eyes like an idiot, and realizing far too late that this was a problem. 

When she looked at you like that? You forgot all of it. All you could see were those green, green eyes.

She’s hot.  

Terrifying, brilliant, impossible. But hot.

“I’ll still fire you if you ever make me look unprepared again.”

Notes:

I'd really love to know your thoughts upon reading this chapter! Despite this is my favorite, I am still anxious on putting this out.

Chapter 3: April 2025 - The Dakota, Upper West Side

Notes:

This is just 3500 words filled with gay panicking and gay pining for Charlotte Ritchie, and I won't even apologize for it.

You had stayed the night at the Lockwood-Goldberg apartment. Not in the sense of romance or desire. God, no . It was a strategic measure. The gala ended late, the briefing was due early, and you were too stubborn to leave anything to chance. You called it professional preparedness, while your boss called it your early death wish with your fetish for a positively American work ethic. 

Well, you had to give her a thorough event debrief before the board, especially Reagan, could sink their teeth into the Lockwood Literacy Initiative.

Ms. Lockwood had offered the guest room with the same ease she issued orders, and you had accepted like a soldier taking position on the battlefield. Even her husband had no qualms with you staying over, as it had always been a prerogative since they had noticed how you have this ruthless work ethic that your boss had to pry all of your gadgets from you at once. 

Your alarm had set off, but you had already lain awake for an hour, scrolling through your notes, re-reading the anonymous tip, and trying not to overanalyze the exchange with Teddy last night.

From the years of working as her assistant, you knew better than to give a half-assed report.

When you got up, Joe was already up in his sweats and running jacket while tying his sneakers in the living room. An early morning jog was always part of his routine when the media got over its sensation from his narrative of returning from the dead. Being that you were hopelessly in love with his wife that it hurt when you breathed, the conversations you had with him were mostly civil and professional, thus kept short. You tried hard not to be awkward around him, so he would not suspect that you didn’t definitely take the sleepover as an excuse to see her on a weekend. 

It wasn’t even rational jealousy. Not really. Joe had never been cruel, just intense. The kind of intensity that scared the daylights out of you. 

After all, your job description did not include fantasizing about your married boss. But the part of your brain that still flinched at her smile, that still goes electric when her approval was as addictive as oxygen, lighting up with the fire of petty, ugly longing.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Joe informed you without looking up. “I figured you’d work early.”

Just as he put on his blue cap before heading through the elevator, Joe gave you a kind of look that made you wonder if he had already told his wife about the hit piece. 

Shaking away the conspiracy for now, you took a seat at the kitchen island to set it up as your workspace. Your workspace: laptop with too many tabs open, tablet mid-edit on the briefing, and your weathered portfolio, stacked with sticky tabs and sticky notes on papers and notes that would put any undergrad to shame.

You were in your element. The faster you worked, the more time you could save Kate Lockwood from the public disgrace of that wretched Forbes article. And if you failed, it wouldn’t just be your head on the chopping block.

A few minutes later, as you sifted through photos from the gala, right on time, the housekeeping and kitchen staff started their chores around you to prepare the day for the Lockwood-Goldberg household. The scent of cinnamon, maple syrup, and sausages filled the apartment. 

You requested Laura, one of the most trusted staff, to boil water so you could steep in Earl Grey tea, so your boss’ favorite lavender London Fog would be ready just before her alarm went off. 

The anonymous tip still echoed in your mind as you topped the cup with frothed milk. You didn’t know how to open this up to her. You would. You must. After she got the post-gala matters discussed and settled with her, you would start to do your own research before you could bring it up to her. 

Footsteps padded in through the kitchen as morning light filtered through the windows and spilled over the thick art deco carpets and parquet flooring. You looked up from your workspace to see a barefoot Ms. Lockwood wearing cream knitwear with its sleeves pushed to her elbows over a pair of navy silk pajamas. Her hair was still tousled from sleep with a few frizzy curls, courtesy of her incompetent hairdresser. That was the least of your thoughts when she stood before you like she walked out of an expensive dream.

‘ An expensive, unattainable dream ,’ your useless thoughts added. You tried not to stare. You absolutely, definitely failed.

“God, I always forget you’re always up this early,” she muttered when she saw you.

And, God, you always forgot how she looked so radiant in domestic bliss. It was the most devastating thing you had ever seen. Her voice was hoarse, velvet-soft, and freshly woken. A British accent never sounded like chocolate to yours until you heard hers. It was unfair, and it was making you look stupid despite having an MBA and being fluent in four languages. You tried not to look at her neck and arms. The curve, slope, and column of her very person. The way her skin glowed without trying.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “I like my job.”

“Concerning,” she replied as she raised an eyebrow with a faint smirk. “Sometimes, I feel like you’d find a vacation or an hour of sick leave absolutely revolting.”

She brushed past, close enough for you to catch the scent of last night’s perfume warmed with sleep. She leaned on the counter like she owned the world, and you forgot how to breathe. If you let yourself stare too long, you knew your expression would betray something shameful. Something soft. Something real.

You were losing it.

Still, you allowed yourself a small smile over the banter. “Or else, risk another corporate fiasco that my position is cursed by Voldemort himself to prevent having a permanent assistant?”

Ms. Lockwood winced. “Christ, don’t remind me of how many of you I sent running for the hills.”

“Say the word and I’ll be signing up for a cult if you want me to vacation that badly.”

Your boss poured herself a glass of warm water and took a light sip. “You’re absolutely terrifying, do you know that?” 

You shrugged. “Only when necessary.”

“Which, for you, is apparently every waking moment.”

“And, yet you find me indispensable.”

“You know, actual normal people would find their boss an absolute twat.”

You gave no reply, not because she was wrong, but rather because she could easily disarm you, even when she was just teasing. Especially when she teased. Three years ago, she would have decimated you, and you would have thanked her for it.

Instead, you compartmentalized your thoughts and feelings by redirecting back to work. “Post-event report presentation,” you offered simply, gesturing towards her lavender London Fog and briefing packet on the table. 

Ms. Lockwood pored over the event debrief that was opened on your tablet. She sank into the chair beside you, curling in like it was second nature, already reaching for her London Fog. “Alright, how’s the optics so far from last night?”

You steeled yourself and you gave a thorough walkthrough of her request because that was your job. Social media metrics. Politico reactions. An uptick in approval among the international press after her one-liner about more accessible scholarships. That was why you stayed the night. That was why you were here.

“Gala coverage is favorable. Main outlets are leaning toward ‘a constellation of today’s most creative voices who have a distinct relationship to sound and the voice.’ The Times praised the ESG panel for the company’s consistency in arts and letters.”

Then, your hand almost clenched just as she was about to navigate through the next briefing slide. You knew exactly what image was waiting there. It was burned behind your eyelids even when the screen was dark.

There it was.

The photograph.

That still.

The fairytale kiss that Joe gave to his wife, locked in that old-Hollywood dip center stage on the red carpet like it was choreographed for maximum front-page seduction. He was all black Tom Ford and clean-cut menace of a Prince Charming; his hand on her waist like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply to command a headline. It was elegant, calculated, and, honestly, kind of perfect.

All you could register was her. She was poured into that silver gown catching every flashbulb like starlight like it was custom-designed to make you lose your goddamn mind. Your boss. A married woman. Completely unaware of how hot she looked. 

You had zero business caring.

The kiss wasn’t performative; it wasn't staged as a publicity stunt. You saw it then, and you see it now. It had already gone viral, picked up by every major news outlet, like The Times, Vogue, Vanity Fair, and Page Six. Your inbox was a graveyard of “ Would Kate Lockwood and her Prince Charming like to comment? ” requests. Was it true love? A PR stunt performance? Damage control just before announcing the literacy initiative? The usual vultures were picking at clean bones.

The internet was eating it up like communion.

Something inside you, the one you didn’t let out much because you really love your job, snarled. A list of thoughts came sharply and suddenly into your mind.

1. Call Cynthia.
2. Have her scrub the image off the internet.
3. Leak a false copyright claim.
4. Bribe Getty Images. Burn Getty.

Of course, that wasn’t a reasonable thought. The kind you tucked away like a complicated encryption key, with your heart being the drive.

Jealousy didn’t suit you.

Neither did public affection suit Kate Lockwood. 

Yet here you were, drowning in both.

You didn’t smile. Not because you were bitter—no, not really—but because if you smiled, something else might slip out. You tried not to let it show on your face as you turned the screen towards her. Instead, you said, “It’s being called the photo of the season.”

“It’s a good photo. We made the front page of The Daily Mirror.” She was grinning ear to ear as you turned the screen towards her, oblivious to the fact that you were not trying to let it show on your face what you were thinking. 

It wasn’t just a good photo. It was intimate. Or it looked that way. The knot behind your ribs wasn’t professional; it was personal. Stupid. Dangerous.

And yet, her smile was incandescent. You had never seen her so transfixed. For a moment, you almost believed it had all been worth it.

You tried to be neutral. You had practiced neutrality, but your fingers twitched around the edges of your tablet.

Ms. Lockwood glanced at you when you didn’t continue speaking. “Something else?”

You hesitated. “There’s already a TikTok edit. Background music is Lana Del Rey.”

Power couple Joe and Kate. Red carpet. Camera flashes exploded around them like fireworks. Dipped low in Joe’s arms. Her silver dress, sparkling like stardust, poured into a human silhouette. The audio set to Young and Beautiful’s haunting swell.

“They do love a spectacle. I genuinely believe that one of these days, this app is going to be our downfall,” she said. 

You cleared your throat and moved to the next bullet point. “Coverage is favorable,” you continued. “Vogue called you the woman of the hour. Louboutin sent a handwritten card with roses, thanking you for wearing their So Kate heels again. Jenny Packham’s Instagram post featured you that they’re honored for choosing them again by wearing their platinum Bright Gem gown last night.”

Ms. Lockwood glanced up; her green eyes were glinting in amusement. “British flattery. Efficient and obligatory.”

“She also offered to send over the Autumn collection preview. Apparently, you’re considered the muse now. I assume they’ll send you the matching clutch now.”

She huffed a soft laugh into her London Fog. You hated how that sound had made something warm bloom in your chest. “Finally,” she deadpanned. “My lifelong dream to become a clothes hanger.”

“An elegant one,” you muttered, cursing yourself for the softness in it.

“And here I thought I looked like a mirror ball.”

“An expensive, intimidating mirror ball,” you said.

The tension eased a fraction. You didn’t say how that couple’s photo had sliced through your chest like a polished dagger, or how you had spent the morning rerouting your feelings into color-coded logistics. Because that was what you should do. You took care of her. That was the job.

Unfortunately, you might have given something away because Kate suddenly tilted her head towards you and said, “You’re unusually clipped.”

“I’m just tired from last night, then I think I slept in the bath.”

She frowned slightly. “That’s not it. You’re not usually like this. If I remember correctly, you typically find overworking with four hours of sleep your own shot of espresso.”

You did not let yourself look up. Not really. Just a glance, but you saw her anyway. 

She studied you. The same way she would when you were about to drop a piece of bad news on her or two. Her green eyes were still soft, still warm, but you felt the shift. 

You felt completely seen and desperately unseen all at once.

You hadn’t told her. You couldn’t say anything about the hit piece yet. That Teddy cornered you last night in the Armory library and handed you a warning like it was a ticking time bomb about to implode.

Not yet. Not when she looked like this—barefaced, going through the briefing packet that you prepared for her, completely unaware that there was an incoming hit piece with her name on it.

She would be angry at you. She hated lying and cowardice, and you were having a shitty track record on avoiding the two. 

You couldn't tell her because of what ?

Because you wanted to keep this moment for longer before the world picked her apart?

Because the sight of her soft and unguarded like this was so rare, you wanted to preserve it in a museum?

Because you love her?

Then, her voice pulled you with narrowed eyes. “Is this about the dress?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The Jenny Packham. You were frowning every time someone complimented it. I assumed it was a stylistic objection.”

“I was frowning because someone nearly spilled champagne on it.”

A lie. You were frowning because you couldn’t stop picturing Joe’s hands on her waist. You hated how good she looked in something that shimmered like starlight. Because her shoulders were bare, and you wanted to kiss them, but you never would.

Never could.

And, also because you were one fucking liar; she would kick your ass if she found out you were being a coward to her after three years of taking care of her. 

Ms. Lockwood raised an eyebrow, still trying to decipher your thoughts. “And yet you look like someone has died. Tell me what you’re not saying. We’ve earned that, haven’t we?”

The air went still.

It was not fair, the way she said that. She knew you too well, and it hurt.

You would tell her.

Just not this morning.

Not when she was drinking the London Fog you had prepared for her while humming contentedly. Not when her cardigan was slipping off one shoulder, not when she was looking at you like you were her anchor.

Instead, you immediately averted your gaze and scrolled to the briefing notes, letting the soft hum of email notifications re-anchor you to neutral territory. “Right, gala recap,” you said crisply. “Press will circulate the stills until Sunday evening,” you said crisply. “We’ve sent out the official selects.”

Ms. Lockwood sighed, masking anything she would have wanted to say with a sip. “You always know what I need before I do.”

Then, you dove straight into logistics—the donor totals, the press coverage, the minor security disruption by that artist wannabe selling NFTs—and she let you speak uninterrupted. You pretended not to feel the weight of her gaze. Pretend your skin was not burning when hers was just one reach away from you.

She flipped through the pages of the event debrief further by the end. “Talk me through the damage report. Any board members we need to muzzle so I could put out some feelers?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. One by one, you listed names that your boss would need more persuading about the new literacy initiative, and tailoring it to the accompanying SWOT analysis you had been preparing with her weeks before the announcement from last night. She listened carefully, brow furrowed in that way you had learned before that it meant that she was calculating six voting outcomes simultaneously. Every now and then, she interjected with a sharp question, and you responded with alternative strategies in turn. 

She was alert. Sharp. 

Effortlessly in control.

You went down the rest of the list. Positive press mentions, neutral editorials, and some grumblings from European subsidiaries on the announcement of the Lockwood Literacy Initiative.

“How about other important matters?”

“That French consulate has been reaching out again, something about scheduling for the upcoming charity circuit, it’s already flagged as important in your inbox. You also have a request for a video call with a Norwegian philanthropist who apparently wants to donate ten million euros and a yacht; in that particular order. I said that having the yacht up for auction or something would be more favorable for the company,” you paused, before dropping the dreaded update. “Also, Greta Galvin called. Again.”

She groaned into her cup. “Tell Mum I’m in church,” she sighed exasperatedly. “The priest told me I need three months of silence. She’d understand as a spiritualist stylist—whatever the fuck that means.”

You nodded, ignoring the fact that she had not been in church since boarding school unless there was an art exhibition. “That’ll hold Ms. Galvin until Tuesday.”

Ms. Lockwood grinned. A real one. It knocked something loose in your ribcage.

You turned back to your tablet before you gave yourself away again, pretending you were refilling your mug with coffee from the machine on the counter. 

You were a professional. You managed chaos, not yearning.

It was impossible not to do so, when your mind still cycled through press reactions, security footage, and that damn red carpet dip kiss.

“I meant what I said last night,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done everything without your help.”

Your throat tightened. This was worse. This kindness.

But as you finished pouring yourself another cup of coffee, you still felt her eyes on you again. You turned to her, and you wondered if she saw it too.

She smiled, just barely. It almost killed you. “I expect you to tell me the truth.”

You looked at her then. Really looked.

The line of her neck. The half-moon shadows under her eyes. That mole just above her lip.

The way she still didn’t know that someone was coming for her.

“I always do,” you replied.

You really wanted to tell her. Maybe you should tell her now.

And footsteps padded into the kitchen, and the thought was lost from your mind. 

As he patted away his sweat from his morning jog, Joe made a beeline for his wife. She turned around as he embraced her from behind; her smile as radiant as the gown she wore last night.

“Good morning, darling,” she greeted him. “You’re right on time. Breakfast is being served.”

You stepped away and pretended something was interesting in your inbox when Joe kissed her in front of you and your immaculate workspace. 

You imagined storming into TikTok’s corporate office like a vengeful god and deleting every last romantic edit. Then, switching Joe’s sugar with salt.

Burn Getty. Burn Getty. Burn Getty .

Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to call Cynthia.

You did none of these things, obviously. You were completely normal.

Notes:

Thank you so much for everyone's support! I really appreciate everyone's comments and interactions with this fic. You could also find me in Tumblr and Twitter / X as @heythereflyboy. Hoping you guys stick around for Chapter 4! Don't worry, we'll get to see more of 2022 ice queen Kate.

Chapter 4: June 2022 - Dos Caminos Lexington

Notes:

Dos Caminos Lexington is an actual restaurant near the shooting site of the exterior of T.R. Lockwood Corp in Season 5 Episode 2, when Joe was planning to kidnap Reagan (767 Third Avenue, NYC). It took me two days to search for it, and another two days to search for the Park Avenue Armory where the opening of the Lockwood Museum of Art gala was held. God, I wish I had the same drive when it comes to my remaining academic days.

Oh, Charlotte Ritchie, the things I do for you...

There were worse things than being chosen. 

Your inbox dinged while you were reviewing the 142-page investor deck for your boss’s upcoming talk in Geneva. You received an email with a subject line that almost made your head spin around because of its bubblegum pink tone. God forbid this almost looks like it was written in pink Comic Sans.  

You mentally took note to email Richard from HR, recommending that the Head of PR herself should take a three-day PR training seminar.

Maddie’s voice almost bled through the screen.

Subject: Monocle wants you :)

[email protected]

“Hi so someone from monocle’s london hq is doing katie’s leadership spotlight article! Leadership, vision, and all that jazz

Some firsthand quotes from someone “close to the crown” (their words)

They requested specifically for you! Be the 100 emoji personified 💯 

3-5 quotes, nothing scandalous

My lovely pr people are already up to speed of course and those scary people from legal

Say yes! It’ll be fun 😉

XOXO, Maddie

Sent from my iPhone”

You read the email three times, wondering if Maddie had typed this in while drunk. Closed your email. Then, back to the 142-page deck. Reopened it with a quiet sigh, while on another window, you skimmed through Monocle’s Business section on their website to pull up past feature articles of CEOs interviewed.

At first glance, it looked like one of those harmless PR-curated “insider spotlights” with a sleek, glossy content designed to make CEOs look approachable and photogenic, while the publicists and journalists managed the real story behind the curtain.

Except this wanted more than just one quote from you, specifically. 

You, who had been Kate Lockwood’s executive and personal assistant for two months. 

You, who had not slept properly since your onboarding, because every hour of the job demanded you to be everywhere, anticipate everything, and do it all with the emotional opacity of a brick wall.

You, who had seen her break the boardroom in half with a single glance.

You, who had once accidentally caught her asleep in her office while waiting for a conference call from Beijing, clutching a dog-eared copy of Winston Churchill’s My Early Life.

You, who had definitely not developed a workplace crush that made your bones ache and your brain lag ten seconds behind every time she so much as looked your way.

The worst part was that you could not turn down the request.

Not just because it was an indirect order. Deep down, you wanted to say something. There was something about being asked to be seen, and it felt good. Even if it was just because of your proximity to her.

Within the hour that you informed consent, against your better judgment, Minka sent over a non-disclosure amendment and a carefully worded one-pager called “ Interview Participation Protocol .” 

You signed both after reading them three times.

“It’s a lifestyle-business hybrid,” Minka said when she called. “Kate’s story is art-to-empire. Clean, curated. Think chic austerity. Keep it minimal. No grit. No anecdotes unless cleared by Cynthia.”

She walked you through what you can and can’t say by emphasizing what topics were off-limits, including especially and specifically any mention of Joe Goldberg and his involvement in that gruesome Mrs. Lovette-esque case in Madre Linda unless quoting from official and approved press releases.

You were not allowed to give numbers. No policy talk. No family comments. Keep it light. Keep it clean. Keep it Lockwood-sanctioned.

You wanted to ask why she thought you would give anecdotes. Instead, you replied, “Understood.”

“You’re not here to humanize her. You’re here to professionalize her. Stay in your lane.” With that, she hung up without waiting for you to speak.

The truth was that you knew more about Kate Lockwood than most people do. At the same time, you had also learned that the closer you were to a flame, the quieter you needed to be if you didn’t want to burn.

When Cynthia finally forwarded you the approved questionnaire under strict guidelines, you composed your response in a Notepad doc first with all the care of holding an antique vase.

Q: What is it like working with Kate Lockwood?

Official Response: “Working with Ms. Lockwood is an unparalleled experience. She is a visionary with a relentless drive for excellence and social impact. Every day feels like being part of something greater than yourself.”

What you didn’t write: It’s like trying to hold a live wire with your bare hands while pretending you’re not bleeding out.

---

Q: How would you describe her leadership style?

Official Response: “Ms. Lockwood leads with clarity, conviction, and an unwavering sense of responsibility. She doesn’t micromanage—she empowers. Her expectations are high, but so is her belief in the people she chooses to work with.”

What you didn’t write: She’ll never say thank you, but she’ll remember what you ordered the day you pulled an all-nighter in the office and send it to your desk without comment. She’ll cut you to ribbons and then put you back together without you realizing. She’s impossible, terrifying, brilliant, and I’d follow her into a burning building without hesitation.

---

Q: Can you share one moment that best captures her character?

You hesitated here, longest of all, as compared to the other questions, which felt seamless to probe out of your thoughts. 

It was not one moment. There were a few moments.

The first time she gave you an unprompted compliment.

The time she let you sit in on the board prep meeting and didn’t correct a single line in your minutes.

The time she touched your wrist lightly when you handed her a Montblanc pen, your brain short-circuited.

You settled on a polished truth.

“Once, a vendor tried to shortchange a charitable arm of the company during a cancer treatment initiative. Ms. Lockwood not only personally intervened but also made sure the nonprofit received triple the original amount. She never mentioned it again. That’s who she is. Fierce when it counts, and never performative about it.”

When you sent the final answers to Cynthia’s secure inbox, you wanted to hurl your laptop out of the executive floor’s window. You stared at the screen, wondering what Ms. Lockwood would think if she read it. You hadn’t lied, but it wasn’t the truth, either.

You never said that the hardest part of your job was not the scheduling, or the silence, or the emotional minefield of Lockwood family politics.

The hardest part was pretending this was not personal.

Teddy, naturally, got wind of it. He texted you just as you closed the lid of your laptop. 

Theo🚪 Hayes: Monocle? 

Theo🚪 Hayes: God, she’s going to hate that

Theo🚪 Hayes: Betcha they’ll call her Ice Queen Elsa of ESG

Theo🚪 Hayes: If you say anything with the word ‘majestic’ in it, I will print the transcript and frame it for the annual Lockwood Thanksgiving.

The next day, you decided to reward yourself at a Mexican restaurant around the block from the office. The one you heard people from Creatives were giving a glowing recommendation. After all, you answered all of those questions without entering into even a single panic spiral. 

You could use a Taco Tuesday.

You were off-duty, technically. You had only brought your tablet and two phones. That counted as restraint.

Someone approached your table when you were exactly two and a half bites into your birria tacos. She looked polished and in her early thirties with sleek, long, dark hair, glossier than a magazine byline photo. Crisp white shirt, minimal makeup, too composed to be casual. She slid into the seat across from you with a practiced, easy smile.

“Excuse me, you’re Kate Lockwood’s assistant, right?”

You blinked and looked up from your birria platter. “Yes?”

“Elizabeth Carrillo, Monocle London,“ she said. ”Sorry to drop in like this. I heard you were cleared for quotes on the Kate Lockwood feature, and I happened to be here in New York on short notice. Do you mind if we chat for just a few minutes?”

Your mind did a quick sweep over the details you knew: (1) Maddie and Minka never said anything about an in-person interview, (2) Cynthia cleared your answers, not your face, (3) You're halfway through lunch and mentally on break, and (4) This was not the hot British brunette that you wanted to see. 

You also knew this wasn’t about portraying an authentic leadership spotlight anymore. This was a fishing expedition. One designed to get past your filter and into something salacious if you were not being careful. 

Something about her friendly but probing tone that made you nod anyway. She seemed to be a woman who always got the seat she wanted. 

“Just a few minutes.” Perhaps, the birria tacos could wait.

The interview began like most do with pleasantries and pre-vetted questions, wrapped in silk. You answered all of them cleanly. No deviations. Nothing that hadn’t already been rehearsed in your head. You knew the company line better than anyone else because you often wrote it.

But Elizabeth Carillo was good.

Too good.

She ordered an El Camino margarita, leaned forward, and asked without preamble, “What’s she like off camera ?”

You blinked. “She doesn’t turn off.”

She tilted her head. “Come on. No one’s that polished twenty-four-seven. Not even CEOs.”

You exhaled slowly. “She’s not polished. She’s precise.”

Elizabeth leaned back, watching you. “Do you like her?”

The question was a trap. Too simple. Too loaded. You didn’t flinch, but you were aware of the tightness in your throat, the soft burn of truth lodged behind your teeth.

“We’re really trying to understand the culture around her,” Elizabeth explained when you did not answer. “Kate Lockwood has one of the most unusual transitions in corporate leadership. Art gallerist in London to global CEO. Most powerful woman in America in just a matter of months after coming home to New York. Before that, she saw Agriculture and Energy Solutions at just nineteen years old, while shadowing her late CEO father. From your perspective, what made that possible?”

You paused, then said the thing you knew would not get anyone fired, “She reinvents herself on command. She doesn’t just adapt; she redefines.”

Elizabeth hummed. “And what about internally? I’ve spoken with some former board members who found her brisk .”

“She values clarity,” you replied flatly. “She expects the same from others. Exacting because she knows what’s possible.”

She smiled, scribbling into her notepad. You were now highly aware of how sharp her handwriting looked. 

“Her siblings. Do they support the vision? Or, are there power struggles?” she asked casually, sipping her margarita as she eyed you from the glass rim. “Some people say Reagan Lockwood-Jacobs had more board experience…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question or an editorial?”

Disarmed by your words, she laughed, but didn’t back down. “I’m just curious. It’s a complicated legacy to inherit.”

You leaned back on your seat slightly. “Kate Lockwood doesn’t manage a legacy. She dismantled it and continues to build something better.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “You sound very loyal.”

You didn’t reply. You had learned that silence is its own answer.

“You’re blushing. I wonder if it’s because of her shrewd business acumen. Her empathetic leadership style? Perhaps, something else.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed your reaction, like a serpent looking at its prey. 

Then, she dropped the final blow. “Off the record, what’s it really like being that close to her?”

Suddenly, she was not asking as a journalist anymore.

She was asking as a woman who was trying to figure out how someone like Kate Lockwood gets worshipped without cracking.

You stared at your birria tacos growing cold as you considered your thoughts. The ones that were labor union-compliant. After some thought, the words came out of your mouth quietly, but clearly.

“It’s like watching a storm from the eye. There’s power in her presence. Controlled, precise, beautiful. A little bit terrifying if you’re on the wrong side of it. But, you don’t forget where you are. She listens like she’s triaging and analyzing at the same time. She knows how to disarm a room without raising her voice. People underestimate how rare that is in a C-suite.”

Elizabeth did not interrupt; only the scribbles of her writing were what you heard from her. 

“Interesting. So, she’s more guarded than cold. How do you survive that?”

“She’s not cold at all. You don’t survive her. You adapt. Every day feels like being part of something greater than yourself. You learn how to keep up. And if you’re very lucky, she lets you,” you said too fast and too sharp, then, immediately hated yourself for it.

Elizabeth looked up, mildly amused with a smirk. “There it is.”

“There’s what?”

She smiled. “The unfiltered part. Look, I’ve interviewed plenty of execs, assistants, power players. You know what’s rare? Devotion. Not professionalism. Not discipline. Devotion. You have it. It’s in how you talk about her.”

You went still. It was too public here. Too many windows. Too much risk.

“I think the interview is done.”

Elizabeth nodded, not offended. When she was finished, she thanked you, downed the margarita, and left after telling you she would make sure Legal gets a copy of any quotes they use.

By the time you had picked up your sense of thought and wiped your greasy fingers, you started to draft a sanitized report of the lunch encounter to report it to the PR and media team, with Cynthia and Legal CC’d in your email. You mentioned the ambush interview, including Elizabeth Carillo explicitly, and the line of questioning. However, you downplayed your own responses as in line with approved messaging.

You had given away nothing, and you had given away everything. 

Once your appetite for your cold birria tacos returned, you saw a handbag being plopped at the right-most side seat in front of you. You stopped mid-bite when you realized that you recognized that Savette suede hobo bag.

Now, this was the hot British brunette you had been wanting to see all day. She was standing before you while wearing that fitted gray cashmere sweater and tight black skirt cinched by a thin belt that was making your train of thought crash and burn.

Your throat remembered how to function when you swallowed the contents in your mouth. Why was the universe conspiring against your date with a delicious platter of birria tacos?

Kate Lockwood stared down at you, and fuck, you were one intense eye contact away from finally going into a spiral of panic. “Thank God, you’re eating actual human food. I was beginning to fear that you could only digest energy bars and caffeine.”

She sat down in the chair Elizabeth had seated in earlier and folded her hands on the table. “Here’s the part where you ask, ‘Why is my boss interrupting my much-needed lunch break like a complete asshole?’”

You wondered if she had run into Elizabeth heading out of the restaurant while she was on the way here. You wondered if you were gawking at her like an idiot. Grabbing another pinch of tissue paper, you wiped your mouth clean and twisted it between your fingers, unsure what to say next. 

You said nothing. Just waited.

“Did you give a quote to Monocle?” she asked.

You froze. “Yes. Just what PR asked for.”

You were starting to hate the fact that the restaurant speakers were now playing the chorus of Joan Sebastian’s Secreto De Amor. 

You were going to set yourself on fire. 

That was it. 

Maybe, put in a PTO request first, and then combust.

“You should’ve told me. I was quite surprised that Madison blindsided me, until Cythia forwarded the edited draft of your quotes.”

“I’m sorry. I was under the impression that Maddie informed you beforehand. Would you not have let me do it?”

She gave you a long, unreadable look that made you think whether you should be composing your resignation letter. “No, of course not. That’s not the point, but you expected to be noticed.”

That landed like a pin through your collarbone. 

“I expected them to understand you better,” you said carefully. “I respect you, even when I don’t understand you most of the time.”

Her gaze didn’t soften, but it did quiet. “So, tell me what you don't understand?”

You paused, trying to fight through the flurries of thought going through your head of everything about her all at once. 

How she still worked sixteen-hour days and remembered your favorite caffeine-based drink. She fired people without blinking, but also once adjusted your coat collar without saying a word. How she could be so untouchable, but sometimes looked at you like she saw straight through your bones.

You gave a quieter answer instead. “You’re someone who didn’t need saving. That’s why I wanted to work for you in the first place.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her posture did. A slight shift in her shoulders, as if your answer had landed differently than she expected.

You went on, trying to keep your voice even. “Consulting paid well. The boardrooms were full of men who wanted to be the smartest person at the table. I got tired of solving the same crisis for people who didn’t listen.”

Ms. Lockwood tilted her head, studying you. “What made you think this would be different?”

You smiled, faintly. “You don’t need a savior. You just need someone who understands how you think before you say it.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Do you think they did? People like Elizabeth Carillo?”

You hesitated. “Not really. They still see what they want. The myth. The drama.”

“What do you see?”

The question snapped into the air like a whip. You stared at her across the table into those perceptive eyes that saw too much.

You wanted to say so many things. Someone trying. Someone surviving. Someone carrying the weight of an empire she never asked for.

You chose your words carefully. “I see someone who deserves better questions.”

She looked away. “Well, that would be a first.”

The air between you thinned, but not unkindly. More like a pressure shift. Something about the way she leaned back, just slightly unguarded, for once.

“I didn’t hate that you did the interview,” she murmured. “Just wasn’t prepared for how to feel about it. You sounded like you meant it.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t trust yourself to respond. Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say, “I see you.”

You wanted to say, “ You’re not just precise. You’re scared. You’re exhausted. You’re brilliant, and so goddamn human, and I wish you’d let someone care about you the way you care about everyone else. Quietly, ruthlessly, always at a cost. ”

You said nothing.

So instead, you ordered dos enchiladas and avoided her gaze. You pretended you were not memorizing the curve of her mouth when she smiled faintly at the waitress and said nothing else for the rest of the lunch break.

Eventually, when she asked for the bill, she turned to you and said, “I’m lucky to have you in my corner.”

However, that was not the truth.

Because the truth was that you weren’t in her corner. Not really. You were next to her. Behind her. Underneath the weight of her world, maybe, from the purview of her airtight schedules, precision logistics, and meticulously color-coded item lists.

No one wanted the real story of what it was like to be Kate Lockwood’s assistant.

No one wanted to hear about how her perfume lingered in the air long after she was gone. Or how her praise felt like sunlight after a week of rain. Or how, once in a while, you would catch her smiling at a screen, often when her husband sends pictures of his three-year-old son Henry, and, as selfishly as could, you hoped to God it would be because of something you had said.

They didn’t want that story.

They wanted the optics. They wanted a punchy quote out of you.

They wanted a woman in heels who commanded the world and the assistant who kept her calendar from collapsing.

So, that was what you had given them.

A few days later, you saw the article go live on the website.

The header image was a black-and-white photo of Ms. Lockwood standing with one hand pointing at a document and the other poised at her waist. The rest of the board members caught on camera staring up at her, with mixed expressions of awe and tolerance. Her head was straight as she commanded the boardroom effortlessly with just her piercing stare and relaxed posture, like everything was just so natural for her. 

Teddy was already having a field day.

Theo🚪 Hayes: The CEO just got soft-launched by her assistant. Bold of you.

He sent you a screenshot of the subsection featuring your interview. They even quoted a line of yours under the subhead.

INSIDE THE WORLD OF KATE LOCKWOOD—UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL.

“ Every day feels like being part of something greater than yourself .” — Executive Assistant, name withheld for privacy.

You stared at it for a long time.

You weren’t lying.

That was the problem.

You were already too far in.

She had no idea what you were carrying. No idea what you weren’t telling her.

A tiny voice in your voice asked what it would feel like if she chose you in this lifetime.

Notes:

Phew, I hoped you guys liked this chapter. My boyfriend said this was his favorite chapter so far (Yes, he beta reads my fics). Drop a comment or two! I opened the comment section for guests as well.

Also, I hope you caught the tidbits of foreshadowing from the chapters... We're getting closer when the stakes rise.

Chapter 5: April 2025 - La Sirène Soho

Notes:

I am now two episodes left from watching Season 2 of Feel Good as of writing this. I think I just had too many gay feels at this point.

Last night, you spent your time researching. Articles about the Alberta pipeline were suspiciously vague. Most pointed to a rise in carcinogens in cancer alley, not the well-water toxicity project she approved. Too many corporations. Too much legal fog.

Whatever the hit piece was, it felt less like journalism, more like a self-congratulatory smear. You still flagged Legal and PR just in case the publication was moved towards an earlier date than Thursday. Then, Plan B and so on with the PR team would be set in motion just in case.

Meticulously prepared, as always.

Still, this did not stop you from taking this up with her. First and foremost. 

You were meant to bring the news to her early in the morning. She came into her office still glowing from the success of the art gala. You were about to ruin that. 

However, Reagan cockblocked by cancelling your boss’ working lunch with the board for the post-event debrief of the art gala. It was a clear revenge tactic after the new literacy initiative announcement. You, your boss, and Teddy had to set up a few calls just to tidy up the mess.

Armed with your handwritten notes, not trusting anything digital yet, you knocked on the glass wall of her office. Expertly trying not to implode on the fact of how radiant she looked with the New York City skyline in the late afternoon behind her. 

She didn’t turn when you entered. You were glad because if she looked into your eyes, she might have caught the way you were staring. Not at her, exactly. Just the way business casual looked devastatingly good on her.

The way that her dark olive sweater was doing numbers to bring out those green eyes you came to love for three years. She really should not have unbuttoned the topmost buttons of her sweater when the neckline w—

“Did you happen to hear just what I said? ”

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. She was already looking at you this time. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lockwood,” you replied, turning a bit as your cheeks flared up. “I didn’t.”

“You really ought to have proper meals,” she sighed as she closed the art gala’s dossier shut and placed it back on her desk. “What I said was that I want to bring you along to this investor dinner at that charming French restaurant in Soho tonight.”

“But that dinner is only an RSVP. I don’t think the restaurant would allow us to accommodate another person at the last minute.” 

You knew because you were the one who arranged it weeks ago. However, she merely raised her eyebrows as she tried to fight back another sigh escaping her lips.

“The seat itself is an RSVP. We are down to one seat because Joe decided to day-drink with Madison over a ‘brunch’ that lasted five hours. Because God forbid, my husband is still terrorized by the twins,” she said. “Probably, he’s horizontal as we’re speaking. He’d rather he not show up smelling like Glenfiddich, so he’s going to stay at home tonight and you’re filling in.” 

“I—me?” you stammered like a blushing intern. “I thought—”

“Or, would you rather stay at home with this hall of overachievement?” She gestured to your stack of papers that looked like a warzone of headlines, internal reports, water contamination studies, and legal memos cross-referenced with international environmental law. “A sane person would choose escargots and filet mignon courtesy of the company over what I assume is still whatever food you had at your apartment, as if I am not paying you handsomely enough that you could already retire at age forty.”

You didn’t come up with a clever retort. Mostly because she had a point. At the same time, she had no idea what news you were carrying, literally and figuratively. “I don’t think assistants should be seated with C-suite leaders, anyway.”

“You’ll do better anyway. You’re terrifyingly competent and won’t flirt with the investors.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she kept going with a little smirk tugging at her lip.

“Come on, you’re already halfway there as the dutiful work wife,” she said teasingly. “Might as well sit beside me and play the part.”

Your nervous system short-circuited, rewired in real time. The rest of your objections shrivelled up in your brain. She didn’t mean it—no, not like that. It was an old joke. A harmless one.

But God, the word wife still landed like shrapnel in your chest. And you stood there, stupidly and painfully aware that you would have played the part for real, if she ever asked. 

But, she never would. She didn’t notice. She had already moved on, reaching for her bag, checking her watch. Still your very married boss. 

You somehow remembered how to breathe. “Should I… Uh… Prepare a briefing?”

“Already in your inbox,” Ms. Lockwood replied. “I flagged the investors you should watch. Teddy’s covering the rest.”

You nodded, trying not to betray the chaos unfolding in your bloodstream. 

“I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.” 

Then, she left without another word, leaving you still reeling from how she could be so casual with you. 

The hit piece could wait after dinner. The notes of your research could wait. A quick and sanitized version of your findings would be enough for tomorrow. You tucked them safely into your handbag and cleaned up your desk before heading straight down the company building’s lobby, where the company car was already waiting to take you to Soho. 

You slid into the backseat and found her already sitting on the right side. She smiled with fresh reapplied lipstick, and you swore your heart stuttered. 

Once the car pulled onto the main road, Ms. Lockwood took out her phone and dialed her husband’s phone number for a video call. He picked up by the third ring, and his face materialized on her screen.

“Hi, darling,” she chirped, so unlike her CEO facade. “We’re just on our way to the restaurant for the investor’s dinner. How are you doing?”

Joe groaned through the other line. “I still can feel my head pounding. Remind me not to drink with Maddie again.”

“Yeah, I heard that somewhere before,” she said with a small laugh. “Now, how’s my other good boy doing? Can you show him if he’s not already asleep, that is.”

Joe panned the front camera to his left, revealing Henry with his mouth smeared with something that you could recognize as peanut butter spread. Their son reached out and grabbed the phone away from his father’s hands with a laugh. 

“Mom!” he exclaimed. With the phone so close, he tried his best to fit his face into the screen’s camera view. You could clearly see from your seat that he has his father’s striking brown eyes. 

“Hello, bub,” she said with a smile growing larger. The kind of smile that she reserved only for her son. “Is that PB and J you’re eating right now?”

“Dad said I could have it as dinner for acing that science quiz!” Then, he frowned before continuing. “Mom, are you working late again? Dad said you won’t be at home because you’re meeting with people.”  

A shadow passed over her countenance. “Yes, darling,” she answered, finding a way to soften her words. “Mommy has this dinner thing with very powerful people that could make the world better if she says the right things.”

“That’s so cool! You should talk about your favorite book. You can tell a lot about a person by what they are reading. ”

“I know. That’s such a good idea.” She panned the phone towards you, so your face could be seen in the camera view. As she did, you could feel her slightly leaning on your shoulder; you prayed that the car was dim enough that no one could see how red you were. “I’m also with one of your favorite—”

“Hi, Auntie! ” Henry yelled, cutting in as he recognized you. His big brown eyes were very discerning; they looked like they sparkled over the screen’s glare. “You’re taking care of mommy again?”

“I always take care of your mommy,” you replied with a wistful smile. From the corner of your eye, you could see her gaze soften. 

“Promise?”

“I promise.” The words came out of your mouth without missing a heartbeat.

Ms. Lockwood chuckled as she brought her phone’s camera view back to her face. “Alright, bub. Time to go to bed, so teeth. Pajamas?”

“Aye, aye, Mom! ”

“That’s my darling boy. Bye, I love you very much. Can I speak with Dad now?”

Joe reappeared on the screen as he ushered Henry upstairs. “Kate, what time will you be at home ?”

“I’m not so sure about that. Fucking Reagan cancelled the working lunch of the board, so I could see that Teddy and I will be appeasing the dragon before or after we dine with the investors.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that .” He sounded disappointed from the other end of the line. “I hope it ends well, though .”

“We’ll see about that.” Her mouth twitched. “But most importantly, how are you feeling now?”

“Oh, uh… Fine, I guess? I'll probably just lie down .”

“Alright, don’t wait up for me. We might end late.”

“What kind of husband would I be if I don’t wait for my beautiful wife? ”

“The kind of husband who is one migraine away from being hooked up to a banana bag if he doesn’t flush out whatever concoction my sister fed to him.”

“Ha-ha,” Joe said sarcastically. “Call me when the dinner’s done. I’m about to read to Henry the part where the Rohirrim will be heading towards Mi— ”

“DAD! ” Henry yelled off-camera before his father could finish his sentence.

“Whoops.”

“Don’t spoil me! ”

She merely laughed at the exchange. “Alright, that’s my cue for me to go. Bye, my boys.” With that, she ended the call with a sigh as her smile faded, tucking her phone back in her coat pocket.

Everything became quiet until she started to hum what was on the car radio. Michael Jackson’s Heaven Could Wait played low on the radio. You heard the line about ' loving her more than life itself ' and quietly added it to a private Spotify playlist you would never admit existed. Definitely not about her.

This was it. 

You had to tell her.

Then, without warning, she spoke with a voice soft and hesitant, yet it cut through the comfortable silence, “Do you ever feel like someone close to you is keeping a secret and waiting for you to find it on your own?”

Your pulse stalled. Fucking shit. “Ms. Lockwood?” It was the only thing you could manage to wrench out of your mouth as a sensible response.

She gave a small, joyless laugh. “I don’t know. I’m probably just overthinking this, but I can’t shake the feeling that I feel Joe is… I don’t really know what it is, but the feeling’s there and it has been hovering a lot lately.”

You restrained yourself from letting out a breath of relief. Of course, out of respect. Of course, relieved that she was not suspecting you. 

‘Yet,’ your conscience, whom you had not spoken to in a long while, echoed.

“Is this about his brunch today with Maddie?” you asked, careful with your choice of words.

“No, it’s not that,” she replied almost instantly. “I trust Joe enough to handle Maddie. Perhaps, I am more concerned with why he went out to brunch with her. It’s not a jealousy thing or being the nagging wife, I swear. I just have this feeling that I’m positively going insane, that maybe it’s about me. Maybe, it’s just her cunt twin getting on my nerves, so I am taking it out on the fact he went to drinks with Maddie on broad daylight, but—” she stopped herself, composing her thoughts before continuing, “I’m starting to sound like the nagging partner, aren’t I?”

You stared out the window at the blur of the Manhattan streets and lights. Your head turned and mouth opened, then closed, and finally stretched into a smile that conveyed you understood her. That you were there, but at the same time, the guilt of keeping a secret from her was eating you up every night.

She deserved to know he was looking into the leak. She deserved to know about the hit piece.

Just not tonight. She was about to be in a viper’s nest full of people with checkbooks and opinions.

“I’m sure he’ll talk to you,” you finally offered. Your voice was smooth from years of hiding fractures. “He always does, doesn’t he?”

Ms. Lockwood went silent for a while. Then, in a tone too weary for her age, she said, “I just hate the feeling that I’m going to be the last to know, especially when it’s about me.”

You said nothing. You were now the reason for that feeling.

Just before the company car pulled over the curb in front of the restaurant, she reached out to adjust the collar of your coat. The gesture was not foreign at all, being her work wife and all. It was just enough to make all of this devastating for you if it was going to be you who would ruin her with the truth. 

When you entered the restaurant, Teddy was already inside for last-minute checking of the dinner reservation and preparations. While she was not looking for you to run through anything, he pulled you aside in a corner, pretending that there were concerns with the food allergy list on your tablet. 

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

“I wasn’t invited,” you replied. “I was a sub.”

“Cute.” He finally glanced over. “You’re not wearing your ‘I’ve got a folder of corporate disasters under my arm’ face. That means you haven’t told her yet?”

You hesitated, which was answer enough.

Teddy exhaled through his nose and looked away warily. “We spoke to Reagan today,” he said. “Thought she was the leak.”

You straightened slightly, voice low enough to hide your desperation.. “And?”

“She’s a bitch, but she’s not sloppy. This kind of play? Not her style. She’s too busy being mad she doesn’t run the empire to throw bombs at it.”

That was bad news. You had been hoping it was Reagan. At least, then, the enemy would have had a face you already knew how to fight.

Teddy looked back at you, still flat and unsmiling. “Joe hasn’t updated me on Maddie. Probably too busy detoxing from the mezcal. ”

You tried to deflect, but he kept going. “But, he did tell me something else. Told me what Daddy Dearest wanted before Katie went running to London.”

The chill ran down your spine before the words even landed.

“He wanted the pipeline approved. Full throttle. No delays. No buts, no cuts, no coconuts. Someone’s hands got dirty to make the old man proud.”

You didn’t breathe because you knew the answer.

Teddy nodded once as he saw the horror of realization in your eyes. Not judgmental. Just a matter-of-fact. His voice dropped, cold and measured. “Said that someone was Kate. That someone was always gonna be her.”

You stared at the candlelit table settings. “It’s not confirmed that the cancer cases were from the pipeline. The region was full of industrial contracts. There’s no direct—”

He cut you off, quiet and furious. “Kids died. Doesn’t matter if it was ten pipes or one. Her name is on it.”

Your mouth gaped at him. Suddenly, your stack of notes back at her office felt like a triage situation. 

“And, now Forbes has the tip.” 

“I know,” you said quietly.

“Do you?” he asked, leaning in. “Because you’ve been protecting her. I get it. I do. She’s my sister. I would burn down half this city for her. Nobody’s keeping me around Kate, so it’s not just going to hurt her. Selfish as this sounds, I am being very realistic. You need to stop pretending that keeping her in the dark is a kindness.”

You summoned the courage to look at him. “I know. That’s what makes it harder.”

He did not blink. “Yeah, but she needs to know,” he said. “She’s not a kid. She’s a queen, yeah, but you don’t get to play knight and lock her in the tower just to keep her safe. I know you’re carrying this, but you better tell her soon, baby.”

You swallowed, the words sticking like glass. “I wanted her to have tonight,” you said finally. “Just tonight.”

“You really are the work wife,” he sighed. “How many happy nights would it take to realize that they won’t matter when one bad day is going to wreck her?”

You stiffened.

“Hey,” he added, a little gentler now. “I’m saying she needs the you that tells her the truth.” Then, he clapped you on the shoulder, warm but heavy. “Tell her A-S-A-P before someone else does. Even if she’s going to hear that from Joe. He’s trying to trace the leak. Wants to protect her, but you know what this is. She’d rather hear it again from you. If the press gets there first, and you knew from the start, it’s done.”

Across the room, Ms. Lockwood was already dazzling with a smile that looked effortless, even though you could see the exhaustion hiding behind it, as she welcomed the arriving board members. She moved as if the law of gravity bent around her whims and caprices. 

“Let’s go, work wife. Time to smile pretty while all these white collars pretend they don’t have knives under the table.” He was gone before you could reply.

You took your seat beside her.

You pushed it back. One more night. One more lie.

As predicted, Reagan was the first to break the silence. Still, the embittered heir apparent who never got to inherit the throne. “So, are we pretending Friday didn’t happen?”

Your boss’s posture didn’t falter. “Ah, yes. I was meaning to have us sit down and talk about the Lockwood Literacy Initiative moving forward earlier, but lunch got cancelled.”

“You mean moving forward after the press cycle finishes praising your surprise philanthropy?”

Meanwhile, Maddie, radiant and miraculously not hungover, sipped her water as she eyed her sisters. You were not so sure which side she was on. 

Across the table, Robert Cain cut through the tension with a fatherly demeanor as he beamed at their CEO. “Kate,” he said. “The board wants to support you, but direction requires unity. Surprising us with an initiative like that…” he clicked his tongue as he shook his head, “It makes the foundation feel unstable. Well, since it is there already, we might as well talk about how we move forward with the initiative.”

Ms. Lockwood smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Uncle Bob. Your support is appreciated.”

Your chest flickered like your adrenaline hormones kicked in. That tone. That phrasing. Bobby Cain had always backed her, but that was not a mentorly correction. That was a signal.

You had better things to think about tonight, so you filed that thought away.

Just as things were tightening again, the maître d' announced the investors were arriving. Cue the masks. Everyone had their practiced smiles as if no one witnessed a Lockwood verbal spar just seconds ago. 

Ms. Lockwood stood and welcomed the investors like old friends, guiding them to their seats. You watched her work, the way she turned herself into a perfect contradiction of sharp and gracious. Assertive to a fault and gentle with her love for goodness. She even skillfully looped in Reagan into a discussion on The Pedagogy of the Oppressed, even as her sister clearly wanted to bite her face off.

Around the cassoulet course, her eyes drifted half-shut for a beat too long.

You leaned over, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re about two minutes away from falling asleep in that duck confit.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Nod off mid-sentence, and I’m dragging you under the table and faking a fainting spell.”

She smiled faintly, eyes still half-lidded. “And, here I thought I hired you for calendar management and putting a Great Wall against family members I’m in a Cold War with.”

“Consider this an add-on.” You meant it as a joke, but her gaze lingered on you a little longer than it should have. 

A breath of laughter escaped her, low and quiet. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right,” you said, trying not to look directly at her mouth. “That cassoulet is deep enough for you to drown in.”

She picked up her fork, elegant and deliberate. “If I do, you’ll fish me out?”

“Without hesitation.”

A moment later, you felt her hand brushing towards yours under the table. Intentional. Not accidental and formal. Her fingers found the side of your hand, warm and quiet.

You turned your hand over, and her fingers curled into yours. 

She didn’t look at you. She didn’t need to.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

You stayed like that long enough to memorize the shape of her touch. Long enough to wonder if she could feel your pulse stutter against her knuckles.

Then, just as gently, she pulled away.

A silver spoon clinked against her plate, and the conversation at the table resumed without anyone noticing. The warmth faded from your skin like it had never been there at all, but you would remember the weight of it long after dessert was cleared.

This was just nothing but being her perfect work wife. All platonic. Girls supporting girls. 

Later could turn into tomorrow. 

And tomorrow, you would have to tell her everything.

But tonight?

Tonight, you held her hand, and the rest of the dinner fell away.

Notes:

I hope everyone's catching some parallels, foreshadowing, and stuff that I sprinkled somewhere in the chapters ;) Let me know your thoughts, feedback, and possibly predictions. We are getting closer to moving back to the canon plot and the end of Act I...

Chapter 6: July 2022 - The Isaacs-Hendricks House, West Village

Notes:

Alternatively: the one time when there were too many HR violations...

This was a very long chapter that I have to split into two, so it would take Chapter 8 for us to go back to the present. As much as I would like to go back to canon plot, the flashback sets a very important detail and tone of contextualization, so yay for quicker updates!

Let's just hope I maintain productivity...

Maddie hired a tarot reader who was either very drunk or dangerously psychic. Three tequila shots in, you let her read your cards while sitting cross-legged on a leopard-print rug.

“The Lovers,” she said. “Crossed with… the Tower. Oof. Do you work in HR?”

“No. Worse,” you muttered. “I’m an executive assistant.”

“Ohhhh, honey,” the tarot reader patted your hand. “Do not kiss your boss. Do not confess. Do not pass go. Do not collect a severance.”

The nerve on your temple throbbed as you took in the oddly specific interpretation. You were very sure this was not how tarot cards should be read. Before you could reply, a blur of a blonde woman with the thousand-dollar blowout and hot pink LaQuan Smith pants promptly placed herself onto your lap and looped her arms over your neck.

As you turned, you were almost nose-to-nose with Maddie. 

“You’re here!” she squealed. “Sorry it took me so long to meet you.”

Maddie didn’t even know your name until last week. If she were not so busy scrolling through TikTok during board meetings, she would have known you by name already four months ago. Then, ironically, this was supposedly to be a party that Maddie threw in your honor. You were not so sure about the reason. It was casually thrown together in less than a day. 

There was no agenda. No theme. Just a strange assortment of things happening at the same time.

She also insisted on being called ‘Maddie’ instead of Mrs. Lockwood-Bierhals because apparently, she was allergic to formalities.

From what you had heard, the oldest house in West Village was the only asset bequeathed to Maddie in their late father’s will. Because of this, she made her life’s mission to desecrate the house as a designated venue for celebrations and mixers that remotely resemble rich college blackouts with sage incense and healing crystals.

The party was already in full swing, and it was not even past 7 PM. Sparkling champagne towers, a string quartet is trying very hard to maintain dignity over the clink of cocktail glasses and someone’s Bluetooth speaker blasting Beyoncé, and a crowd so genetically blessed it looked like a high-budget fragrance commercial. Half the guests worked for the corporation. 

The other half had probably been flown in from Maddie’s therapist’s patient list.

At some point, Maddie grabbed your arm and dragged you towards the patio outside, waving at a man who appeared to be dressed to play golf with rich businessmen rather than to party with interns, influencers, and trust fund escapees.

“This is Andrew Bierhals,” she introduced, nuzzling his shoulder. “Husband number four. Funds space. ”

Andrew extended a hand, and you shook on it surprisingly well for someone whose sight was about to spin. 

You opened your mouth to say something probably self-deprecating and rational for self-introduction, but instead you said, “You’re extremely well-adjusted for a man with a wine cellar the size of Delaware.”

He barked a laugh that sounded expensive and intellectual. “Well, that’s part of the charm of being a husband to a Lockwood.”

“She’s Katie’s assistant!” Maddie went on further. “The last one standing.”

“I hope for the best,” Andrew said with a grin. “It takes great and rare skill to keep up with someone like my sister-in-law.”

A surprisingly likable billionaire? What a rare unicorn!

However, Maddie’s gaze turned sharper at his words, just for a second. “ Half- sister-in-law, babe.” The slight tinge of venom in her voice was replaced with glee as she passed over another tequila shot to you, which you helplessly drank with careful consideration. “She’s allergic to fun. And you—” she poked your shoulder, teasing. “—you’ve lasted, what, a whole month?”

“I started working in April, Maddie,” you protested, while on the verge of slurring. 

She ignored the correction because she was already shouting and tipsy. “Sebastian!” she called in no particular direction. 

Before you could ask who she was referring to, Maddie grabbed your arm again and rushed back inside, leading you to one of the parlor rooms of the house. 

“There. Him.” She pointed at a tall, dark, handsome man drinking on his own by the empty fireplace. “ That’s Sebastian from The Met. Curator of…” she trailed off as she seemed to rummage into her brain deeply, “Something expensive and old. Speaks three languages, five if you count money and sex. Go and mingle!”

You eyed Sebastian, clutching your empty shot glass nervously. “He looks like he does pilates and owns a yacht named My Wife Doesn’t Know .”

Maddie grinned. She reached down to the leather ottoman where a tray of bottles sat, then plucked a tequila bottle to refill your shot glass. “She doesn’t, but he gave her the yacht in the divorce, so it’s all feminist now.” She shoved the full shot glass back to you, almost spilling in the process. “Drink up for liquid luck!”

You took a tentative sip and immediately regretted it. “This tastes like gasoline!” you sputtered.

“That’s called top-shelf tequila, babe. If you can still feel your teeth, it’s working.”

“I think I just felt liver damage.”

She rolled her eyes. You noticed they were the same shade as your boss’s eyes. “Please,” she drawled with a flamboyant hand gesture. “Liver damage is half my personality. No... Actually, that’s diabetes. Then, the other half is being hot with inherited real estate.”

“It’s a lovely home.” You tried to look around, but immediately regretted it as well. The surroundings appeared to be lit by a bunch of disco lights. 

“What would be even lovelier is you mingling with Sebastian from The Met.” 

With a shove, you found yourself being left with him.

“Hi,” Sebastian from The Met greeted.

“I will literally marry you for tax benefits,” you said before your brain caught up with your mouth.

Maddie clapped from the kitchen’s threshold, adjoined by one of the parlor rooms. “See? She’s loosening up already!”

You were too busy trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment while in mid-conversation with him to notice how much you had to drink. Maddie, of course, didn’t care. She was busy collecting shots for both of you and Sebastian, like they were merit badges.

Sebastian was nice. Too nice.

You were leaning on the fireplace mantle like it was a life preserver, blinking slowly as he gently asked for your number, and it was clear he was doing everything right— respectful, casual, not pushy. You were trying to focus, really, but the room was spinning sideways, and someone was playing Crazy In Love at a volume only demons could hear from the other parlor room.

“You’re very—hic—symmetrical,” you murmured, which was not what you meant to say at all.

See? You could flirt as well

Maybe you were allowing this to happen because he happened to work in the arts, and you knew very well who else had worked with art. 

You told yourself it was nothing but just a coping mechanism, and continued your pathetic attempt to flirt with him.

He looked at you like you were art. You were not used to that. Not from someone who was not reading you like a spreadsheet.

Sebastian chuckled, but before he could say anything to that poor excuse of a compliment, the gravitational center of the room shifted when you heard a voice arguing through the music outside. 

“Okay, if one more TikTok influencer shows up without knowing Kate’s middle name, you turn them away. I don’t care if they’re verified or vegan. This ain’t Coachella. This is a PR liability with a cheese board. ”

As you recognized the voice, he walked in and stared you down across the parlor room like a parent reprimanding a naughty child. “Oh, hell no!”

Teddy pulled you aside after he noticed you were standing a little too close to Sebastian from The Met, who was stroking your wrist like you were a marble sculpture with emotional baggage.

“Get up. Come on,” he said firmly, but quietly. “You look like you’re five minutes away from confessing your entire trauma arc to a man who wears velvet unironically.”

“But his cheekbones—”

“I’ve got cheekbones too, and I ain’t trying to lick your elbow,” he snapped, yanking you gently by the said elbow out of the room. 

You waved sadly at Sebastian, and you were not so sure why you were even sad to be whisked away in the first place.

Just as he got you into the kitchen area, he whispered to you, “You think I’m gonna let you fall into the arms of some museum Instagram hoe, and then have to explain it to Kate I-will-audit-your-soul Lockwood? Absolutely not. Uh-uh. Not on tonight. Not on this rent cycle. Nope. No ma’am. I already did my Black tax this week.”

“I was being resourceful,” you said as you wobbled towards the dining table.

He handed you a glass of cold water with a sigh. “You stay upright, you keep that high-ass GPA of a resume intact, and you don’t do anything Maddie tells you. You’re one viral moment away from HR making a training video about your downfall.”

As you were nursing the completely sad alcohol-free drink with your vision spiralling, a catering manager burst into the kitchen, completely shaking with stress. "They’ve eaten all the truffle sliders, and someone took the caviar display!” he ranted to the general audience that was able to hear.

Teddy stepped in, rubbing his temples. “Listen, baby. I grew up watching my cousin run a fish fry with no electricity, and he thrived. You gonna let one crustacean crisis take you out?”

The catering manager blinked. “ I—I guess not?”

“That’s right,” Teddy said sharply. He patted the back of the catering manager and ushered him back to the catering area. “You’re gonna plate those crab cakes with the confidence of someone who’s overcharging for them.”

By this time, the party had reached its slippery, sparkly crescendo. Someone was beatboxing while Maddie was loudly singing Britney Spears’ Toxic, surprisingly good and committedly in a cappella, and the string quartet seemed unsure how to accompany. In the midst of you trying and failing to sober up fast, Joe Goldberg walked in and stood against the wall like a man trying to astral-project in silence.

“What the fuck, Teddy, why haven’t you shut down this party, yet?” he asked.

Teddy, who had already poured himself a whiskey, sighed further. “Bitch, you better believe me when I can’t because these rich people and aristobrats wouldn’t like it if a gay Black man bulldozed over this bacchanal. Apparently,” he turned to fully address Joe, “Majority of the guestlist also consisted prospective Gen Z investors, so no, Joe, I can’t shut this party down like we’re in 21 Jump Street because they will tank the GDP by 15% if I move the caviar so much away from their direction.”

“Do you think if I fake a panic attack, they’ll let me leave?” Joe deadpanned.

“Nope. They’d make a microwave edit of you on TikTok before even calling the ambulance.”

Joe groaned. “Does Kate even know about this party?”

Teddy merely pursed his lips and did the sign of the cross as a response.

“We’re so fucked.” Joe winced and looked at you again, who was halfway collapsed onto the dining table. “Kate’s going to kill Maddie.”

“Damn straight after she kills me for not preventing this,” Teddy snorted, draining his glass. “Unless Reagan got to Maddie first for inviting golden retriever boy Harrison, like the frat boy he is.”

Joe refilled your glass with another round of cold water, which you swatted away, mumbling under your breath that it does not taste like vodka at all. “I hate parties,” he grumbled.

“You married into one,” Teddy replied, pouring himself whiskey again.

Suddenly, Maddie rushed into the kitchen with a yell. She tried to light sparklers. Indoors. With a drink in the same hand with the sparklers and her phone in the other to post a boomerang of her as she tried to put Joe in the camera view, who ducked and pressed himself up to the fridge door.

“Boo-Boo! There you are,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Fuck,” Joe swore under his breath. 

“Maddie!” Teddy wrangled the sparklers out of her grasp. “I swear to God, if you set this house on fire… Look at what you have done to her! ” He gestured towards you, simply and blissfully ignorant of what was happening.

“You’re no fun,” she pouted.

“I’m not here for fun. I’m here to make sure nobody dies, nobody fucks, and that Katie doesn’t send me a bulletproof email at 3 AM to explain this circus.”

“Oh, she’s mad? Let her be mad. I’ve been dealing with that scowl since we were in the Hamptons. I used to draw it on our Barbie’s face with permanent marker.”

Joe was still hovering awkwardly by the fridge when Maddie decided to turn to him.

“I was starting to think you ghosted me, Boo-Boo,” she told him, in a tone as if she had no loving husband of her own. “You little wallflower! Honestly, I thought we had a connection when I told you I once dated a French mime, and we didn’t speak for two months. Romantic, right?”

“I remember,” he replied flatly, still clinging onto the fridge for dear life. “I thought it was horrifying.”

Maddie giggled. “That’s what made it hot.” She turned to you. “Isn’t he just a sexy little vacuum of joy?”

“He’s a sweet robot. Like a Roomba of HR. So clean, so avoidant,” you said.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me tonight…”

“I swear, Boo-Boo, if I weren’t already married again.” Maddie grinned wickedly. “I would lock you in a wine cellar and throw away the Wi-Fi.”

Joe made a pained expression at her words, then promptly disappeared into the patio outside, semi-dragged by Teddy.

Then, like summoned by tonight’s bad decisions, Kate Lockwood arrived. Still in her work heels, her tailored pantsuit sharp enough to cut glass, hair swept up like she had stepped out of a GQ spread. And just like that, your pulse forgot how to behave.

You were too drunk to hide it. Too sober to ignore it.

She surveyed the house, eyes narrowing just slightly, and then they landed on you.

And everything stopped.

Just for a second. Barely a breath.

She walked towards you, measured and calm. Your brain went static. You could not tell if you were smiling too much or too little. 

You wanted to die. Or maybe get promoted. Hard to tell.

When Ms. Lockwood neared, Maddie looped her arm towards you, almost possessively. "You know, if I’d known you were this cute, I would’ve actually looked up from my phone during that board meeting in April,” she purred into your ear, but loud enough for her sister to hear.

“You were too busy liking thirst traps,” you laughed.

“And now, here you are. One, in the flesh. Do me a favor and don’t tell Katie I said that. She gets all possessive work wife with you.”

“I’m right here, Maddie,” Ms. Lockwood said darkly.

Maddie twisted around, unbothered. “Oh good, I hoped you’d hear that." 

Ms. Lockwood’s glaring expression didn’t falter.

You tried not to stare, which meant you stared. You tried not to compliment her, which meant your brain supplied seventeen unprompted compliments.

Green eyes flicked to your face. “You’re drunk?”

You saluted her with a lime wedge. “Marginally tipsy. Statistically insignificant.”

Ms. Lockwood stepped closer. “You threw a party for my assistant. Invited half the company and a generation of investors. All without telling me,” she said to Maddie, voice dry as champagne.

Maddie shrugged. “Workaholic over here needed a detox. I figured tequila was cheaper than therapy. It was a fifteen-minute plan! Happy accident. Like when Dad and Greta got you!” she slurred cheerfully.

Ms. Lockwood looked you over. Not judgmental. Just assessing. Then, she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

You felt like you had been lit from the inside. That you were powerful enough to conquer the world. “You look…” You started to say, then stopped. Hot. Stunning. Like, I think about you when I shouldn’t. “… Tense,” you finished, tragically.

She blinked once. “It’s been a day.”

Maddie made a face. “Come on, Katie. Let your hair down. I know that bun’s tight enough to snap a bone.”

“You know,” you spoke up with a lopsided grin. “I think about the way you write your notes in the margins. You have, um, note handwriting ?” Stop talking. “It's professional, but emotional. I think that’s very hot of you. Helpful. I meant helpful.” STOP TALKING.

You were not subtle. Although, she didn’t call you out for it.

It was all ridiculous. Bright, messy, and too much. Maddie was all glittering chaos and Lockwood polish, like she was permanently laughing at a private joke that might involve your career. Underneath it all, you could see the bruises, when she didn’t notice you at all, months in meetings and strategies with her siblings, that she had learned to survive her father by weaponizing charm and distraction.

 You understood it viscerally, even as you dodged her flirting like landmines.

Ms. Lockwood glanced at you again. “And you’re okay with this?”

You, who had been quietly trying to merge with the dining table, said, “I was told there’d be snacks. And tequila. And NASA. And Sebastian from The Met?”

“Who?” Your boss frowned.

“Sebastian from The Met!” Maddie answered happily in a perfect drunken daze. “Super gorg. He flirted with her, and he’s art-adjacent.”

“She’s blackout-adjacent!” Ms. Lockwood raised her voice.

Maddie leaned against the counter dramatically. “You’re so uptight, Katie. God, it’s like being raised by a boarding school in a turtleneck.”

Your boss’s jaw clenched. “You should have asked before throwing this goddamn bacchanalia like a fucking repressed teen.”

“Oh, like you asked before turning Dad’s legacy into a UNESCO infomercial?”

Ms. Lockwood folded her arms. “At least I’m doing something with it.”

“Right,” Maddie said, voice venom-sweet. She almost sounded like Reagan. “Because power is always safest in your hands, isn’t it?”

“Because I don’t burn things down just to watch them sparkle.”

“Ouch.” Maddie grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Andrew appeared just in time and stepped between them gently, hand on Maddie’s back. “Maybe we all need to take a breath.”

Maddie rolled her eyes. “Don’t therapist me, babe. It’s boring.”

Ms. Lockwood turned to you, too sharply. “You. You’re going home before you get alcohol poisoning.”

“I—” You blinked. “That’s a strong opening line.”

“Don’t argue with her when she’s maternal,” Maddie drawled. “It’s rare and feral.”

Andrew gave a polite smile as he ushered his wife out of the kitchen and back to the chaos. Meanwhile, Teddy and Joe came back into the kitchen. Ms. Lockwood made a beeline towards her husband to give him a hug and kiss, which you responded to with a scoff masked by a hiccup.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re both here,” she said in relief. Then, more serious. “You both have explaining to do.”

Before Teddy could say anything about damage control, Joe’s eyes flickered to you, and he said to his wife quietly, “Look, Kate, first: I think we should get her out of here.”

“I’ll call her a cab,” she replied curtly.

Joe stepped in and waved his hands in negation. “Yeah, okay, no. She’s way too drunk, Kate. If someone catches her alone in that state, we might be looking into more than a PR crisis of whatever fallout this party would cause.”

Teddy nodded. “I agree, Kate. Someone must take her home.” He glanced through the threshold, where your friends, Vic from Media Buying and Minka, were trying to sober up the interns from doing mezcal shots. “We’re all hands on deck. Her friends are either placating the rowdy interns or failing to do so, and I ain’t ‘bout to haul her trashy drunk ass out of this.” He threw his hands up in the air. “I’m done, woman. I already moved her out of the patio, blocked Sebastian from The Met from swapping phone numbers, and confiscated tequila like I’m an airport TSA agent in Prada! You take her home.”

Joe’s shoulders tensed, but his voice was even. “You’re the only one she’d actually listen to right now.” He gestured towards you, who had hopelessly, yet stupidly, tried not to smile every time your boss looked your way. 

“I won’t spill this to Richard from HR, swear,” Teddy offered. 

Ms. Lockwood crossed her arms stubbornly. “You’re asking me to babysit a grown adult because our sister hosted a rave disguised as a business social?”

“Not asking. Telling,” her husband explained gently, but a nerve twitched from his forehead. “Unless you want the paparazzi to guess why a certain employee from The Met is carrying your assistant bridal-style out of a Lockwood real estate.”

Without missing a beat, she decided, voice almost cutting, “Fine. But if she throws up in my car, she’s paying for the upholstery.” 

She was already putting her arm around you so you would not tip your head, when Joe and Teddy disappeared further into the house to clean up the corporation scandal waiting to happen. You leaned into her as she was shoving the glass of water for you to drink in one go. The scent of her perfume still clung to her neck—day-old, but familiar.

She looked down at you, eyes unreadable. “Fucking hell, you’re the worst lightweight I’ve ever seen!” your boss said through gritted teeth.

Too drunk to even consider HR violations, you managed a giggle. “You’re not mad, Ms. Lockwood.”

“I am,” she asserted. “Just not at you .”

You pressed your forehead against her collarbone. Too far gone to filter anything. “You came.”

She softened a little. “Of course, I came,” she replied. “I don’t want T.R. Lockwood Corp to end up in a lawsuit after this night.”

You didn’t respond, just watching her face. The kind of face that would have turned heads even in the art world, back when she curated fractured goddesses and grief-stained brushwork under the warm lights of Clotho Gallery. Maybe she always had this ruthlessness in her, just softened by sharp lighting and mystery. Or, maybe not.

Now, she was gentler, maybe.

You reached out clumsily, fingers brushing her wrist. “You’re…” The world spun around you. You felt an arm around your waist, then she pulled you gently as she helped you stand up. “You’re good at taking care of people.”

“And, you’re good at getting drunk fast.”

The hallway was quieter now as compared to the patio area. 

You leaned against the wall, head tilted back to keep your vision from spinning, and your eyes fluttered shut. You found your mouth speaking against your inhibitions. “You should let me take care of you.”

She didn’t move. Not right away. Instead, she looked at you, and for a second there, you thought that she might say something. Perhaps something witty or stern. You couldn’t care which because the moment had already slipped past. 

She hesitated. You could see it in the shift of her eyes. Those green eyes that gleamed under the copper lining of the house. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek.  “Sober up," she ordered, like requesting logistics. "And, then you could take care of me for the rest of your life.”

 It didn’t mean anything. You laughed, too loud and too fast, as if your body was trying to shake off the meaning. It didn’t mean anything.  

Her touch was fleeting, but the ache it left was not.

“Oh, God help me,” she muttered. She steadied you with one arm, pulled out her phone with the other, and began calling for her car to be handed on the driveway outside. 

Of course, she did. She always took care of everything.

Even you.

Even when she should not.

Notes:

Whew! This is a bit of a Maddie-centric chapter where we get to see her personality before Andrew Bierhals died in space, as mentioned in Season 5 Episode 1. I hope everyone liked reading this one as much as I liked writing this! Thank you so much for your comments and interactions. Keep them coming because it really makes my day to be so excited to get back to writing the succeeding chapters :)

Chapter 7: April 2025 - 111 East 70th Street, Upper East Side

Notes:

The address is the shooting site of the exterior of Uncle Bob's townhouse in S05E01! This was probably the fastest location that I have looked up so far.

Aside from that, this was meant to be a flashback chapter that continues to Kate taking our lovely assistant's trashy drunk ass home. However, I decided to keep the alternating flow for the sake of drama lol. I was listening to Chappell Roan's Casual while writing this, so go ahead and play it while reading this...

The next day, you made your second mistake for the first time in your career.

She didn’t look at you when you walked in.

Not the way she usually does. Not the glance that says you’re the only one who knows how to speak my language .

She was behind her desk. Perfect posture. Rummaging aimlessly. Like she was keeping her hands busy just to stop them from breaking something.

This was it. 

"I hate to ruin a good morning, but I have something you need to hear," you said.

That got her attention. She turned and set herself behind her desk.

You crossed the room and handed her your handwritten notes. You were supposed to present them to her yesterday. Then, yesterday became that night. Then, that night became supposedly now . At this very instant. 

You couldn’t prolong the agony further. Just like Teddy had told you last night, back in the restaurant.

The skin at the back of your hand prickled when she grasped them with a grip tighter than she would usually do.

She scanned the facts and the bullet points in silence. The stack of papers of your handwritten notes, along with the referenced printed headlines on Alberta’s cancer cluster, internal reports of a pipeline project, well-water toxicity data, and legal memos. 

Her mouth tightened. The muscles in her jaw jumped once, twice. When she finished, she placed the papers carefully on her desk. Too carefully. Whatever she was feeling was slammed close by her walls, once again. But you caught a glimmer of a look you knew very well from working closely that she was shaken.

“Nothing’s airtight at the moment,” you spoke ahead of her, understanding what was running through her mind. “Nevertheless, I’ll prepare Legal and PR if you want.”

However, it seemed to you that this morning had skipped a few lines and beats that you had perfectly rehearsed days ago. 

Without even sparing you a glance from your handwritten notes, she asked, “When were you going to tell me?”

You felt like your whole system froze on the spot. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. How could you when there was no sensible excuse at all for keeping her in the dark, in the first place?

“I have worked with you long enough to know that you have this pained look whenever you’re trying to hold back something, as if some bloody ghost is choking you,” she continued. “Why don’t you spare me the lie, so you could learn how to breathe again?”

She finally looked up. Those green eyes weren’t furious. Yet. They were patient, and that’s what made her stare so dangerous. 

“I got an anonymous tip,” you admitted, voice hoarse. “After the art gala. I was going to tell you—I planned to—but—”

“But you didn’t.” Her voice was flat now. “You’ve worked for me long enough to know I don’t tolerate cowardice,” she said quietly.

The words detonated between you. Clean. Final.

“That’s not what this was.”

“No? Then what was it? Protection? Or fear?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t lie, but you couldn’t give her the truth either.

The truth was that you didn’t want to break the fragile warmth between you. Not after the article. Not after brunch. Not after holding hands underneath the dinner table. Not when she’d looked at you like you were something real in her world.

She exhaled sharply when you didn’t reply right away. “I can’t afford surprises,” she said. “Not from you.”

You straightened your shoulders, swallowing the retching feeling in your gut that you wanted to throw up. “I was trying to find out if it was credible first. I didn’t want to bring you panic without a plan.”

Silence. 

Then, she nodded, slow and deliberate. Her eyes remained steely; you were not sure if she would let this mistake of yours slide.

Nevertheless, your shoulders sagged in relief. The breath that you didn’t know you were holding was slowly exhaled. 

You stepped closer, worried than ever. “What is it, Ms. Lockwood? Is there anything I could do to help?”

You wanted to help. You wanted to be useful. You were at her disposal, and you would do anything to protect her, even if she won’t lift a finger. 

Her face was carved from stillness. But her eyes were fire as they bored into yours. “I’ll be paying Uncle Bob a visit,” she simply said. 

She didn’t tell you to leave, but she didn’t speak any crisp command again, either. You stood in her office for another five minutes, sorting the files on her desk in silence.

Then, a few moments later, she turned and walked out of her office with her handbag. 

You took this as a silent command to follow her.   

The elevator ride down was painfully quiet, save for the ridiculous music through the speakers that HR insisted on for employee morale. On the way down, you cleared her calendar for today. Even when Teddy had sent a spam of unread texts to your phone, you put every notification on mute. 

Save for Cynthia’s , of course . You were not an idiot.

The car ride on the way to Bob’s townhouse in Lenox Hill was devastating. Instead of calling for her chauffeur, she drove the car herself, which was rare during work days. She did not speak. She did not even look your way, which was even worse.

You afforded yourself to look at her instead from your view on the front passenger’s seat. Not to admire or fantasize, but to watch and observe her expressions so you could have an idea what she was even thinking right now. 

She loved Uncle Bob. From what you had heard, he was her mentor way before she entered the board room as her late CEO father’s shadow. You could see it in the fond way she acknowledged him appreciatively. There was even a photo of a young Kate Lockwood riding a horse with Uncle Bob holding the reins from where he stood on the ground. He was her ever-supportive mentor, despite the criticisms from the legacy members she had not ousted from her father’s tenure. 

Although the deep frown lines on her forehead and her steely expression were things that made you consider to think this was not a friendly visit. You remembered how Bob’s support sounded last night. As if he were picking his battles, and it was not with the side of your boss. Her knuckles on the steering wheel were pale, and you knew she was gripping them like she was holding onto dear life. 

As the car pulled over in front of the townhouse, she didn’t move. Just sat there, hands still on the steering wheel, eyes out the windshield. 

You sat with her in the silence, hand twitching to reach over the console and hold her hand just like she did last night, but unwilling to cross that threshold on your initiative yet. 

Her voice was low and cold. “Stay here.”

You let out another deep sigh. Carefully. Slowly.

She got out of the car with her handbag without any further words. Not even waiting to see if you would say something to her. Faster than you anticipated, you saw a glimpse of the iciness part of her that you thought you would never see again. 

 It was the kind of ice that meant war was brewing. 

As soon as she got inside, you got back to work. You were still on the clock. Now, being the executive assistant to a Lockwood CEO, not only that you got handed with access to information before they got released, but you also have a contact to a covert cybersecurity team at the disposal of the CEO through you. 

The same cybersecurity team that helped Joe Goldberg through the Madre Linda case, you found out when you went through the files years ago. 

You dialed the number through a secure line. Waited for the call to push through. Someone picked up by the third ring. Connection established. The request came from your mouth with conviction. No hesitance that would have made your blood run cold if you were a better person.

The request was simple: hack through Bobby Cain’s home security.

They didn’t ask why. They never would do. You were told he was too overconfident. Bypassing the walls felt elementary to them. 

So much for Buffalo Cain. 

Three minutes later, you were emailed via the internal secure line with an encrypted link to a live feed of the conversation in the home office. The cybersecurity team did not indicate which device they hacked for this to work, but you did not care for it. What mattered to you was that you were doing your job.

You recognized the two voices that came through the feed. 

KATE LOCKWOOD: —ou never asked me about the… last deal… he and I worked together. The pipeline in Alberta.

BOBBY CAIN: You gonna commit to your accusation there?

Ms. Lockwood’s words were carefully chosen, as if she were unsure how to go through the conversation. But Bob’s voice was uncharacteristically arrogant, in contrast to his typical fatherly demeanor over her. 

It made your blood boil.

You heard her hum a scoff through the feed, like she sensed where the confrontation would be heading, and you felt you did as well.

BOBBY CAIN: I’ll make it easy. Yes. I leaked your secret to that reporter.

KATE LOCKWOOD: Why? After all these years…

BOBBY CAIN: You’ve lost the plot, huh?

You gripped your phone tightly. Right now, you were fighting every fiber of your being from busting through the doors and strangling Bob yourself, then burning down that distastefully decorated Mojo Dojo Casa House of his. 

How fucking dare him . How dare he betray the only person on that board who was doing good for this world?

Fuck Robert Cain. 

You heard something creak, like someone getting out of a chair. Then, a drink was poured in a glass. 

BOBBY CAIN: You used to value my opinion. Let me help keep you in line. Stop you from making destructive decisions. But these initiatives… God, you’re like a dog with a bone. Forcing these massive money sucks from us. Blindsiding your own board. 

KATE LOCKWOOD: Which you had no problem with.

BOBBY CAIN: Your daddy put you in that seat because he thought you had what it takes to run things. That killer instinct? But instead… How the fuck did you let Reagan become CFO? She hates you. 

KATE LOCKWOOD: I won’t lead from a vindictive place.

BOBBY CAIN: No, no… You just deal with her in an underhanded way, like a coward. Because you came back from London dulled, with—

The more that he spoke, the more your insides twisted with hurt and disgust for her. Deciding that you couldn’t handle listening further, you left the encrypted link, called the cybersecurity team, and that your gratitude would be handled through Cynthia, then scrubbed your phone clean from any evidence of espionage. 

You looked through the rearview mirror and composed your expression before going through your handbag to fish out your weapon of choice. Not the handwritten notes. Not your trusty tablet. Not your encrypted laptop. 

You took out a worn leather folio, the same one you never catalogued digitally since you received it from the turnover. You kept the old assistant’s gift in the safety of your person. It was a ghost story. One that wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.

You cracked open the folio. Inside, there were neat folders labelled accordingly. Names you both knew. Allies, donors, backroom deals. Everything old Tom Lockwood built his empire on of greased palms, offshore bank accounts, coercion, a suicide buried in a fake autopsy, and a congressman compromised by surveillance.

And there it was: Robert “Bobby” Cain, AKA Buffalo Bob . A file as thick as a bible of photos and documents that could make that Forbes reporter spin their head up towards heathens. 

Your heart pounded fast beneath your ribcage. Years ago, you wouldn’t dream of the folio for whatever purpose that served the daughter of its owner. Now, you would need to put it to good use. You told yourself that.

It was for a good reason.

She was your boss, and it was your job to protect and take care of her. This was taking care of her. It was a glorious purpose, and it was enough to make you feel the surge of relief finally coursing through your veins and calming your thoughts. 

As if every action zeroed in on destroying Bob.

Before you could do anything, the door of the driver’s seat opened, and she slid back in. Slowly, her shaking hands reached for the steering wheel again, as if to hold herself upright. 

You didn’t know what else Bob told her. You didn’t need to. All that mattered to you was that he needed to be silenced, and you were not above using blackmail.

It was her tone that kept you upright. Cold. Sharp. Measured. “Uncle Bob told me everything.”

You didn’t react immediately. You just met her gaze, still painfully polished and composed, as compared to your calmness. The fact that she was not crying at this point felt like it was coiling tightly around your spine.

“No,” you said automatically, then corrected yourself. “Yes. Of course it was.”

She nodded once, tight. “He’s been sitting on it since god knows when. Fucking Bob. I was so over my head to notice that he was waiting. Watching. I should have seen it coming. He was never in my corner. I thought his support for the literacy initiative was genuine, but it was strategic. A muzzle. Now that I’ve outlived my usefulness—”

“He wants to destroy you,” you finished.

She didn’t deny it.

“He gave Forbes that fucking pipeline story...”

“You were eighteen, barely nineteen,” you said quickly. “You weren’t responsible—”

“He knows everything that I have done.” Her voice cracked like ice. “That’s enough.”

You swallowed. “Then, we leak something worse.”

Her head snapped toward you. “What?”

You showed her the folder, but she did not open it. 

“What is this?” she asked slowly.

“It’s from your father’s archive. I got it from his former assistant. He reached out to me months after I was hired. Said she didn’t want the files falling into the wrong hands, so he gave them to me. Said to hold them in case they were needed.”

“You never told me.”

“I didn’t want to use them,” you said honestly. “But now we have to.”

Ms. Lockwood didn’t move. She only stared in horror at you. Like realizing that after three years, she never knew the real you. 

“This is enough to bury him,” you explained with an even tone. “To burn him down to ash. We don’t need to justify the pipeline story. We just need to remind the world that the man leaking it has no clean hands.”

She just looked at you like you had just slapped her. “Are you hearing yourself?”

You said nothing.

“This is blackmail,” she said.

“Yes,” you replied.

“This is my father’s playbook.”

“I know.”

“I hated him.”

“I know.”

Her voice turned brittle. “And now you’re asking me to become him.”

“I’m asking you to use the resources that we have to our advantage.”

The silence returned. Hot. Suffocating.

She backed away from you, like the folder was radioactive and you were a nuke. “You’re offering to ruin a man. Quietly. Without law. Without a word to anyone.”

“He tried to ruin you.”

“I don’t care.” Her voice shook. “If this is what it takes to win, then I don’t want to.”

You sighed and placed the folder on the backseat. “Fine. Then we let Forbes run it. Let the wolves in. Let the board eat you alive. Let Reagan take your chair and let Bob get his legacy.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” you interrupted, “what’s not fair is that he gets to pretend he’s clean while hanging you for your father’s sins. You want to lead ethically? Fine. But you can’t be ethical in a rigged system and expect to stay standing.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came.

You leaned closer as the words came out before you could stop yourself. “I care for you too much to let them take you apart like he did to everyone else.”

And still, she said nothing. Her face was unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was ice that was about to break. “You care for me, but you’d let me become him.”

You didn’t respond because she wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you were the one who saw me differently,” she whispered.

“I do,” you said. “That’s why I want you to survive this by playing the upper hand.”

Silence surged between you. This time was more painful than it ever could have been. Breathing, jagged and uneven.

Then, she rubbed her face before turning back to you with eyes narrowing, not furious, not yet, but lit with cold disappointment. “You think I haven’t survived worse?” she asked. “You think I’m fragile?”

“I think you’re tired ,” you replied, voice cracking just slightly. “I think the world never gives you room to break, so I made sure it couldn’t break you this time.”

Her lip curled, not quite a smile. “You mean you wanted to be the one to fix it. Like you always do.”

You froze.

There it was. The real wound. You had blurred the line between support and possession .

You swallowed. “I just—I didn’t want you to see yourself dragged through something that wasn’t even your fault.”

Ms. Lockwood raised her hand, as if to put distance between you and it fucking hurt. Her tone quieter now. More dangerous. “And if it had been?”

“What?”

“If I were guilty. If I had done something knowingly that endangered lives, what then? Would you still have wiped it away?”

The answer was in your silence. She saw it.

“You would’ve buried it,” she said, almost laughing. “God. You really think this is caring for me, don’t you?”

That hurt. She never said it like that before. Never touched that word in a scathing context, not even near it.

“I think it’s loyalty,” you said quietly.

“No. Loyalty would’ve told me,” she snapped. “Loyalty doesn’t lie in silence.”

“You would’ve shut everyone out before we could offer you help.”

“I would’ve trusted you,” she shot back.

Your eyes prickled with tears, but not yet enough to cry. This woman you had memorized, managed, protected, and wanted was slipping away from you.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” you argued. “Because I am not your husband! Let alone your wife.”

That stopped her. Briefly. She blinked, eyes narrowing like you had ventured through uncharted territory. She straightened her shoulders, retreating into the mask that she slipped into so easily.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she replied, and it sounded so cruel.

You exhaled. Quietly. Controlled. But your hands were shaking.

“I didn’t do it to control you,” you said. “I did it because I can’t watch the world pick you apart for sport. You’re not a headline. You’re—”

You stopped yourself before the word escaped.

The silence between you vibrated with the weight of what you were not allowed to say.

After a long pause, she almost snarled at you. “Get out.”

You didn’t move.

“Ka—”

“I need space,” she said immediately, almost too calmly. “And right now, your presence feels like a risk I didn’t consent to.”

You froze, then swallowed the bitter bile rising to your throat before you could even attempt to bargain. You gathered your things with practiced silence. A hand on the door handle of your side, but before you opened it, you said, “This world is not black and white, sometimes we have to be in the gray area as a means to an end.”

She turned away from you. Her head leaned on the window of the car’s door, looking as if she were a balloon deflated in defeat.  “I need time.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll give you all you need.”

You didn’t pick up the folder from the backseat. You left it as a choice for her. 

She remained staring into the distance through the windshield, but you saw the way her spine went rigid.

As you left the car and stepped onto the pavement, the idea that you had done the right thing struck you. The car pulled away and drove away into the road, leaving you with the hole you have dug deep for both of you. 

And the sounds of the streets were deafening to you.

You couldn’t let her drown. Not when you knew how to sink the others first.  Not if you had the matches to burn the whole ocean for her.

You made your second mistake for the first time in your career. 

The first had been falling for her.

The second was thinking she would forgive you for it.

Notes:

So... I apologize? Leave a comment, feedback, or a violent reaction!

Chapter 8: July 2022 - The Buchanan, Turtle Bay

Notes:

This is a direct continuation of Chapter 6 ;) I had to cut out some scenes and lines. Don't worry, nothing between our HR-violation pairing. I think I'll be putting them in the future chapters.

Anyways, please go and watch Code of Silence! It's the new series with Charlotte Ritchie, who plays a detective, and Rose Ayling-Ellis, who plays a deaf civilian offering lip-reading skills. It's such a unique concept that I hope people would appreciate!

Reagan Lockwood-Jacobs arrived dressed in wine-colored silk and contempt.

She extracted Harrison from the party floor just as 2NE1’s Fire blasted from a Bluetooth speaker louder than the string quartet had dared. The quartet, having lost the will to compete or even accompany, had resigned themselves to the sushi bar and the Dom Pérignon champagne tower.

Reagan’s dark lacquered nails wrapped tightly around her husband’s arm like she was pulling a petulant child away from the toy section.

“Honey,” Harrison grinned, oblivious. “I was just talking about my bros here.”

Apparently, ‘bros’ meant Joe and Teddy, who were covertly handing him water shots disguised as vodka while nodding through NFL stats with haunted expressions.

Reagan didn’t blink. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But we were about to hit the bridge of You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” he protested.

“You’re about to be the bridge between this party and a PR lawsuit,” Teddy muttered.

Reagan turned on him. “Was this part of your strategic roadmap? ‘Phase One: interns on molly’?”

Teddy gave her his best dead-eyed stare. “Didn’t realize Eris, goddess of discord, RSVP’d.”

Reagan’s smirk deepened. “At least, I don’t mistake Daddy’s misplaced sperm cell as an opportunity for leadership.” Then, her gaze cut to the other man in the room. “And, Joe. Always hovering like a conscience no one asked for. You know, it’s almost charming how you pretend you’re not keeping tabs on Kate like an emotional support labrador.”

Joe didn’t flinch. He gestured towards Harrison, who was still humming a song, tipsy and too happily. “He’s been talking about you nonstop, actually. Even mid-tackle stats. That’s got to mean something.”

Reagan’s nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Joe and Teddy led Harrison toward the waiting car, leaving behind the kind of silence that usually precedes an airstrike.

She turned back toward the kitchen threshold, toward you and Ms. Lockwood, and her expression changed. 

“You look tired, Katie. That’s either a CEO glow or insomnia from realizing you just stood by a Stanford frat formal on a balance sheet that will burn down the last five percent of credibility the company has. Hard to tell.”

Ms. Lockwood’s head turned slowly, like a hinge made of ice. Her tone was cordial enough to be lethal. “Reagan. Nice to see you so unexpectedly here.”

Reagan smiled with all her teeth. Not with amusement, but somehow similar to a shark smelling blood in the water. “Harrison and I are heading out. Before Uncle Bob finds out there’s a strategic disaster in Dad’s only West Village property that he handed down to Madison.”

“I’m handling it,” Ms. Lockwood said, clipped. “Teddy and I—”

“Do you realize those investors you were hoping to court next quarter are currently drunk and trying to snort crushed Adderall off the back of The New Yorker?” Reagan snapped, stepping forward.

Then, her eyes slid to you. Precise. Dissecting. The same shade as those that you came to love from another face, but hers were sharper and more disdainful, looked you over like she was conducting a hostile audit.  “And you. Still here. Like a gay little clipboard ghost.”

You blinked. “You look like a cease-and-desist in heels,” you slurred before your brain caught up. You opened your mouth again to apologize upon realizing what you said, but it was too late.

Ms. Lockwood stepped in. Her arm gently nudged you, almost as if for you to get behind her. Nevertheless, it was almost enough to sober you up. “Are you quite done now, Ray?” she asked her half-sister icily. “Was that your contribution to the quarter’s objectives? Or are we just throwing tantrums tonight and calling it productive?”

Reagan’s smile faltered, but she recovered. Her jaw ticked. Just slightly. She looked at Ms. Lockwood like she wanted to say more. Maybe something that would start a fire, but she didn’t. “See you at the board meeting, Katie. Let’s hope your interns don’t show up with glitter hangovers.”

She turned on her heel and walked out with another word.

As soon as her half-sister left, Ms. Lockwood turned her head slightly, already tired. “Fucking Reagan,” she muttered under her breath. 

Then, Teddy returned with his phone out, rapidly typing as fast as he spoke. "Okay, Joe and I are calling the rideshares. Andrew’s making progress on winning over the Gen Z investors with his Illegally Blonde wife. Fifteen minutes tops, then anyone left after that becomes part of the Lockwood Get-the-fuck-out Initiative."

Her shoulders sagged in relief. “Thanks, Teddy, truly.” 

“You’re like a fairy godmother,” you said when Teddy handed over your handbag and whatever was left of your dignity. 

He grimaced. “Fairy godmother my ass,” he replied, but not out of disdain. “I’m your broke cousin who drove you home from the club and told your mama you were at Bible study.”

Teddy told her he would be clocking out once everyone was escorted and accounted for from the party. Your boss took this as an opportunity to tell him he would be debriefing this to HR on Monday. You were not very sure if she was joking based on her tone, but he told her to remember her resting heart rate and the lawsuits that she would not want to be filed this week before disappearing into the patio. 

“Alright,” Ms. Lockwood said as she stooped slightly to your side and looped a steadying arm around you. “Time to go.”

You squinted as you looked at your boss again, as if she had not helped you get up from the dining table. “Are we eloping?” you whispered to her, wobbling upright.

“We are not,” she answered flatly, but she held your elbow and had a hand on your back anyway. 

The party was beginning to thin out.  You let her lead you— or, dragged you —away. She steered you with ease past the remaining drunken employees, a toppling stack of champagne glasses, and what looked like a tarot reader giving a marketing assistant a nervous breakdown.

Joe and Andrew were at the bottom of the staircase in the hallway. Once they spotted you both, Andrew clapped Joe’s shoulder with gratitude, exchanged pleasantries with his sister-in-law and you, then went upstairs.

“Maddie’s party worked,” Joe informed his wife with his hands behind his back. “The Gen Z investors are on board with the cancer treatment initiative.”

Your boss blinked in disbelief. “Really? What did she say exactly?”

Joe sighed. “I’m not sure, but I guess Andrew might have pulled some strings with NASA, and Maddie said something about a karmic cycle that our corporate soul is being reborn, one ESG commitment at a time.”

You felt his eyes on you, and you were leaning into the very capable shoulder of his wife unashamed. His face went closer slightly, lowering his voice. 

“You sure you’ve got her, Kate?” he asked.

“If I can tame billionaires and my Dad’s drinking buddies on the board, then I can get her across one crosswalk and up a lobby elevator.”

“Okay,” Joe replied with a tight smile. His eyes lingered just a second longer on his wife than necessary. “Drive safe. Me and Teddy will help Andrew clean up.”

“Thanks, darling.” She gave him a kiss, and you pretended not to see.

Ms. Lockwood half-dragged and half-guided you out the front doors. You looked up at her again; your eyes were swimming, and your heart was punching your ribs like it wanted to escape. The night air hit your face like a sobering slap. Not enough to straighten you, but enough to remember that she came for you.

“You really came to get me,” you said quietly.

“Of course, I did,” she replied without looking down. 

Once you both had reached her car, she opened the door of the front passenger seat for you. Before you could climb inside, a voice called out.

“Hey, wait!”

You turned, fuzzy but functional.

Sebastian jogged towards the car. Still very symmetrical. His cheeks flushed and hair artfully disheveled, like a nineteenth-century composer who had just finished a very emotional harpsichord concerto.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, eyes flicking to your boss like he was not entirely sure she would not bite. “I just—I didn’t want to leave without asking. Would it be alright if I got her number?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then, you found your mouth saying, “You're clever. Like… space-level clever. That’s—hic—that’s like Andrew Bierhals clever.”

Sebastian beamed, clearly assuming this was going well. 

It was not.

Before you could formulate words or even remember what numbers were, Ms. Lockwood turned slowly. You could feel her shift into a new gear. Her voice dropped half an octave, her posture too calm. “And you are?”

Sebastian gave her that charming smile. It had not charmed you at all, if you were being honest. “Sebastian Sandeman, Metropolitan Museum of Art’s investment officer. Kate, right? Kate Lockwood.”

Her green eyes, usually cool and unreadable, sharpened into flint. “She’s not in the mood to hand out contact details,” she said, every word gliding out like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Uh—yeah. I mean, of course, if that’s okay. She seemed interested.” Sebastian faltered just slightly, but recovered. “I just thought—” 

“You thought you’d approach someone who’s clearly intoxicated and attempt to secure her number before she sobers up and realizes you have the energy of a man who uses oil paintings as foreplay?” Her accent was somehow more refined tonight. The clipped English vowels that only surface when she’s about to eviscerate someone without raising her voice.

You stared at her, making a soft noise that was either a hiccup or a gasp. Your cheeks were so hot and bright. Definitely not from the tequila or the cold air. 

She ignored you. Her eyes never left Sebastian’s. “She’s under my care right now. That means you are dismissed.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, but almost. “I didn’t realize I needed clearance,” he said coolly. “Is this a company policy or… something more personal?”

It was a challenge. 

The kind delivered by men who are used to winning. 

But Kate Lockwood had never lost a game she didn’t rig first. 

“I’m her employer,” she said smoothly and noncommittally. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was not kind. It was policy. “Which is why I’m sparing you the indignity of making this worse for yourself. Walk away, Mr. Sandeman.”

He looked at you one last time. 

You shrugged helplessly, still drunk and stunned and slightly swaying. If you said anything, it would come out in one of the four languages you forgot you spoke. Meanwhile, she touched your elbow, not possessively, just with enough familiarity that Sebastian took a full step back.

Eventually, he exhaled through his nose like a man who knew better than to press a queen mid-checkmate. “Another time, maybe,” he said to you gently, then nodded to her. “Good evening, Ms. Lockwood.”

She said nothing, but steadied you with one hand on your waist, the other retrieving your phone from your dangerously slack grip. You were too drunk to even notice that you had your phone out all throughout. Sober enough to know your cheeks were warm for reasons that had nothing to do with tequila.

You grinned, lopsided and woozy. “He just wanted my number.”

She pocketed your phone like it belonged to her. “He can apply through HR.”

“God, you’re so—” You stopped yourself before the word sexy or hot escaped.

She raised an eyebrow. “So…?”

“Tall,” you said, tragically. “And judgmental.”

She sighed like she was already regretting coming here. Only once he disappeared back into the house did she exhale and gently push you into the car, her hand lingering too long at your lower back like it was the most natural thing in the world. She slid into the driver’s seat and looked at you long enough that it was dangerous in ways you were not sober enough to articulate.

You turned to her. “You threatened a man for me.”

She buckled your seatbelt with one click. “I redirected a security risk. It was practical. He was trying to flirt with you.”

“You’re really possessive for someone who pays my salary.”

“And you're really drunk for someone who always wants to be taken seriously.”

“Sebastian had nice hands,” you mumbled.

Ms. Lockwood tilted her head. “So is arsenic if you take it with enough champagne.”

“You’re—you’re scary, but I like when it’s for me.” You smiled like a fool. Like someone who had just been fought over through a duel, and secretly liked it.

Luckily, you were sober enough to log in your address in her GPS navigation app on the touchscreen dashboard. As the car pulled away from the house, the city blurred by in streaks of soft gold and glass. Neon reflected on the blacktop. Windows lit like jewelry boxes. New York blinked passed like a fever dream. You slumped against the seat.  

You were so drunk, and Kate Lockwood was driving your sorry ass home.

Kate Lockwood was driving your ass home.

She had one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching across the console to stop you from leaning too far into the window. Her gaze fixed out on the road like she could dismantle Madison Square Park with a stare. 

Kate fucking Lockwood was driving you home.

Fuck, you should be drunk more.

You squinted at the touchscreen dashboard, then at her. “If I knew Kate Lockwood would be driving my drunk ass home personally,” you started, the sentence looping with a tipsy grandeur, “I would’ve sent in my résumé the second I turned legal drinking age.”

There was a pause. Her eyes stayed on the road, but you saw the corner of her mouth twitch. She didn’t even glance at you. Her fingers tapped the indicator like it personally offended her. 

The car made a right turn at 23rd.

“Well, it’s such a shame I’m going to forget all of this by morning,” you went on, flopping your head against the seat dramatically. “Like Cinderella, if she worked in operations and drank her way through someone else’s tequila budget.”

She exhaled sharply, gripping the steering wheel slightly. It might be a laugh, or an exorcism. Hard to tell.

Another pause.

“You are alarmingly confident tonight,” she murmured.

“Maddie made me drink the tequila. I was being polite.”

“She also introduced you to a man who wears velvet.”

“Hey! That’s what Teddy said.” You let out a breathy laugh that sounded like a half-sigh.  “Sebastian’s nice. He quoted Rothko in his Tinder bio.”

She rolled her eyes, but something gentler settled in the lines around them. “You don’t even like Rothko.”

“Yeah,” you whispered conspiratorially, “but I like attention.”

That earned you a glance. Not amused. Not angry. Just something sharper than the road demanded. It lingered.

“And now I’m getting your attention,” you mumble. “So that’s like. Worth double.”

“You’re unbelievable.” She pressed her lips together like she was swallowing either a smirk or a scream. You couldn’t tell which.

You smiled to yourself. It was too warm here. You knew her phone password was Rothko’s birthday. Or maybe it was just her—always her, and maybe your tequila-filled bloodstream.  You glanced sideways, studying her in the faint streetlight glow. 

She still had not looked at you since the car moved. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing just a hint of skin beneath that pristine navy blazer. Hair still twisted into that maddeningly elegant knot.

You leaned your head back against the seat and whispered, "You didn’t have to come tonight."

She didn’t respond.

And in the silence, a flicker of panic bloomed behind your ribs. You meant that as gratitude. Not confession.

After a while, her voice was quiet. Almost too quiet. “Of course I did. No one else was qualified, especially not Sebastian from the Met.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

You wanted to say something stupid, like you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. But thankfully, your filter, for once, did its job. 

“But like…” Your words began to slur at the edges. “You’re so good at this. Like, this thing. The driving thing. The CEO thing. The, um... silent-withering-judgment thing.”

“You’re still drunk,” she sighed again, this time softer. Her grip on the wheel loosened slightly.

‘ And, you’re still beautiful, which is exhausting for me,’ your alcohol-induced brain supplied unproductively. 

Instead, your head leaned against the window. “And, you're very everything. All the time.”

She didn’t smile, but one eyebrow lifted. She was trying very hard not to be amused.

The rest of the ride continued in silence. Eventually, the car curved toward Midtown East, and your boss clicked her tongue.

“God, it’s even worse in person.”

You blinked at her. “What is?”

“Your apartment,” she said, slowing at the intersection. “Who lives across from their job like it’s a sleepover camp for capitalism?”

You grinned, too tired and too drunk to be embarrassed. “Terrifying, right?”

“You wake up to the T.R. Lockwood Corp logo every morning.”

“It’s very motivating.

She gave you a flat look. “That’s pathological.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s disturbing.”

“It’s ambitious,” you mumbled.

“It’s psychotic,” she corrected. “But I admire the commitment.”

You tried to unbuckle your seatbelt, but it defeated you utterly. “What…” Your fingers fumbled, missing the latch twice. “How does this… This NASA tech belt buckle…”

Ms. Lockwood paused, then shook her head, sighing yet again like she had aged a decade in five minutes. She reached across you and unclicked it effortlessly. Her face was close enough that you could smell her perfume. Her fingers brushed your thigh as she did so, and you froze. Your breath caught in your throat. You tried not to pass out or profess your undying devotion.

She must have felt it. She had to feel it.

“This is the nicest kidnapping I’ve ever experienced,” you said softly, getting the seat belt away from you as it retracts.

“You’re welcome,” she quipped. “Stockholm syndrome usually takes a few days, but you’re ahead of schedule.”

She turned on the hazards, climbed out, and came around the car, opening the door before you could even move. You tried to beat her to it, but the sidewalk swayed like it was personally offended. She was at your side instantly, sliding your arm over her shoulder with the brisk, annoyed competence of someone who had done this before. 

Probably for Maddie. Definitely for Lady Phoebe.

You tried not to sway too obviously. You tried not to lean too heavily into her side. But your balance was shot, and your body was tired, and her perfume was so close you could drink it.

As she helped you up in your apartment after finding the elevator had defeated you as well, you found yourself slurring to her, “Thanks for saving me.”

“Is this the part where you throw up and ruin a rug?”

“No,” you said. “This is the part where I tell you what I’m not saying.”

That made her still. Just a little. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

Inside your apartment, the lighting was dim and tasteful, exactly as you left it. Neutral tones. Books stacked on every surface. The skyline yawned open through your windows, but you didn’t even take a glance. You were looking at her instead.

You barely got three steps in before your body informed you that you were done. Terminally horizontal. You dropped gracelessly onto the couch, arm flopping over your face.

She didn’t leave, just standing there. Watching. Waiting, maybe. Her silhouette framed by your kitchen downlight, mouth pursed in a thin line of either judgment or restraint.

You pulled your arm away, letting your hand flop uselessly beside you. “Longer hair looks good on you,” you said.

Ms. Lockwood stilled. “What?”

“And lighter makeup,” you added. “Not that you don’t already look good. You always do. I just… I don’t know.” You sat up a little, swaying like a cut rope. “I just think… You should know. You’re—” You gestured vaguely at her. “Beautiful. But… softer lately. Not less powerful. Just… warmer. You’ve earned warmer.”

She blinked. Her eyes flitted toward the door—her only exit—then back to you.

You tilted your head. “You look like someone who knows exactly where every piece in the room belongs. And I think that’s why people don’t get close. They’re afraid you’ll put them in the wrong place, but you won't.”

Her voice, when it came, was dry. She folded her arms, looking away. “You’re drunk,” she said, as if she had not repeated it throughout the night.

“I am so drunk,” you agreed cheerfully. “But I’ve earned this. I work hard, Ms. Lockwood. I show up. I save your ass sometimes.”

“That’s debatable.”

“And in return,” you said, ignoring her, “I get one chance to tell you something I probably won’t remember. But you will.”

She stared back at you. “And what is it you’re not saying?”

You smiled, half-lidded and wobbly and so goddamn earnest it probably hurt her eyes. “That I think... if I met you before I got this job, I’d still end up here.”

She said nothing. For a long moment, silence hummed between you like an electric current.

“Do you always talk like this when you're intoxicated?” she asked quietly.

You gave her a faint smile. “No, just when I feel safe.”

“It’s reckless how much you trust me, you shouldn’t.” She exhaled. Not angry. Just tired, and probably exasperated that she could not understand you at all.

A beat passed between you, broken by your laugh that was both sad and soft. 

You pushed your hands through your hair, exhausted from the simple act of speaking. “Too late. You already drove me home.”

She looked at you. Hair haloed in the city lights outside, expression unreadable. Sharp, tired, lovely. 

“I guess,” you mumbled, “I figured you’d earned that I could tell you what I’m not saying.”

She didn’t speak right away.

A frown, too quick to hold, flickered across her face. Then, she straightened her spine the way she would do when she was about to make a life-changing motion in a board meeting. “You should get some rest. You’re lucky if you forget everything by the time Human Resources emails you.”

You snorted. “Yeah, such a shame.”

Before you could decide what to say next, or whether to say anything at all, she turned to leave. “Goodnight,” she said, already stepping back.

“Goodnight, boss,” you whispered, as the door clicked shut. Sober enough to feel that you were alone with the ache of it.

You knew you were not going to forget any of this. 

Not a single moment of it.

Especially when the engagement ring on her finger was glinting in the dim lights as if to remind you of your place.

Notes:

Next chapter, we're going back to the canon plot of S5E01 and the aftermath of their dramatic "break-up" car scene! Let me know your thoughts and predictions so far. I enjoy reading your comments and reactions both here on AO3 and X/Twitter! Thank you so much for your support :)

Chapter 9: April 2025 - Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle

Notes:

I did not go to school today, so I just stayed at home and write and I accidentally finished it? At this rate, I just wake up to write for this gay pining and yearning agenda.

“Explain everything for me,” Ms. Lockwood demanded. Her words sounded as if she were pushing them through her teeth. “From the very beginning.”

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. 

You met her eyes, knowing this was the last story you would ever get to tell her without a lawyer in the room. 

So you told her everything.

It happened the way most betrayals do—quietly, then all at once.

You began by telling her you texted Vic and Minka moments after you had been kicked out of the car. 

She probably guessed that part already. 

And you didn’t know what else to do with your hands but to hold a drink right now. Since the party at Maddie's house, you have slowly become a better drinker over the years. You only asked for drinks when either heartbroken, furious, or trying not to throw yourself off the moral high ground.

You: Anyone up for drinks?

Vic: already half a round ahead of u ;) 

Minks: Debating with Victoria's so-called etiqutte for mistresses. Come over ASAP. No questions asked.

Minks: Minka Shiraishi shared a live location.

Coincidentally, the location that Minka sent was just straight ahead from where you were standing. After a bus ride and a short walk, you reached the pinned location, which was The Penrose Bar.

“My love, my menace!” Vic raised her glass in acknowledgement as you walked in.

Your friend, Victoria Whitman from Media Buying, was in her usual post-Wednesday-night-debrief attire. Too much bronzer, sharp earrings, and an unbothered aura that suggested she was either still sleeping with her married co-worker from Accounts, or had just ended things with a final bang.

Figuratively. Possibly literally. 

Meanwhile, Minka was all dark lipstick and Legal Department chill, her cocktail of choice glowing like antifreeze in the flickering bar light. She waved you over, gesturing towards a drink she had already ordered for you, which you automatically reached for as soon as you sat down with them.

Halfway through the drink, you recognized it was gin.

It hit your throat too cleanly. Too easily.

You were three drinks in, tucked into a corner booth where the lights were dim enough to cover any bad decision tonight. Or, at least, for pretending you had not just tried to blackmail someone on behalf of the woman you loved. 

The woman who might now hate you.

“You’re quiet,” Minka observed, swirling her drink. “That’s either a bad sign or you committed a felony.”

The way that she was looking at you, you should have seen it coming. Minka had always been the quiet one, but always sharp. Never said anything she didn’t mean. She was the only person in Legal that your boss didn’t want to be mad at. 

“I’ve committed nothing,” you said too quickly.

Vic snorted. “Okay, then you’re in love. You’ve got that ‘I’m definitely not in love ’ glow. Very subtle. Only obvious to everyone with eyes.” She gave a playful wave of her fingers as she spoke.

“Is this a CEO situation?” Minka asked.

You flinched.

“Thought so,” she said. “You’ve got that war-torn loyalty look.”

In public, all of you were careful not to use the Lockwood name very casually. It was delegated over vague pronouns or common nouns, just in case the place was bugged or there was a person nearby who had good hearing. 

You laughed, a little too sharply. “Trust me, that’s not what’s happening.” You took another sip like the world had not shifted under your feet just hours ago in Kate Lockwood’s car. “I’m a professional.”

“So, is the guy I’m seeing. And his wife, technically,” Vic smirked further. “There’s something hot about stealing a glance across the cubicles, knowing someone’s husband texts you ‘u up’ during QBRs.”

"That’s not hot. That’s legally messy, ” Minka sneered. “Whitman, I say this with affection: if your situationship ever escalates, I will not represent you.”

Vic raised an eyebrow, ignoring Minka’s passive-aggressive threat as she continued talking to you. “So, it is a CEO conversation?”

You said nothing, just ran your thumb along the condensation on your glass.

“You know,” Vic said, nudging you with her foot under the table, “if you’re trying not to tell us, you’re doing a great job. Very sexy, very tortured. All shadowed eyes and clutching the edge of your drink like it wronged your ancestors.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’ve worked around tired,” Minka countered. “This is something else.”

You shook your head. “Look, not everything’s about—”

“Love,” Vic supplied, cutting in. “Desire. Forbidden workplace lust. Secret trysts in conference rooms.”

“Blackmail,” Minka added coolly.

You blinked. Everything in your chest seized. “What?”

She shrugged. “Just rounding out the possible sins.”

Your stomach twisted. It was not guilt, not really. It was the ache of knowing they were not wrong. They just didn’t know how close they were to the center of the storm.

You leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. The glow of the bar caught the edges of your exhaustion. “Have you ever done something because you thought it was the only way to protect someone?”

Vic raised her glass. “Every time I text the said fuck buddy, I’m outside his building when I’m actually two blocks away thinking about turning around.”

Minka arched an eyebrow. “Define ‘protect.’”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did.

It mattered that your boss had looked at you like you were a stranger. That you were the only one who knew just how deep the rot went. And that you might have crossed a line so sharp there was no turning back.

“Alright, this is serious,” Vic said, straightening. “Is someone blackmailing your boss?”

You stiffened again.

She caught it.

Minka looked up sharply. “Wait. Is this what I think it is?”

You said nothing.

“Oh, my God!” Vic breathed. “It is. And you know something.”

“No,” you said. “I’m just... close enough to see the fallout coming.”

“You’re always close to her.” Minka’s voice was soft, unnervingly so. “But this is different, isn’t it? This isn’t strategy. This is... something else.”

You finished the rest of your drink.

When you didn’t answer, Minka exhaled and leaned forward. “Whatever you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry it alone. You know that, right?”

But you did. That was the deal, the job, and the cost.

“I should go,” you said, setting your glass down. “My boss has this meeting out of town tomorrow.”

Vic scoffed. “And here I thought we’d get drunk and text my situationship together.”

You smiled faintly. “Next time.”

Minka didn’t stop you, but her eyes stayed on you like she was reading between the lines that had not been written yet. “Whatever choice you made,” she said, “you’d better be sure it’s not the one you’ll regret forever.”

You nodded, silent, but Vic didn’t wait for you to argue.

“I know a bar,” she said, slinging her clutch over her shoulder with dangerous intent. “It’s just on the Upper East. Quiet. Dim lighting. All the journalistic self-loathing of a press club but with better drinks, depending on who's tending to you.”

You followed her because you were already halfway gone. Not drunk, no. Too sober for that. 

But your morality? Hanging on by a thread frayed by too many secrets and one particularly broken look from her.

“So, you went bar hopping with your friends?” Ms. Lockwood clarified. 

You nodded.

“Why?” Her question cut through you like a clean blade. This time, her voice was louder, but not quite a shout. Colder than the HVAC blasting in the press room. 

You wished she would just scream at you to get this over with. Instead, you were standing in front of each other in the most difficult conversation of your life. 

“Victoria told me that she knew which bar the NYC Bureau of Forbes would be drinking there that night,” you replied, trying not to cry. “Figured that it was the best place to find more about the hit piece.”

“Whitman knew about the hit piece?”

Your head shook immediately. “No, I was vague. Vic’s that kind of friend who wouldn’t blink twice or ask questions if needed.”

She didn’t interrupt when you continued. She just stared, and you felt punished under her piercing gaze. Like she didn’t know where you ended, and where the damage began.

You stepped into the Bemelmans Bar with Vic fifteen minutes later. Minka didn’t even try to dignify coming, but she still offered to be the designated driver heading there. True to Vic’s word, a charming Art Deco cocktail lounge and piano bar. Discreet lighting, 24-karat gold-leaf ceiling, martinis served always dirty and very dirty. Packed with just enough noise and people, like it was the center of the world. It smelled of decadence and the sophistication of the expensive Upper East Side. 

“Over there,” Vic whispered with a smile that could slice a necktie. “Corner booth.”

The Forbes reporters in question looked unassuming, if not expensive. These were the kind of people who grew up with a silver spoon in their mouth and get off in investigative journalism. 

You observed each one until your eyes landed on a particular face. 

By some trick of fate and sheer dumb luck, you landed the very target you were looking for. According to Teddy’s informant, the reporter’s name was Nate something-something. Of course, you asked beforehand. You did not head into an upper-class bar without a game plan. That was the only part that you did not tell her. 

The man in question looked unassuming. Maybe late thirties, tousled hair, glasses that said ‘ I read my own work too often .’ He was nursing a Negroni and typing on a laptop that he clearly believed made him look important. His arrogance was a scent.

Perfect.

Vic gave you a wink. “Let the slutty espionage begin. I’ll block anyone who tries to tag you in stories about it later.”

You walked up to him, just close enough to get his attention. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up. Smiled. “It is now.”

So predictable.

You let him buy you a drink. Let him talk about how he was working on something big. He was so predictable that, of course, he made his own job the main topic of the conversation. About how people deserved to know the truth. 

In return, you nodded and smiled and laughed at the right moments. Pretending that your stomach was not recoiling every time he was stroking his own ego like he was stroking his own dick.

When he asked what you did, you lied. 

“I’m a surgical intern,” you said. “I just came off a double shift. Needed something to take the edge off.”

He grinned. “I’ve always had a thing for med school masochists.”

You hated him instantly.

Still, you touched his wrist lightly when he paid the tab. Let him press a too-slick hand on your lower back. Followed him into his sleek apartment in the hotel residences overlooking the courtyard.

He left his laptop open on the kitchen counter. No password screen. Because, of course, not. What a smug bastard. Was he purposefully trying to show off, or was he careless?

Nevertheless, his arrogance was not your concern tonight.

He offered you a drink. You asked for water. He went to get it, but he said he would just make a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up.

You grabbed the opportunity and moved. Fast. Quiet. Efficient. Just like whipping up a press release statement five minutes before the cameras went live. 

A few clicks into his desktop, and there it was: a folder labeled with your boss’s full name, like he was actually purposely to be unsubtle about it. Inside was the hit piece itself. The one that had been hanging over your head like a guillotine for days.

You opened it. A quick skim through the paragraphs. Reading through it all religiously was not a requirement, but your stomach turned all the same. Just knowing it was about her made your blood boil. 

If you were not a stronger woman, you would have slapped him with the laptop. 

Just as you were about to snap photos of the draft with your phone, a new email on a tab in one of the browser windows pinged in.

SUBJECT: Retraction Request

[email protected]

“The information I gave you was unsubstantiated. I regret my statement and withdraw my claim. Please consider this my formal retraction.

- R.C.”

You stared.

Bobby Cain folded?

For one second, you thought you had won. And then the screen blinked, and the world tilted.

But no. 

That was not like him. Not after what you had heard through his security feed earlier.

You checked the timestamp, and it was just the moment that you opened the draft. Triple checked the retraction email, and who sent it. 

Confirmed. It was his through account. It felt like a setup.

Before you could react, your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. It could only mean one thing.

You opened the anonymous tip with your heart pounding. 

Robert Cain dead.

4/30/2025

Security footage available upon request.

You stopped breathing. Your fingers stilled on Nate’s laptop. The cursor blinked in silence as you stared back in horror. 

You stared at the text. Then again. Your pulse roared in your ears.

And you knew exactly what she would say if she saw you here. What Teddy would say. What you used to believe.

You deleted the file. Dragged the folder to Trash. Emptied it. He seemed too full of himself to keep a backup, anyway. 

Just as Nate returned with a glass of water, you smiled like your life was not dissolving inside you. 

“I’m so sorry,” you gasped. “It’s the hospital pit. I have to go. All hands on deck. Massive trauma case. OR’s swamped. You understand, right?”

He blinked. “Now? You’re on call?”

Watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy clips was actually paying off.

You widened your eyes. “They’re paging everyone. I’m so sorry. Rain check?”

He nodded, flustered and flattered.

You slipped out of the apartment and did not stop walking until the city swallowed you. Back in the bar, Vic was nowhere to be found. Probably went home with another guy, and she would tell you all about it in the morning. 

A few minutes later, you received another email through Bob’s account. This time, you did not open it. You knew what it was the moment you read the subject line. 

SUBJECT: Goodbye…

You just walked through the streets until the cold wind made your eyes sting, and you told yourself that you were not crying.

You had deleted the hit piece.

But none of this felt like a victory.

The next morning, she called you to the press room. The whole floor was empty, save for the two of you, and you knew right away what this was all about. She was standing with her arms crossed. Cynthia was sitting on the couch with the same unreadable expression that she always had, regardless of whether the news was good or bad. 

So, when Ms. Lockwood asked the question, that was the first blow to your heart. 

Right after you finished your narrative, nobody said a word. She did not even look genuinely surprised, as if she had been expecting it to be brought up eventually. The silence settled around the three of you like dust on glass. That was the second blow. 

She did not look at you when she finally spoke. “I assume you know what this is,” she said, holding up a printed email thread. “Imagine my surprise this morning that attached was a post-event summary sent by Cynthia from her secure channel, highlighting your little espionage stunt in surprisingly clinical detail.”

She looked up, and that was the third blow because it was not out of anger, but disappointment.

When Kate Lockwood was disappointed, she didn’t need to raise her voice. She was not the kind of CEO who would throw things. You had seen her go viciously quiet in ways that would make the entire boardroom tremble. 

You had always admired her for it. However, you didn’t imagine there would be a time it would be directed at you.

“You broke into a journalist’s apartment,” she continued. “Stole a draft, impersonated a medical professional, lied to my staff, and, apparently, carried blackmail files you received years ago without disclosing them to me.”

Your mouth went dry. “It wasn’t—he invited me in. I didn’t steal it, I just—”

“You just what? ” she snapped.

The silence cracked. Cynthia looked between you two and then politely excused herself, closing the door behind her.

Now it was just you and her.

You tried to hold your ground. “I did what I had to do with the means and opportunities that I had.”

“Yes, but Cynthia is my lieutenant; she is loyal to me. Teddy is also loyal to me. This means I know when you use my family’s resources.” She stepped around the Lawscn chair she was standing behind, walking toward you slowly, like she was trying to make sense of you. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask you to go behind my back.”

“Bob was going to destroy you!” you blurted out. “He was going to reduce you to your father’s daughter and twist it until no one remembered what you’ve done to change this place—”

“I am my father’s daughter,” she said bitterly. 

That hurt more than you expected because her words sounded more like a self-flagellation than an argument. 

“I used his tactics once,” you admitted. “But only because you wouldn’t. You’re too noble to play dirty, and this world isn’t noble. It’s brutal. And you—”

“I know what the world is,” she cut in. “I know what it took for me to survive it.”

You blinked, scared to understand what she meant by that. “You don’t mean that.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand settled on the edge of the Lawson chair like she needed something solid to hold onto. Then, with perfect clarity, she asserted, “I do. Some monsters don’t respond to ethics. You don’t negotiate with rot. You cut it out.”

Your breath caught. “Bob retracted his statement,” you whispered. “It doesn’t make sense.”

A long silence.

“He changed his mind,” she replied softly. “People do that when they realize they’ve overplayed their hand.”

You studied her. Too long. Too hard. “Did you…” You didn’t finish the sentence. Could not bring yourself to.

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She just tilted her head and asked too stoically, “Would it make you feel better if I had?”

That was not a denial. That was not anything close to mercy. And her voice didn’t even break.

Yours did as you stared at her, the air buzzing in your ears. “So what, now you’re going to punish me for protecting you? I did this for you.”

“No,” she replied. “You did this for the version of me that only exists in your head.”

And just like that, you were a stranger to her. That shattered something.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

She stepped closer. Not angry anymore. Just tired. “I care about you. I trust you, but I can’t have someone beside me who keeps secrets like weapons. Someone who thinks I need to be saved from myself.”

You whispered, “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“You tampered with a story about me, without telling me. That’s what you mean. I didn’t ask for that,” she said. “I asked for the truth.”

“I neutralized a threat,” you protested calmly.

“You crossed a line.”

“I protected you.”

“No.” Her voice was too even. “You controlled the narrative for me without my consent.”

Your jaw clenched. "It was a means to an end. A good end where this company doesn't fall into the hands of people so selfish with their money.” 

You had seen the files from Tom Lockwood's assistant. They were gruesome. All the backroom deals, sexual harassment lawsuits, political arrests, and environmental hazards. It was a horrible time, and you refused anyone other than Kate Lockwood to hold the power of one of the most powerful corporations in the world. Dichotomy didn't exist in this world, and if you had to dirty your hands to keep the hierarchy of power that way, so be it.

“That’s not your decision to make!” she growled through her gritted teeth. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, as if mustering all restraint to prevent herself from losing herself in the argument.

Here you were, already lost, despite placing all your bets. You knew what was coming next. You felt it before she said it.

“I think you should go,” she said, softer now. “We’ll formalize the termination through Human Resources after the funeral. Discreet and kind, considering the current power vacuum.”

The world fell away, like everything deafened into a continuous static sound. It was not discreet and kind at all. 

“No,” you pleaded. The muscle beneath your ribs felt concrete hard. “Please don’t do this.”

She looked at you like someone letting go of a lifeline. “I have nothing else to say to you. I can't trust you anymore.”

You didn’t cry, not yet. You just nodded in complete defeat. You wanted to ask her again if what you were thinking right now was true. About whether the woman, who once grounded your life with purpose, now has blood on her hands.

But she had already turned away. Like someone choosing not to lie, but refusing to confess.

You walked out of the press room with your spine straight, your heart torn open. 

You didn’t go to your desk, didn’t pack anything, and just left the building.

What was left to fight for when the person you loved chose principle over your protection? And worst of all was that she was right.

It turned out that walking away was not the hard part.

The hard part was denying that you would still follow her through fire if she asked you to.

You had become the kind of person she hated. Someone who pulled strings behind the scenes. Someone who believed a quiet betrayal was better than watching her get hurt.

But you loved her.

You loved her.

God help you, you loved her. So stupidly, so fiercely, you had burned the bridge and expected her to say thank you for the warmth.

You remember how it felt to hold her hand under the dinner table, even if it was just for one breath of something that could never be named.

Maybe she was hurting too.

You wanted to believe that. You needed to.

Because if she were otherwise, then what the hell were the last three years for?

Notes:

In Chapter 2, you meet Kate in the press room. The same press room where this conversation is held. Kinda ironic, right?

We are now moving on to S05E02! Chapter 10 will probably be the last flashback chapter in a while, unless my diabolical gay mind would come up with something.

Thank you so much for your comments and reactions! I appreciate every interaction :D Please let me know your thoughts and reactions so far...

Chapter 10: August 2022 - The Tavern on the Green

Notes:

While reading, listen to Dorothy Moore's Misty Blue when it is mentioned in the chapter ;)

The Lockwood-Goldberg nuptials were a quiet affair that went on smoothly.

The day was beautiful.

Unforgivably beautiful.

Sunlight slanted perfectly through the canopy of Central Park trees, and no one sweated through their couture. The hors d'oeuvres floated like edible jewels across trays, and the wine kept pace with the music.

You had helped plan it. Every piece of it.

You wanted to make her happy, if it meant helping her plan the wedding. 

Because of the fiasco in Maddie’s house last month, despite garnering favorable results financially, Human Resources had advised their CEO and her associate to keep the nuptials as intimate as they could. 

It was not much of a fight when neither the bride nor the groom had really been planning to invite any family members who were away from the state. That made the wedding a quick ordeal.

The flowers were white peonies and orange heirloom roses, which she once offhandedly requested because they reminded her of the most beautiful thing that Joe had told her when they were in London. You didn’t ask for the specifics, of course. Only complied with surgical precision with her request. The champagne was Ruinart Blanc de Blancs. And the location? Also, her pick. A classic and timeless venue. Just like her.

Just like the pain of loving someone who will never be yours.

Classic and timeless. 

Joe just had to play the dutiful groom without having to lift so much as a finger. He seemed satisfied with the bride commanding the whole ordeal. You assumed it was because of his first marriage. You didn’t press to confirm it.

During the ceremony, you stood at the back of the church at the pretense of ensuring that everything ran cohesively and coherently. Not in the bridal party, of course. You had insisted, so you hovered instead just behind the musicians. You weren’t family. You weren’t a friend. You were good at lingering and at listening and at being invisible when it mattered and visible when someone needed something.

It was what you were best at.

As she passed you walking down the aisle, her eyes didn’t meet yours, but her breath hitched in anticipation. Just enough for you to hear it.

Your boss wanted her Uncle Bob to walk her down the aisle. Little Henry was the ringbearer, accompanied by his adopted dads, Dante and Lansing, from Madre Linda. 

Henry Quinn-Goldberg had done an excellent job delivering the rings. He toddled down the aisle, holding Lansing’s hand. Dante had trailed them silently, a shadow with impeccable posture.

You had watched how her expression softened when she crouched to kiss Henry’s cheek after the ceremony. How his small arms clung to her neck. How he smiled up at her like she had hung the moon up just for him. Fingers looping around hers because he could not entirely grip her hand when his was so small.

Joe had bent to kiss Henry’s head, too, but the boy had flinched just slightly. You couldn’t blame the child. It must have been difficult to process in his young mind having three dads, when one of them was thought to have been murdered years ago.

Looking closely at the young boy, he took so much from his father. Curly brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, gap-toothed, and impossibly tiny in his tux. But when the way Henry would gaze at his parents, you knew that adoring look in his eyes and goofy smile on his lips were taken after Love Quinn.

Not that you had met her personally. But you had this small instinct inside of you that you just knew. 

On the other hand, Joe’s wedding vows had been running through your head, even during the reception. You had not meant to listen to them at all. Unfortunately, you already knew the contents before the wedding. He had enlisted your help drafting it a week ago. 

However, the way it sounded inspiring and poetic made you think he didn’t actually need your help at all. At the back of your head, you felt that he was purposely showing off the vows.

Love tests us.

I've been tested more than most. This is the last time.

I came from nothing. A true rags-to-riches story. I've been through it all. Unlucky in life and in love, until I met you.

Kate, you opened doors for me I could have never imagined. We share a life. I would have been quick to judge in the past. We're using our power for the better to help those who aren't as lucky.

Who knew I'd become the luckiest guy in New York?

If you were being honest, it was short and sweet. If you were indulging that little voice in your head, you should have wiped the draft into a clean slate instead. Change it into something unhinged like the full Bee Movie script. Or the lyrics to Cardi B’s WAP. Or just insert a blank page and let everyone sit in awkward silence while he panicked.

After working so hard for his bride, you could afford to go fully insane at this point.

But you didn’t.

The laughter that followed that vow was soft and sweet, tinged with envy from the crowd. She had smiled that lit up the whole church, and he had kissed her, and everyone had clapped and risen to their feet. 

You had clapped with them while discreetly wiping the single tear that ran sharply down your cheek.

During the reception, you stood again on the sidelines. Your boss’s friends from Oxford were also invited, and you were given the specific instructions to watch them closely. You were hiding by the bar when two of them began their second bottle of champagne and their fifth round of veiled insults.

Princess Blessing Bosede, glamorous in Bottega and Bitcoin arrogance, was explaining the market crash in a way that blamed sentimental, poor Americans. When she saw you seated near them, you knew you were her next target.

“You must be the PA.” Blessing looked you up and down. Her accent rolled like polished stone. “You’re better dressed than I expected.”

“That’s not a compliment, is it?” you replied, sipping water you desperately wished was wine.

“No, but it’s true,” Sophie Soo chimed in, balancing a glass of champagne in one hand and a glittering phone in the other. She was surgically scrolling through her phone, looking up only to correct someone’s lighting. “We thought you’d be more... clipboard core.”

Phoebe intervened before it could escalate, arms already around you. She was wearing something tulle and ridiculous and perfectly her. “Darling, you’re better than Valium. No wonder she never cracks.”

You nodded, mentally calculating how many hours you had left to survive this evening. 

Moments later, Phoebe started weeping. 

“It’s just… weddings are so nice, aren’t they?” she sighed dreamily, cheeks flushed and glowing. “And, dear Jonathan— Joe, I mean, is quite rather dashing. And Kate’s so radiant! Roald would have loved to see her happy.”

You passed her tissues, and she gladly accepted them.

After she calmed down, she breathed in dramatically. “I gave her a wedding card with sweet messages from my dear students,” Phoebe said. “Isn’t that the most thoughtful thing I’ve ever done?”

You beamed at her. “That’s actually very beautiful, Lady Phoebe.”

Phoebe gasped. “Oh, darling, you do like me!”

Sophie’s eyes flicked over you, sharp beneath their soft lashes. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” you replied before you could help yourself.

Blessing raised an eyebrow and leaned in. “I like this plebeian,” she said to Phoebe. “She’s got bite.”

“She’s brilliant,” Phoebe whispered, too loudly. “Like brilliant-brilliant. If no good lad or lady marries her, I might.”

You blinked.

They were chao of privilege, but you felt unexpectedly seen.

Meanwhile, Dante and Lansing had said very little throughout the day. Dante and Lansing kept their conversations short and reserved while spending the little time they had before Henry could officially move into New York City with his birth father. Their presence was polite, detached. The kind of enforced civility that you only understand when something precious has been taken from you and signed away with a pen.

You had wanted to say something—anything —for Dante and Lansing, but what was there to say?

You were not the only person who had lost something today.

Just before the toasts, Maddie pulled you aside with a biting grin in place. Earlier, she caught the bridal bouquet without even trying, or even attempting at all, and Andrew took it as an opportunity to excuse himself from the reception. It felt to everyone that it was a bad omen. Now, she drank herself away until the wedding cake was cut.

“I hope you kept the ghost of Daddy dearest away from this,” she purred into your ear while sipping from a glass of Cosmopolitan. “I swear, if one more man tells me he was misunderstood, I’ll scream.” She stepped closer, leaning in conspiratorially. “I hope you’ve got an exit strategy when all of this finally goes up in flames. Weddings are fun. Marriage is… more accounting.”

 “Thanks for the pep talk, Maddie.”

She grinned. “Anytime, darling. I’m a Lockwood. We don’t do sentiment. We do style, secrecy, and prenups.”

The toasts started with the groom. 

You slinked away into the catering area. While everyone was clapping, Reagan walked past you, then doubled back slightly to face you. You took it as a sign that you were about to be accosted by the other twin.

“Still here?” Reagan smiled thinly. “You must love feeling indispensable. You do cling, don’t you? Like a well-behaved rash.”

“Pleasure to see you too, Mrs. Jacobs,” you replied cordially. 

“And of course, you obey.” She smiled so thin, it could have cut you into ribbons. “That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Compliance dressed up as efficiency. I suppose that’s what makes you good at your job. It’s impressive, really. Sticking around this long. You must have a very high threshold for chaos.” Paused. “Or a very clear agenda.”

You met her gaze, but didn’t respond.

Reagan tilted her champagne flute. “Funny, isn’t it? All these people celebrating a Lockwood wedding, and none of them know who should really be leading this company.”

 “Is that… you?” you asked, after a beat of hesitance.

“Please, I was groomed for this,” she said with a dismissive hand gesture. “And then Daddy gave it to the emotionally constipated half-sister with a god complex.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she earned it because she didn’t want it to begin with,” you parried, and it landed her square in the face.

Her smile just widened, and you were afraid it stretched up to her eyes. “One day, when all this cracks, remember who had the original blueprint. I would’ve made this empire the way that it was meant to be.” She gave you one last look, not with a threat, but with a tired look of not being chosen. “You’re loyal. Fine. But loyalty is just leverage when the family name stops holding weight.” 

Reagan pivoted, downing her champagne, and returned to her table with a seat between Harrison and her twin.

You returned to clearing the glasses, pulse slightly elevated.

Teddy appeared out of nowhere. “You good? You look like you're calculating how many shrimp cocktails it takes to drown in emotional repression.”

 You avoided his sharp-shooting gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I say right before I call my therapist and Venmo her a tip for not judging me. You know, you’ve been walking around like you’re waiting for a power outage. What’s going on?”

“I’m literally just managing logistics,” you sighed.

“Nah, babe,” he rebutted. “You’re managing the delusions of the one percent wrapped in ivory and flowers. And honestly? You’re doing great. You haven’t slapped a single Oxford alum or set the tent on fire.”

“Yet,” you mumbled.

“Exactly yet. But let’s keep it on simmer, not full boil, alright?” He clenched a fist in front of you like you were his motivation coach. “We are so close to this day ending without a security incident. I already had to pry Greta off a swan ice sculpture before she tried to ‘free it spiritually.’”

You snorted, despite yourself. “Noted.”

Teddy clapped your back affectionately. “You’ve done more emotional labor today than a whole season of Insecure. When this thing ends, you’re getting two drinks, a nap, and one of those cupcakes with the tiny gold leaf that makes you feel broke and blessed.”

He went back, and you found him already talking to Dante and Lansing with his husband Albie, while watching the kids, Fiyah and Henry, play with the long-stemmed flowers like they were swords.

Your shoulders dropped in relief, at least. You exhaled. The worst part of loving her was always knowing when to vanish.

When Dorothy Moore’s Misty Blue started to play like it had been waiting for you, you had just escaped to the far edge of the tent, thinking no one would notice if you slipped out for a cigarette you didn’t actually smoke at all.

But she found you anyway.

She was in ivory silk, and her hair was pinned up in soft waves that made her look like an heiress from another era. She was luminous. Ruthless in her beauty. Her smile was so radiant that you could see your own longing reflected in it.

You had never seen her happier. 

Which is why it almost destroyed you when she asked, “Dance with me.”

The world narrowed. You could feel people watching. Feel the judgment curling from the Oxford corner, the upper-crust scent of scandal.

Ms. Lockwood followed your wary gaze, then looked you dead in the eye. “I am the bride,” she said coolly. “I get to choose my next dance. Anyone who has a problem with it can fuck off.”

You hesitated.

She didn’t.

So you took her hand. 

And the world disappeared.

You danced slowly. Her hand in yours. Her other palm rested at your shoulder, fingers brushing fabric, warm and steady.

The music swirled around you like mist in a dream.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Then, quietly, she whispered, “Thank you for today. This wouldn’t have come together without you.”

You smiled faintly. “Just doing my job.”

“No,” she shook her head gently, “Not just today. I’m lucky to have you. You understood me before I said anything.”

You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the twinkling fairy lights, afraid to say too much; something sharp pressed against your ribs. “Happy to serve.”

The music rose, then dipped around the space between you.

“Would you ever resign?” Her voice caught like she didn’t mean to ask that aloud.

You were equally stunned by the question. “Excuse me?”

“Not seriously,” she added quickly. “Just… I sometimes wonder if I’m difficult to work with. If I ask you too much.”

You let yourself smile. “I like my job.”

She rolled her eyes. “Concerning.”

You managed a laugh. “I do. Most days…”

There was a beat.

“Do you want me to resign?” you asked softly.

“That would be terribly inconvenient.”

“I’ll write my letter with my last breath.”

She didn’t look at you. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be terribly inconvenient.” Her voice softened. “I like having you in my life.”

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or tell her that this was the moment you had been waiting for, and she had given it to you like a throwaway line at a philanthropic auction.

You didn’t even want to argue that. There was something about the way her voice sounded in this proximity. Like all the tension in her body was loosened. The armor had not been fully settled over her yet. It made everything feel worse and better at the same time.

A few seconds of swaying each other in the music, you leaned back to properly look at her. 

You could pretend it was you whom she married. That this white dress she was wearing was for you. That it was you who put that golden band on her finger. This could have been your first dance, and the world would not matter at all. 

Time and reality fell away from your senses. The only thing that made sense to you was those green, green eyes of hers.

Yes, you could pretend very well. Praying as well that you could bottle up the memory of this sight like a scent, which you could uncork every time you wanted to revisit the feeling all over again.

“Yes?” she asked, noticing that you were looking at her longer than usual.

There was another pause. Not heavy, but perceptible.

You opened your mouth, but found no excuse other than to preserve this sight of her for eternity. You meant to say something light. Deflect, maybe. But your brain was too slow, your heart too sore, and her silence was too open.

You cleared your throat instead. “You look very lovely tonight, Ms. Lockwood.”

She laughed. “You did say I looked better in longer hair and lighter makeup.”

The heat rose to your cheeks. “I meant that in the best way possible.”

“I know,” she muttered dolefully. “I really looked like a frigid bitch.” Then, she paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I still am and I am terribly good at being a bitch.”

You laughed. It broke something in your chest. 

The song curled around the two of you, soft and old and full of yearning.

“You said I was good at taking care of people,” she continued.

“You are.”

You remembered in flashes the night when she drove you home. It was already a month ago, but it still haunted you whenever you tried to remember the exact things your drunken state told her, but you failed to recall them as is. You couldn’t even understand why she forgot to give your phone back; she merely explained that she held it for safekeeping, and it made you more confused that she seemed guarded with that information.

“You also said you’d take care of me.”

You held your breath. Then exhaled. “I meant it.”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

God, the tenderness of it. The quiet ache of almost. 

You wanted it to last forever. The way her hand fits yours. The way her perfume softened with warmth. The way you could almost, almost , pretend this was your wedding. That she would lean in and kiss you instead. That you would slow dance until morning. That the reception tent would part, and the universe would say yes to all that you want.

But of course, that was the moment Joe appeared.

“Kate,” he said gently. “Henry wants to dance with you.”

The spell snapped. 

Ms. Lockwood gasped softly, almost giddy. “Of course.” She turned to you, and her hand slipped from yours like silk falling to the floor. “I’ll find you later,” she said.

You nodded. “Sure.”

She glanced at you, just for a second, when she bent down to lift Henry. And for that one second, you let yourself believe it meant something.

Then she was gone, walking toward her family. Her real family. Her husband. Her son.  Her new name. Her new role.

And you? You were still standing in the center of the dance floor, Dorothy Moore fading behind you.

The architect of her perfect day.

Not chosen.

Just loyal.

Always just loyal.

The rest of the night was a blur. 

You stayed behind to collect programs. A pathetic, but realistic excuse.

The tables were half-cleared, florals starting to wilt under the weight of celebration. Champagne glasses forgotten. Shoes kicked under chairs. Someone’s lipstick-stained napkin folded with mathematical precision.

You sat in one of the empty chairs and looked up at the Manhattan skyline. It was beautiful.

The day was beautiful, and it was all thanks to you.

Just as you were about to close your eyes and breathe, you felt movement.

A shadow loomed at the edge of the reception tent. The shadow approached. You didn’t see where he came from. He wasn’t on the guest list.

“You’re not who I expected, but you’ll do.”

You glanced and saw a man, much older than you, walking towards you. Impeccably dressed, not flashy, just quietly expensive. He didn’t look like he was about to hurt you, but his presence alone made you feel he wasn’t here to exchange pleasantries.

He simply handed over a weathered leather folio that looked very much like yours. “ Tom said only one person could be trusted with this,” he explained. “Looks like that person works for her now.”

It felt familiar and heavy in your grasp, but your hands didn’t take it fully. “What’s this, and who are you?”

“I was Tom Lockwood’s EA,” he replied, then looked down at the leather folio. “Consider this as an off-the-record turnover of documents. Mr. Lockwood said that if his daughter Katherine ever got married, someone would need this to protect her.”

“From what?”

“From the rest of us.” He pushed the leather folio into your hands gently and walked away.

You opened it briefly. Clean manila folders neatly arranged alphabetically greeted you. The labels were vague, and the names were familiar, but it was enough for you to understand the weight of what you were holding.

You closed it. Your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from purpose.

Notes:

In one of the social media deep dives in S05E01, a paparazzi still of Kate and Joe was photographed while they were doing footsies while eating in The Tavern, thus I had this headcanon that they held their wedding reception here and they have their wedding anniversaries by eating here.

This chapter is particularly challenging since it had many scenes and characters showing up... I hope everyone still enjoys!

Let me know your thoughts and comments so far! After this, we head into the plot of S05E02!

Chapter 11: May 2025 - The Cathedral of St. John the Divine

Notes:

I'm sorry it took so long for me to update than usual! I had been busy lately, and it was a bit challenging for me to clean up this chapter, considering it went through venue changes over the past days I was trying to write this. Timeline-wise in the canon, we are in between S05E01 and S05E02.

Anyways, Code of Silence Episode 2 is out now! Please check it out and yap about it :D

You were too sharp to notice the oddities.

A part of you still flinched whenever a news media outlet picked up on Buffalo Bob’s untimely death. News reporters, obituaries, and even the official press release of T.R. Lockwood Corp had recognized that his suicide came as a shock to the business world.  Sloan, her crisis manager, kept the press release from sounding like it was drafted to scrub blood from marble. Even the homily was written by Legal and approved by PR.

The part of you that flinches felt something was off about all this.

Suicide? 

Really?

The suicide note was too polished. The news cycle felt orchestrated. Obituaries circulated tastefully in major newspaper outlets. Bob had been defiant and arrogant, especially after the conversation that wracked your bones into cold realization. You had heard the audio from inside his house. That wasn’t a man planning a retraction. That was a man making threats.

And now he was gone. You didn’t believe in clean deaths. Not in her world. And even if you knew something, you would keep it buried for her. You wouldn’t say anything. 

It’s not that you thought she did it. It’s that you couldn’t be sure she didn’t. 

That thought she could have haunted you.

Meanwhile, you did the most that you could with the remaining days that you were with the company. You had been on the funeral committee, of course. Someone had to help draft the memorial itinerary. Someone had to coordinate the eulogies and tactfully intercept calls from Forbes and Bloomberg asking for comment.

The termination email was sitting in HR’s queue, scheduled to be sent tomorrow. That hadn’t stopped you from coordinating the press list, managing the logistics, and silencing the questions. You also made sure no one from the shareholder list got too curious because even if you were no longer hers in title, you still believed it was your job to protect her.

It hadn’t stopped you from protecting her, even if she’d already chosen to be done with you.

Even with a broken heart, you performed your job very well, flawlessly and quietly precise and without hesitation, like you always did. 

It had been three days. That was how long it had been since you spoke directly to her.

Not a glance. Not a word. Not even a silent acknowledgement in the glass hallway. 

Just three long days of grief, silence, and paperwork stretched thin between the fire she lit and the ashes you were now standing in.  She appeared polished, like she had been through that very fire and emerged winning.

Everything was through Teddy, who hadn’t dared even to ask you what happened, but you suspected he had asked his sister. You knew he knew because of how he looked at you like you were a road accident waiting for emergency response to arrive. 

Those were your three days of no words, no messages, and emails from each other. Just silence that added salt to the still bleeding injury.

Except, of course, for your invitation to the funeral.

It hadn’t come through HR. It hadn’t even been forwarded through Teddy. It came from her personal line, in one sentence.

Kate 🔒🌲:  You should be there.

You almost didn’t come.

You kept your distance by lingering at the narthex; not brave enough, close enough, or even family enough to cross that threshold to be actually inside the church’s main interior. Still technically not a guest, still silently doing inventory on champagne trays and floral arrangements in the Synod Hall for the reception like some ghost of service past.

The funeral service was pristine. Everything was exactly the way he would have wanted based on his will, and you followed every request like a command to the letter. It was the kind of funeral that cost six figures and still managed to feel austere. The program was minimalist, tasteful, and blindingly cold with white lilies, and no speaker went overtime. 

Years ago, Andrew Bierhals’ memorial service had more warmth than this, despite that you had to pull an inconsolable Maddie out of the church pond.

The T.R. Lockwood Corp board of directors sat in the middle rows with shareholders disguised as mourners. A handful of government liaisons showed face and offered hollow condolences. One of them cried, or pretended to.

And Kate Lockwood delivered the eulogy.

She was in the front pew with Bob’s daughter, Mona, and Joe beside her. You didn’t know why, but he looked… satisfied. Peaceful. Not performatively grief-stricken. Polished shoes, somber tie, quiet grief— or something like it. He held Mona’s elbow a little too long when she stumbled, like a man rehearsing tenderness. Just a man at ease with the ending of a chapter. You couldn’t put your finger on it, and it unsettled you.

You weren’t sure what you were looking at, but it made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

When she stepped up to the podium, no paper in hand, her posture was the kind that sculptors would chase into their marble work, and the stillness of someone who had been trained too young how to bury grief behind posture.

You almost didn’t come. You told yourself you had no reason to. 

Having no reason at all did not stop you from going and staying, and you had to see her bury the man she once called her mentor without shedding a single tear.

From the podium, she took a deep breath, and when she was about to speak, her eyes glanced over the crowd, until she saw you, standing at the back of the church, trying not to look like you belonged anywhere near her.

Maybe she blinked. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe the briefest punch of breath left her, visible only to you.

But she saw you.

And that was enough to undo you.

You had to sit down before your knees gave out.

You would never stop wondering if she let Joe clean up the mess. If she let herself be the kind of woman who would say yes to something like that.

You remembered the way she looked at you in the car, that day, and in the press room the morning after. How something inside her broke, and how it stayed broken.

Her eyes betrayed her rigid composure, just enough to know she had seen you. You felt your lungs had a subtle shift of air, like the quiet pressure of gravity reasserting itself in your orbit, and the realization curdled with fear that you still love her. 

---

The crowd thinned from the cathedral as the reception wore on like a dissipating fog.

Board members swirled like carrion birds, exchanging stories about Bob as if he hadn’t nearly torpedoed them all. People laughed too politely, drank too much champagne, and whispered too close.

Others wept in their Anthora disposable coffee cups, away from those hushed condolences and self-serving remarks. Maddie threw her wrap over her shoulder and wandered off with a Cain cousin who would definitely regret that decision by nightfall. Aside from her, you couldn’t find any other friendly faces, not even the hostile face of her twin sister. 

No one mentioned how Bob Cain’s retraction email arrived minutes before his death. You and Sloan made sure it stayed that way. Every conversation revolved around something quick and clean and unworthy of a second thought.

You stood away from the periphery of it all in the ambulatory, hands folded primly behind your back as you stared hard at the stained-glass windows, no longer sure what role you were playing at this moment.

That’s where she found you. You felt her presence before you saw her. Of course, you were standing in the world’s largest Gothic cathedral, yet she managed to reach you still, as if invading your mind and heart were not enough to torment you. 

The same woman who had told you to your face that she couldn’t trust you.

Yet here she was…

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” she said. Her voice was polished, quiet, and too casual, that your frustration hit you harder than the wind.

You didn’t turn immediately. The words took a second to settle. They sounded like they cost her a fortune of the world's strength say. You kept your gaze fixed on the stained-glass window above, where the figures in the window depicted construction, blacksmithing, carpentry, and tapestry weaving. 

The realization came slowly to you that what you were looking at was the Labor Bay Window, meant to celebrate and honor workers in society who were often overlooked or undervalued despite the difficult demands of their labor.

How fucking perfect.

You let out a slow breath before replying, “I didn’t think you’d care. I was told to attend. Didn’t think I counted anymore when I couldn’t distinguish whether I am a friend or an employee in this charade.”

When you were only met with silence behind you that scraped your nerves, you turned, and there she was. Too close and enough to take your breath away.

Her hair was loosely styled in soft curls. Her hands were bare, but her ring glinted like a joke you weren’t allowed to laugh at. Her black dress had no lace or softness to it. Just clean lines, sharp seams, the kind of elegance that said she was untouchable.

You didn’t consider that she would speak to you today.

Her mouth flattened. “You’re angry.”

“I’m gutted,” you said, too calm. “But thank you for reducing it to something easy.”

It would’ve been easier for you if she were angry. or even cold and frustrated as you, but the expression in her eyes was clear as day. They were green and tired and sharper than anything you had a right to still miss. She was tired, and that was somehow worse. 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” she said, and it sounded like grief finally speaking its name.

You exhaled. “You mean firing me? Or Bob dying?”

She flinched.

Good.

You weren’t in the mood to spare her anymore. You didn’t want to hurt her. But God, you were already hemorrhaging for far too long.

You looked at her and thought about all the things you weren’t allowed to say, but you said one of them anyway: “I’m not here to start another argument.”

Not when being here and talking to her felt too public. 

She didn’t look like she was here to win one, yet you started to walk away. You wanted to get away from her as far as you could because breathing around her had already become more difficult than it was before. Crossing the cathedral’s interior felt like wading through a temperamental sea, reaching the first chapel that your feet carried you through. 

The chapel was of St. Columba to honor and represent British Christianity.

How fucking convenient.

Because she followed you there, and you were beginning to think she was not handling defeat well in a conversation. Unfortunately, you were in the mood for an argument.

You turned your body fully towards her. “You looked me in the eye three days ago and told me I wasn’t trustworthy. That I crossed a line. But you—” But you broke off; the words caught in your throat.

She waited, her eyebrows furrowed just slightly. You could see the clench in her jaw, as if physically fighting herself to rebut. 

You stepped closer, enough for the hurt to start bleeding through that you were shaking from all the pain you held back for days. “You’re giving me mixed signals. You fired me. You shut me out. You treat me like a liability. Did you know how it took so much of me from falling apart as I piece together this bullshit memorial? But then you still—still —send me a message, telling me to come. Stand in front of me and follow me here like nothing’s changed. So tell me, what the hell do you want from me?”

Her face, which was always so composed, fractured for the briefest second. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

That hurt more than rage. More than anything that she could have said.

You had loved her for years. Worshipped her from a polite distance. Followed every command, every coded word, every sideways look.

And she didn’t even know what she wanted from you.

Your voice dropped, barely audible. “Then why fire me?”

She didn’t answer at first, then her hands shook, trying to gesture as she spoke. “I didn’t want you to see who I had to become,” she said, softer now. “To stay standing after seeing through it all.”

“I saw you when you were still trying to believe the company could be good.” You gave a short, empty laugh. “And now you’re what? The better monster? The one with prettier manners?”

She didn’t speak, nor freeze. She just looked at you like she wanted to tell the truth and couldn’t afford to.

You swallowed hard. “What happened with Bob?”

There was no accusation in your voice, only desperate understanding. 

She stepped forward, slow and measured, as if unsure whether she was allowed to stand this close to you now. She was silent. Too long. Too calm.

Then, she found her voice. “He changed his mind.”

“No, he didn’t.”

You could feel the blood pounding in your ears. “He didn’t sound scared. He sounded like a man who thought he still had leverage.”

She looked down and clasped her hands. “You think I did it,” she said softly.

“I think you know who did. Tell me I’m wrong,” you challenged.

She didn’t. “I didn’t want this.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly. “I did it because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Right,” you said, bitterness rising like acid. “You didn’t know how to love me and trust me at the same time, so you chose the one that hurt less.”

She blinked, stunned. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?” You took a step forward. “Then tell me what did.”

Her breath caught. Her eyes dropped to your mouth and back up again. “You crossed a line.”

“So did you, otherwise you wouldn’t have been so silent as if you were complicit in all of this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to accuse me of.”

“That Bob changed his mind? That he just decided, on his own, to retract everything? That he just… felt remorse?”

Her jaw tightened.

“I read the email,” you went on. “It sounded too specific, like a confession someone else had written.”

She turned away sharply. “This isn’t the time.”

“No,” you said, following her. “It’s the first time in days we’ve been in the same space without a third party or a coffin, so you’re going to stand here and tell me what the hell happened.”

Her steps quickened toward the gated exit. “I don’t owe you that.”

You caught up with her. “You owe me the reason.”

Her footsteps stopped, just a stride away from the gate. She spun, furious. “That’s rich!” she shot back. “Coming from someone who compromised my trust.”

“Then, why did you follow me?”

The look in her eyes was biting and magnetic, which nearly made your knees give out. Her mouth opened, then closed. There was nothing else to say.

“I need space,” she said breathlessly.

You crossed the space before you could stop yourself, caught her wrist before she could start to retreat.

She didn’t pull away fast enough because the moment turned, and you pushed her back against the wall with both hands.

Gently, but firmly enough to make her breath shudder.

She stumbled against you and braced a hand against your chest.

Your hands rested beside her head, arms braced against the marble stone, close but never touching. 

And still, she didn’t move away.

“You’ve had space,” you snapped. “You buried yourself in it. You don’t get to walk away from me today. Now, face me.”

She didn’t look away, and she also didn’t answer.

“You didn’t kill him,” you said slowly.

“No.”

“But Joe did.”

Her face didn’t change, but her eyes darkened. “That’s not your business.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and breathless.

“Bob didn’t kill himself, did he?” you asked. “He retracted his statement right as the article was being finalized.”

Her mouth trembled, but she didn’t speak.

“You don’t have to lie,” you said.

“I’m not,” she murmured. “I’m choosing not to say anything.”

“So, tell me the truth.”

Her eyes met yours, and they were filled with fear and guilt. “The truth? Fine. Bob’s dead because he threatened my family, and I made sure the consequences happened. I buried him with the legacy he tried to destroy. Are you happy now?”

The air left your lungs. You took one step back, too vulnerable, too open, like you regretted asking the second the confession left her mouth. Your chest felt like it was caving inward, but your hands remained caging the sides of her head.

“I did what I had to,” she said tightly. “You of all people should understand that.”

You laughed again, this time sharp and bitter. “Don’t drag me into your righteousness. You can’t fire me for doing the thing you claimed to hate, then you go around and do something so much worse.”

Her composure cracked, just for a second. “I never asked for that,” she sighed. “I didn’t want to need that.

“And yet, here we are. Why do I feel complicit?” you demanded. It felt as if it were just by staying here. “Why does this feel like something I helped start?”

“Because you made yourself part of this when you decided to save me, especially after what you handed me in that car.”

“I thought I was helping, and you hate me for it.”

“No,” she said; her voice cracked, just a little. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

A beat passed, then another. You looked at her mouth, then her eyes, and her mouth again. Her hand twitched at her side.

The world outside the chapel spun onward, but for a moment, it was just you and her, along with the terrible truth that this conversation didn’t fix anything.

You inhaled softly. “I want to believe you didn’t have anything to do with Bob’s death, but Joe looks awfully satisfied for a man who just lost his wife’s mentor. And he’s been walking around all day like he did the world a favor.”

Her expression froze, but when she spoke, her voice was as still as glass. “Are you asking if Joe is dangerous?”

“I’m asking if I should be worried.”

She looked at you for a long moment.

“Are you asking as my assistant?” she asked quietly.

You shook your head with a small smile, contrasting your sullen face. “You fired me.”

She looked down. Grief and guilt moved through her features. Then, just as quickly, she schooled her face back into steel. “He won’t be a problem.”

“If he did something—”

Her eyes flashed. “He won’t be a problem,” she repeated.

It was supposed to comfort you, but it didn’t.

You watched her, this woman you had built your world around, and wondered how much of her you would still follow if the expenses kept climbing.

“Do you regret it?” you asked.

She didn’t look at you. “No.”

And it made you want to pull her in and run from her, all at once.

“I would’ve done anything to protect you,” you whispered. “I still would.”

“I know.”

“You never needed saving,” you said. “I know that.”

Her voice dropped. “Then why did you do it?”

“Because I see you.”

“And, I didn’t fire you because I stopped caring. I fired you because I knew I’d make you complicit.”

There was nothing left for her to say. That was it.

That was the cruelest thing of all.

It meant she still cared, but not enough. Not enough to keep you. Not enough to choose you.

Then, you asked the question you had not wanted to ask until now; the quiet, bitter side of you dared to. “Should I be worried?”

She didn’t flinch.

“Because if Joe cleaned up your mess once,” you continued, “how long before you have him clean up me?”

The words landed like a slap across her face. Her eyes filled with hurt, but she remained unyielding. “You think I’d do that?”

You didn’t back down, planting your hands more firmly against the wall. “You’re not denying you had him kill Bob, and you’re not denying you think I’m a liability.”

“I don’t think you’re a liability.”

“No. I’m just disposable. That’s why you cut me out, right? Not because I was wrong, but because I saw too much.”

She looked like she was going to speak, then stopped. Her hands curled at her sides.

“You always said I understood you, but now I saw too much,” you whispered. “So, Kate, are you going to have me killed as well?”

Her first name, for the first time addressed to her face, was foreign in your tongue, but she didn’t say a word.

Her breath came faster now. You felt it.

Her hand lifted halfway, like she might touch your face. Like she might pull you closer, but she didn’t.

Instead, she pushed you away gently, lowered her voice, and said, “You won’t be a problem.”

That was all she gave you. Not a kiss. Not a confession. Not a goddamn answer.

Just that one, final line that meant everything and nothing.

You stepped back slowly with a nod, turned, and walked away before she could see your hands shaking.

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t need to.

As you walked away, you felt the weight of her gaze on your back. 

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. If you did, you weren’t sure you would be able to stop yourself.

You left with the promise that you wouldn’t be a problem. You were already gone.

It was not mercy. Not forgiveness. Just another terminated employee under management.

Notes:

This was extremely difficult to write, not gonna lie... I think I just pressured myself since this chapter opens Act II, where most of the drama happens and follows heavily canon events in Season 5, despite that it comes from an outsider perspective. Let me know your thoughts, comments, and especially predictions!

Chapter 12: May 2025 - The Baisley School

Notes:

This chapter is probably the longest so far, with 1500+ words than the usual word count that I do.

While writing this chapter, I had Meryl Streep's The Winner Takes It All on loop, so go ahead and listen to it while reading for emotional accuracy ;)

“You said in your intake form that you’ve experienced a sudden job loss. Would you like to start there?”

You hesitated.

It had been almost a week since the funeral service. The decision to pull yourself up for therapy was easy, just a few moments after you received the deactivation notice of your corporate account. Everything was turned over to Teddy as chief of staff. You had been sleeping more than usual since then, while ignoring texts from Minka and Vic inviting you for drinks again.

“I… wasn’t laid off. I was fired. By someone I—” You didn’t finish the sentence, but she waited. “I had three job offers by the end of the funeral,” you began. The words felt like they had to be pried out of your stomach. “And all I could think was: I still hope my boss calls.”

The best shrink in New York at your disposal was Dr. Odette Lorenz. Her patient list included political families, collapsing C-suite executives, and at least one actor with a yacht named after his second Oscar snub. She was adjacent to the Lockwood family by way of Maddie’s brief attempt at being emotionally honest during her 2023 ayahuasca era, a year after her last husband blew up in space. 

Your ex-boss had seen her twice. Only twice since she came back from London. You weren’t supposed to know that, but you did.

Dr. Lorenz told you to take your time, and there was no script needed to concretize your grief. Her office was warm and minimalist, save for framed colorful modernist art hung tastefully on cream-colored walls. No clock in sight to pressure her clients into speaking, but you couldn’t help twisting the tissue paper around your fingers like it owed you money and your old job back. 

“And did she?” she asked gently, scrutinizing you with eyes that have seen too much and say too little. 

You shook your head slightly. “No, of course not.” Then, you paused to take a long breath. “She said she couldn’t trust me anymore.”

“Could you walk me through how you came to that conclusion?”

Now, the fun part of your session was dancing around the real issue without giving too much. You couldn’t tell her exactly what you did and what happened with the risk of being reported to authorities, especially your little espionage stunt and your ex-boss turning her husband into a hitman assassin.

Dr. Lorenz might be the best shrink in New York, but you weren’t about to test how far confidentiality reached when it involved blackmail and possible murder. So, you improvised. You kept it clean and slick enough that she would not be reaching to dial 911 at any given moment.

“I crossed a line I thought I was crossing for the right reasons,” you said carefully. 

“What kind of line did you cross?”

“I—I chose without her consent because I thought it would protect her. I thought I could help her.”

“And, did it arrive at the result that you were hoping for?”

You looked down at the tissue paper wrangled mercilessly in your grip. The silence stretched as you searched your brain for any response that did not involve blackmail.

Or espionage. 

Or unregistered surveillance on a dead COO’s property.

You didn’t say murder.

“There was this hit piece in the works that targeted her,” you answered instead. “When I found out, I tried to sweep it under the rug.”

“How did your boss react after finding out?

”She fired me for doing so.”

She nodded. “And now you’re here.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” you sighed. The words peeled off from your chest like a scab. Dr. Lorenz said nothing, sensing that you still had more to say.  “I told myself I was being loyal. That I couldn’t just stand by and watch the people who don’t understand her put out what they want.”

Dr. Lorenz hummed as she assessed you. “I could see you’re very passionate about this. Could you share a bit of the reason why that hit piece bothered you so much?”

You smiled bitterly, remembering the well-written Forbes article that you wanted to burn line by line. “It’s nothing but a conspiracy theory.”

“Then, why did she fire you?”

A frown crossed your face. You couldn’t say it was because it talks about the pipeline deal that gave kids cancer. Your fingers returned to picking apart the tissue paper until it was scraps, but you kept your breathing even as you could. 

“The witch hunt against Kate Lockwood had always been there since she took over her father's empire, so it was not new to her that some part of the media would be framing her as the bad guy,” you explained. “The many good works she had put out, balancing profit with purpose, had been criticized by some as nothing but from a self-absorbed and vapid white privileged girl with her father’s money.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling that your skin peeled back a layer after speaking.

Still, Dr. Lorenz’s eyes remained unfazed and unreadable. “Ms. Lockwood seems to be a very important person to you. I have seen dozens of clients rant about how they despise their working conditions, especially their bosses, going so far as to describe them as ‘assholes,’ yet you don’t seem to be one of them. From what I am hearing, you happened to like your old job, and it ties with what you feel about her. You sound very loyal. What makes your boss stand out from the rest?”

A beat passed as you thought carefully, and you landed with a safe answer. The kind of answer that you would give if ever a journalist approaches you again. “People were so easy to dismiss her as insignificant because of her sex and nepotism, but she gave no fucks at all and did what was best for those who need equity and justice the most.”

“And what about you? All I am hearing is you singing praises, but it is not intended for your own sake. Who do you see in the mirror when you were still working for Ms. Lockwood?”

The question struck through you like an icicle jabbed through your heart. You exhaled slowly. “I saw a person fixing things before she had to see the mess.”

“Did she ever ask you to do so?”

“The job demands that I do so. To be the perfect assistant by keeping her three steps ahead of the world.”

Dr. Lorenz shook her head, and you knew it was not the answer she was looking for. “What I asked is if Kate Lockwood explicitly asked you to fix things for her.”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, you replied stubbornly. “No, that’s the thing with her. She would never ask. I just volunteered.”

“Why is that so?”

“Because…” Your mind was suddenly filled with words, but none of them made it out of your mouth. You pocketed the tissue paper, steadying yourself to grip the armchair instead as you finally found the best response. “Because she mattered. Because the world chews up women like her and calls it balance. I thought if I walked through the fire, maybe she wouldn’t have to. Now, I don’t know what I am doing here.”

“You’re grieving,” she said. “Grief doesn’t just come from death. It comes when we lose structure, control, and identity.”

You bit your lip. “It was more than a job.”

“I imagine it was.”

“I was just trying to stay indispensable.”

“You made yourself indispensable by making yourself an architect of outcomes,” Dr. Lorenz asserted with finality, and it landed close to home.

The office was filled with silence, and it tasted like your grief, and you were already tired of it. Dr. Lorenz offered no reaction. 

“It was worth it,” you said noncommittally. “Maybe, until it wasn’t.”

“How so?”

You sighed, as if the answer should have been obvious, but she wanted to hear it from you. “Because I lost my job. I don’t have to take care of her anymore.”

Suddenly, the next question rushed in with the force of a bullet train. “Has anyone taken care of you? I imagine it’s no easy task to take care of a CEO. In those days when you weren’t her assistant, who took care of you?”

You laughed softly because working for her meant that you were on the clock to be in her corner every single day. “I—no.  I don’t think that’s the point.”

“That's not the point,” she agreed. “But, it’s the problem.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “I mean—not like that. Not in the way I…  Not like parents. Or… whatever ‘safe’ is supposed to mean.”

Your fingers fidgeted again; this time, slightly scraping through the threads of the armchair. 

“But you paused.”

“Because I thought of her. She didn’t have to, but she came around anyway.” You had to pause from the sensation similar to pulling a splinter between your ribs. “It was maybe three months into the job. There was this party where I drank too much. I was new. A little invisible. Trying too hard to belong.  I was about to go home with a man I didn’t even remember the name of. And there she was. Kate Lockwood drove me home herself. She scolded me the entire way and made sure I didn’t pass out in my apartment’s hallway that night.”

Dr. Lorenz smiled a little. “That does sound like care.”

It made you scoff a little in turn, and you were more wounded than sarcastic. “Yeah, I was nothing more than someone who color-coded her calendar and made her life more organized than it was, but she still carried me out of that West Village townhouse like I mattered.”

She tilted her head. “And, how did it feel that you mattered to her?

You fought back a choke rising to your throat hotly. “It was the first time that someone didn’t see me as a tool. And now, she could only see that I made choices I had no right to make. She fired me because she thought I was dangerous for doing something so willingly, and it’s not even for my own life.“

Dr. Lorenz nodded slowly, folding her hands on her lap. “Why do you think it is dangerous for you to be an architect of outcomes that don’t immediately revolve around your life?”

The office became too small for you to breathe in. She reached toward the tissue box and set it between you with no commentary, waiting and watching for you to gather your breathing into a normal pace. You were fighting your way to prevent the floodgates from opening. You couldn’t allow yourself to cry right now. 

Thus, you breathed through your nose, gripped the armchair until your nails scraped through the fuzz, and spoke through the tightness of your throat. “I love her, yet I didn’t know how to explain the difference that I was taking something from her when I tried to save her.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re here.”

You met her laser-focused gaze, amidst the glassiness of your eyes. 

“You were learning what love looks like,” Dr. Lorenz continued. “Now, maybe you get to learn what you look like without it having to be wrapped in sacrifice. We’ll figure out who you are when you’re not saving someone. And maybe, eventually… what you want doesn't require sacrifice.”

Then, as simple as a transaction, Dr. Lorenz snapped into a detached expression, which signaled that it was time to wrap up the session. “We have learned today you’re holding grief, love, responsibility, and fear at the same time, and the only language you’ve ever used to express any of them is action. Let’s pause there. I will be seeing you again in our next session. In the meantime, I will be giving you an assignment.”

She slipped a paper to you. It read:

List One:  What do you think love is? What it’s supposed to look like, feel like, sound like.

List Two: What you’ve done in its name.

“I want you to write two lists. That’s it. Very simple,” she said. “You don’t need to show it to me, but I need you to see it for yourself. Because until you do... you’ll keep calling sacrifice a form of affection. And people who mistake pain for proof? They bleed for the wrong ones until there’s nothing left to give.”

You left the office feeling as if every fiber in your being was buzzing with vulnerability you never knew existed until today. 

The assistant outside passed your phone with his brows furrowed. “The Baisley School was calling non-stop. I’m sorry it was vibrating like crazy, I had to check,” he apologized, but he appeared to be easily intrigued by details. “A Henry Quinn-Goldberg is requesting you.”

You froze.”What?”

The assistant frowned further. “Uh, you have one voicemail with several missed calls from the school office, and a message from the administrator.”

You resisted the urge to strangle the assistant for being too nosy; you were nosy, but very subtle about it, of course. Nevertheless, you turned on your phone with trembling hands. The school office’s number was on several call and message logs in the history tab. 

Apparently, the school office did not know it was not your job to relay their circulars, memoranda, and letters to her. 

To Mrs. Lockwood-Goldberg

Thru: channels

Your son, Henry, was involved in a physical altercation. School policy mandates that legal guardian/s must be notified. Police were called by parents of the student involved.

Please see the administration as soon as you receive this message. 

- Baisley School Disciplinary Committee

It could have been a clerical error. Baisley must not have been notified that you do not work for the parent of one of their students, considering that your termination was just too fresh. However, the realization was as clear as day, and you hated how it came just as you stepped out of therapy. 

You were no longer Kate Lockwood’s executive assistant, but apparently, you were still her personal one.

A quick Google Maps search revealed that Dr. Lorenz’s private practice was less than eight minutes away from Baisley. 

You found yourself already walking on instinct without thinking. 

---

The school’s psychologist, Dr. Val, was shocked when she saw you. 

“You’re… not Mrs. Lockwood-Goldberg,” she said.

“No, but she will be here in a moment,” you replied. In truth, you used a name that still held too much weight to breeze through the security. 

You shouldn’t even be here, but neither should the police. And if she were here first, she would have gutted everyone in the school who allowed the police near her son with a look. 

You found Henry sitting on a bench in the hallway, looking down at his feet with a sullen expression. His knuckles on the right hand had spots of blood that were obviously not from being wounded.

The dread of realization kicked through your stomach.

He was the one who threw the punch.

He looked up the second he heard you arrive, then his lower lip trembled when he called out to you in greeting. “You came.”

You knelt instantly and tried hard not to let your thoughts drift towards a retraction letter. “Of course I did, bub.”

“Are you with mommy?”

You shook your head, but were careful not to let the sadness bleed through your eyes. She had not even told him that you no longer work for her. 

“She will be,” you replied, sparing him another heartache.

And then he sighed, burying his head on his knees.

“Do you want to hug it out?” you asked tentatively, only to be met with a shake of his head. “Okay. That’s okay.”

Instead, you reached into your handbag, pulled out fresh wipes, and cleaned off the dried blood on his tiny knuckles. 

Henry just watched you with those big, curious eyes.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” His voice came out small, like he was expecting a judge, jury, and executioner for what he did. 

You shook your head. “Nope,” you replied honestly. “I’m just here.”

People came through the entrance the moment you threw away the soiled wipe, and you looked up to see Reagan flanked by Harrison. 

You sighed and rubbed your temples as you put two and two together. Henry punched Reagan’s daughter Gretchen, out of all the students he could have picked a fight with. 

Reagan was already making a beeline towards you while pointing at Henry. “It was you!”

As fast as you could, you stood up and made yourself the human barrier against her fury. You could feel Henry flinching behind you as his hands wrapped around your arm. 

“Easy, he is just a child!” you said, trying to reason with her. But you could not reason with the she-devil herself. 

“He broke my baby daughter’s nose!” she spat. She relentlessly surged forward, but Harrison held her arm, which she tried to jerk away from, but his grip was firm. 

Fortunately, Dr. Val intervened, inviting the couple to her office, where a bandaged Gretchen was already waiting for her parents. Reagan shot you a cold glare over her shoulder like a viper as Harrison, who gave an apologetic smile, led her inside by her waist. 

Another sigh escaped your lips. 

You turned when Henry’s hands loosened their hold on you. He continued looking down at his shoes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Hey, don’t be sorry,” you said gently, rubbing his back with soothing circles. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Both of you stayed silent. Henry was never a vocal child, or at least in your presence. He had always been reserved with his thoughts, choosing to talk about book preferences and characters rather than his feelings about people. 

However, the school police liaison chose this as the perfect time to approach Henry. You shielded the young boy again behind you when the police tried to speak with him.

He raised an eyebrow at you and asked if you were the legal guardian. Too smug. 

Then, from your periphery, the entrance opened again. You didn’t turn, already heard the distinct clack of heels. 

“Not quite,” you replied in a tone that could wipe the bulletin boards clean.

“Look.” The police held his palms up. “I am just here on orders to take a statement from the boy.”

“There will be no statement-taking!” you snapped. “He is a child! If he needs to, he will do that in front of a lawyer.”

Then, like an angel sent from above, she swept into the room, spine tall, and face unreadable in a haphazardly fastened navy coat. The admin at the front desk tried to intercept with a visitor’s log form. She ignored it as her eyes found Henry instantly. And then, her eyes found you; the gaze sent a jolt in your chest. 

She didn’t say ‘ What are you doing here?’ She just looked at the way Henry clung to you. The way you didn’t pull away. 

The dilemma of whether to call her ‘Ms. Lockwood' or just 'Kate’ left an unease that you could not decide on immediately. 

You explained yourself anyway. “Baisely thinks I still work for you.”

Her face turned flustered. “Oh,” she said dumbfoundedly. “I apologize for that. Teddy should have handled it.”

And in that moment, you realized that you were only fired from the job, but not from taking care of them. At the same time, she cut you off professionally, but she never severed the personal tether.

She knelt beside you, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead. Her hand grazed yours when it steadied on his shoulder. She didn’t move it. “I’m here, darling,” she whispered. “We’ve got you. I know you wouldn’t hurt someone without a reason, darling. I know you.”

Henry didn’t look up, but his small fingers tightened around the hem of her coat.

She turned, still kneeling, and assessed with a stare that resembled Reagan’s earlier at the police, who was still hovering. When she was about to open her mouth, Joe was already beside his wife.

He looked at you as if he already expected you to be here. 

“Oh, why is Henry talking to a cop?” he asked, and the police officer just resigned himself and distanced himself.

“Because Henry is a monster.”

You all turned to see Reagan on the threshold of Dr. Val’s office. She gestured to Gretchen’s nasty bruise and bandaged nose.

It started to look highly impossible that a six-year-old boy would sock a bigmouthed girl almost twice his age.

“Reagan," she acknowledged, then she gasped as her gaze fell to Gretchen, "Oh, my God! What happened?”

“He broke my daughter's nose,” Reagan answered acidly. Then, she turned to you, and you knew that you would be the next target in line. “And you even asked the help   to wipe the tears of your charity case.”

Before anyone could speak, someone cleared their throat pointedly. 

Once again, Dr. Val did damage control and stopped whatever verbal spar that was about to brew in the middle of a prep school hallway. 

Reagan left with her husband and daughter with an air of haughtiness that almost announced to the whole school the predicament. Dr. Val, looking calm as if she had already handled worse parents, simply invited the Goldberg-Lockwood couple inside her office.

“We’ll sort it out,” Joe told you before he entered the office, which mostly sounded like he was telling it to himself. “This isn’t like Henry.”

Meanwhile, you did not know how to fit in all of this. Still, the couple asked you to stay with Henry outside the office during their discussion, fearing to leave him unsupervised with a police officer hovering around.  You and Henry just sat in silence; you did not attempt to press what provoked him to punch Gretchen. 

When it ended, you watched as Joe took Henry’s hand and left, followed by her. Joe looked visibly shaken, as if he was the one who had been in a fight and gotten into trouble. The look on his wife’s frowning face indicated that she was more bothered than before she entered Dr. Val’s office. 

Still, they—mostly she—asked you to join them in the car because a ride back to your home was the least that they could do for you. You watched inside from the tinted window of the Escalade, in the passenger seat beside Henry, as they exploded into a hushed argument after she caught him by the wrist, probably to discuss what happened back inside. 

The way that you read on Joe’s lips, asking her ‘What if he’s like me? ' And you pushed that dreaded thought as you looked over their son, who had reached for his bag and dug out a copy of The Hobbit to distract himself. 

Even the car ride was silent. Joe had asked to be dropped off at his bookstore and to bring Henry with him. She would head straight to work, which left you no choice but to be alone with her.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, looking back at you from the front passenger’s seat.

“No,” you said quietly. “But I wanted to. For Henry.”

“Thank you. Joe and I highly appreciated it.” She paused as she fiddled with her sleeve, then she asked, “Are you alright?”

You finally looked at her. “I’m in therapy now with Dr. Lorenz, if that’s to say that I’m alright.”

“Right,” she muttered, looking down. 

Silence again; this time it was you who broke it first.

“Do I still work for you?”

She inhaled sharply. Her knuckles paled around her coat. 

“I’m sorry, I kind of find it confusing that Baisley still had my contact number despite that you fired me a week ago,” you continued, the fire rising in your tone. 

“It’s simply a clerical error,” she said noncommittally. 

She was too good for that. Teddy was too good for a simple clerical error. 

Before you could ask further, the facade of T.R. Lockwood Corp Main HQ came into view from the windshield. Teddy was already waiting at the entrance of the building when the car pulled into the driveway in front of the lobby. His guarded posture told you that he was about to bring bad news.

“Cruella had been throwing around dog poo since she came back,” he informed her as you both came out of the car. When she was at a loss for words, he clarified, “ Reagan .”

“Christ,” she realized. “What has she done this time?”

“Our sister dearest had been telling everyone, even the copy girl, the little scuffle between Henry and Gretchen,” he replied.

She groaned and ran a hand through her hair. “What fucking bitch cunt!” Her eyes turned steely. “As much as I’d like to punch Reagan, we need to be on the high ground… with a dinner plan, perhaps?”

“Your plan to negotiate with a terrorist is through fancy china and silverware?” Teddy sighed in disbelief.  

“If this were in the boardroom, I would scuttle her showboating, but this is my son we are talking about,” she said. “Can you set up a few calls to clean up whatever she is throwing around, then come in by dinner?”

He sighed once more, already fishing for his phone in his coat pocket. “You’re lucky, you’re my little sis.”

He went back into the building after he waved his fingers at you with a wry smile, speaking on the phone already.

Then, she turned to you, and you somehow forgot you were standing beside her. 

She didn’t move. Neither did you.

The air suddenly felt hot. Dr. Lorenz’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of your skull. 

You crossed your arms. “I—I should probably go,” you said. 

Eventually, she shifted her weight and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice, when it came, was oddly cautious, like she wasn’t used to being unsure. “Wait, do you have dinner plans?”

“I’m sorry?”

She cleared her throat. “Would you like to stay for dinner? You should come. You haven’t eaten.”

You blinked. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

That should have made you soften. Instead, it made your spine stiffen.

You stared at her. She said it so softly, like an apology in disguise.

You felt it then, the old reflex. That terrible ache that used to be loyalty. That hunger for a place at her table. For a reason to matter again, but something inside you shifted.

You swallowed. “That’s... not a good reason.”

A pause. The air between you tightened.

You inhaled sharply; you didn’t mean to, but the breath caught like a sob in reverse. You folded your hands behind your back to hide the tremble. “You fired me.”

You would like to repeat it over and over until she gets how it ruined you. 

Her eyes didn’t waver. “I know.”

“You told me I crossed a line. That I wasn’t trustworthy.”

“I know.”

“And now you want me to eat across from your husband and pretend that didn’t happen?”

Her eyes darkened, and her mouth parted. “I didn’t mean—”

You held up a hand. “Don’t. Please don’t backpedal. You meant it, but I can’t come back into that house pretending I haven’t been spun out like a spare limb just because you remembered I’m good at making Henry laugh and smoothing over crisis after crisis.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

You didn’t say: I just sat across from a therapist who made me realize I’ve spent three years trying to make your life easier at the cost of my own.

You didn’t say: I want to say yes more than anything, but I don’t know if I’m coming for the food, the forgiveness, or because I’m too weak to say no to you.

Instead, you said, “If I come over, what am I walking into?”

She blinked.

You clarified, slower this time. “Am I your former employee? Your still-functioning damage control? A friend you tolerate until the next mistake?” 

‘Or the one you’ll never choose, no matter how often I show up? ’ But you didn’t say that.

She looked at you like you had just punched the air out of her lungs. And for once, she had no answer.

You stepped back, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just need to know what language I’m speaking before I sit at that table again.”

Kate didn’t reach for you. Didn’t command. Didn’t redirect. She just nodded once. “That’s fair.”

You waited, but she didn’t try again.

She just said, “If you change your mind… the door’s open.”

You stood there for a long time.

Long enough for the quiet to stop being comforting. Long enough to realize that you could say no, and the world would keep spinning.

But God, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Her words hung there, weightless between you both. You should say no. You knew that.

You just came from therapy, where a woman with a doctorate in human behavior told you that perhaps your idea of love is too entangled with proximity and usefulness. 

But there she was. Kate Lockwood. And this time, she wasn’t ordering you. She was inviting you. In her perfect house. In her perfectly curated domestic illusion. 

And that was somehow worse.

You tried to find the version of yourself that could say no. You even opened your mouth, and what came out was: “I can’t.”

For once, you didn’t answer with instinct. You answered with the truth. 

She blinked, clearly not expecting it. “It’s no trouble,” she said, and for a fleeting moment, she straightened her spine like she was back in the boardroom. “I—” She caught herself, swallowing the words she wanted to command into existence. “Okay.”

“It’s not because I’m angry,” you added. “I just… I’m trying to do things differently now. And dinner with your family tonight, it wouldn’t be different. Not yet.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded, slowly. The way someone did when they were trying to understand a language they used to speak fluently.

“Take care of Henry,” you said. “He’s a good kid.”

Her voice was small. “He likes you.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah. I like him too.”

Then you turned and left.

And for once, as the spring air hit your face, a strange thing happened. The quiet didn’t feel like a punishment. It felt like breathing.

Notes:

Oh, well... Tough mountain to climb for Kate? I'm hoping to put out the next chapter really soon. Thank you so much for everyone who waited. Let me know your reactions, comments, or probably questions in the comments ;)

Chapter 13: October 2022 - The Dakota, Upper West Side

Notes:

Apologies for the late update! I have been a bit busy, but I am hoping to put out the next chapter after this soon. This is one of the two flashback chapter for Act II, so I hope you would like this one. It has been particularly challenging to write, which is why it took me so long.

“Madam, please, this is a reputable accommodation, not Studio 54,” the concierge told you in a panicked voice the minute you arrived. 

Maddie was slumped into the ivory keys of the Steinway grand piano in the middle of the presidential suite. The housekeeping staff were eyeing you nervously when they explained the situation. Efforts to wake her up were fruitless. Calling out to her and shaking her awake was only met by a withering groan and swats of her hand. However, you knew that this was just a devil in this impulsively curated detail. 

The devil is her grief, wearing Prada. 

You stood there for a second, taking it all in. The scent of spilled whiskey and expensive perfume clung to the curtains. Velvet throw pillows in disarray. Champagne flutes balanced precariously on sheet music, caviar smeared across the marble coffee table, and half-dressed guests draped on fainting couches, their limbs tangled and oblivious as if auditioning for a Caravaggio painting.

You crossed the room carefully, your heels silent on the plush carpet as you carefully stepped over what looked like an upturned bowl of foie gras. “Maddie,” you called softly.

When she didn’t stir, your fingers slammed randomly across the keys beside her head, producing a dissonant melody that made her stir until she could not bear anymore the sound that she finally opened her red-rimmed eyes. 

“What the fuck?” she snarled, but you kept your cool. She rubbed her eyes, blinking blearily at you. “Oh, it’s you,” she yawned, “What time is it?”

You let out a slow exhale. “It’s time to go,” you said, your voice low but firm. Your hand gestured idly around the suite. “Get up before the Four Seasons sue us for damages.”

She lifted her head sluggishly, mascara streaked down her cheeks like war paint. “You,” she said, her voice a scratchy whisper. “Always you. My savior. My… What’s the word? What do they call you? Katie’s work wife? My—my Florence Nightingale in a power suit.”

You pressed your lips together, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She reached for you with trembling fingers, her breath fogging against your wrist. “He left me,” she whispered. “I keep seeing him in the stars, and he’s gone.”

“I know,” you murmured, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “And you’re still here. Let’s get you home.”

She nodded, then sobbed into your neck when you half-carried her towards the oversized bathroom, gently slipping an arm around her shoulders. Thankfully, the staff had already started cleaning up, beginning in the bath area, so you made Maddie sit in the pristine deep soaking tub to wash off the remnants of last night’s grief suppression.

You kept the comment to yourself about filing a motion to adopt and ground her until Q4 legally, while you rinsed the sticky residue from her wrists. 

That was your most interesting morning so far in the first months of being Lockwood-adjacent. The second was a phone call from your boss, in the morning while you were nursing the hangover courtesy of that Isaacks-Hendricks House bacchanalia, to check if her longest-standing assistant had died of tequila-poisoning. 

Sometimes, you would catch her staring up at the night sky when she thought you weren’t looking. You couldn’t blame her. He funded a three-million-dollar space mission for himself and his crew to travel outside Earth’s orbit aboard the spacecraft Deep Space Transport (DST), also known as the Madison Transit Vehicle. 

Maddie had been a mess ever since, and you had to pick her up every time. 

By dawn, you had the suite back to near normalcy. You had bribed enough staff to keep Maddie's grief a private hell with crisp bills and the kind of calm assurances that only someone in your line of work could deliver. It was a way of thanking the staff for their discretion, which is also a subtle way of saying that to keep this one-time incident away from smartphones and social media, otherwise a team of lawyers will be in touch. 

If it had come to worst, you would have paid the whole of Manhattan’s hospitality industry with the Lockwood hush money.

The last of the revelers had slunk off. Maddie was curled up on the couch, her damp hair pressed to a silk cushion, drifting in and out of sleep. She clutched a bottle of Propel Water like it was the last thing tethering her to this planet.

“He’s never coming back,” she mumbled, her gaze unfocused. “My Andrew… He went to space and exploded like a—like a goddamn balloon animal.”

You swallowed. For the Lockwoods, you had learned that grief had to be walked through, not talked around. 

“I know, Maddie.”

“I’m still here,” she said, almost wonderingly. “What does that make me?”

You had no answer. You just pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and said, “It makes you alive. Because you are. Because you’re needed. And you’re loved, Maddie. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. Let’s start there.” You tucked a blanket around her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I’ve got you,” you whispered, though you knew she couldn’t hear you.

Then, you slipped out after a quiet request delivered in cash that Maddie should be escorted with the courtesy car to her home address, your hands still smelling faintly of a Bath and Body Works Champagne Toast candle.

Maddie’s grief had been wiped from every surface of the suite, if only you could do the same for the ache in her chest. You stepped out of the Four Seasons with your coat buttoned tight, feeling like you had spent the whole midnight dragging the weight of her sorrow behind you.

In the cab, you leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes, the city rolling past in the soft blue of early morning. No sleep, no rest, just another day waiting to be salvaged.

When you arrived at The Dakota, it was still early enough that the doorman gave you a polite nod of surprise. The building was as silent as a chapel, and you let yourself in on muscle memory alone.

Your boss was already awake, leaning against the kitchen counter while focused intently on manipulating the coffee machine as she talked softly through her Bluetooth earpiece. Based on the time right now, it was her 6 AM check-in routine with Bob. Her dark hair, growing away from its bob style, reached just past the nape of her neck, mussed in a way that was both casual and unfairly alluring. She was wearing a threadbare gray Oxford University shirt that was three times her size that which slipped past one shoulder. You learned quickly enough that it’s either that she loved wearing comfortable clothes or that she liked showing off her shoulders.

For a moment, you just… stared. Because, honestly, how were you supposed to function around someone who looked like that? She had that kind of careless elegance that made you want to scream into the void. 

You would never get tired of seeing her in the morning before she slips into her usual CEO armor.

She looked up, startled at first, then smiled at you, and the gleam in her eyes shot an arrow straight to your chest. “Good morning,” she murmured. Her voice was still husky with sleep. 

You cleared your throat, trying to look anywhere but at the exposed skin at the delicate slope of her collarbone when the shirt’s neckline dipped low enough from a certain angle. First order of business: Burn that shirt away from existence. “Good morning, Ms. Lockwood. Breakfast before briefing?” 

She nodded, taking off her Bluetooth earpiece and pocketing it. “As long as you eat. I already made coffee.”

“So, this is how it feels to be spoiled by my boss,” you said with a satisfied sigh, reaching for a ceramic mug from the cupboard. 

“I’d hardly call making sure you don’t pass out from low blood sugar ‘spoiling.’” 

That made you pause, just for a second. Just long enough for your heart to trip over itself. She did spoil you, and you noticed it. But you didn’t voice aloud as you walked over to take the coffee that she brewed for you and helped yourself to a plate of breakfast croffles. 

She looked at you then, her green eyes narrowing in concern. “You’re distracted. I can tell. Is everything alright?”

You rubbed your eyes, suddenly realizing that you had barely slept at all. Before receiving a call from the distressed concierge earlier, you were pulling an all-nighter to finish a presentation on the clean-energy initiative for the next board meeting.

“You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” she said, so quietly you almost missed it.

You inhaled through your nose, steady, trying to keep your voice even. “It’s been a long morning. Just tired. Maddie had a rough night again.”

Her gaze softened and her brows knitted, but her shoulders stayed tense. “Is she okay?”

You tried for a casual laugh, but it fell flat. “She will be. It’s only been a few weeks since the funeral,” you said carefully, your eyes lingering on the pale line of her exposed collarbone before snapping back to her face. “I took care of it.”

Her expression shifted, tenderness—and was that jealousy? —flickering in her eyes.

She reached up, brushing a fleck of something off your shoulder. The touch was so gentle it made your heart thud. “You’re always taking care of everyone, but you look exhausted .”

You forced your gaze back up, trying to remember that she was still your boss. “I’m fine,” you protested. Your heart pounded at the way she was looking at you. “Maddie’s your sister, after all. She—she calls me your work wife, by the way. Ever since that party in July.”

Ms. Lockwood blinked, her mouth quirking. “Does she, now?” Her tone was mild, but her eyes were flinty. “Maddie’s always been prone to creative interpretations.”

You laughed awkwardly, trying to push down the sudden warmth that rose in your chest. “Yeah. She thinks I’m the one who actually runs this household.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

Then, you paused, cocking your head slightly. “You’re not offended by that?” you asked in a tentative voice.

She hummed, a faint quirk on her lips. “And why would I be? Maddie always did have a flair for the dramatic. I believe it's what the Americans call their colleagues' dynamics, for the way they work together with trust and support. Do you?”

Holy fucking shit.

Well, she did dance with you during her wedding and told you that anyone who would judge could go fuck themselves, which could mean absolutely nothing at all. 

You felt your cheeks heat. “No. Well, uh, sometimes. When it’s you, Ms. Lockwood,” you said quietly. “I’m here for you. Always.”

For a moment, the air was thick enough to drown in. Her gaze swept your face, lingering on your mouth before darting away, and her lips parted like she was about to say something. But before she could—

Reagan arrived, barging through as soon as the elevator opened with a soft ding. She swept into the kitchen like a thunderstorm in a green Ralph Lauren charmeuse trench coat.

She smiled, all sharp lines and sharp green gaze. “Good morning, Katie. You look tired.”

“Reagan!” your boss exclaimed, but more exasperated than surprised. Her spine straightened. “We weren’t expecting you to visit, especially this early?”

“This isn’t a social call,” she snapped, eyes narrowing as they darted from your boss to you. “A Four Seasons hotel concierge called me at three in the morning because Madison is apparently the patron saint of bad decisions, so she turned the presidential suite into a bacchanal.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your boss spoke first, her tone cold and measured. “Rey, it’s being handled. Our family contact reached out, and I paid to have it killed, courtesy of my assistant. No thanks to you.”

“Handled?” Reagan’s voice dripped acid. “The Lockwood name is going to be in the Post by lunch. You can’t keep enabling her—”

Ms. Lockwood’s expression shuttered. “Reagan, not now.”

“Oh, it’s always the time when it’s Maddie,” Reagan cut in, glancing back at you with open disdain. “And you—always in the middle of it, aren’t you? The new Lockwood fixer. Tell me, are you paid extra to scrub away the stench of my twin sister’s bad decisions, or is this just your personal charity project?”

You straightened, refusing to shrink back. “I’m just doing my job.”

Reagan’s smile was cold. “Cleaning up after our family is not your job. And if Maddie’s going to keep behaving like a tabloid’s wet dream, she needs to be fired.”

Ms. Lockwood’s eyes flashed, but her tone stayed glacial. “Maddie is our sister. We take care of our own family.”

Reagan laughed, a bright sound that somehow felt like a blade. “Oh, how noble. How predictably naive. You think a family name excuses everything? She’s a liability. The board already sees her as a public relations nightmare waiting to happen. If she’s going to get caught, she won't get caught as the Head of PR.”

“She’s grieving,” Ms. Lockwood asserted calmly but with an undercurrent of steel. “And I will not abandon her because it’s convenient for you.”

“Well, I'm sorry that you thought that was a suggestion. I want you to fire Madison, and if you don't… Oh, that would be very inconvenient for your reputation in your first months as CEO fresh out of her honeymoon.”

“I’ll handle Maddie on my own, like a true sister would.”

Reagan’s eyes narrowed as she scoffed. “Family doesn’t get a pass when they drag the rest of us down with them. You’re always so quick to play the benevolent matriarch, aren’t you, Katie? Didn't know that you have a thing for taking in charity cases here,” she spat, her gaze flicking to you like she was daring you to speak.

You stiffened, meeting her gaze evenly. “I’m here because I’m needed.”

Reagan let out a brittle laugh. “Needed? Honey, you’re nothing but a band-aid. And you’ll be peeled off when the next crisis comes along.”

Ms. Lockwood’s voice was calm, cold enough to freeze a river. “Reagan. Enough.”

Reagan’s smile was razor-sharp. “Oh, I’m just being honest. Someone has to be. I’m tired of cleaning up Maddie’s messes.”

“It’s not you,” Ms. Lockwood argued, then glancing at you. “It’s always been her who’s cleaning up—”

“Then let your assistant be her emergency contact,” Reagan snapped. “She’s already cleaning up after Madison.”

The kitchen fell silent. 

You glanced at your equally stunned boss, but before she could reply, you stepped in. “Fine, I’ll take care of Maddie,” you said. “Whatever she needs, I’ll cover it.”

Reagan’s eyes glittered. “Good. Because I’m done playing big sister. And if you’re so eager to be everyone’s savior, maybe you should be Maddie’s emergency contact instead of me.”

You felt your breath hitch, something deep and sour twisting in your gut, but you didn’t let it show. “I’ll do it,” you said instantly, but your pulse thrummed. “You’re right. It’s better that way. I’ll have it arranged, Mrs. Jacobs.”

Your boss inhaled sharply, biting back any rebuttal through an irritated smile, as if she wanted to protest. Like she wanted to stop you, but didn’t.

Reagan’s expression flickered with a brief triumph. “Perfect. Then, we’re all clear,” she said coolly. She turned back to your boss, her tone all honeyed venom. “Oh, and Katie? While we’re discussing roles, I’ll be putting out my week’s notice of my resignation as Head of Acquisitions. Consider this my official notice.” 

A beat passed, like a breath being held back, but Reagan breathed in and stood a little taller. “Since you ousted that terrible creep, I’m going for the open board seat. The CFO position. Keep playing house here with your pets because soon I’ll be the one to run the empire.”

Ms. Lockwood lifted her chin, her voice turning back into that CEO’s cadence that was controlled and detached. “As you wish, Rey,” she said, barely amicably. “I’ll make sure to put out some feelers.”

Satisfied, Reagan pivoted on her heel and walked out, leaving the room colder in her wake while you both watched her.

The silence that followed settled like dust. 

Ms. Lockwood let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping infinitesimally as she turned back to you. “Thank you for everything,” she said like an apology. “I know—I know this isn’t your job. I know I—I didn’t ask you to. But… thank you.”

You met her eyes, your throat tight. “It’s what I’m here for. It’s my job to take care of you,” you said simply than you meant it to be. “It’s what I do. I’m good at it.”

She gave a small, startled laugh. “You’re good at it.” Then, her voice dropped low, as if she was saying the next words to herself mostly. Her expression was raw in a way you weren’t sure you had ever seen. “Too good. It actually worries me.”

For a second, it felt like the air between you was a live wire.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I had practice,” you replied, your voice too light to cover the weight of the memory back in August.

A faint line appeared between her brows. “What practice?”

“While you were in Italy,” you admitted. “You wanted the world to stay out of your honeymoon, so I made sure it did.”

Her mouth parted in surprise, but you continued.

You looked at her evenly. “There were… situations in Italy. Paparazzi. Some noise about you and Mr. Goldberg in sordid angles from the villa in Florence. Of course, I handled it according to what I felt would best suit you.”

“During my honeymoon apparently?” She blinked, her lips parting. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You tried to smile, but it must have come out more bitterly than you anticipated. “You said you wanted to change people’s lives for the better. I just made sure no one changed yours.”

And, you followed every command to the letter. She told you exactly her plans for her honeymoon. ‘A different city every week, eat amazing food, have sex in exotic locales, and do good work. Just change people’s lives for the better.’ 

Ms. Lockwood was silent for a moment, her eyes searching yours. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“I know, and you didn’t have to,” you reasoned. “It’s my job to handle the things you don’t have to see. It’s what I am here for.”

Her gaze softened for just a moment, but her jaw was clenched tight. “You’re good at it,” she said. 

“Someone has to,” you said, and for a second, you let her see how much it cost you. “And Maddie, she’s…” you sighed. “She’s hurting.

“You do too much,” she said quietly. “And I never know how to thank you for always holding the line.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, but the words felt hollow in your mouth. “That’s the job.”

She tilted her head, that small, inscrutable smile playing at her lips. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to replace you.”

You forced a half-laugh. Because you believed her, at this time. 

She stepped closer, so close you could see the faint line of freckles across her collarbone. Your heart stuttered. Your mouth went dry. But she said nothing further, and you did too. 

You ate breakfast with her wordlessly for a long moment, and the world fell away. This morning’s briefing points were already forgotten. 

The tension from earlier had settled into something harder to name.

Central Park outside glowed with early morning light. You felt like you were standing on a fault line, caught between the person you wanted to be and the person she needed you to be. And she was looking at you like you were the only person in the world who could put her back together when everything else fell apart.

You were halfway through peacefully finishing a plate of eggs benedict when you noticed that a child’s voice called out from the hallway.

“Mommy? ”

Ms. Lockwood’s entire face instantly softened like a new season breaking upon hearing the voice. Then, light footsteps padded across the hallway.

Henry shuffled into the kitchen in superhero pajamas with one sock on, hair a mess, eyes still puffy from sleep, and you felt your shoulders soften despite yourself.

There he was, unbothered, sweet, and too small for the weight of this family’s shadows. Even exhausted, you found yourself pulling yourself up for him. 

Because if you could do nothing else, you could be steady. You could be kind.

“Mom?” he mumbled, walking straight to her. 

Ms. Lockwood turned to him with the kind of smile she rarely gave anyone. Warm. Whole. “Good morning, bub,” she said, reaching out.

He barreled into her waist with the full force of preschool affection. She bent easily to kiss the top of his head, then scooped him onto her lap without hesitation, like she had done it a thousand times. 

Your chest tightened in that strange, quiet way it always does when you would see her like this—a woman who was running an empire and still kisses a sleepy child’s forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Henry blinked sleepily at you, then gave a shy wave. “Hi, Auntie,” he said, still clinging to that nickname you never corrected.

“Hi, Henry,” you greeted, a real smile also tugging at your mouth. “How’s the superhero empire this morning?”

“I had a dream about flying,” he said seriously. “But then I fell into a volcano.”

Ms. Lockwood hummed. “Tough market.”

Henry looked at you, bleary-eyed and curious. “Did you sleep over?”

You blinked. “No,” you answered honestly. “ I came in early.”

She arched a brow at you over his head. “Very early.”

You pretended not to blush.

Beaming, Henry climbed up on a barstool and picked at the croffle Kate now offers him. His presence changed the atmosphere, but not in a way that makes you feel excluded—just observed. Like this is a different angle of their life, and you’re quietly orbiting it. She was radiant in this angle that you were orbiting right now, and she was utterly aware of it. 

You couldn’t look at her any longer. 

However, she was looking at you. You could feel her sharp gaze, but you didn’t meet it.

Instead, you tended to her son. “Hey, Henry,” you said, sliding the kid’s section from a magazine across the counter. The one that you snagged from the hotel lounge while you were paying off the admin to clean up the Maddie mess from their amenities and optics. “Got you something.”

Henry gasped and scrambled beside you, grabbing it with his tiny hands and flipping it open as he walked back to the living room. 

You remembered suddenly that you had to brief her. You turned back to your tablet, heart hammering as if someone just fired a shot through you. Fortunately, your inbox was empty of any mention of Maddie’s name on the latest news cycle. None so far, and you sighed in relief.

Half an hour later, after a quick briefing, Ms. Lockwood had returned to her bedroom upstairs to change, and Henry had fallen asleep again on the couch mid-puzzle. 

Meanwhile, you told your boss that you had already put in a request through HR for today to be a remote working day instead, and she signed on immediately with no questions asked. Considering as well that you lived literally in front of work. You left promptly, trying to avoid bumping into her husband if he had finished with his morning jog that he started to pick up after Italy. 

As soon as you reached your apartment, you did not sleep immediately. You walked over your small round dining table, hands trembling over the weathered leather folio you were handed.

It had been two months since you were debating whether or not to open the folder labeled ‘Joseph Gabriel Goldberg.’

Two months of telling yourself it didn’t matter, that you wouldn’t be the one to break the final lock.

You weren’t sure if opening it would save her or damn you instead.

Notes:

I am not giving away any spoilers, but this chapter contextualizes the succeeding chapters set in the present ;) Let me know your thoughts, theories, and feedback! I have edited Chapter 5 to accommodate the 'auntie' role that Henry put out for our lovely reader since it was something I have just thought of very recently!

Check out the songs that I have compiled for Misty Blue.

Chapter 14: May 2025 - Little Collins NYC

Notes:

I was so busy that I didn't want to start working on my urgent tasks, then I decided to just finish this chapter LOL.

Ever since I found out that Charlotte Ritchie was a foodie, I made sure to integrate mentions of food, restaurants, and coffee shops as much as possible, which is why it also takes long for me to update since I research as I have never been to New York.

For the record, since it will be mentioned here, I LOVE KATE'S SHORT BOB MENACE ERA! My love, my menace! So sad that her Season 4 personality is slept on...

You were in a slump. 

The homework that Dr. Lorenz gave you was simple in instruction, yet difficult to accomplish. After walking away from the dinner invite, you headed straight to your apartment and tried to get back into sorting your life back together without her.

However, you quickly realized that you could barely get past the first list. Because the moment that you picked up the pen, you were fighting every fiber of your being to write anything that resembled her name and her face. 

Walking away from her was easy, but denying that you still love her was hard.

You walked away feeling like you’d left a piece of yourself behind.

Maybe you had. Perhaps you always did.

Because for all the ways you protected her, all the fires you put out before they reached her, you knew she would never see how much of yourself you’d burned to keep her safe.

Because if you stayed, you would never leave, and you knew it. But no matter how much you wanted to stay, sometimes the bravest thing you could do was walk away. And somehow, that was not enough.

You turned the paper over and over again, as if by doing so, you could summon the answers and they would appear finished on the paper for you. You had gotten as far as scribbling down one word—“loyalty”—before closing your notebook and deciding that you were going nowhere. 

Feeling utterly defeated, you decided to keep reflecting in a different environment instead. Your feet led you to a coffee shop between the 44th and 45th, and four minutes away from your apartment, which was still open at this hour. Once there, you promptly ordered your usual: a Mediterranean panini, a flat white espresso for a shot of energy, and a Buzzy Bloom drink to wash the bitterness down. 

When you were about to hand over the card to the cashier, you were beaten first by an Amex Black Card you recognized. It was so fast you almost thought you had imagined it.

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Like the goddamn universe was conspiring against you collectively for your early demise. Your first instinct was to run, but she was here, and you were so tired of running.

Kate Lockwood was standing behind you in line, wearing the navy blue trench coat she had worn earlier in Baisley. You didn’t have to turn around to know it was her. The scent of her perfume was a ghost you still hadn’t managed to exorcise. Warmed by the heat of her skin, but you knew it very well because she hadn’t changed it ever since. Raspberry, amber, rose petals, patchouli, and mocha. Her hair was in a half-up that you knew she styled herself, her eyes shadowed, and a tremble in her fingers when the cashier took her card, who gawked at the sight of a black card being handed to him. 

She didn’t make eye contact directly at you at first, casually dictating her order of Dash’s fried chicken sandwich, truffle fries, and an iced hibiscus berry tea. You knew her long enough to know that she knows good food and relishes eating good food. 

“Anything you’d like to add more?” she asked you immediately, glancing a bit, but not directly that you could only see the line of her profile. “Consider this as a peace offering.”

“Oh… uh,” you sputtered, but quickly recovered, tucking your card back in your wallet. “Buffalo chicken wings with a side of fries… and the quinoa salad… and an apple turnover.”

You were stressed. You deserve to eat good food. You were upset with her, and the least that she could do was to pay for your dinner. Like she always did before.

She hummed, raising an eyebrow, then turned back to the cashier, who dutifully punched your additional order. “Please add a blueberry scone, as well.”

The cashier nodded, still visibly shaken by the fact that he had been handed a mother fucking invite-only American Express Centurion Card. He asked if it was for here or to go, and she left you to answer. You glanced around. There were a few people left dining at this hour. The coffee shop was about to close, and she seemed like she wanted to talk, so you asked to have them wrapped up for takeout. 

You both stepped aside and went over to the long wooden bar table. You ignored how she casually dropped a hundred-dollar bill in the tip box, like she always did. The one designated for waiting for orders. 

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” you replied, already unraveling.

“I didn’t come here to talk about work.”

“I figured,” and the way you said it sounded bitter. 

Silence filled as you waited side-by-side, the awkwardness almost suffocating.

You leaned on the table, hands in your pockets. “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” you started carefully.

She met your eyes, and something shifted between you—a spark that was both comfort and fresh pain, because you were still head over heels for her. 

“I didn’t think I’d come here,” she admitted.

“I didn’t think you would.” 

Little Collins NYC was your favorite coffee shop. Her favorite, too. It had become a habit, your little ritual, to grab lunch there during office hours, and most especially beyond those hours. Now it was muscle memory that to you was familiar, easy, and safe. And, you would be lying if there was no tiny voice inside you that was hoping for some miracle to see her here. 

“Just wanted to eat, that’s all.”

Which could mean nothing at all. 

“You look like you’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Maybe I have.”

“I’m guessing dinner with Reagan didn’t end well?” you asked, already sensing her purpose and the quantity of food that she had ordered for herself. 

“Unfortunately,” she replied dolefully. 

You managed to hold back commenting that it was a very predictable outcome.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Yes, but once we are alone.”

You simply nodded, and she didn’t say anything else until your names were called. She handed you your takeaway bag before you could protest, but you didn’t push her hand away. 

As you turned to leave, she surprised you by following you. Then, you realized the terrifying possibilities of coming back to your apartment with her, but you swallowed those thoughts and kept your calm for the meantime. It was the first time you noticed that her face was pale, as if she hadn’t slept in days, that even her light makeup couldn’t mask. 

She was still beautiful, nevertheless. The kind of face that you could never deny the pleasure of your hospitality in your apartment.

“You could come to my place if you need to talk,” you said carefully. “You can stay if you need to.”

She took a deep breath. “Are you sure?”

You shrugged. “You’re already here, and you paid for my dinner and, by extension, my breakfast tomorrow.”

She hesitated at the door of the coffee shop, fingers tightening on her takeaway cup, but it ended up with you going back home with her anyway.

Once inside your apartment, she stood just inside the door, coat still on, and eyes scanning the walls like she didn’t know how to be here. Like she wasn’t sure what she was doing there, like she had arrived at the wrong address.

You set the food on your dining table, the small space suddenly feeling like a stage too cramped for the two of you. The takeaway bags were folded pristinely before you chucked them into the waste bin, save for one you placed on the floor near the table for conveniently putting away trash after eating. Right after, you turned to her, and you found her watching you. Her hair was mussed from the wind outside, and her eyes were impossibly tired.

“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice small.

“Of course,” you replied, realizing she was waiting for your reassurance, not an explicit invitation. “This isn't your first time in my apartment, after all.” 

She paused for a moment and slowly walked in, just stopping in the middle of your living room. The spot near the window, staring out at the city lights as if they might offer her an answer she didn’t know how to find. She shrugged off her coat and folded it over the back of your couch.

And that’s when you saw it.

The one-shoulder navy top elegantly draped her figure. A show-stopping clean line that left her left shoulder bare entirely and unfairly.

You did not combust, but you felt yourself implode into a catastrophic system failure.

You felt yourself rebooted at least twice. Your thoughts tried to play it cool. That it was just a shoulder! Shoulders are common human anatomy, and you had seen shoulders before, especially hers, but your body clearly had not received the memo. There was a moment when your heart betrayed you so thoroughly, you almost had a cardiac arrest.

It was always the shoulder. She could be in a floor-length gown or a white-collar blouse, and you could be fine, but expose one (1) shoulder in your vicinity, and suddenly she could shoot you square on the chest with that exposure.

You blinked rapidly. She hadn’t noticed yet. You hoped she hadn’t noticed.

She finally sat across from you, completely unaware she had triggered a minor internal crisis. “Thank you for letting me stay,” she said softly.

You waved your hand casually as you began unwrapping your panini, too preoccupied with not staring at the sharp line of her collarbone.

“I think the last time I was here, you were drunk,” she began, and your heart leaped from the memory.

“Honestly?” You took a generous bite of your panini, swallowing before you continued, “I blacked out.”

“I gathered,” she said with a smirk. She drank from her takeaway cup, eyeing you from the rim as she did. “Based on the moment you asked me to ‘rescue your sexy, dying corpse from the hallway’ and told me my hair had character development.”

“Oh, god. I did not!”

“You did. It was inspiring. Very poetic.”

“Stop mocking me.”

She laughed, and you tried to remember the last time she did. “No, I promise, I am not.”

As quickly as the reminiscing came, another silence stretched between you like a frayed thread as you ate, occasionally stealing glances.

Feeling a bit full, but you were not even halfway through your quinoa salad, you decided to break the silence. “What happened?” you asked finally, wiping the buffalo sauce from your mouth and fingers with a tissue.

Her gaze met yours head-on. “Reagan thinks I killed Bob,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but her hands did just slightly. “Teddy defended me. He said he saw footage of Bob’s suicide. But… I don’t think there is any footage. I think he made up a lie to protect me.”

You stayed quiet. You knew there was footage from Bob’s home security, but you knew that Cynthia had swept it under the rug before you finalized your termination. You didn’t say it. Not yet. Not until you have spoken with Teddy. As if on cue, you received several texts from him, but you put your phone down with the screen facing the table’s surface.

You swallowed, heart pounding loudly at the inevitable you somehow knew at the back of your mind would happen. But didn’t expect it to be so soon. “I am not surprised, actually,” you told her as honestly and as respectfully as you could. 

She downed her iced tea in one go and set the takeaway cup on the table, as if she were imagining it was alcoholic. “When we—I mean, my husband and I—did what we did… I kept saying to myself that I was different from my father. That we did it to protect Henry…. Well, that logic didn’t seem to add up by the end.”

“What else?” you pressed.

She fixated on the wrapper of her sandwich, making tiny rips at the edges. “Reagan said she’d dig into everything I’ve ever done. That she’d make sure my family was finished if there was anything left to find.” She sounded so tired. 

“In what world do you think it’s justifiable to assassinate someone for optics?” The question came out of you icily, as if you had been holding back a thought that you never knew existed until you voiced it out loud.  “And now you’re worried because… maybe Reagan is right? That you really had what it takes to be like Tom?”

She flinched, not expecting this kind of reaction from you. 

Good.

Let her feel it. Let her sit in the silence you used to fill with excuses.

Once, you would have rushed to soften the blow. This time, you watched the expression shift across her face from shock to guilt to something unreadable.

You’d always known how to read her.

For all the years that you have worked for her, you never questioned her motives and beliefs, believing in her moral uprightness and corporate social responsibility. But with what happened, especially with Bob, you didn’t know what to believe anymore.

And maybe that was the worst part of all. If the roles had been reversed, you wouldn’t know if you would say no if she asked you for help.

Because the truth was, you had also done worse with less reason.

You had already deleted evidence. Buried a scandal. Smiled at a man seconds before you robbed him blind. Threw money at problems that the Lockwoods could afford. 

Maybe it wasn’t a question of whether she was like her father. Maybe the question was whether you had become the kind of person who no longer cared. Maybe you could stop trying to make her holy when she never asked you to.

She didn’t argue when you spoke, so unlike her when she hastily defended her position in the boardroom. She let you finish, and when you did, she let out a shaky exhale. “It’s not about optics,” she admitted. Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I covered up a murder back in London. A politician named Rhys Montrose.”

The words that she seemed to fight to get through her mouth dropped between you like she dropped a match, and it ignited your whole table.

Your pulse quickened. “Why?”

Suddenly, the woman whom you had known for years—the woman who fought her own board and family to fund cancer treatments, better housing, fair wages, safe factory environments—was now a stranger to you. That you thought she, out of all people, including her half-siblings, was above murder.

At the same time, you understood her wholly. And that was somehow more than enough. 

“Before my father died, he put some sort of test for Joe to prove his complicity. I was under the impression that he blackmailed him with knowing about Love Quinn, so I had Cynthia deal with it,” she said slowly, but every word was a stab through you.

You shot upright, your chair scraping the floor loudly as you tumbled away from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked softly, equally tired as her, if not more.

“I was going to tell you—”

“Oh, so you were going to tell me that you were doing this horrible vigilante work with your husband?” you cut her off bitterly. “When? Before or after I found out on my own? Before or after Reagan turned it into ammunition? Were you going to tell me as soon as you handed me my back pay?”

“I am telling it to you right now,” she reasoned. “I was planning from the moment that I saw you at the funeral, and I just realized lately how much I must have dragged you into all of this.”

Because all you could hear from her was an implicit question of whether or not you were willing to be complicit with her. However, you already knew the answer by just looking at her.

Focus. Talk about murder. Not her shoulder. Murder.

Sometimes, you had a horrible sense of morality.

You felt it, the old reflex to protect her, rising like a wave, but you held it back.  Instead, the more sensible part of you spoke, “So what do you need from me?”

Her gaze locked onto yours, startled.

“Are you here because you need me to fix this for you? Because that’s what I used to do for you, even when you didn’t ask. I’m not your assistant anymore,” you reminded her, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “If you’re here to ask me to fix this—”

“No!” she interrupted, immediately rising to her feet, the word sharp and startled. “No, that’s not it. I didn’t… I didn’t come here for that.”

You waited. “Then, what do you want from me?”

She swallowed, shoulders tight. “I… didn’t actually fire you,” she admitted.

“ Excuse me? ”

“I didn’t file it with HR,” she said, her voice low. “I made it look like I did, to you. But officially… you’re on indefinite leave for mental health. Cynthia rewrote the paperwork.”

Your head spun. “You—what? What the fuck?”

“I didn’t want you to be a suspect,” she said, almost pleading. “It would look too convenient, you leaving the day after Uncle Bob died. So I kept you on the books and maintained the status quo.”

A flare of anger rose in your chest, sharp and hot. “You lied to me. Again.”

“I was protecting you—”

You raised a finger at her as she stepped nearer. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say that. You said you fired me because I crossed a line. And you—” You broke off, shaking your head. “You can’t call it protection when you’re doing the same damn thing I did.”

She winced, like you had slapped her. “I know. I know. Fuck! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“You only ever come to me when you need something,” you snapped. “I know it was part of the job, but now it seems it has become a habit of yours that I am on your beck and call lately. If you’re here just because I know how to put out fires, then you should leave.”

You almost begged her before you set the world on fire for her in a heartbeat if she asked you right now. 

Her eyes filled with pain. “That’s not—I don’t even know why I came here. I just… I didn’t know where else to go. Maybe because you’re the only one who never asked me to be anything but myself. And you’re right, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You said nothing for a moment, just watching her. 

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her eyes dropped to your hands, then back up to your face. “I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I thought I needed to be somewhere safe, but I don’t even know what that fucking looks like anymore, and it’s all my fault.”

She turned to leave. “I’m so sorry. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone here. I’m so sorry.”

She was so close to you when she was about to collect her coat, but the sight of her pulling away cracked something in your chest. Against your better judgment, you caught her wrist before you could think. 

She froze, breathing slowly as her eyes met yours, staring into you like she did back in the chapel after the funeral. Those green eyes you had loved so much raked over you once, like she was checking to see if you were real.

You stood there, breathing the same air, feeling the thud of your heartbeat against her skin. “Tell me what’s really going on. I deserve that much.”

She took a slow breath. “I can’t stop thinking about you and what I did to you. You’re the only person I feel like I can be honest with, even when it’s messy, which is why it feels like it kills me every time I lie to you.”

Your breath caught.

The world seemed to narrow to the space between your faces. You could see the way her lips parted, the way her shoulders stiffened as if she was about to take it all back.

You could feel the warmth of her, the ragged rhythm of her breath. Her eyes stared down at your mouth, then back up again, and you felt the air shift, heavy with something you had both been trying to deny.

Her lips were so close, and you wanted to close that distance. But you didn’t. Neither did she. None of you moved further than that.

You stepped away, and so did she. Because she was still married, and she had a lovely son that you loved as much as if he were really your baby nephew. You were apparently still her assistant on paper. 

As much as you loved her, you would not stoop to the level of being the other woman. 

For a long moment, she said nothing until she found a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear her, “I’m afraid of Joe.” She let out a shaky breath. “I haven’t been sleeping. “Not since I… asked Joe to kill Bob. Every time I close my eyes, it feels like I’m waiting for something to happen. Like the other shoe is about to drop.”

You stared at her, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under you. “Do you need to stay here tonight? You can. I—I’d feel better knowing you’re safe.”

She shook her head. “I have to go home. If I’m not there, it’ll be noticed. I have to make sure that Henry is safe.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

She sat back down, this time on your couch, her hands twisting in her lap. “He was writing this murder fiction before he killed Uncle Bob, and he felt exhilarated by it,” she said, her voice hollow. “He said it was like… like fixing something broken in society. And tonight, when I said I wanted to handle Reagan with lawyers, he asked if I wanted her dead, too.” Her eyes met yours, full of dread. “I’m terrified of him. And I’m terrified of what I’m becoming around him.”

You took a seat next to her, close enough that the scent of her perfume almost made you dizzy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you said the only thing you could. “Do you want me to stay away?”

She shook her head instantly. “No. I don’t want you to go. I don’t even know what I want, but I want you safe.”

The words cut through you, deeper than any blade. “And what about you?” you asked quietly. “What do you want for yourself?”

Her eyes softened and her shoulders slumped. “I… don’t know.”

You took a slow breath, your throat tight. “I told you once that I want to take care of you. That hasn’t changed. But you need to be clear about what you’re asking me for. Because if you’re asking me to come back to work, that’s one thing. If you’re asking me to be yours again, in the way I was, that’s… that’s something else.”

She looked up at you, tears in her eyes. “I just want you safe,” she repeated. “I don’t want you to be a suspect. Please come back even if it’s just for the record. I need you to be covered. Not because of me, but because of you.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it. I need time. I’m trying to figure out who I am when I’m not your shadow.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know I’m asking too much.”

Silence fell between you, thick and aching. This was the first time that there were many instances when silence fell upon both of you in a single day, and it was warranted for the situation at hand.

“Ms. Lockwood—”

“It's 'Kate.’ ”

You blinked.

“Call me Kate, please,” she repeated. “After everything, you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

You searched her face, then nodded. “Okay, Kate.” The name still needed to get used to your tongue, like tasting a flavor too far from your usual palate. 

Her shoulders slumped a little, like she’d been holding that tension for days. “Good.” She stood, a tired smile forming her lips, gathering her coat once more. 

Just before she reached the door, you stopped her again, calling out to her. “Miss Lo”—you cleared your throat, correcting yourself—“Kate.”

She turned, her eyes red-rimmed.

“I care about you and Henry,” you said, your voice shaking. “But I’m trying to put myself first again. If you need me, I’ll come. Against my better judgment. Against everything. I’ll come.”

For a heartbeat, you thought she would cry. Then, instead of words, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

You froze, then pulled her closer, holding her tight. 

Her breathing evened out slowly, each exhale a little less ragged than the last. She clung to you like she didn’t realize it. Her hand slipped lower and curled at your waist, not with desire, but with desperation, like she was trying not to drown.

You didn’t move for a long time. The city lights flickered outside, the hum of traffic distant and soft. In the quiet, you realized this was the closest she’d let herself come to needing someone in months.

And you let yourself hope, just for tonight, that this was enough.

That the world could pause for both of you. That you didn’t have to fix anything or fight for anything. That your heart did what it always did around her. 

“I care about you,” you whispered again.

She didn’t answer, just held you tighter, but her breath was warm against your neck. Her hand slid gently down your waist like she was anchoring herself to you.

It was as if she was trying to tell you that she cares and she was sorry for everything.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

She drew in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said, her voice low, almost broken. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not know.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she gently pulled away from you, and you let her. She stepped back, putting more distance between you than just the few feet of your living room floor.

She was smaller here, like all the weight she carried had finally found a place to rest.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said softly.

“You’re here,” you said finally. “That’s enough for now. Nothing else has to happen.”

She just looked at you, and in that look were all the things she couldn’t say out loud. All the fear and the weight and the longing that she’d buried in the name of survival. “I wish I could stay,” she whispered. “But that’s not what good people do. Not while I still don’t know what I’m capable of.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you watched her, the way her hands shook as she brushed back her hair, the way she refused to meet your eyes.

Eventually, you nodded, even though every part of you wanted to reach for her again. “Be careful,” you said softly.

She paused at the door, hand on the knob, and glanced at you one last time. “Thank you,” she said. And there was heaviness in her eyes—grief, maybe, or longing perhaps. 

Her eyes followed back at the half-eaten sandwiches on the table, and she managed a soft laugh. “Keep the leftovers,” she said, her voice gentler now. “You’ll just eat instant noodles otherwise. I know what you resort to when I’m not around.”

You snorted, despite the ache in your chest. “You’re not wrong.”

She gave you a final, lingering smile. Then she turned and left, her heels echoing down the hallway.

You followed her to the lobby, watched her walk to her car just to make sure she got there safely. She parked it close, and it made you realize she had not come into the coffee shop on a whim. She had driven straight to you before she ever walked into Little Collins.

When she drove away, honking the horn when the car passed in front, you stood there for a long time, the quiet of the street wrapping around you like a cold embrace.

Your phone buzzed again. You opened your phone and saw the latest message from Teddy on the notification preview of your lockscreen.

Theo🚪 Hayes: Dinner was 🔪 🔪 🔪 

Theo🚪 Hayes: WE NEED TO TALK 🦖

You exhaled shakily, closing your phone.

And suddenly, silence didn’t feel safe anymore. Things would not settle down as soon as you thought they would. 

Of course, because the fire wouldn't be put out immediately by being in her arms.

Notes:

This is probably the longest chapter that I have written so far? I have been sitting on this big reveal for a month now... Let me know your thoughts, comments, violent reactions, and questions if you have any! Next chapters, we will still be sticking to the present time.

Chapter 15: May 2025 - New York Aquarium

Notes:

As part of my gratitude for everyone's continued support, this chapter is twice the usual word count (6000+ words). It's a bit of a compilation of some of the things you guys suggested or hoped to see ;) Just so you know, I really read and consider everyone's thoughts! Kind of like a love letter to you guys.

I've listened to Hozier and Lana Del Rey while writing this, and also Sade's Is It A Crime.

Oh, since it will be discussed here, I do not have anything against Idaho! It is just a running gag as a reference to Chapter 2, where Kate's Assistant #6 fled to before our lovely assistant was hired.

You had forgotten how bright, clear, and transparent the corporate office could be in the early morning. 

Nevertheless, you were just here to keep up the pretense. That your presence being accounted for inside the building was necessary for optics. The thought of coming back here sent a chill creeping up the nape of your neck when the in-house company physician verified your clearance from Dr. Lorenz that you were fit to work, then signed off the approval and sent you up to Human Resources to reclaim your clearance badge.

“Welcome back to T.R. Lockwood Corp,” Richard from HR greeted you as soon as you put on your badge again, the weight familiar and heavy. 

In their system, you had been on indefinite leave. 

The official memo from HR was that you returned following a company-sponsored mental health leave, under ongoing care per recommendation from an off-site provider, and you should be welcomed back with sensitivity.

Which was hilarious, considering the last time you truly relaxed was never. Not even in utero. Probably not even in the astral plane.

When you entered the executive floor, everyone had this worrying look on their faces that one wrong move, you would run for the hills. You felt every eye watching you move when you were about to arrange your desk again with belongings you had taken out a week ago. Cynthia had already briefed you that you were here, not to resume your duties in full, but rather as a temporary measure until it was safe for you to pose your termination as a resignation. 

Otherwise, you would be Usual Suspect #1. 

You were reluctant and still mad, but Reagan would win, and she wouldn’t just come for her family. She would come for you, too. 

The official story was that you checked yourself into a mental health facility in Boise, Idaho. The warm, glowing fiction of having spent your wellness leave at a spa retreat. In Idaho, out of all places. The kind with no phones and intentional silence and enough cucumber water to turn your bloodstream into a salad. Possibly no electricity, depending on how far you wanted to lean into the back-to-nature cult aesthetic. 

It’s like the corporate version of going outside to touch some grass …

Nevertheless, it worked well enough for the board and the executive floor. And for everyone else, the assumption was that you had burned out.

To Minka and Vic, it seemed that you had vanished mid-conversation for a week.  They hadn’t stopped texting since Bob’s funeral, though. You just hadn’t answered. Now, seeing you again, they practically staged an intervention in the breakroom, and their relief was so palpable it made your bones ache. 

“Oh, my God,” Minka breathed, a hand on her chest. 

“You’re back!” Vic all but shouted, flinging her arms around you as if trying to confirm you were still made of flesh and not air. “God, we were worried.”

Minka squinted. “You checked yourself into a spa in Idaho?”

“I left you a voicemail every day,” Vic interrupted before you could speak, ignoring Minka. Her tone feigning affront, but her eyes were openly soft. “I also sent you 36 TikTok vids.”

“Sorry. I just… needed the silence,” you murmured, the lie practiced. “Disconnected and detoxed.”

Minka frowned, muttering to herself. “They have spas in Idaho?”

You were saved from the next line of questioning by the loud arrival of Maddie Lockwood, who burst into the executive lounge in oversized Tom Ford sunglasses and a silk charmeuse button-up blouse in the color of plum, of all things. For someone who once shrieked that purple made her appear like a ‘rotting witch eggplant,’ it was a choice.

“My darling emotional support creature,” Maddie purred, dramatically removing her sunglasses like she was Alexis Carrington entering the courtroom. “You’re back from your Midwestern rebranding! I brought you a care package.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

She handed you a Dior shopping bag so large it could legally be declared a tenant on this floor. 

Inside were frankly unholy number of serums worth more than your rent, a bottle of Hermès perfume, a Moncler scarf, limited-edition champagne from the year you were born, a pair of sunglasses you couldn’t afford on a CEO’s executive assistant salary, an eye mask that vibrated ( “For migraines, not sex, though I suppose it could do both,” Maddie supplied as an afterthought ), and—bizarrely—a bullet journal with your initials embroidered in gold thread.

“This room thoroughly lacks the cleansing vibes you needed for your recovery,” she said in horror, nodding at the break room behind you. “Consider this as a care package for you, my sweet-sweet emergency contact.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Maddie stepped forward and added, “You can’t say ‘no’ to me.”

“Okay?” you replied carefully, setting down the huge shopping bag on the table. Then, you stared at her, and that's when you realized what she was wearing. “Since when do you wear purple?”

“Since last night. Taylor Swift's Reputation era. I’m rediscovering the villainess within.” Maddie shrugged. She was radiant and suspicious. “It’s giving vengeance. It’s giving Lilac Menace.”

You didn’t have the heart to ask what she was really up to, but there was also the more sensible thought in you that you should not ask why she was dressed exactly like Reagan, but you didn’t think much of it. 

Maddie was Maddie. 

“Adios, mamacita,” she said breezily. She spun on her heel and left the break room with an obvious sway of her hips.

“Are you sure you’re ready to be back here?” Minka chimed in finally, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened to you in Idaho?”

“I’m running on vibes, caffeine, and ultimate sapphic repression,” you replied, sipping gratefully the drink you poured yourself from the espresso machine.

“Back on brand.”

Moments later, a set of heels came through inside. Everyone turned, and you tried not to have a minor religious experience upon her presence, especially since you were still a bit upset at her. A little bit still in love with her, as well. Perhaps, it came from the fact that she had been hovering a bit in your orbit, and you pretended not to notice because you were trying to set boundaries. Though, you were mostly playing hard to get.

Earlier, she personally served on your desk vacuum-sealed full brunch course set from Eleven Madison Park, including a vegan roll, a quenelle of tonburi, a radish, and seitan caviar toast with an affirming sticky note in her handwriting: “Please eat actual meals.” She lingered like she was waiting for your permission to stay close, though she blinked and stepped back, as if she was reminded of who she was. 

She didn’t demand your attention, but she was trying. And you didn’t know how to feel about that.

You noticed it the moment you stepped back into your old routines. She didn’t hover obviously, but right now, this was the closest she had been in proximity ever since you set foot in the building. 

“You’re back,” she greeted, relieved.

You stepped away, trying not to notice her perfume, but you felt your friends backing away and hiding behind you. You tried not to notice they were trying to hide their shit-eating grins or, in Minka’s case, eye rolls. Little fuckers.

“I am,” you answered, almost robotically, based on the brief that Cynthia gave you earlier. “The spa was wonderful. Did a lot of screaming in the pond.”

She laughed softly, trying not to be obvious that she knew the context. Well, when she was the context. “That’s nice to hear. I’m looking forward to working with you again.”

“I am as well, Ms. Lo—” She raised an eyebrow, and you immediately corrected yourself, “I mean, Kate. I’m sorry.”

She looked down at the Dior bag, then at you. Her green eyes narrowed slightly.

“Oh, this?” you offered weakly, looking at her like you were a deer caught in headlights. “It’s a care package from Maddie.”

She reached out and opened the gift tag attached to the paper bag, which you definitely overlooked until she read it aloud. 

You deserve to be adored. Just not by Katie because she’s married and boring.

xoxo Maddie

She blinked slowly. “Interesting,” she discerned in that clipped tone that was an octave lower, accentuated by her Britishness that almost made you want to swoon or run away.

Minka sputtered through a cough, trying to hide it when you glared at her discreetly. 

And Vic, bless her heart, said nothing until your former ex-boss walked away. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “She is jealous. Your boss is jealous.”

“She is not—”

“She’s totally gonna upstage it,” Vic declared.

“Can Kate even beat a Dior bag?” Minka asked.

“You are underestimating the lengths of slow-burn sapphic chaos,” Vic replied solemnly. “We are witnessing the lesbian Olympics and you’re the torch.”

What you didn’t expect was what came next.

Two hours had passed since. You turned the corner to get your wallet to head out for lunch and found a gift box the size of a honeymoon suitcase beside your desk. In obsidian matte wrapping paper, tied with a satin jade ribbon, and an embossed note sealed with wax.

WAX.

You stared at it for a second too long. 

She was also not in her office. 

Minka, now behind you, narrowed her eyes. “That’s on top of Maddie’s gift? Of course, she did…”

“She’s not—” you began, but they waved you off.

“She’s spoiling you,” Vic insisted. “Don’t act humble.”

The trouble was, they weren’t wrong.

You opened the card first:

You could use something comforting. For a smoother return to normal. Please tell me if the trench needs tailoring. — K

Inside the box:

• A custom-tailored Burberry trench coat in your exact size and preferred shade of charcoal grey, with your initials stitched on the inside collar in barely-there silk thread.
• A Montblanc pen set engraved as well with your initials and a note engraved on the case: “for when your words matter.”
• A hand-bound Smythson leather planner, already populated with key dates, including your next therapy appointments and The Penrose Bar’s happy hour;
• A Vitruvi Stone Essential Oil Diffuser with a custom blend: an addictive mix of vetiver, rosewood, and something you couldn’t name but immediately associate with executive decision-making at 9 PM.
• A black velvet pouch containing rose quartz worry stones and a tiny bottle of Aspen Green’s Bliss Oil CBD tincture.
• A box of Sadelle’s cheese blintzes, still warm.
• A gift card for a massage at THE WELL wellness spa, already pre-booked for you on Friday at 3 PM.
• A copy of your favorite poetry collection, The Muse of the Violets: Poems (English and French Edition) by Renee Vivien, annotated in pencil with neat marginalia and question marks that could only be hers
• A pair of Sony WH-1000XM5 wireless noise-cancelling headphones.

You stood frozen, hands lingering on the box’s edges.

Vic leaned dramatically over your desk. “What the—holy fucking shit. She sent you the Ark of the Covenant. Do you realize what this is?”

You blinked, staring at the card again. “A care package?”

“Girl, if I ever have a billionaire wife who spoils me like that, just unplug my soul,” Vic exclaimed gleefully. “You’re living in a K-drama!”

“She is just being nice,” you hissed.

“Nice? My married guy isn’t this nice. This is intimate gesture territory! This is executive foreplay.”

Minka simply asked, like you were being cross-examined. “Do you know what she’s doing?”

Your breath caught. “What who’s doing?”

Minka glared at you. The kind of glare reserved for depositions and interrogations. “Kate.”

You paused. “Not… entirely.”

She exhaled, rubbing her temples, “I think she’s trying to win you back. And she's doing it like a woman who’s never had to ask before. She’s the most powerful woman in the country, but somehow, she’s finding time to hover by your desk like she forgot how email works.”

“She’s trying… I think.”

“I believe that, but is that enough?”

That landed heavier than anything you expected.

You hesitated, not sure how to answer.

Minka softened. “You don’t have to explain. I just want you to remember that you’re not someone to be fought over. You’re someone to be chosen. Clearly. Fully. No half-measures.”

She tapped her nails once on the edge of the gift box, then walked away without another word. Her expression was unreadable.

On the other hand, Vic was practically vibrating. “Minky has a point, but I’m just saying,” she drawled. “If a certain married person sent me this, I’d already be pregnant. Do you even know how many women want to be emotionally bagged by a CEO? And here you are, narratively perfect.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re not—she’s just—”

She threw herself dramatically into your chair. “So, I’ve decided.”

“God help me.”

“I want a trench.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want a trench coat?”

“No. I want a trench coat from someone I’m emotionally entangled with in a high-risk corporate environment. Like you.”

You sighed. “Kate is not—I am not—this is not—”

“I slept with a guy from Finance for three months and all I got was a USB hub and mild existential dread,” she went on. “Meanwhile, your boss has you out here dressed like a noir film protagonist who just buried a secret and kissed a woman on a rainy rooftop.”

“You’re deranged.”

“And jealous, ” she sang-songed. “Of me? No. Of you? Deeply. I would kill to be the reason someone annotates poetry and buys me caviar toast.” Then, she leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “Do you think she’d fight Maddie for you? Like, physically? Hair pulling? Emotional blackmail? Poisoned smoothies?”

You clutched your forehead. “Please, I am just trying to survive this work week.”

Vic smirked. “And yet, you’re thriving. How does it feel to be the heroine of your own workplace romance?”

You threw a paperclip at her.

Vic effortlessly dodged it, flicking her brown shoulder-length hair. “We are so not done with this conversation. You guys had more tension than my married situationship.”

You blinked. “Wait, are you still seeing that—”

“But back to your love life,” she cut in cheerfully. “God, I love this company. So much repressed sexual tension. So many Excel sheets. Like Succession, but hungrier.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Just don’t forget,” she reminded, suddenly sincere. “That even tragic romance heroines get a say in the ending. You’re not here to be rewritten. You’re the plot twist.”

You gaped at the contents of the box again, trying not to feel your lungs collapse with emotion. Or with confusion. Or desire. Or the sweet, expensive scent of being completely ruined.

“I just came back to work,” you muttered weakly. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

“It is to her,” Vic reasoned. “And you know it.”

You swallowed.

Because, yeah. You really did.

When Vic got back to her floor, you didn’t mean to wear the trench coat. 

Okay, maybe you did and thought: ‘She gave me this because she thought of me in it. ’

So, you wore it. Big deal! You didn’t expect her to see you again today.

While going to the restroom to check yourself in the mirror, you happened to walk by the boardroom through the glass hallway. 

Reagan was in the middle of hosting a group of potential investors, speaking with her usual sharp bravado. 

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your ears perked up as you passed, hearing her discuss.

“— and of course, discretionary reallocation across the media acquisitions accounts allowed us to offset the Qatar loss under strategic line-item convergence. All completely clean, of course. The internal audit system is mostly optical. If you know how to phrase it. ”

She laughed like someone who would read Machiavelli for fun.

Discretionary reallocation? On a media loss that wasn’t in last quarter’s report?

Line-item convergence, she had mentioned. Not coverage. Not audit-cleared.

That could mean anything. But to you? It meant she was skimming.

No one talked about ‘optical’ audits unless there was a second set of books. You didn’t have proof yet, but if Reagan was embezzling, you were already halfway through the opening paragraph of the HR-safe memo that would quietly ruin her.

You filed the words away like pins in your mind, then turned the corner and almost body-slammed straight into—

“Jesus fucking shit,” you gasped.

Kate.

She was startled, as well. You ran into her and Teddy mid-conversation. “Sorry,” she apologized, steadier than you. “You okay?”

“I—no. I mean, I don’t know.”

Her smile flickered, then steadied, eyes dropping down at you. 

The world went quiet.

Teddy kept talking. He might have said something to you. To Kate. Or probably both. Kate didn’t hear a single word because she was looking at you in that trench coat.

And you knew it from the soft jolt in her expression, like someone had tripped over a memory and landed in their feelings. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

You said nothing, too. You both just stood there in silence, perfectly civil, professionally distant, and unmistakably cracked wide open.

Teddy glanced between you, caught the static, and groaned. “God, I hate being the third wheel to a trench coat,” he grumbled under his breath, but you heard him anyway. 

Kate finally blinked. “You wore it,” she observed quietly, like she hadn’t meant to speak it aloud. 

You nodded. “It’s  comfortable.”

She hesitated. Her throat moved, having the impression that she was about to say something else, but then, she just nodded with a smile that was barely there. “It’s better on you than I imagined.”

“And, thank you for the care package. It was… nice.”

"Does the trench need adjusting? I could arrange an appointment with my tailor if you like."

"Oh, no, no! It's perfect. Everything's perfect."

"Excellent."

“EHEM,” Teddy cleared his throat loudly, and both of you jumped. “Sorry to break it to you guys, but I’ll be on my merry way because it looks like I’m interrupting.”

Before any of you could protest, he walked past you, but his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. A subtle sign that you still needed to talk with him in private about the elephant in the room. 

“Can I ask how you’re doing? Really?” she asked, when it was just the two of you now.

You took a breath, running a hand through your head. “I don’t know,” you sighed. “It feels like I’ve been thrown into a kaleidoscope and someone forgot to stop spinning it.”

Her gaze softened. “You’re overstimulated.”

Was it that obvious?

“That’s probably because I am,” you muttered dolefully. “I see what you’re doing.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re hovering,” you clarified.

“Does that make you overstimulated?”

You bit your cheek, unsure of the answer. “I’m trying to put myself back together, and you’re hovering. You keep leaving things on my desk—snacks I like, annotated edits of the HR handbook, a monogrammed pen that I’m still afraid to use.”

“You liked that pen.”

“It’s too elegant to live in my tote bag.”

She smiled again. “Noted. I’ll get you a less emotionally complex pen.”

You rolled your eyes. Then, after a beat, you added more seriously, “I recognize the effort. Thank you.”

She nodded once. “I’m trying. I don’t always know what’s welcome anymore.”

You looked out at the skyline through the glass windows. “You’re welcome. Just not always easy.”

She glanced at you. “I don’t expect it to be easy. I’d just like… permission to keep trying.”

You smiled faintly. “We’ll work on it.”

She nodded, then added, “Want to ditch work hours?”

“Huh? Am I talking to Kate Lockwood? That’s not something she’d say.”

Kate’s cheeks tinged pink. “I’m on my way out, actually. I’m taking Henry for a trip to Brooklyn. He got suspended, so I figured he needed a new scenery to decompress,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. He got suspended, and I was wondering if you’d join us. 

You blinked. “Me?”

“He mentioned the piranha exhibit during breakfast. I think it’s a subtle request for distraction since before the thing in school with Gretchen happened. And, you’re good with him.”

You hesitated. The muscle underneath your ribs seemed to stop. “Shouldn’t you bring Joe?”

She hesitated as well, fiddling with her necklace. “Joe’s staying late. Reopening the old bookstore on York Avenue for business.”

You sighed, finally understanding why you hadn’t seen him yet. “Are you sure you want me there?”

“Yes, but if you’re uncomfortable, I understand.”

“I’m not uncomfortable with Henry,” you admitted. “He’s the best part of you.”

“Please,” she added gently. “It’s not for me. It’s for him. He’s happier when you’re around.”

You hesitated again, then nodded. “Okay, for Henry.”

“Thank you.”

---

You hadn’t been to the New York Aquarium since your last ill-fated Tinder date in 2019, which ended when the girl commented that sea turtles were ‘basically just clouty frogs.’ You left halfway through the dolphin show.

This somehow felt different. 

Kate picked you up in her car, Henry in the back, face pressed to the window and already narrating every fish he hoped to see.

“Definitely the piranhas,” he chirped when you asked what he was most excited about. And the eels. And maybe the scary-looking crabs. Not the nice ones. Just the evil ones.” 

You sat in the passenger seat like you didn’t already know every inch of her car.

At first, the conversation was all Henry. 

He asked what your favorite ocean animal was.

“Whale shark,” you answered. “Big, spotted, gentle. Makes no sense. Like me.”

Kate laughed softly. 

Henry declared his were “cuttlefish because they change colors when they’re nervous,” and you exchanged a brief glance with her across the center console, trying not to seem like you were imprinting on each other in front of a six-year-old.

Inside the aquarium, everything smelled faintly of salt, wet rocks, and overpriced popcorn. Henry ran ahead of you both, pressing his nose to every tank like the creatures might recognize him.

At the freshwater exhibit, Henry ran ahead towards where the piranhas swam in eerie, silver silence. You and Kate slowed behind him.

He gasped in awe, hands on the glass. “They’re so small! But so vicious!”

You murmured, “A perfect metaphor for Reagan.”

Kate choked on a laugh. “Don’t encourage him.” Then, she mused, “I read somewhere that piranhas only really go feral when the environment becomes too competitive.”

You glanced over at her. “Are you psychoanalyzing the fish or your board of directors?”

She smirked. “Maybe both.”

You made it through stingrays, bioluminescent squid, and a jellyfish tunnel before Henry sprinted ahead toward the bamboo shark cove, but you and Kate stayed in front of the largest tank display in the exhibit. 

Under the dim blue light of an artificial ocean, you stood side by side, too close. The hum of filtration pumps and low murmurs of other visitors made the world feel distant. Her hand brushed yours once. You both acted as if it didn’t happen, and it didn’t mean anything at all.

The tank was low and wide, wrapping around a curve in the hallway. Floor-to-ceiling glass that bent light in strange, wavering ribbons. Across from you, on the far side of the tank, your reflections caught and shimmered in the watery glass. They were distorted and blurred, as if you and Kate were in a dream.

The lights shimmered. The coral glowed. You could almost pretend none of the rest of the world existed. That you didn’t have to talk to Teddy yet, find more about Reagan, and remember to verify the existence of a certain security footage. 

In the dark corridors of jellyfish and sharks and phosphorescent coral, something in your chest began to loosen. The tension didn’t go away, but it softened. 

She cast her eyes down, her arms folding. “I wanted to thank you for coming today. For not hating me, but if you do, you don’t show it much…” 

You didn’t interrupt, letting her gather herself. Kate needed this.

The soft, undulating light from the tank danced over your faces like something holy. Water flickered through the glass in a quiet rhythm, casting ripples across Kate’s pale skin and the delicate slopes and curves of her face. Henry was off to the side, nose pressed to another display, muttering facts about carnivorous fish to himself like a little warlock-in-training.

“I’ve been thinking lately about everything. I’m sorry I put you in a position where you had to leave. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

You glanced at her, surprised by the softness in her voice. She wasn’t making a speech. She was just thinking aloud, stripping herself of her usual armor, vulnerable and so human.

“I keep trying to find the right way to say something,” she continued. “Every time I try, it comes out sounding rehearsed or… dramatic. So I’m just going to say it badly and hope you hear me anyway.”

You turned toward her fully.

“I know I hurt you,” she said. “I know I broke your trust. I didn’t mean to. But that doesn’t make it any better. I kept thinking that if I gave you space or didn’t bother you with more apologies, maybe it would help. But that was about me, not you. Because the truth is… You don’t deserve silence. You deserve someone who knows how to show up, even when it’s messy.”

The light from the water shimmered over her profile as she refused eye contact again.

“I’ve always had a hard time asking for what I need. I’m better at pretending I don’t need anything. But I do.” A pause. “I needed you.”

You swallowed hard.

“But I also realized,” she added, voice steadier now, “that needing you and deserving you aren’t the same thing.”

Kate turned to look at you directly. “You deserve someone who isn’t a hypocrite with a fucked up moral compass. Someone who doesn’t fire you out of panic and then rewrite the paperwork in the background like a coward.”

A small breath of laughter escaped your lips. “You’re saying all this very well for someone who claimed she’d say it badly.”

She smiled drily. “Don’t be nice. I’m not done self-flagellating yet.”

“I’m just saying—go easy on yourself.”

“No. Not yet.” She shook her head. “Because you also deserve someone who pays attention to you, not just the version of you that keeps everyone else functioning. You are too kind, selfless, and so bloody brilliant in putting up with my family. You take care of Maddie, even if, I have to be extremely frank, she could be a bloody twat to you most of the time and should be sued for recklessly endangering you.” 

You chuckled despite yourself.

“So, you deserve someone as devoted as you are to your work. Someone who knows you hate balsamic dressing, even though you always eat it when it’s catered. Like some masochist. Who knows you cry at commercials for pet adoption centers but pretend it’s just allergies… Notices when you skip lunch because you’re hiding stress in your color-coded calendar… Sees how hard you work to never inconvenience anyone, and doesn’t let you get away with it. Someone who doesn’t use all of that knowledge just to build a stronger assistant, but to be the kind of person who sees it and still just wants to keep you safe.”

You didn’t realize until just now how still you had gone.

“I see you,” she spoke more gently this time. “I always have, but I didn’t treat you like someone I saw. I treated you like someone I was afraid to lose, and I made that fear your burden.”

The silence between you thickened. The emotion caught in your throat, your chest too tight to speak.

Kate looked back at the tank again, her voice breaking just slightly. “You were the one good thing I didn’t deserve. I still don’t.” And then, finally, she stared you in the eye and added, “Because you… You’re extraordinary. And I’m just the reason you had to start therapy.”

That’s when you stepped closer behind her. You didn’t speak. You didn’t make it a grand moment. You just wrapped your arms gently around her from behind, like a tether, like a home.

She stiffened, her breath catching audibly in her chest.

“I think you’re really great,” you whispered, forehead pressed lightly to her shoulder. “With finding the right things to say.”

She didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly—hesitantly—her hands found yours where they rested over her stomach. And she held them. Not tightly, but with intention. Like she didn’t want to let go, not just yet.

Because you were full of all the things she had paid attention to when you thought you were invisible.

The spell didn't break immediately.

It thinned, like fog caught between the heat of longing and the weight of reality, but it didn’t vanish.

Kate turned her head slightly, just enough that your temple grazed hers. Then, carefully, you let her go, hands lingering a second longer than necessary.

She didn’t speak. Neither did you. 

Her eyes closed for a second, as if the moment hit deeper than she had expected. When she opened them again, they were softer and full of grief.

Not until Henry came running back around the corner, his eyes wide. “There’s a stingray with four eyes! I swear!” he exclaimed.

Kate wiped at her face so subtly that it could have been nothing. You picked up the pace beside Henry, heart still rearranging itself into something steady.

Later, in the Seaside Café, it was quieter than the rest of the aquarium. Late afternoon light filtered in through narrow glass panels. You grabbed a seat near the corner while Henry excitedly relayed facts about venomous coral reefs to a cashier who clearly didn’t get paid enough.

Kate ordered chicken tenders and fries for Henry, an eggplant sandwich on ciabatta for herself, and offered to pay for you again when you ordered a chicken sandwich and fries. You rolled your eyes good-naturedly and let her. And then she excused herself to the restroom. 

The second she was out of sight, Henry stared at you with the same laser intensity that Kate usually reserved for boardroom eviscerations.

“She brought us here because I got suspended,” he started bluntly.

The statement burned through you. “Okay, wow, no warm-up, kiddo?”

He sighed dramatically. “I’m not dumb.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“She thinks I’m mad. But I’m not.” He picked at his fries, then glanced up, his little face suddenly serious. “Auntie Rey told me I was a monster. I know punching’s bad, but I didn’t want to just let Gretchen keep saying bad things. Do you think I’m a monster?”

You stared at him, heart tugging. “No,” you replied softly. “Not even close. Protecting someone you love doesn’t make you bad, either. But hurting people, especially when we think they deserve it, can make us forget who we are.”

Henry paused. “Did someone hurt you, too?”

“Yeah,” you replied honestly, and it felt like picking a thorn out of your chest. “It made me want to talk to a person to help me understand why it hurts so much, even if I tried to be good.”

He frowned. He was six, but he read people like briefing memos. “Did you do something bad?”

You hesitated. “No, but sometimes I feel things I don’t know how to explain. Big ones. Loud ones. And not everyone understands them.”

He thought for a moment, then asked, “Is Mommy Love a bad person?”

You smiled softly. “No, she just… did something hard, but I know she’s someone who loves you more than anything.”

A beat passed as you both continued munching on fries.

Henry tilted his head, so wise beyond his age. “So, do you tell Mommy Kate about those feelings? I think she’s sad a lot, even when she smiles.”

“Sometimes.”

“Because you like her?”

Your mouth dried.

He smiled like a tiny gremlin of truth. “You do. I can tell. She’s pretty.”

You considered denying it, but he was six, not stupid.

“I do,” you confessed. “I like her a lot. And, yeah, she’s very pretty.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. I think she likes you too, but she gets all weird about it.”

That made you laugh, frowning a bit while trying to surmise what it meant. You reached out and ruffled his curls lightly. “She does, huh?”

Before Henry could reveal more child-gathered intel, Kate returned and paused in the entryway. She saw the two of you—him munching fries, you leaning close, laughing quietly.

Those green eyes looked at you like she was watching her favorite painting being completed before her eyes.

At the moment, it almost felt like family. Perhaps, she sensed it, too. 

The rest of dinner passed in the easy lull of full bellies and too many fries. Henry insisted on trying to convince you to take a jellyfish home.

“We could put it in the bathtub!” he protested. “They barely do anything!”

Kate still watched with a quiet smile as you negotiated instead for something he could take home from the gift shop.

By the time you all reached the car, Henry had passed out in the back seat—head lolling dramatically, mouth open slightly, fingers still clinging to the plush stingray he begged you to get for him with a pout you could never ever say ‘no’ to.

The city lights swirled past as the car hummed along the freeway.

Inside, it was quiet again.

Kate broke it first, her voice low and deliberate. “I know you’re trying to make space. And I’ve been trying to respect that.” She paused, her voice quieter than the hum of the car. “But I don’t know how to stop caring about you. And I think you know that.”

You glanced at her, a sheepish smile pulling at your mouth. “We’ll work on it.”

A silence stretched, and then she added, even softer, “I’ve been trying not to hover, you know.”

You chuckled. “You’re doing terribly at that, by the way.”

She smiled, finally. “Noted with thanks.”

The car slowed to a gentle stop in front of The Buchanan. The engine kept running, the world outside tinted with the yellow haze of a passing taxi.

You didn’t reach for the door just yet.

Kate looked at you like she wasn’t sure if she should speak, then she did. “I know I don’t get to ask for anything else, but I’d still like to be someone you let in. Even if it’s just as… a friend.”

Your throat tightened. “Okay,” you agreed. “We can try friendship. Whatever that means.”

A soft, almost relieved breath escaped her.  “Alright. Whatever that means.”

Your fingers, without thinking, reached out, grazed the sleeve of her coat. They trailed up, slow, hesitant, like you were asking permission with each movement.

You touched her cheek, cupping it and brushing your thumb beneath her eye. Your hand stilled there, holding her face as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I used to think I’d set the world on fire for you,” you whispered. “

She leaned into your hand for just a second. One second too long.

“You shouldn’t feel like that,” she croaked. “Not for me. Not anymore. You look at me like you still believe I’m a good person. You’re punishing yourself because I’ve forgotten how to be one; don’t burden yourself with that.”

You gave her a tired smile. “You think I’m punishing myself, but I’m still holding on to the part of you that’s still kind. And right now, this is all I have,” you told her, thumb brushing her jaw.

She nodded, tears at the edge of her lashes. “I’m trying not to cry.”

“You’re failing.”

“I know.”

You let your hand fall, slowly.

Her lips parted like she might really cry, or speak further, or stop you from leaving, but she didn’t.

You stepped out of the car before she could.

“Goodnight, Kate,” you bidded, with more meaning than the words should carry.

You walked back into your apartment, trying not to collapse under the weight of how much you still wanted her to chase you.

She didn’t drive off right away. You watched her drive off from your lobby window, Henry still asleep in the back, blissfully unaware of the weight of the conversation that happened today.

And when you finally got back inside your apartment, you picked up Dr. Lorenz’s assignment sheet. You finally had something to write, and you were ready to keep on writing.

Notes:

This was very fun writing, amidst the immense shoulder pain that I think the AO3 curse is working on me right now... Anyhoo, I'd like to know your thoughts, comments, questions, and perhaps violent reactions!

I am considering setting up a Notion for this fanfic, which also includes a comprehensive calendar of events that everyone could follow, so you'd know where we are in the canon plot in the present. I've been revisiting the episodes in Season 5 and observed that Episodes 1 to 4 span at least 3 days each (Not so sure about Episode 1, but it was explicitly said that days spanned between the art gala and the breakfast scene in Kate's apartment).

Chapter 16: May 2025 - The Isaacs-Hendricks House, West Village

Notes:

Sooooo, I had been distracted a lot lately with playing Grow A Garden with my friends in Roblox and I kept on forgetting to write whenever I look at the time because it's always 4AM in Manila. I sincerely apologize for the delay! This chapter isn't Kate-centric much, but you'll found out why ;)

I've been listening to Natalie Cole's Starting Over Again on loop while writing because I saw this Pepper Potts and Tony Stark edit on TikTok.

Act II is about to finish and I am so excited to get onto the climax of the show! Check out this Notion page I have created for Misty Blue, featuring a calendar of events that I have carefully plotted so everyone keeps track on what episode are we in canon. First chapter is on April 25, 2025. You could guys comment on the Notion page if you like ;)

Someone suggested to have a shared YouTube/Spotify playlist where everyone could add, and I think I could build set-up a collaborative playlist for both platforms before Act II ends. I'll announce it sometime on Twitter when I have finally set those up.

You clutched your folder tighter like it was your first freshman college essay all over again; inside the folder was your accomplished assignment sheet. It was eight minutes before your session started, but you were not early because you had been eager. 

The panic spiral of trying to ‘look fine’ took at least eight minutes before therapy. You had to make sure that anything you had written on your list that sounded legally actionable was strictly hypothetical. 

Or metaphorical. Or therapeutic metaphor. Definitely not admissible in court.

Nevertheless, Dr. Lorenz welcomed you into her office that smelled of bergamot and ylang-ylang. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes resting on you with that quiet, clinical kindness that never leaned too friendly or too detached.

“Did you do the assignment?” she asked gently.

You tried not to sweat and not to shift in your seat. “I did.”

“Good,” she smiled, the kind that would make you want to unpeel your psyche fiber by fiber. “Let’s start there.”

Carefully, you produced the assignment sheet out of the folder and handed it to her as if it were a rare historical document. Dr. Lorenz skimmed the list with the same neutral attentiveness.

Her brows twitched once. “Interesting,” she murmured, and you tried hard not to think about the particular accent that had said it yesterday as well. 

You watched the discerning expressions on her face, bracing yourself in case she might suddenly shout ‘felony’ and press a proverbial panic button under her chair. Not that you would be surprised, considering that some of these ‘acts of love’ happened in morally ambiguous environments. 

She didn’t.

Instead, she asked, “Care to talk through a few of these?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

She nodded. “How did it feel to have the answers?”

Your mind rummaged back to the moment you had finally thought about the answers to the assignment. The thoughts took the shape of a trench coat, the dim artificial ocean, and fries. 

“I think…” You breathed out, nails scraping against the armchair’s material as you thought hard enough. “Fuck, I don’t know… It felt like everything was happening too fast, but at the same time, I was getting whiplashed from things in my life that were happening in front of me, but somehow I kept on getting involved in them.”

“That’s honest.”

A nail scraped harder as the knot in your chest squeezed tight. “It hurt.”

“Because it was real,” she offered.

“Because it was unfinished,” you corrected. “Because I wanted to lie. I wanted to write something noble and poetic, but everything I wrote felt too unfitting. Too…”

“Transactional?”

You flinched.

Dr. Lorenz rested the assignment sheet gently on the table between you. “Let’s start with the truth that felt easiest. I got the impression something happened after our last session.”

You exhaled one long breath, which was quickly replaced with a humorless laugh. “Well, it’s a long story…”

Dr. Lorenz didn’t seem to be surprised by that. “No, please humor me,” she said, waving her hand, subtly reminding you that indulging her with long stories was the point of therapy. 

“Well, for starters,” your fingers ran lightly against the armchair’s fuzzy upholstery, “Just as before I left here from last week, my boss’s son’s school called me by mistake so that I could inform my boss that he got into a fight with his cousin.” 

Dr. Lorenz tilted her head. “And you went, didn’t you?”

You took a breath, then nodded with a bitter smile. “I walked there without thinking.”

“I imagine that says a lot.”

“Yeah, it says I’m a fucking idiot.” You crossed your arms against your chest, as if to shield yourself from the impending tidal wave of vulnerability. “I show up when I’m not asked personally by her. Again. I fix something that isn’t mine to fix anymore. Again.” Then, your voice grew softer as you remembered chocolate brown eyes that looked up at you. “But, I cleaned the blood off her son’s knuckles before I even asked what happened. That’s how I knew I still love them, even now.”

“And, did your boss know about that?”

“Yeah, she arrived a few minutes later. I forgot I didn’t work for her anymore. It didn’t matter.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No. That came later.”

“When?”

“She asked me to dinner,” you replied, briefly hesitating.

Dr. Lorenz’s brow arched slightly. “Did you go?”

You shook your head. “I said ‘no.’”

She didn’t say good job, or praise you as well. Just nodded, allowing the silence to honor the weight of what you didn’t do. “That’s a first, isn’t it?”

“First time I said ‘no’ when I wanted to say ‘yes,’” you replied.

“How did it feel?”

You paused, blinking slowly. “Like I was peeling off skin that didn’t belong to me anymore. I walked away, and hated myself for wanting her to chase me.”

Dr. Lorenz leaned forward slightly. “What did you think would happen if you said no?”

“That I’d disappear. That if I’m not useful, I’m… unnecessary.” You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “Turns out the world didn’t end.”

“She didn’t fight you on it?”

“No. She said the door was open.” You looked down. “And for once, I didn’t run through it.”

Dr. Lorenz let the words settle. “Sounds like progress.”

“It also feels like grief,” you murmured.

“Progress often does.” She smiled softly. “Would you like to continue?”

Dr. Lorenz didn’t press further, but she didn’t need to because you were already speaking before she could ask you to continue.

You stared at the hem of your pants. “She showed up at the coffee shop near my place after the dinner went so badly. After her half-sister accused her of—” you stopped yourself just short of saying murder and decided to deliberately omit the fact she went to your apartment, argued, and hugged her like none of those happened “—something serious. She told me that the company would want me to consult temporarily while they restructure the team,” you lied smoothly, looking her in the eye. “I’m not back permanently. They just needed short-term support during an internal transition. My boss would be nominating the chief of staff as the new COO. I set boundaries, though. It’s not full-time. It’s not forever.”

“I see,” Dr. Lorenz hummed, seeming to have bought the story. “Do you feel safe there now?”

Your thoughts drifted to the day you were back in office. About the Minka and Vic worrying, the spa-in-Boise lie, the Dior bag from Maddie, the trench coat, the hovering, the aquarium.

“I feel…clearer. I’m not there to be a savior. I realized that being forced out of the role, even under good intentions, made me feel powerless. Coming back for a short time is my way of reclaiming the story on my terms. And then yesterday, we went to the aquarium with Henry, her son—I mean, not biologically. Long story. But he’s—he’s everything good about her without the sharp edges of her CEO facade.”

“And how did it feel? To be with her again?”

You sighed. “Like I was home. And also like I’d walked into someone else’s life and they hadn’t realized it yet.”

Dr. Lorenz made a quiet note.

You swallowed. “She said things to me. Real things. Like she was trying... Trying to see me as someone she’d wronged, trying to make amends. She apologized. It was… real. I think. Maybe not enough, but… it meant something because I don’t think she knows how to be vulnerable without looking like she’s falling apart. And I think… that she’s scared of what happens if she lets me see her be human.”

“And how did it feel to hear those things?”

“Worse than I expected,” you said honestly. “It’s easier when you can hate someone.”

She nodded. “And do you hate her?”

You laughed bitterly. “I wish I did. Unfortunately, I’m still too in love with her for that.”

She wrote something down.

You immediately backtracked, panicking a bit. “Not in love in love. I just—I care deeply. In a complicated, possibly stupid way. In a ‘don’t subpoena me’ way.” You groaned into your hands. “God, I’m the anguished gay stereotype.”

“You’re not a stereotype,” Dr. Lorenz corrected gently. “You’re a person who clearly cared very deeply for someone, and now you’re struggling with what to do with all that emotion when the structure of your relationship has changed.” She watched you for a moment, then asked, “Right now, hearing those words and realizing what they meant, what are you hoping for?”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I haven’t figured that part out.”

She waited. “You do. You may not be ready to say it, but you already know.”

Kate. 

You shook your head, but not convincingly. “She’s married. She has a kid. Her world is too big for me, and mine is too small for her.”

“And yet, you went to the aquarium.”

“I did, but it’s complicated.”

“You say it’s complicated,” she said mildly. “But what if it’s not? What if it’s just hard?”

You stared at her. “That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because if it’s complicated, then I have a reason not to want it. But if it’s just hard… then maybe it means I still want her.”

Dr. Lorenz gave you a look that weighed several psychology degrees behind it.  “But, why are you fighting so hard to deny it?” 

You said nothing. Not yet. The truth was too close to touch.

She circled back to the lists. “All that I am seeing here is you did questionable things because you thought they were the right thing for someone you cared about, yet, the moment you step out of this office, you don’t demand something from her in return that even the expectation of her asking for your forgiveness seemed so trivial to you.”

You hesitated, but you eventually found the courage to pull the words out of your chest. “Because… I still love her.” Your voice cracked. “Even if I made ethically complicated decisions for her. Because it makes it real .”

Dr. Lorenz didn’t blink. “Even now?”

“Especially now,” you admitted. “But I’m starting to wonder if love is the thing that keeps me broken.”

She leaned forward slightly. She pointed out, but not unkindly, “It’s already real, whether or not you say it aloud. You told me last week that love looked like sacrifice. That your way of loving was walking through fire for her, but what if your love needs to look like space? Like letting her burn alone if she chooses to keep lighting matches?”

You bit your lip. The room felt too small again. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you twisted the tissue paper until it ripped, trying to remember what it felt like when Kate said, ‘I don’t even know what I want.’

“She told me I’m the only one she can be honest with, even when it’s messy,” you whispered.

She was silent for a moment, then said, “And what does that make you? Her conscience? Her confessional? Her savior?”

“I’ve asked myself that. A lot. I don’t think I’ve figured it out.”

“And what about the person you see in yourself?” Dr. Lorenz asked gently. “Where’s she gone in all this?”

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “I think I left her behind the first time I said ‘yes’ to Kate Lockwood,” you said. “And I’ve been trying to get her back ever since.”

Dr. Lorenz nodded again, studying you. “Maybe now you get to decide if she’s worth rescuing.” She passed a box of tissues between you, just before she inquired the question like it had waited politely in line for weeks: “What would it mean to forgive her?”

“It depends on whether she even wants to be forgiven.” Your mouth parted because you wanted to explain, but you swallowed hard instead.

“That’s the part you need to figure out because love without accountability and forgiveness becomes performance. And you? You’re tired of performing.”

You stared at the carpet for a long moment. “I want to believe that she sees me now,” you said. “Not just what I do. Or how I show up. But me.”

“And if she does?” Dr. Lorenz asked gently.

“Then maybe we can try again. As friends. As something.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

You bit your lip, and instead of replying, you reached for a couple of tissues to dab the corner of your eyes with. That landed like a pebble in your chest. You didn’t answer, not yet. Instead, you asked something else. “Do you think I’m mistaking grief for love?”

She tilted her head. “Does it feel like grief?”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream that love should feel like a trench coat and aquarium light, not like a bruise that never heals, but you paused and reconsidered your answer. “Sometimes,” you said. “But mostly… it feels like recognition.”

“Then it’s not grief. It’s memory.”

“It feels like… the story’s still trying to say something. Even if it comes out badly.” You stared at your lap, the knot in your chest loosening an inch. “I don’t think I ever wanted to be loved. I think I wanted to be needed. That way I couldn’t be left.”

Dr. Lorenz’s voice was gentle. “And what do you think love is now?”

“Still figuring it out,” you said quietly. “But I think it starts with not bleeding for someone who wouldn’t notice if you went dry.”

“Okay,” she agreed with you like she believed you, but she was already writing something down. “Tell me about the moment you realized you had no official role anymore. What did that feel like in your body?”

You pondered the question for a while. Because the truth is, it didn’t feel like anything at first, and then you remembered the way her cheek felt underneath your thumb. “Like I disappeared,” you say, voice small. “Like I was made of air, and the only thing keeping me solid was a job description.”

Dr. Lorenz leans in. “And without the job?”

You merely shrugged, eyes pinned to the floor as you sniffled, picking the tissue apart between your fingers. Long and uncomfortable silence stretched again. 

Then she said softly, “You made yourself indispensable, so you’d never be abandoned.”

You blinked hard, fighting the way your throat was constricting. “I guess I’ve never figured out how to be taken care of without earning it somehow.”

“That’s the part we’ll keep untangling. You deserve to exist even when you're not fixing anything.”

Suddenly, everything was pressing up on you. The pain that you had been pushing down ever since you clipped on your clearance badge welled up to your entire respiratory system until you broke down. 

“Let’s mark this as where we leave off—for now. There’s a third list I want you to write.” She passed you another sheet of paper. “One you might not be ready for, but I want to give it to you anyway.”

List Three: What do you want that isn’t survival and when you aren’t afraid of the price? 

“List everything you want from love, from safety, from connection, but none of it can be about being needed. None of it can be about earning it. None of it can come from fixing someone else.”

You stared at the page, and Dr. Lorenz smiled, just a little. 

Maybe, she was thinking of ‘so much unresolved gay yearning, we’ll be here until August.’

---

Maddie had been leaving you on read, and you were growing concerned because it was unlike her to go even beyond an hour to reply. Just as you left Dr. Lorenz’s office, you got a call from the company’s security personnel while you were still wiping the leftover mascara smear from under your eye in the elevator lobby. They had found her phone in the CEO’s office, along with her twin’s husband, who was only in his underwear and locked in the nearby storage room this morning. 

Out of all the places that their libido had brought them to…

‘Fuck, that’s why Maddie was dressed in purple,’ your thoughts admonished you for not realizing it sooner. 

As if to add salt to the injury, Reagan had already intervened, and you took the first cab that could get you straight to Maddie’s house. In case that said twin would set on a rampage. You figured that probably meant a hangover or a poorly-disguised emotional spiral, and if anyone knew how to check the damage without triggering it, it was you.

You were only met with an empty historic townhouse, save for the housekeeping, when you arrived. Wine glass on the piano, a Balenciaga heel under the ottoman, a Dior clutch on the stairs, but no Maddie.

You weren’t even supposed to be here, but then again, that had become a theme lately. Showing up for Lockwood women. 

Housekeeping told you that Maddie didn’t come home last night. But you tried to rationalize. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since Maddie was accounted for through her Instagram story. There were more than twelve hours until you could officially panic and reach out to every bar or hotel in New York that she might have crashed into.

You didn’t call out. If she were here, she would have made herself known in some Broadway-esque entrance way, but it was quiet. Too quiet. The absence of noise clanged louder than anything else.

As you were about to leave, the front door opened as you turned. 

Kate stood there. She wasn’t dressed for work. Only in a crisp cream blouse and navy slacks. Light makeup, but hair curled slightly just the way she liked it. 

For a second, neither of you spoke.

After a while, she blinked once. “You’re here.”

You tucked your coat—the one she gave yesterday, and yes, she noticed with the way her eyes briefly drifted down—tighter around you, as if it could protect you from how exposed you still felt. “Security called me. Said Maddie left her phone in your office.”

Her eyes flicked to the bag in your hand. You didn’t know if she saw the therapy folder or just the look on your face. You imagined you still looked like vulnerability personified. That you were bruised beneath the skin. It had been barely two hours since therapy, and your body still hadn’t recalibrated from the emotional hangover.

She stepped in and shut the door behind her, gently. “She didn’t come home?”

You shook your head. “No sign. But it looks like she was here… last night, at least.”

“Do you come here often?” she asked, and you tried to ignore the clipped tone that slowly enunciated each word. 

You swallowed. “Uh, sometimes. When Maddie invites me to.” 

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” she said, folding her neatly in front of her and straightening her posture.

It didn’t go unnoticed to you. ‘Oh,’ your mind uselessly echoed back.

You weren’t sure how to take her reaction. As a compliment? As a dig? As jealousy tucked inside a quiet observation?

Nonetheless, you tried not to bristle. “I am Maddie’s emergency contact,” you said simply. “I had to check.”

Kate didn’t answer right away. Her gaze moved through the apartment, landing nowhere in particular. Maybe she was searching for signs Maddie had left on purpose, or signs she hadn’t. “Did you know where Maddie went?”

You shook your head. It didn’t seem like she knew about the Madison-Harrison affair, so it was best that the news didn’t come from you, for now, for Maddie’s sake. “I was hoping you’d know. She might have passed out in a bar or hotel, so I’ll just wait for a call from an unknown number later.”

“I was hoping to talk with her to put out a feeler for Teddy’s nomination for the open board seat,” she sighed. 

Suddenly, you remembered the overdue discussion you were supposed to have with him, if you were not actively avoiding him.

“Isn’t the nomination for Bob’s seat too early, considering…” Your words drifted before you could mention the accusation that had shaken her a few nights ago.

Kate grimaced at the mention of Bob’s name, but she pulled a tight smile. “Well, after that disastrous dinner with my family, it seems clear that things will never settle down.”

You frowned. “Did you set this in motion because you feel that Teddy has a—”

“No! It’s not that,” she cut immediately before she regained composure, inhaling a bit. “The company needs people who wouldn’t push to go back to the old ways, where everything was corrupt, policed, and forced.”

“Of course,” you said, and you believed her this time.

Silence followed. And in that silence, while you were looking at her while she was looking at anywhere else than at you, you had missed her. You knew that you would never go back to a time before the art gala on Park Avenue, but that was not what you missed. 

It was her smile.

You tried to think about the time she was smiling, and you weren’t worrying about a hit piece brewing in the works. Loving her was like believing in gravity because it never occurred to you that you could stop from the moment you met her.

Eventually, her eyes found yours again. Closely this time, and you were wondering if she could see the rawness of the session you had with Dr. Lorenz under your skin. Her voice lowered. “You look different,” she said, breaking the silence.

“I feel different,” you agreed.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

You gave a small laugh that didn’t quite make it out of your chest. “Yeah, well…” You picked on the loose thread on your sleeve again as you explained, avoiding her gaze. “I’m on Week 2 in therapy and already feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train of feelings I forgot I buried.”

“You just got out of therapy?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “Lots of probing questions.”

A flash of hurt gleamed in her green eyes upon seeing your discomfort, but it was quickly replaced with concern. “I hope it was fulfilling, though. I just came from Baisley. I would have picked you up if I knew you’d be there with Dr. Lorenz. I should have checked in with you. But I…” She stopped herself. “It’s been a long day.”

You nodded. “A work call? Or PTC?”

Kate exhaled slowly, brushing wind-tangled strands from her face. She looked tired. But the usual bone-deep CEO-of-my-father's-empire exhaustion. “Reagan decided to press charges against Henry this morning.”

You huffed. “That bitch...”

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice darkening. “Rey always said she played chess. Turns out she’ll throw pawns at a child just to win a grudge match. She would do everything to humiliate me, but I never thought she would stoop to the level of dragging our children into our mess,” she grumbled. “You see, this is what happens when parents don’t sort their shit out. It trickles down to the grandchildren.”

“Your parents were assholes,” you agreed with a trying smile. 

The silence stretched again. You were running out of topics to make the conversation longer. 

You started turning towards the door. “I should go. I didn’t mean to—”

“Wait.” She crossed the room before she could think better of it. She didn’t touch you, but she stood so close that you could feel your face turn hot.

You couldn’t look at her. The memory of the aquarium light and the ghost of her body in your arms was still fresh, especially the words she spoke to you. “I don’t know how to stop caring about you.”

“Did you mean it?” she asked. “What you said. We could try friendship?”

You inhaled through your nose. “I meant it.”

She tilted her head, a sad smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want to ruin that. I want to do it right this time.”

That one landed. You wanted to believe her again, but belief didn’t come easily after everything in therapy earlier. 

Just before you could say anything else, she added, quietly but clearly, “I just want to be where you feel safe”

You didn’t know what to do with that. It was too much and not enough. Your heart felt like it was plucked to the rhythm of her voice that said that.  It was the kind of sentence that sat in your chest like a promise and an apology braided together.

You stepped back first. feeling a bit lightheaded. “I’ll let you know if I hear from her.”

She didn’t move to stop you. “Take care.”

As you opened the door, she called your name. Not the clipped, professional shorthand she had used for years. 

You glanced back. The thudding sensation in your heart grew louder as you did. 

“I know I didn’t take care of you the way I should have,” she said softly. “I see that now.”

You didn’t say anything, except for nodding. You couldn’t, so you left without looking back.

And when you reached the sidewalk, the wind cut sharply against your skin. The world felt too loud again, but this time, you felt a little more present in it.

Maybe you’d write something down tonight. Maybe it didn’t feel impossible. 

Maybe.

---

However, that night, Teddy had been text-blasting you nonstop, so you decided that you couldn’t ignore him anymore. You arrived at 5:47PM on the company building’s rooftop with a bag of Doritos Locos Tacos in your arms.

Theo🚪 Hayes: Come to the roof.

Theo🚪 Hayes: Bring snacks. 

Theo🚪 Hayes: And maybe Jesus.

You found him sitting cross-legged on a lounge chair in the terrace garden, sipping a cappuccino. 

“Look who showed up—Miss Ghost Protocol herself,” he said, side-eying the dark skyline. “A miracle you still got all your limbs, honestly.”

“I got your texts,” you said, sitting down beside him and passing the bag of Doritos, which he snatched from you with his usual panache.

“Yeah, yeah, I was extra, whatever. I just needed to talk where Big Brother’s not breathing down our necks.”

You ignored the second sentence deliberately. “What happened?”

He exhaled through his nose, staring at the clouds. “Reagan happened. Dinner at Kate’s the other night turned into an audition tape for the full Succession season finale.”

“What did she say?”

“She accused Kate of having Uncle Bob killed. In front of Henry.”

You went still, as if you didn’t already know this part, but you played along.

Teddy glanced at you. “Henry chucked a butter knife at her. Didn’t hit skin, but spiritually? That shit landed. Right to the forehead—like the kid was staging a Liz Gillies as Fallon Carrington-style duel.  No blood, but vibes were... concerning.” He paused, then added carefully, “I don’t know what happened to Bob, but I do know Kate. I believe she’s above that.”

You didn’t try to bargain with that, only looked away with your hands balling into fists. “Is there any particular reason as to why you wanted to talk with me?” you asked, changing the subject as subtle as you could.

He slammed a flash drive on the table between you, making your hand twitch. “You tell me.”

Your throat went dry, but you kept calm. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Hey, I know you’re smarter than that,” he replied gently. “But, imagine my surprise when the company ghost files opened up like Moses parted the damn Red Sea. Suddenly, I’m an interim handler for a Lockwood heiress, and guess what falls in my lap?”

You remembered the last anonymous tip you received. “This isn’t—this can’t—” you began to sputter. 

“It is,” Teddy insisted.

You closed your eyes, counting numbers in your head. “Fuck,” you whispered.

Teddy leaned forward. “So, what now?”

You met his eyes. “Have you told Kate?”

“I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “But, the last time that someone told me to keep things from Katie, a man turned up dead,” 

“That’s not justification.”

“No, it’s just a reminder that we all do things when we’re cornered.”

You stood up and tried to remember how to breathe. Every breath felt like a countdown. “What do you want me to do with this?” you asked tentatively.

Teddy watched you for a long time. “You’re the only person I trust to decide that.” He leaned back, munching on a Dorito chip with an expression far too casual for what he was about to say. “Look, before we even get into whatever you’d decide…” He exhaled slowly. “I need to say something. As her brother.”

You tensed.

He clocked it instantly. “Relax, I’m not here to lecture you or pull some patriarchal bullshit.” He sat forward, voice dropping to something quieter. “But I’ve been watching. And I think I know Kate...”

A looooooong pause…. Then:

“I think she’s falling in love with you.”

Oh.

Oh.

The air left your lungs, just like that.

Teddy didn’t look away. “She doesn't say it out loud. She probably doesn’t even let herself think the words, but it’s in her face. How she looks at you like you’re a language she’s trying to learn by heart. How she slows down her walk when you’re near. That’s not duty. That’s not guilt. That’s somebody aching for something.”

You stared at him, and you were rendered speechless.

He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything. I know it’s messy. She’s married. She has a son she adopted in a heartbeat when, four years ago, she said she swore off children and marriage. You’re healing. And I ain’t saying it’s your fault, and feelings happen. People fall, but I need you to know the shape of the thing before it gets any bigger.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off.

“She’s my baby sister. She’s done a lot of fucked-up things trying to be good in front of the old man—may his evil soul rest in pieces—trying to be her version of loyal through complicity, but love?” He shook his head. “Love's never been something she was taught how to do clean.”

You swallowed hard. “And what exactly are you trying to tell me, Teddy?”

He looked at you; his face was serious now. “That if you stay, and this becomes something more, you better be damn sure she’s willing to fight for it. Not hide it. Not ask you to live in the cracks of her life.” His hand flicked the now-empty chip bag in the trash bin nearby and stood. “Don’t let her make you the secret she regrets later,” he said. “If it’s real, make sure she meets you in the light.”

He gave you a half-nod, like he hadn’t just gutted you clean with the truth and a flash drive, and walked away.

You tried not to think about Tom Lockwood’s assistant and his baggage full of skeletons that could burn this family’s enemies to the ground.

Notes:

Oh, the plans I have for the chapter set in Episode 4 ;) I have been seeing suggestions from people, so if you have any suggestions, questions, or comments, feel free to put them in the comments or message me directly!

Chapter 17: May 2025 - The Lockwood Museum of Art, Lower East Side

Notes:

I did not play Grow A Garden for hours, and this is the result: Finishing Chapter 17 because I was on an intense frenzy. I had to restrain myself from biting my desk while writing certain lines ;)

The next day had been stressful. 

You and Teddy were seated opposite each other on the loveseat in Kate’s apartment. She sat on one of the lounge chairs across from her brother, while Joe stood near the window beside the fireplace.

It wasn’t lost on you that the last time you came here, the only problems that you had were a hit piece in the works and being hopelessly in love with your boss.

“She used the word ‘assault,’” Joe said darkly. “Against a six-year-old.”

“I assume the terms ‘vicious’ and ‘violent’ are being tossed around like confetti,” Teddy added, sprawling on the couch. “Also: ‘unprovoked.’ Like Henry was some pint-sized war criminal,” Teddy quipped, fingers forming lazy air quotes to emphasize his words. 

Joe crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, looking a bit lost and unfamiliar with the discussion. “What about a press release?”

“No,” you disagreed with full conviction. All heads turned to you. “No statements yet. We’re not on defense, not until we see where Reagan’s aiming at. You guys told me that Henry was just collateral damage in her campaign against Ka—” you stopped yourself short before you could first-name basis his wife in front of him “—Ms. Lockwood. We move too early, and it looks like guilt.”

Kate nodded slowly. “Good. Keep it quiet for now.”

Nerves twitched on his forehead. “So, what’s the move?” Joe asked, obviously levelling his tone, but you tried to ignore it and tried not to smile at his wife’s approval.

“We lawyer up,” she stated simply. “We get ahead of the story, before she spins it into something unrecoverable. I’ll have Teddy read our lawyers on the situation.” 

“How about we gather statements from Baisley staff?” you suggested. “If we can prove Gretchen was bullying other students, it weakens Reagan’s case.”

Kate’s thumb brushed her chin—a thoughtful tell that you had learned to read before board meetings turned into aggressive negotiations. “It could shift the narrative from Gretchen to her mother instead. Ray would appear that she’s enabling this kind of behavior instead of correcting it…” She turned to Teddy. “Are we positive we can’t file for child abuse charges against Reagan, just to put obstacles between her and
Henry being expelled?”

“I’ll consult with the lawyers,” he replied nonchalantly, rubbing his temples slowly.  

She stood and began pacing. 

“What if, uh, we…” Joe spoke out. “We turn Gretchen against her mother?”

You openly frowned at him, showing your shock and disbelief. Everyone turned to him, but before anyone could stop reeling from the shock of his suggestion, Kate spoke first as she turned, but not fully looking him in the eye. 

“Exploit another child,” Kate snarled sarcastically with a scoff. Her smile was all teeth and no mirth. “Yeah, that’s certainly one option.”

Putting a palm subtly to cover your mouth, you swallowed your laugh before it could bubble up to your chest.  

His eyebrows shot up.

Teddy raised his arms, as if to try to calm the tense atmosphere before it could escalate into a full argument between the couple. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it: there are many good schools," he pointed out, as if it were the obvious. "We preemptively send the little man to a new place. He will be out of harm’s way. He will shine no matter where he is!” 

“It would defang Reagan,” she affirmed. 

“No, no—I’m sorry. We’re not sending Henry to a different school. He needs stability,” Joe argued, gesturing around him.

Teddy shot a pleading look at Kate for support to back him up, but she continued to look at the wall in front of her. Stubbornly agreeing with her husband, despite that it would give them the longer route to resolve all things. 

You glanced at Joe, finding yourself surprised that you actually agree with him. Despite that, you wanted to bring up that they also needed to protect their son from a school that lets the cops interrogate him without a guardian present.

“I agree,” you offered tentatively. “It would do harm more than good. Let’s try to reframe our strategy by thinking of what the best outcome is for Henry’s sake.”

The tension in the living room was palpable. Kate and Joe refused to look each other in the eye, and she didn’t even try to argue or express her support. She merely exhaled through her nose. 

“Okay,” Teddy grumbled in defeat, slumping back on the couch. “Heard.”

“Please excuse us, I need to talk with my wife,” Joe informed both of you, but his eyes were on you upon the mention of the last word. 

Kate sighed and followed her husband into the kitchen, leaving you alone with Teddy.

Your hand found the edge of the couch and gripped hard. “That was intense.”

Teddy huffed. “You could say that again.”

The silence that followed became awkward when both of you tried and failed to not actively listen to the hushed voices in the kitchen, so you both talked about something else, but eventually circled back to another pressing concern.  

“Have you told Katie yet?”

“Nope.”

“Are you?”

“One problem at a time.”

“O-kay.”

Teddy stretched and made a dramatic show of yawning before standing. “I should go before this drama gets into marriage counselling. The ghost of Tom Lockwood can only haunt one family strategy session per day.” He caught your eye as he passed, and you knew what he was trying to convey with that look. 

“ ... You just pitched leveraging a child! ” you heard Kate say from inside the kitchen.

“I was spitballing! ” Joe fired back. 

Both of you jumped at the aggressive tone. Teddy mouthed a curse at you, obviously confused and shocked, just before the elevator doors closed on him.

Then, footsteps. 

Kate emerged from the kitchen. Your heart tried to do this complicated somersault like it always did whenever she walked into a room. Joe didn’t follow. Just you and her now.

You could still smell the faintest trace of her perfume. You hated how familiar it was. It still made you feel safe, which was insane, given you were currently on the same roof as someone who had a man killed and someone who killed the said man.

“I’m not sure if it helps our case, but Reagan might be embezzling. I heard something the other day. It was subtle, but it wasn’t nothing,” you started.

Kate looked almost relieved, but it did not strengthen her resolve at all. “What are you suggesting?”

You stood and met her gaze. “We do a fiscal investigation just to verify embezzlement. I know it may be far-fetched, but the way she casually mentioned it to our new investors…”

She waved you off, cutting your train of thought. “No, that’s alright. I believe you, but I won’t be letting you go out there in the meantime. I’ll let Teddy see to it.”

Your heart deflated, not expecting at all to offer anything. “As you wish,” you replied, nevertheless. 

“I shouldn’t ask you to help,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I know you’re trying to move on.”

“I’m not helping you,” you clarified. “I’m helping Henry.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Still… Thank you.”

You pivoted. “Are you working today?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’ve made arrangements yesterday to have my work done remotely until Monday.”

You shifted slightly toward the door, pulse stuttering in your throat. “If you want me to stop, you just have to say it.”

“I don’t.”

The words hung between you. You swallowed, nodding once. “Then, I’ll go.”

As you called on the elevator, she called your name. “I just wanted to say… I’m trying. I don’t always get it right, but I see you now. I mean it.”

You looked back at her, silhouetted in the morning light streaming through the window. She didn’t reach for you. She just stood there, just before the spell was broken by her husband.

Joe walked by, already having gathered his coat. A storm cloud seemed to follow him, with his expression tightly wounded with stress. 

Kate didn’t say anything to acknowledge him as she merely went upstairs.

A chill ran down your spine upon realizing she left you with him. You prayed that the elevator would go up faster. 

However, the universe was not on your side this time. 

“Kate’s always had a knack for control,” he started. “Guess it helps to have someone… loyal .”

Fucking hell. Where in the actual fuck was the elevator?

“I thought I was here because your sister-in-law accused her of murdering Bob,” you retorted smartly.

“Could have fooled me.”

Before you could say anything else, the elevator finally arrived, but as you stepped in, his voice rang like a knife striking through you. 

“I need you to stop looking at her like she’s still yours to save,” he called out. “Because that’s my job.”

You froze, thinking if you should press close at this point. “I don’t think she needs saving. I think she needs honesty.”

Joe smirked. “That’s rich… From someone who buried a hit piece, pitched blackmail, and sat on enough skeletons to open a mausoleum.”

A pained smile stretched your lips. “You hid things from her, too. Wasn’t it your plan to keep the hit piece from her first?”

He shared the same smile. “Well, I told her eventually because that’s what a marriage is supposed to be—compartmentalization because it’s built on trust.”

“Could have fooled me."

---

Later that night, you received two separate calls from Kate. The first one was to let you know that she had appeased Reagan by pressuring her to back out of the lawsuit in favor of keeping the news of her husband cheating with her twin sister buried. You could feel the relief and happiness in her tone. 

Unfortunately, after a few hours, the second was a distress call. 

You were back in your usual sleep cycle, after making calls to appease probably the whole corporation at that point, because of the Maddie-fiasco that happened live on Instagram, out of all places. Every cybersecurity contact that you had in file was paid overtime and a bonus for scrubbing it off the face of the Internet. 

What made the sleep deprivation worth the aggravation was when, for the first time in weeks, Kate called you in for the usual morning briefing in her apartment before heading to work. You weren’t entirely sure what kind of morning to expect when you entered her walk-in closet.

What you didn’t expect was Kate Lockwood—proud mother, art connoisseur, ruthless CEO, philanthropist—poring through a garment rack. 

“Good. You’re here,” she greeted, charismatic and bright and terrifying. You were thrown off by how composed she looked. No trace of yesterday’s tension. “I need to look appropriate.”

You blinked, trying to think of what event you or Teddy could have possibly forgotten to calendar. “Appropriate… for?”

She grinned. “For firing Reagan and bathing in the glow of her public humiliation.”

“Oh,” you replied, already slightly winded. “That kind of appropriate.”

She wheeled the rack in front of you. “Help me pick,” she insisted.

“Should I have brought gloves for this?”

“Do you want gloves?” she asked, genuinely considering. “I have leather.”

Of course, she did.

You stared at the line-up in front of you: it was less a collection of outfits, where one of it could be an arsenal of her psychological warfare. Black, red, cream, satin, silk… Your head was going dizzy imagining her wearing each of them.

You flicked through the dresses: (1) a crimson number with a very low neckline that looked likea  scandal waiting to happen; (2) a navy backless halter dress that implied a secret you want to keep behind closed doors; and then—

Your hand stilled on a hanger.

The black off-the-shoulder gown. It was floor-length, high slit on both sides, cut precisely that it could send markets crashing.

She noticed your hesitation instantly. “That one?”

“No. I was thinking.”

“About the most strategic option, or the most revealing neckline?”

“Why are those mutually exclusive?”

That earned a smile. Small, dangerous, and knowing. You weren’t going to be surprised if she was about to murder you right now. You felt a nerve throb in your temple.

“Pick,” she commanded. Then, slowly, she fished for your opinion, voice deceptively mild. “Which one makes it harder for you to look me in the eye?” 

“Excuse me?” you asked. 

Kate was torturing you at this point, and you were about to implode. 

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s a simple question.”

It wasn't an innocent question.

You stared at the black dress, then at her. “You already know the answer.”

“I do,” she said lightly, already pushing the rack back into its place. “But I wanted to hear it from you.”

You did, without hesitation, this time. “The black one.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

You crossed your arms and stared at the ceiling like that would save you. “It’s a flattering cut. It emphasizes your… uh, authority .”

“Which is on my clavicle?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She hummed, clearly enjoying the exchange. “No, but your face did.”

You groaned dramatically. “Can we please just focus on firing your sister?”

“Just wanted to confirm it wasn’t accidental. I like being thorough.”

A rustle of movement.

Before you could recover, she was already peeling off her blouse in front of you with military efficiency.

Holymotherfuckingshit.

You spun around, face already on fire. “Jesus Christ, Kate! A little warning next time?”

“You’ve seen me bleed out my heart in an aquarium, vomit on a yacht, and scream at Congress over a Zoom Meeting,” she said calmly, throwing her blouse in the hamper. “I think modesty is a ship long sunk.”

“God help me,” you muttered, still facing the door like it held your lifeline. 

You told yourself to turn away, to not picture it, but the damage was already done. A queen dressing for war. A woman dragging her empire back under her heel. She changed in record time. And when you turned around again ( at her permission, of course) you nearly forgot what breathing was.

Kate turned her head slightly. “Zip me up?”

Your body went completely still. “Come again?”

She didn’t look back at you yet. The dress now halfway up her torso, exposing the sharp line of her spine and the elegant slope of her bare back. From this distance, you could see constellations of freckles scattered across her skin. One arm was tucked in front of her, holding the fabric to her chest. The other was holding her hair up. A strand curled loose near her jaw.

You could see the zipper, and you could see where her shoulder blades rose and fell with every breath. Against your better judgment, you stepped toward her. Your fingers found the cool metal of the zipper. You tugged it slowly, careful not to touch more skin than you had to, but absolutely failing because her skin was there, and it was warm, and you had to breathe through it like she wasn’t everything you’d ever wanted and couldn’t quite hold.

You reached the middle of her spine. She let out a breath.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Still, you kept going up, over the swell of her back, until the dress fit her like it was sewn there. You stepped away and let out a breath. 

She turned fully then, the dress now completely on, and you were the one who needed help standing.

The dress, clinging so nicely to her figure, was even more lethal on her than on the hanger. Shoulder bare. The slits weren’t obscene. Legs exposed just enough to be legally actionable to intimidate a boardroom and seduce assistants. The kind of dress worn by someone who knew exactly where your eyes would land and wasn’t afraid to meet them there.

Goddamn, she looked fucking sexy. 

Even now. Even in a crisis. It was always the shoulder. 

Yesterday, she had been threadbare, careful, trying not to bleed too much. Today, she looked like the entire war.

'Kate Lockwood,' you thought, 'was done asking for forgiveness.'

You were still recalibrating your internal systems when her voice brought you back into reality or heaven; you weren’t so sure at this point. 

“You’re staring,” she said, not unkindly. That accent was already doing numbers on you, and she still had the audacity to lower her tone. “Do I look fit?”

“You’re… radiant,” you praised because you were too sleep-deprived, and she was too hot for you to lie well.

She allowed the compliment to slide across her like that freaking blouse that she took off in front of you with ease. “Excellent! I want Reagan to feel like she’s being eaten alive by her own insecurities the second I enter the room.”

You cleared your throat. “You don’t think it’s overkill?”

Kate tilted her head, amused. “She embezzled from the company my father gave to me and still had the balls to throw tantrums. I think I’m being restrained.”

That’s your girl.

You grinned, despite yourself, unable to help it. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I deliver the news. She gets walked out in front of T.R. Lockwood Corp.” She stepped into a pair of So Kate Louboutins. “And then I let her choke on her own shame.”

When you both appeared in the kitchen, Joe and Henry were already having breakfast. 

“Good morning, Auntie!” Henry beamed at you, obviously happy that he was about to return to school. 

“Hey, kiddo,” you replied, ruffling his hair as he dug into his omelet. 

Meanwhile, her husband looked at her like he didn’t quite recognize the woman in front of him, even though they’d shared a marriage, a life, and a child for three years already.

Kate didn’t even bother to spare him a glance.

It didn’t go unnoticed by their son. “Is Mommy mad at you?” Henry asked his father timidly.

Joe snapped his head towards him, but before he could reply, she turned after fetching hot water for her tea. 

“No, darling, no,” she answered. “I just have a very busy day.” She gave a forced smile at his father to prove herself, but she immediately glanced back at Henry. “We have to go in five, so shoes? Teeth?”

“Okay,” Henry mumbled, sliding off his seat.

You took it as a cue to continue waiting from the living room, but she stopped you when she passed you a mug of steeping Earl Grey tea, which you accepted gratefully.  

“You sure about that bracelet?” he asked. “You did say she’s an embezzler, it’s just a… Fancy word for thief.”

Kate turned to him fully, the morning light hitting the cut of the dress and the sharpened edge of her cheekbones. “You know I didn’t tell you that to give you more ammo, rather to show you that I can do this without your help.”

“Look, about last night—”

“I heard everything you have to say,” she cut him off before he could explain himself. Her voice was crystal clear, leaning against the kitchen island with her hands folded in front of her as she spoke. “And… the only reasonable response I have for you is: ' fuck you .'”

Holy shit.

Joe didn’t speak, only leaned back in his chair.

“I am a queen,” she asserted with a menacing gleam in her eyes. “I will make this world better and I am not to be fucked with.”

You watched from a breath away, your pulse climbing in your throat. Never had seen her this confident. You'd follow this woman to the ends of this planet.

“But I do things my way,” she added. She straightened her back, arms sliding off the kitchen island. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to fire my cunt sister and bathe in the glow of her public humiliation. Because there’s more than one way to hurt someone.”

Joe’s eyebrows lifted for a moment. You couldn’t figure out if he was impressed or mocking her, but a man was the least of your concerns.

You shouldn’t love her at this moment. Not like this. Not when she was cutting clean through the bones of her husband with a smile on her lips. But you did. Because for the first time in a long time, after what had happened with Bob, she wasn’t afraid to be seen. And all you could think was: ‘God help anyone who tries to dim her light again.’

That’s your woman. He was no longer the center of her storm. You swallowed hard, barely remembering how to stand upright in her presence.

“Shall we?” she asked you lightly, like she hadn’t just verbally executed her husband in under thirty seconds.

You pushed the mug away with the tea already half-empty and followed, still stunned, still affected, still undeniably aware of the woman walking beside you like she wasn’t smoldering.

Somewhere, deep in your stupid, lovesick heart, you realized that this was the version of her that terrified you the most because it was the one you would still burn for.

---

Hours later, you couldn’t find her.

She wasn’t answering texts. Teddy hadn’t heard from her. Her office was empty. Her driver swore she hadn’t gotten in the car. You even tried the Chrysler Building lobby because once, during a board vote meltdown, she fondly recalled how the fountain helped her think.

Nothing. The only clue was seeing Reagan walking out of her office with a smug look on her face. 

You didn’t know where else to look until you remembered where she would be when she wanted to escape the world.

The Lockwood Museum of Art, tucked into the brickwork of the Lower East Side, was practically empty at this hour. You gave your name at the front desk and were waved in because they knew you already. The staff didn’t even blink. Maybe they recognized that particular panic under your skin. Maybe they just knew her too well. She was alone in the modernist wing, back turned while standing in front of the Rothko subway painting that she had always loved and fought to have. 

You paused before stepping in.

It was always strange, watching her from behind. She looked smaller like that. Less of a weapon, more of a woman, but she was still Kate Lockwood regardless.

When you finally spoke, your voice barely disturbed the silence. “You’re not answering your phone.”

She didn’t turn even when you stopped behind her. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“Well,” you said softly. “You’re bad at that.”

A hollow breath left her lips. “Reagan found him.”

Your chest sank. “Who?”

“The man who told Uncle Bob what happened in London.”

Your mouth went dry next. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But it’s done. She knows. About what Joe and I did in London. She said she’s getting the body exhumed. Unless—”

You didn’t need her to finish. You did it for her.  “Unless you step down.”

She turned finally, her eyes rimmed red but dry. “It’s already happening. I’m leaving. I’m done.”

You shook your head, ignoring the way your stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”

The gallery room seemed to be narrow. The overhead lights cast her in gold and shadow. There were bags beneath her eyes and a smudge of mascara that hadn’t fully survived the day. She still looked impossibly composed. 

“I’m leaving. With Joe and Henry,” she clarified, with terrifying calm. “We’ll go back to Europe, maybe the estate in Provence. Quietly. Before Reagan drags my son through it.”

You felt something break in your chest. “You can’t—” You tried to summon words that would make this less horrifying, less inevitable, but she opened her mouth again before you could.

“I need you to prepare my offshore account,” she interrupted gently, as if she hadn’t just shattered your world. “The Swiss one. I already had Cynthia draft the resignation notice for next week’s release.”

You stepped closer, as if closing the distance could change the shape of what was happening. “That’s it?”

Silence fell like snow between you. You could barely breathe.

Her throat worked around the next words. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. You were just doing your job and didn’t sign up for this. I never should’ve asked you to stay. I said I wanted to protect you, but all I did was endanger you further. You tried to walk away. I didn’t let you. You deserve to be free of all this.”

“I knew what I was doing,” you contextualized, barely audible.

“But I didn’t,” she countered. “And I still let you burn for me.”

You stepped closer. “You told me I was the only person you could be honest with. Was that a lie?”

“No,” she confirmed. “And that’s why I have to go. I have to protect you.”

“I never asked for that,” you snapped. “I asked for honesty.”

“I’m trying to give it now. I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice hardening, cracking, unraveling all at once. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare rewrite it now like I didn’t choose this.”

“I am trying to fix this—”

“By disappearing?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” she said, a little too sharply now. “For once, without asking you to help me do it.”

“I don’t want your protection!” you protested, louder than you intended. “I wanted—” You cut yourself off, but she was already looking at you like she heard the end of the sentence anyway.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I wanted you to fight this,” you finally said. “I wanted you to ask me for ways to stay.”

The room shimmered faintly with dim halogen and grief. Her hair fell around her collarbones. The shadows made her green eyes seem sharper than usual. Wide and full of regret. You could see the exhaustion beneath her lashes, the tightness in her jaw, but her posture was unshakable.

She stared at you like you had just cracked something open between her ribs. She didn’t say anything. Not fast enough.

And that was it. 

So you did the only thing you hadn’t let yourself do. Not in her kitchen when the sun rises. Not at the cathedral when you shoved her against the wall. Not in your apartment with her trembling in your arms. Not at the aquarium when she said the most beautiful things that made you fall over for her again. 

You didn’t think. You didn’t measure. You didn’t stop to calculate how dangerous or inappropriate or doomed it might be. You stepped forward, without thinking. You leaned in, your forehead against hers, breathing like it was the only thing you had left, and you kissed her. 

Recklessly.

Honestly

Finally.

You kissed her like you’d waited too long, like it had been growing under your skin for years and only now broke the surface. Like she was the axis of every mistake you had ever justified.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate and aching and furious. You poured everything into it. All the longing you had folded into silence, all the forgiveness you had never been asked to give, all the truth neither of you could speak in boardrooms and galas and break rooms and late-night hallways.

Her mouth was warm, parted just enough to steal your breath. Her hand shot up to your shoulder as if to push you back. 

But she didn’t. Instead, she pulled you closer, so you pushed her gently against a bare wall and kissed her. She gasped softly, but she just grabbed your head and kept your mouth on hers.

Without thinking twice, you bit the softness of her upper lip and her mouth opened a little and let out a moan and fuck, you should have kissed her this morning when she undressed in front of you.

“Oh, God…” she keened, squeezing your arm as she tipped her head back slightly, and you could get off by just hearing her voice.

“Fuck, Kate,” you cried, wanting to ruin her right now.  

You love her.

You love her.

And you were about to lose her.

For one long second, the world ceased to spin.

Her hands found your waist. Yours buried in her hair, all muscles restraining from running through the material of her dress just to feel her. The painting behind you could have caught fire and you wouldn’t have noticed. You didn’t care about propriety or consequences or if the world outside collapsed.

The museum was silent, save for the sound of her pants. You felt it all. Guilt, fury, adoration, the terrible hope that had bloomed between you that was about to die the moment you will leave the gallery.

She kissed you back like she had been starving for it. Like she’d tasted everything else in the world and this was the one flavor she had buried beneath restraint. The most powerful woman in the world was unravelling just for you. 

It burned.

Her mouth left yours slowly, reluctantly, and her breath stuttered as she stepped back, only just, but your arms still held her by the waist. Your lips dipped down and kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulders, making the skin shiver beneath your mouth. 

You were both flushed, trembling in the dim light of the gallery. 

She stared at you, eyes wide. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered.

“You didn’t,” you insisted, voice raw. “I did.”

She exhaled sharply, voice shaky now. “That makes it worse.”

You laughed hollowly, praying for a way to make her stay. “I know.”

Her eyes fell shut, and for the first time, she looked wrecked. “I’m still leaving,” she told you, but more to herself.

“I know.”

She blinked once. And when her voice came, it wasn’t cold. It was careful. “We can’t do this,” she continued, but more to herself again. “I shouldn’t—”

Your heart froze beneath your chest, despite knowing already the end to this. “Kate...”

She didn’t back away, but didn’t drop your gaze. She just stood there; her skin still flushed from the kiss. Her shoulder— that shoulder —bared to you like a challenge.

“You know we can’t,” she whimpered desperately. “This… you and me… it isn’t possible. Because I’m still married. Because I’m about to resign in disgrace. Because loving you would make me selfish.”

“I know,” you agreed, but in defeat.

Neither of you moved.

“You can’t come with me,” she added, voice shaking. “I won’t ask that of you.”

“I know,” you repeated.

Silence again.

You tried to speak. She held up a hand.

“I care too much,” she whispered. “And that’s the problem.”

She turned her head away from you, but only for a second. As if distance might protect you both. “I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t give you something clean. You deserve better. You deserve a love that doesn’t apologize for existing.”

Her voice trembled, even though her shoulders stayed high. “You deserve someone who can love you out loud, who doesn’t flinch every time she wants to touch you in public... Who doesn’t have a husband asleep in the next room or a past she hasn’t finished paying for. I thought about it,” she confessed. “About what it would feel like. Being with you. Letting myself have something that wasn’t a transaction or a strategy or a secret.” Her voice dropped, barely a whisper now. “But this… You made me feel like someone worth redeeming, and that terrified me because it meant you saw a version of me, I didn’t know how to live up to.”

“You said I made you feel safe,” you reminded her.

“And you do,” she said. “You’re the safest thing in the world to me. And that’s why I have to protect you from this.”

You shook your head, lips parted to argue, but she stopped you again. Not with words this time.

She just looked at you. Like you were the last thing she’d ever allow herself to look at with love.

Her voice trembled more now. “I want you. Don’t ever doubt that.” And then, in the lowest, quietest voice: “I love you. God, I—”

She stopped herself, bit the inside of her cheek, and regrouped her thoughts. “This isn’t love, the way you deserve it,” she said. “Not while I’m still undoing the person my father made me into.”

The world suddenly crept up to your senses, as if to swallow both of you back in the reality that you were never meant to be with her in ways you wanted. 

She looked down. “We can’t be together. Not in this life.”

The words lodged in your chest like glass.

You nodded feebly, your hands slowly dropping from her waist. “Then say goodbye properly.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward, gently resting her forehead against yours.

And still, you stayed there. Just for a little longer. Because if she was going to walk out of this world, you wanted her to remember what it felt like when someone saw her completely. When someone stayed, even in the ruins.

It was only when she pulled back barely that you saw the tear hanging from her lashes, trembling in place. And then she did the cruelest thing of all—she smiled. A tiny, broken smile, full of sorrow and finality. 

Your heart caved inward, as if her soul was taking it with her when she leaves, but no words came out of your mind that felt empty. Still, your hand found its way to cup her face, thumb brushing gently at that mole on her upper lip. 

She didn’t kiss you again, but her lips brushed your cheek before she turned away and walked out of the gallery.

You didn’t follow, only stood still, listening to the echo of her heels on the marble floor.

You could barely breathe. Your hands hung uselessly at your sides.

And maybe, you thought, this wasn’t the end, but it sure as hell felt like one.

Notes:

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Alternative outcome in Kate's First Person POV: (WARNING: Rated E) Entrance to Subway (1937)

Chapter 18: November 2022 - The Lockwood Estate, Water Mill, Southampton

Notes:

I am alive! I had been so busy and physically tired that I didn't have quite enough time to lock in as much as I wanted, but I finally have! This is the last flashback chapter for Act II and I hope you'll guys understand why we went back in time ;)

In response to that E-rated one-shot I have posted (Go check out Entrance to Subway (1937), which is a companion piece to Chapter 17 told from Kate's POV), there were some readers that expressed that I bump up the rating of Misty Blue from M to E, which is why I created this form for you to guys to vote, put suggestions/comments/questions, and perhaps help me include tropes you would want to see in the future chapters ;) It would run just after I posted Chapter 21 (aka the first chapter in Act III to give me enough time to plan out and sort things).

You weren’t supposed to be here, chasing down a last-minute invitation from a woman who’d never called you by your first name but had once noticed you skipped lunch three days in a row.

You told yourself that multiple times during the drive east, past Montauk Highway, past the smaller towns that blurred into each other, until the landscape cracked open into neat estates and long shadows cast by money and the ghosts of old political dynasties. You hadn’t packed a bag. You hadn’t even dressed for a holiday. You were running on two espresso shots, a sinus headache, and an overworked body that still bore the quiet bruises of too many late nights and unanswered Slack messages.

It was Thanksgiving. You were supposed to be at home. Watching whatever was on Netflix, eating boxed stuffing with too much pepper, maybe texting a few friends from biz school you hadn’t had time to see in weeks. You had said as much when the invitation for a weekend in the Hamptons hadn’t been a request. 

It came while you were reorganizing the entire guest registry for next month’s museum gala launch in the broad daylight of her office, just after you had confirmed that her family house’s Thanksgiving preparations were already accomplished smoothly.

Ms. Lockwood had merely looked up from her schedule on her tablet and asked, “How about you? You don’t have plans?”

Your face had frowned in confusion. “I—I’m sorry?”

“I haven’t received notice yet of any leave of absence from you. You’re not traveling, strictly only for business and never for pleasure. You didn’t take PTO,” she had pointed out, already plotted and noted something on the schedule. “You’ve been accomplishing this month’s agenda in just over a week, which, if I remember correctly, I assigned with the explicit condition that you ‘do it from wherever you are, as long as you’re eating pie.’”

“I don’t really do Thanksgiving,” you had explained gently. “I was going to sleep in. Maybe reorder the Kondo method in my closet.”

Her eyes met yours as she set her tablet down and folded her hands on her desk. “You could come with us in the Hamptons,” she offered casually, but you caught the hesitation, like her voice was still in CEO mode, but her eyes hadn’t gotten the memo. “I mean—unless you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

“Oh, no… No,” you said immediately. “Really… I wouldn’t want to intrude, Ms. Lockwood. And I think I’m coming down with something.”

It wasn’t exactly an illness, not really. Just exhaustion that had begun to feel like a second skin. There was a ringing in your ears that hadn’t gone away since the pre-prep meeting for the museum. You had stayed late three nights in a row to triple-confirm security deposits for the Lockwood Museum of Art’s New Year’s Eve grand opening. You had coordinated guest lists, tracked invoices, and reorganized the event seating plan after a late-stage feud between two retired senators. It was fine. 

You were fine.

She didn’t buy it. Her eyebrow lifted just enough to indicate suspicion, and she thought you were just evasive and deflecting. 

“But I insist that you come,” she said, as if that settled it. “There’s more than an extra seat. Three of my siblings are either in rehab, getting drunk somewhere in Mykonos, or somewhere in the corner of this world trying to get as far away as possible from us.”

You were just being considerate, but it wasn’t enough for her to be convinced otherwise. What was worse was that you were a textbook Kate Lockwood-pleaser. 

So you said yes.

And then hated yourself a little for it because you weren’t part of this world. You were the executive assistant. The fixer. The one who made other people’s lives run smoothly, so yours didn’t have to be examined.

You told yourself it was just a weekend. Just helping around, making sure that Maddie would not throw herself off the nearest balcony. Just Thanksgiving. You would show up, stay polite, and leave Sunday morning.

And just like that, your fate had been sealed with a new tab in your calendar with a residential address and the driver’s contact number. 

The Lockwood Estate was the kind of place you’d read about in Architectural Digest or used as a location in a prestige TV series about toxic generational wealth. It was the Hampton’s largest equestrian compound, bigger than most city blocks and complete with boarding facilities, riding, jumping, and polo rings, and a remarkable custom-built main residence so large that you felt even your shadow didn’t deserve to be here. 

The driver slowed in front of the arched carport. You stepped out, tugging your coat tighter against the brisk sea wind. Autumn had given way to winter. The trees that lined the estate had already shed most of their leaves, exposing their bones of wood and branches to the sky.

The foyer was double-height, with a grand staircase greeting you first. Before she inherited the estate, the halls were bare with soulless art from Tom Lockwood’s collection, but your boss shoved them back in his personal vault and replaced them with her own curated collection she brought from London. 

By the time you arrived, you were the last guest to enter. Teddy greeted you with a glass of cider and a warm grin.

“Maddie’s on her third mimosa. Ray is judging the poor. Katie’s trying to keep the peace,” he said sardonically, waving you over as he walked towards the spacious living room where everyone had gathered. “Come in. I want to introduce you to Albie and Fiyah.”

Before you could follow, you heard footsteps before you saw her, and you felt that your heart stuttered. 

Your boss descended the grand staircase with one hand gliding over the railing. “You came,” she said with a faint smile.

She looked effortless and commanding, despite being off-duty and away from her usual suits. Instead, she wore a dark olive wool sweater with sleeves pushed slightly up her arms and black high-waisted tailored trousers tucked into espresso-brown riding boots. There was a thin gold chain at her throat and a leather watch on her wrist. Her hair was slightly windswept, but still fell in deliberate waves just above the nape of her neck.

“You asked,” you replied noncommittally, pretending that your mouth didn’t dry when she reached the bottom step. “I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” she said, tucking her hands into her pockets. “But I’m glad you did.”

That landed with more weight than you expected; you tried not to show it. For a second, you forgot you were here on the merit of your usefulness. Then, she turned and walked toward the hallway without another word.

Eventually, everyone was called to the dining room a few hours after you were settled in one of the many guest bedrooms upstairs, which, you had quickly learned, was occupied by one of their half-siblings named Jackson, who was currently in his sixth rehab somewhere in Sedona, Arizona.

However, the Lockwood Thanksgiving table was anything but thankful and giving. The dining room had fallen into an unspoken silence that felt more like a family ceasefire than a holiday. You’d been to some awkward holiday dinners in your life, but nothing prepared you for this weaponized civility and passive aggression.

You sat beside Teddy, who made finger puppets out of the napkins to entertain his son, Fiyah, while his husband, Albie, smiled politely at everyone and actively avoided the twins. It was their first time to be invited to a Lockwood family gathering that was neither a funeral nor a reading of the will. 

Ms. Lockwood was seated at the head, while her husband sat at right with Henry beside. She stood to carve the turkey when the butternut squash soup was served, but she was interrupted by a little throat-clearing cough. “Would you like a cough drop on that, Ray?” she asked, expertly masking that she was annoyed, but you knew her well.

Reagan sat at her left, who was visibly chagrined by the fact that her CEO half-sister sat at the head of the table. Of course, she was. Her expression looked like it had been carved from cold porcelain as the fork in her hand perched like a weapon.

“It’s Lockwood tradition that Dad cuts the turkey, Katie,” she said, as if pointing out the obvious. 

“Oh, look, Ray is interrupting again,” Teddy mumbled under his breath, but still loud enough for the whole table to hear.

Reagan treated him as if the wind had just breezed through her.

Beside her, Harrison, who hadn’t said more than five words since you had stepped foot inside the house, pretended that something was far more interesting through the French doors in front of the table.

Ms. Lockwood raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t lower the carving knife. “Yes, I am very well aware of our family’s tradition, but you see that the infamous patriarch is not with us anymore, is he?”

Teddy whistled softly under his breath.

Maddie, who sat at the other end of the table, responded by knocking over the wine bottle with a shy hiccup.

Meanwhile, Reagan merely smiled sanguinely in reply. Sitting beside her father, Gretchen stabbed a piece of stuffing with more aggression than necessary.

Cold silence followed. 

“Wow, finally!” Teddy interjected with exaggerated brightness when it was his turn to be served with the carved meat. “Something that I can eat.”

You knew it was his way to break the silence, but no one, even the children, attempted to say anything. 

Ms. Lockwood tried to play her duty as the hostess by initiating a round of toasts. “I am thankful for my husband, who has given me the chance to come back home again here and granted me a family that I thought I could never have,” she raised her wine glass with an incandescent smile.

The tug in your chest felt like the light from a dying star, but you joined along. You tried to find a pitcher to refill your water glass, your exit, or possibly a trap door.

Reagan rose with her head held high. “You know what I am thankful for?” she started, swirling her wine glass as she eyed your boss. “Seeing our horses again. Why don’t we go for one lap around the ring? Just like old times.”

Your boss didn’t answer right away, but you saw the slight twitch of her jaw. The way her hand curled slightly around the tablecloth. 

Joe cut in before she could open her mouth to decide. “You do horseback riding?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Well,” she sighed. “It’s one of the many things that our father made us do to teach us the value of being the jack of all trades and mastering all.” Her eyes returned to Reagan’s. “Sibling rivalry is a tradition in this house.”

Menace glinted in Reagan’s eyes. “You’re not still afraid of beating me, are you, Katie?”

Ms. Lockwood rearranged the silverware on her plate on one side. She hadn’t even touched her wine glass—that’s how you knew she was serious. “I was thirteen and you sabotaged my saddle, but I’ll indulge you.”

“Oh!” Maddie suddenly said brightly, almost jumping in her seat. “What’s at stake?”

Reagan shot her twin with a grateful look, which was rare. Then, she turned to her half-sister on the other side. “You know what I want, Katie.”

The whole table went still, like they all knew what was at stake, but you weren’t sure what it was. Forks paused mid-air, glasses forgotten in hand. Something in the air told you this wasn’t just about a horse race.

It felt like blood in the water.

Maybe later, you’d realize that it was the CEO seat.

If there was one thing that Tom Lockwood made, aside from being half the reason that your boss exists, it was that competitive pride made Kate Lockwood very hot.

You were starting to feel thankful that you were (somehow) forced into this invitation.

A smile curled at the edge of your mouth before you could stop it. She caught it; her gaze was amused and unapologetic. You looked down quickly, pretending to reach for your napkin.

You weren’t supposed to see her like this. Outside working hours or without a business agenda. 

Without something between you to blame for the way she looked at you sometimes, like maybe you were more than just her assistant. 

You didn’t know when that look in her eyes started.

She caught your gaze across the table and didn’t look away. You raised your glass gingerly in salute to her. She didn’t smile. Just nodded once. And for the rest of the dinner, she didn’t look your way again.

In the morning after a tense-filled meal in the breakfast room, you saw horses, ten of them at least, sleek and glossy in the morning light in the paddocks that stretched acres of rolling fields and pale damp grass dusted with frost, broken only by neat rows of fencing and a long gravel drive that wound up like an afterthought toward the estate.

Reagan stood beside the whitewashed barn in boots. She sported beige jodhpurs, blood-red gloves, and a tailored navy vest with her hair tied back in a sleek, elegant ponytail that made her look more predatory than equestrian.

Meanwhile, your boss crouched beside Henry and adjusted the strap on the boy’s tiny riding helmet as he tugged excitedly on the sleeve of her long riding coat, the color of raven feathers. 

“But I want to go see the ponies now!” Henry begged.

“We will,” she promised, voice calm, gaze never breaking from the child’s chin strap. “As soon as Mommy wins a race.”

Her posture reminded you too much of the meetings you had seen her walk into when she knew the knives were out. She hadn’t looked your way since dinner last night, but you knew that there was fire in her eyes that had always pulled you in. The quiet gravity that pulled you into her orbit, no matter how far you tried to stand outside it.

The rest of the family was by the railing, watching as the Lockwood sisters, possibly the two most terrifying women in the state of New York, mounted their thoroughbreds. Joe had Henry on his shoulders, who was waving towards your boss with tiny hands. Teddy was cheering solely for your boss, while Maddie was cheering for her twin. Albie was already filming for a TikTok content. Gretchen was rolling her eyes as she begged her father to go back to her room to play Roblox. 

Meanwhile, you stood at a polite distance. The harsh wind was biting through your coat, and you wondered if you were the only one who was feeling the cold. 

A housekeeper rang the old brass bell used for the annual Turkey Trot equestrian tradition, which none of them had participated in since before your boss was shipped to a boarding school in Rhode Island.

The moment the bell sounded, the horses took off.

From the way she pressed forward with her shoulders aligned and her eyes narrowed on the far post, your boss didn’t hold back as she commanded her horse effortlessly. She rode like she was born for it.

Behind her, Reagan looked decently keeping up, but her smirk faltered with every lap.

You couldn’t look away. 

The others clapped politely, cheering on which side they wanted to win. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to. You were too focused on the ache crawling up the back of your neck, the dull pounding in your skull. 

And then, just before the final lap, it hit you.

Not metaphorically. Physically.

The wind rushed out of your lungs before you even realized you’d stopped breathing. Your knees buckled. The world shifted slightly to the left, then everything tilted, and you fell.

Something sharp bloomed behind your eyes. A mix of pressure, cold, and vertigo. Your vision blurred like glass under water. You hit the frozen earth sideways, catching the faint sound of Henry’s shout before your cheek met the ground.

The last thing you saw was your boss’s horse veering off the track and the sound of Reagan shouting something unintelligible at her.

Then nothing.

The next thing you felt was cold and heat simmering and biting through your skin. And then a set of firm, warm hands brushing on your forehead and adjusting your coat. 

You came to with a jolt, not from pain, but from warmth. Specifically, a voice that you had wanted to hear all day, to be beside you.

“Stay still, you fucking idiot,” Ms. Lockwood murmured. “Don’t move yet. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Teddy has already called the staff to carry you.”

You tried to open your eyes, but the morning sky cruelly pierced through your skull, making you groan and shut them tight. She was kneeling beside you in the grass. Her palms framed your cheeks, holding you like she’d forgotten there were others around.

“You fainted and you’re freezing and I am such a bleeding asshole,” she said, not sure if it were more to herself. Her arms held you down gently when you tried to sit up. “Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not finished yelling at you."

A smile broke through your face, despite the grit in her voice. “I’m fine and you’re warm,” you found yourself saying in a thin, ragged voice that you knew all your inhibitions were down the drain.

The last thing you heard before the world faded and you were carried away was: “I let this happen.”

When your fingers twitched eventually as you woke up with a heavy pain behind your eyes, you realized that you had been brought to the room you were assigned to, this time it smelled of lavender and warm cedar. 

When your eyes blinked open next, all you saw was your boss standing near the edge of your bed, crossed-arm and a frown so visible you wished you had just crawled to your death instead. 

“You absolute twat,” she snarled. “You fucking fainted and Teddy thought you died of exhaustion. Christ, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“I tried,” you croaked. “Said I was under the weather, Ms. Lockwood.”

She sat on the edge, feeling gutted as she looked away briefly, as if remembering what you told her back in the office. “I thought you were just being shy.”

“I didn’t want to turn down turkey,” you mumbled, a lie.

Ms. Lockwood breathed out a laugh that sounded half-amused and half-disbelief. “You could’ve died from overworking, and you were worried about etiquette?”

You tried to sit up, but she stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. 

“I swear to every saint that exists out there that if you try to get out of this bed...”

You wanted to argue, stand, and insist you were fine. But the firm and worried look she gave you silenced every protest before it could leave your mouth; you didn’t fight her.

“You didn’t have to stay here,” you said instead. She was one of the world’s powerful CEOs, if not the most, but she refused to leave you after checking in on you. 

“I must because I have been using you like a machine,” she replied, fingers steady as she unscrewed the cap of a small amber glass vial. “Take this,” she handed you two aspirin and a glass of water. “It’s not prescription. Just pain management.”

You took it wordlessly, your fingers brushing hers.

She exhaled when you did, like she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

“You know, I didn’t die, Ms. Lockwood,” you said, trying to return some lightness to the room.

“I know,” she agreed. “You’re not allowed to die on me, do you hear me? If you did, I will spend the rest of my days cursing your name.”

“That’s the scariest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’ve seen my calendar. That’s saying something.”

You laughed in spite of the seriousness in her words. “Damn, I better live forever, then.”

She nodded. “Good.”

The silence that ensued after made you look at her properly. She had taken off her coat in exchange for a white cotton jumper that was loose around the sleeves, revealing the faintest trace of freckles. A few strands of hair had fallen over her brow, slightly curled from the morning's humidity. Her wedding ring caught the sunlight on the edge of her hand.

“You don’t have to stay here to see how I’m doing,” you said.

“I want to.”

“This isn’t what you signed up for,” you said.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Neither was being raised in a family of contractually obligated trauma. And yet, here we are.” She leaned closely from where she sat. “I made you come and stay after working on weekends. Powering through the deadlines. I was so caught up with my ambition and passion that I didn’t stop to think—”

“That I could have said no,” you protested, knowing where the conversation would follow through.

“But you never do,” she replied. “That’s the thing that I wanted to understand.”

”Huh?”

“I don’t know many people who can do that. To be kind without expecting something back.”

You wanted to say you were sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. You didn’t expect that she was trying to understand how you had let yourself fall ill because of her. 

“I’ve read your file, you know,” she continued. “The projects you’ve led. The budgets you’ve saved. You have the mind for it. You could run circles around half the executive team. So why assist? Why me?”

Your breath caught in your throat, not expecting to be so vulnerable today. “Because…” you paused, inhaling sharply, “... If I’m helping someone else, I don’t have to figure out how to carry myself.”

She didn’t interrupt, so you kept going.

“I’ve always been the one who fixes things. Who sees the disaster coming and makes it quiet. That’s how you stay. That’s how you matter.”

Her voice cracked softly with honesty. “That’s how you survive,” she said. The words resonated with her.

“Exactly.”

“You’ve spent your entire life making yourself indispensable. That’s not a flaw. It’s a strategy, but it’s also a wound.”

You looked down, trying to figure out how to breathe again. 

“I’ve seen it before,” she continued. “Hell, I lived it. Our father made us earn our place at his table. He made us into assets and called it family. Every compliment was performative. Every act of love was an investment. Every failure, a debt. And I... let that legacy bleed into how I lead. Into how I treat the people closest to me. ”

You shook your head, throat tight. “You didn’t ask me to collapse.”

Her eyes softened. “But I didn’t stop it either,” she said. “My father would’ve been proud of me for that. He told us that love had to be earned and loyalty was measured by who you sacrificed to get it.”

You stared at her, struck by the gentleness in her face. The rawness in her voice. You watched her, the way her lip trembled and her hands tensed on your duvet.

“When I was in London, I spent every year since trying not to become him, but I didn’t stop myself from becoming someone else you had to survive.”

“No.” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. “You’re not him. Not in a million light years.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know what I did. How many people I stepped on. How many things I buried. Even in the years I went away, trying to build a life for myself without his constant interference… in the back of my mind, I still craved his approval. I wanted to prove I could run the empire without turning into a monster, but I’ve never known how to lead without breaking myself or breaking someone else.”

"At least you recognize it and actively do something about it, Ms. Lockwood. Unlike those pathetic CEO that were nepo babies that remain to be assholes, despite knowing they are absolutely horrible persons."

She scoffed, crossing her arms against her chest again and averted your gaze briefly. “You know what’s more pathetic? I hate this place.”

“The estate?”

She nodded. “This house. These walls. Every ceiling tile is a ghost of memories that I wanted to forget. My father kept us here like pieces on a board as he pitted us against each other.”

“Why keep it?”

“Because it’s mine now and everything that the bloody light touches.” Her voice didn’t harden, but it cooled. “He doesn’t get to keep the last word.”

You didn’t reply to her because you knew she needed more than words. Instead, you touched her hand, pinky brushing gently, not for comfort, but in recognition. Your pulse buzzed beneath your skin like something about to break open.

She looked at your hand, then at you. “You’re brilliant. You could run a business. You used to design crisis response plans in college for fun,” she mused. “Fuck, you even screamed at me the first month you worked for me, then came back as if you didn’t curse your boss for a petty argument.”

“Oh, god,” you groaned, but she gripped your hand slightly tight when you tried to pull away. “Don’t remind me of that.”

“I genuinely thought I was about to look for another assistant,” she chuckled. “You crawled back out of it, and the only thought I had was ‘ Was this her dream job? To be so stoically robotic despite that I was such a bitch to her in those first weeks.’”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to dream,” you confessed. “I grew up thinking usefulness kept people from leaving. That being indispensable was safer than being wanted. If I am not perfect, I am disposable. If I sacrifice softness, vulnerability, personal needs, then I will be safe, then I will be kept.”

Her hand turned over and found yours. It felt warm on your skin, and almost immediately, you were not sick anymore. 

“You are not a tool. Or a fix. Or a convenience. You’re not here to make everyone else’s life easier. You deserve care, even if you do nothing.”

For the first time in your life, being vulnerable didn’t feel like failure.

And then she said it, the kind of line that would stay in your bloodstream for months after.

“You matter even when you’re not fixing anything.”

The words rooted deep. You were already too full of her. Her kindness she tried to withhold, the care she gave only when no one else was watching. 

A rueful smile tugged at your lips despite the tenderness in your throat. You blinked back the tears and shifted in your position, trying to swallow it down, but the pressure in your chest swelled as you studied her face in the soft ambient lights of the room. 

The woman the world called ruthless. Untouchable, ice-blooded, and strategic to a fault.

She was none of those things here.

And that’s when it hit you when the realization dawned on you.

Not like lightning. Not like fireworks.

Like the feeling you had been trying to outrun since the first time she leaned against your desk and smiled like you were the only person in the world who didn’t make her feel alone.

Like the realization that the care you felt for her—the ache, the worry, the need to be near—wasn’t a temporary, stupid crush you always thought you had on her. 

Outside, somewhere, Reagan was probably still recounting her technical win to whoever would listen. Teddy would deflect with sarcasm and another perspective of technicality. Maddie would vanish to a wine cellar. Henry would ask his father if you were doing okay before bed.

Right now, you didn’t care for all those things when you just realized that you love her.

It wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t just proximity or admiration or trauma-bonding or whatever else the DSM-5 reference book would diagnose as such.

You really love her.

---

You woke slowly. 

The kind of slowness that came after fever dreams and aching muscles, and the kind of sleep your body begged for but didn’t dare ask. Your limbs were heavy. The covers were tucked loosely over your chest. 

The room was quiet.

The sunlight poured in sideways, golden and soft. It danced across the pale walls, casting sharp-edged rectangles through the frost-glazed windows onto the floors and sheets. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied lazily. 

A glass of water sat on the nightstand, half-drunk. A thermometer rested beside it. Next to that: two neatly arranged Tylenol, a bottle of electrolyte drink, and a sticky note written in black ink and unmistakable handwriting:

You’re not allowed to die of dehydration. – K

You had been in bed all day to recover and replenish your strength, and now you were getting jittery.

So you wandered the expanse of the estate. 

The wind had picked up, tugging through the skeletal branches, dragging dead leaves in whispering circles across the long cobblestone driveway. The grounds beyond the patio opened into paddocks and stables stretching as far as the eye could see. The air smelled of hay and cold, rich soil. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to announce itself.

You weren’t planning to spy. Honestly, you were just trying to find your footing. Stretch your legs. Shake the emotions out of your body after that emotionally-laden conversation with your boss.

However, you saw the barn door was cracked open.

Then came Maddie’s voice, whisper-sharp and breathless. “Baby—stop teasing me and get on with it—”

“Why not?” another whined. “They’re all still asleep, and when we get back to the city, I won’t be seeing you much like this. Let me have you slowly.”

You froze.

There they were. Maddie pressed against the wall near one of the stalls, her coat haphazardly on the floor like it had been discarded in haste. Harrison’s hand was tangled in her hair, his face nuzzled into her neck like they hadn’t just shared a polite, distant lunch with his wife less than twenty hours ago.

You didn’t mean to gasp, but your mouth had this thing lately that it wasn’t syncing with your intentions.

And Maddie’s head snapped toward you instantly. “Fuck,” she muttered.

Harrison stepped back, eyes wide. “Shit.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t scream. You didn’t fumble for a phone or start shouting for Reagan. You just stared. Something in your expression must have said this isn’t a threat, because Maddie straightened her silk pajamas and looked at you with something like resignation.

“It’s not what you think!” Maddie exclaimed.

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s exactly what I think, Madison.”

She leaned against the wall, breath still shaky. Harrison had the decency to step away, rubbing the back of his neck and mumbling something about heading out for air. 

You didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.

Just you and Maddie.

The silence stretched.

You spoke first, “I’m not going to say anything.”

“Really?”

“But only because I am concerned for your well-being,” you added. “And because I need to know you’re not being used.”

She barked a short laugh at that. “Used? Oh, please, I initiated this,” she waved her hand off, “I’m not some virtuous Disney Princess. I know who he is. And I know what that makes me.”

You didn’t flinch. “Then tell me you’re happy.”

She looked down, considering your words. Perhaps, she was remembering Andrew in this moment and the freshness of his death. A few weeks ago, she was inconsolable in grief, but right now, she was acting as if she were the most eligible mistress. 

“Maddie. Tell me,” you repeated more gently. “Are you happy?”

Her lips parted and closed before finally answering, “Yes.”

You stared at her for a moment longer. “Then that’s enough for me,” you said, satisfied.

You couldn’t afford to judge her. Not now, not when you were dangerously close to letting your own feelings lead you somewhere just as self-destructive, but you also knew with crystalline certainty that you wouldn’t do it.

You wouldn’t be the other woman. Not even there was a chance.

It would ruin you. It would ruin her.

And worse, it would turn your love into something that required shame to survive. So you turned around, walked out of the barn, and didn’t look back.

You made a beeline for your guest room, pulled out your handbag that contained your work stuff, and pulled the old folio that you were convinced had been cursed by the ghost of Tom Lockwood. 

It was stupid, really, how heavy it felt. You fished inside it and brought out a thin manila folder.

You had read it once, which was enough to know what was inside and that the husband of your boss was hiding something. And if you brought it to light, you could expose it to end her marriage and ruin him.

You had the power to do that with a single document.

As your fingers traced the edges of the folder, the echo of Maddie’s voice returned to you: “I know what that makes me.”

And you’d replied that it was enough for you like you meant it, because it did.

You looked up at the ceiling, trying to see if there was a sign that what you were about to do was right, but there was this voice inside you that was telling you that she probably already knew what was inside the folder. 

Why else would she have cryptic words about what she had done? Not to mention the cryptic wedding vows that Joe had with her. 

Your decision was final. Slowly and deliberately, you held the folder in the hearth in one of the fireplaces inside the estate, the one that you could find nearest.

You were not going to win her that way, even if it burned you, even if it meant walking away from leverage that could’ve made her choose you.

She would never be yours through blackmail, so you let it go.

The flames licked at the corners. The ink curled, the pages shriveled. Her husband’s secrets turned to smoke in front of your eyes. And in that moment, with the heat of the fire on your face and the cold sting of moral clarity in your chest, you felt a wave of strange peace settling inside you with the choice that you made. 

Notes:

I'd love to hear your thoughts! I am actually excited because we're about to end Act II!

If anyone's curious for visuals, this actual real estate in the Hamptons is what I have pictured the Lockwood Estate.

Chapter 19: May 2025 - Botte Upper East Side

Notes:

I had the busiest week so far, and I am so glad that I could squeeze in to write in the most ungodly places there are in my university. It's going to be my last week in college next week, so I'm going to be busy again, so as compensation, I made this longer than I originally intended ;)

You were not okay. 

Not in the spiraling, dramatic kind of way. Just in the quiet, exhausted yearning that followed days of trying to ignore the fact that you had kissed Kate in the middle of a museum and meant every second of it, as well as the knowledge that you would never ever do it again.

You hadn’t been able to look at a wall without seeing her pressed against it. Or at a neck without remembering how hers tasted. Or at yourself in the mirror without noticing that your lips were still swollen and aching for hers.

You were fine on the surface—composed, coordinated, professionally blank—but inside? You were still reeling. 

So you threw yourself into motion to bury that trembling yearning inside you under logistics. With the full force of a fixer shouldering a broken heart and too much time, you tried tracking down Maddie. Focused on someone else’s wreckage because it was easier than dealing with your own. 

A Lockwood problem you could solve, instead of a Lockwood woman you couldn’t have.

It had been hell trying to undo her Instagram Live fiasco a few days ago. Kate had been frazzled that Reagan forced Maddie to relinquish her voting capacity in absentia, giving Reagan enough leverage on board decisions. Regardless if Kate resigns or not, Teddy would never have the board seat, and the Lockwood Literacy Initiative would remain a prospectus. You let the worry distract you enough to run through old contacts, petty friends, list of hotels, exes, and TikTok tags.

You would have gone through Harrison first, but you wouldn’t like to be caught in the shitstorm that is his ongoing divorce from Reagan. Since he was with Gretchen in the city while Reagan was in their home in Old Westbury, you had decided to put him on the back burner of your mind. 

Eventually, you found her latest boy toy, Kenton, that Maddie had brought to Kate’s apartment the night Henry threw a butter knife at her vengeful twin.

“Pretty sure she ghosted me. Said she’d call me back,” Kenton called on FaceTime, all pouty lips, shirtless, and utterly useless. He sounded hurt, but not worried enough. “I thought we were having a thing. Are we cool, though? ”

You, on the other hand, were too tired to roll your eyes, but your worry moved from frustration to alarm. “Did Madison act differently than usual? Like talking about running away or anything that remotely sounded like she'd disappear?”

“No, aside from Kate Lockwood’s invitation to the Hamptons, which she definitely invited me to come. Although there was this wild accusation thrown by her twin that’s been bothering me. She said that someone kil —”

“Alright, thank you for your time, Kenton.” Your finger pressed the end button as fast as you could.

Maddie didn’t ghost people like this, especially not you. Something was wrong, and you couldn’t shake away that feeling.

Still, you forced yourself to show up anyway when Teddy invited you to dinner on Sunday night in a charming Italian restaurant. This was for his pre-celebration, pending the board seat nomination, but you couldn’t tell him it wasn’t going to happen, as it was a family mess. 

Kate happened to be there already, drinking a negroni with Teddy, but her glass was already half-empty as compared to his. Her hair was up in a soft knot, a black sleeveless blouse that did nothing to hide the elegant line of her collarbones and a gold necklace that shone underneath the yellow pendant lights of the restaurant.  

And the moment that her green eyes caught yours, all you could think about was the kiss you had with her and the fact that she would be going away to Europe.

“Look who decided to show up,” Teddy said after he took a theatrical swig of his whiskey. “Thought you ghosted me.”

“Wouldn’t dare.” You smiled tightly, sliding into the seat beside him. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Kate didn’t speak, but she looked at you for one full second too long as she pushed a glass of negroni for you. You accepted it, trying to appear nonchalant, and took a couple of sips, letting the alcohol settle inside you. Anything to keep your mind away from the moles on her face that you found in the gallery of her museum. 

Teddy tapped his glass against the table. “To me. Almost making it to my life’s wildest dreams, only to be cockblocked by my own family. As is tradition.”

Kate's voice was calm, explaining the situation, “I just told Teddy that I’ll be stepping down as CEO.”

“Oh,” you said dolefully. “We haven’t even gotten through appetizers.”

Teddy laughed once. It was bitter and sulky. “So, that’s it? After everything?”

Kate’s mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head. “It’s not an easy decision, but it’s necessary.”

This was not how you planned your evening to go. You wanted to slink away and crawl back to your apartment, but you knew Teddy wouldn’t let you go with such a conversation happening right now. 

“Because of Reagan?” he asked.

Kate went still but immediately found composure. “No,” she answered quickly. “It’s not because of her. I’m sorry, but that’s all I could say.”

Then, knowing he couldn’t pry further from his sister, Teddy turned to you offhandedly. “What happens to you after she leaves?” The sharpness of his inquisitive gaze was enhanced by the dim glow surrounding the tiled bar table. “So, what are your plans after Katie resigns? Going to work for Reagan? Pretend it’s all business again?”

You hesitated, and that pause said more than any answer could. 

Teddy raised an eyebrow. “No judgment,” he clarified. He looked between you both and shook his head. “You think I don’t see it? That every room you two share lately doesn’t start to vibrate like it’s ready to combust?”

She cut in before you could speak in your defense. “Teddy, this isn’t the time.”

“There’s never a right time with you,” he snapped, making her drain her drink and asking the waiter for a bottle of negroni this time. “You think you can just resign without even giving me a heads up, and have whatever this—” he gestured between you and Kate wildly “—tragic sapphic pining happening between the two of you?”

“Teddy—” you started, but he continued speaking to Kate, who was looking down at her glass as she poured herself another round of negroni. 

“You kissed in a goddamn museum and planned your escape route to southeastern France like a white feminist Eat Pray Love reboot.” Realizing his tone was a bit mean, he let out a slow breath and leaned back slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He finally turned to you, his voice gentler. ”Katie here told me about your little illicit affair that would remain unresolved because she’s married and running away.”

He sighed again, staring hard at his drink. “I hope you guys understand where I’m coming from. To think I walked in here, a potential board member of one of the world’s largest corporations, and now I’m going back home to tell my husband it’s back to running a dog kennel,” he said, the bitterness apparent in his tone.

Every word seemed like a stab through Kate. “I’m…” she started, but she cast her gaze down, trying to pull the words out. Finally, she shook her head as she settled on an apology instead. “I’m so sorry. Teddy, this is so unfair. I would wait until after you had your board seat, but Reagan has two seats. She’s never gonna give you the board seat. I—”

“It is not just about the board seat,” he interrupted firmly, and she looked away in defeat and frustration from explaining herself. “You realize when you go, no one is keeping my ass around.” 

Kate nodded, sitting upright slightly as she removed her arms from the table. 

Meanwhile, you were holding your breath, watching her unravel quietly in her turmoil. And you? You couldn’t think straight or offer any interjection or affirmation in the conversation because she was leaving and because she kissed you. And you wanted to kiss her more and do more than just kiss her. Because no matter how much therapy you went to, you still wanted her to turn to you and say that she would stay.

You tried not to stare at her mouth when she licked her lips. Fuck, you should have sat beside her instead because you were having a serious conversation and all you could think about was pressing her against a wall again, or on this bar table right now. 

“I mean, you told me that Bob had nothing on you,” Teddy recalled. “Reagan had nothing to find.”

“I told you that Reagan has nothing to do with me resigning,” she protested, but she drowned that lie with another long drink, swishing it around her mouth a little, perhaps to taste the burning sting. 

“Bullshit,” Teddy called out. “Don’t try to play me. Not you. You are the only one who has ever treated me like I was a part of this family, and I have made it very, very clear that I am on your side. So, what the fuck is really going on?”

Her eyes were glassy as if the torment of her secrets were making her suffer more than ever. “I don’t know what to tell you, Teddy, except that I’m sorry,” she said, almost pleading, her voice fragile. 

He turned to you. “What about you?”

Your eyes widened as you flinched. “I don’t know… I haven’t really thought about everything,” you said honestly. 

Because what was next for your identity crisis? Where would you go if not by Kate’s side?

“Of course, you don’t. You better think fast because Katie’s about to hop on a plane tomorrow after the board meeting.” Suddenly, as he addressed his sister again, he asked a question that made Kate flinch and your stomach drop. “How’s Joe feeling about all this?”

Your pulse pounded loudly in your ears. The flash drive that he had handed over to you a few days ago hovered in your mind. Your glass was sweating between your fingers, gripping around it like it might explain what the hell just happened.

She glanced around, afraid that someone was in earshot. “Why do you ask?” she returned the question carefully.

Tedd’s voice lowered, so only you and she could hear. “I think maybe Reagan has something, and you’re afraid of what Joe will do to her.”

“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear tonight, but you need to let this go,” Kate said with finality. 

He stared back at her in disbelief but said nothing more. No one spoke further. The noise of the bar buzzed back into your ears, low and ambient.

Kate had been drinking more than usual; you had seen her with alcohol at social functions. The bottle of negroni sat heavy between her fingers, her knuckles slack. You pried it away carefully, and to your surprise, she didn’t resist.

“Hey,” you said to her gently. “It’s time to go home.”

Kate hummed with her eyes closed, with her head tilted towards you. “Fine.”

Teddy stood abruptly, downed the rest of his drink, and tossed a few bills on the table. “Well, I’ve got a husband to disappoint,” he said. 

You glared at him. “She can’t just call a cab. If word gets out she’s drunk in public the same week she’s resigning, that’s a win for the tabloids and paparazzi.”

“Then you drive,” he said flatly. “Albie’s banned me from handling anything with a steering wheel and blood alcohol content at the same time. Her car’s parked in front of Mooney’s.”

“Keys’ with Joe,” Kate mumbled, her voice unfocused as she stared pointedly at the wall behind you.

You turned to Teddy and lowered your voice. “Stay with her. Please.”

He nodded, but his expression was brittle. As you started for the exit, his voice caught you halfway there. “You’re better than the way you’re ending this,” he said quietly. “Or maybe you’re not. Maybe I just wanted you to be.”

You didn’t answer.

The doors clicked softly behind you. Now, the city pulsed around you. Taxis groaned, horns flared, and neon buzzed overhead. Mooney’s wasn’t far, with just a walk for less than five minutes. You had been there already a few times at Kate’s request to assist Joe in hosting a store opening, from fiscal, logistics, and promotions. 

The bookstore glowed with carefully strung fairy lights and candles on the shelves. You were very sure they shouldn’t be so close to flammable materials such as a book. Say She She was playing through the speakers as you weaved through the small crowd of editors, BookTok influencers, and literary patrons that you had curated for him to package the opening as Manhattan’s newest and most romanticized literary revival. 

Joe hovered at the edge of the crowd. His smile was charming, too charming for your liking, but you remembered you had never liked him at all. 

“Hey!” Joe called out when he saw you, weaving through the small circle of neighborhood patrons. “Where’s Kate?”

“She had too many drinks,” you told him ruefully. “I was hoping to get the keys to her car from you, so Teddy and I could get her home.”

His jaw twitched. “Right, my own wife couldn’t even show up for support.”

What you didn’t say, what you bit your tongue not to say, was that the deed to this glittering little corner of Manhattan was under her name, bought by her holding company, and funded by her inheritance. Never did she once question him about what his plans would be in the three years she had the real estate worth $80 million.

Joe was just the face on the storefront. It should’ve been insulting. Somehow, it was worse than that.

Instead, you said, “Your wife is devastated because there are personal matters in her life right now that she needs to focus on.”

He smiled in response, but it came out as irritable. “Which is why I am glad that she has a constant support system in these trying times.” Before you could open your mouth to rebut that, he asked, too politely, “Got a sec?”

“I—uh—sure.”

Against your better judgment, you followed him toward the office behind the register. A box of bookmarks was half-unpacked on the table. The office smelled of tanned book pages, supposedly comforting, but his presence wasn't helping at all. He closed the door,  and the air went still. 

He exhaled, all pretense gone. Something in his posture had changed. In his place stood the man you suspected had always been underneath. “I wanted to ask you something,” he began. “About Kate.”

You stiffened, trying not to remember the taste of her mouth on yours. “What about her?”

He smiled like you had walked right into a bait. “Are you doing everything you can to convince my wife to stay here in New York?”

You recoiled slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Are you fighting for her?” he repeated, leaning against the desk. “Because someone should.”

You said nothing. His tone was too strange, too soft. Your arms folded across your chest as if to guard yourself from whatever vulnerability he could see through you. 

“Kate listens to you more than she does to me. Not anyone else. But you?” he explained calmly. “You’ve always had a certain way with her.”

You watched him warily. “And, why do you think that way, Mr. Goldberg?”

“You keep her sane. Stable. Honest. She values that,” Joe mused. “But I’m starting to believe she trusts you more than she’s ever trusted me. And I don’t blame her, really. I don’t. You’ve been… devoted. Loyal in a way I admire that reminds me of who I was before all things went to shit.”

You took a step back, suddenly unsure of the space between you. “What are you getting at?”

“My wife thinks that resigning is a way out to escape Reagan’s threats,” he continued. “But we both know that’s not how the world works.”

“And you think I’m the person who can stop it?”

“And I know it’s not what’s really making Kate resign. You know the truth, don’t you?”

You said nothing.

Something in his smile didn’t reach his eyes. You felt it before you saw it. The tension behind his teeth. A storm repressed, not avoided. “You do. Of course, you do. You always know more than you let on. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

“She’s your wife,” you reminded him, letting the discomfort bleed into your voice. “Shouldn’t you be the one convincing her to stay?”

Joe tilted his head, and for a second, something mean and hungry gleamed in his eyes under the fairy lights. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve begged. I’ve reasoned, but it’s not up to debate with her, and her mind’s elsewhere. Maybe with you.”

The implication crawled under your skin like something fungal. 

“If you're so desperate to keep her,” you bit out. “Maybe stop trying to pass her off like she’s a person you could manipulate.”

“You think I could convince her? After everything? She has already decided I’m a relic of a life she doesn’t want. But you… You still get under her skin, and I think you want her to stay just as badly as I do.” He stepped closer. “So why haven’t you said the words?”

“That’s not your business,” you barked acidly, knowing what he was referring to, but you refused to give in to whatever he had been intending with this discussion.

“Oh, but it is,” he said softly. “I know she won’t leave me because she's still complicit. She’s always been so loyal, even when she hates me.” A beat. You didn’t move. “But you… You could make her stay without loving her out loud. Without touching her. Just by being there.”

What the fuck?  

You had never felt so disturbed in your entire life. The repulsion from his insinuation crept down your spine, and you shivered from it. “That doesn’t mean she wants me.”

“She does,” he replied too quickly. “And I think we both know it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He looked at the floor, the walls, and out through the door. “Because I can’t be the one to stop her anymore. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s not my responsibility.” 

He met your eyes. “Isn’t it?”

You stared at him, and for a second, you saw not the man Kate married. “Then maybe don’t tie your whole identity to a woman who clearly doesn’t want to be caged,” you shot back.

Joe stepped closer, but not physically threatening. Just the way someone in your space might lean too close at a family reunion.  “I don’t care who keeps her in New York,” he said. “You, me, Henry, the company. I just want her here because if we leave, there’s nothing left to prove I mattered. And if it’s you she listens to… If it’s you, she won’t run from… Then maybe you should step the fuck up.”

You stared at him, stunned in disbelief. “You unimaginable bastard,” you spat.

“We all want things. Don’t we?”

It wasn’t even jealousy.

It was detachment. He had already written himself out of the story. And now he was offering you her as a bargaining chip as if it could make them stay. Like she was whore for auction to the best lover, and you despise him for that. 

You backed away in horror. “You are unwell. How dare you disrespect her, after the life that she has given you! You’re fucking disgusting.”

Joe straightened his posture, stepping back with a casual smile. “Probably, but at least I’m honest. I know what it takes to survive in this family that doesn’t understand suffering whenever we sacrifice ourselves for their comfort and to keep their hands clean. You and I could relate to that.”

He opened the door before you could answer, letting the filtered golden light and bookstore murmur rush back in. He fished for the car keys in his pocket and threw them in your direction, which you caught effortlessly despite being shaken by the talk you had. 

“Thanks for the chat,” he said, voice bright again. “You’re doing great.” He patted your shoulder, and that made your skin crawl and your stomach almost retch, just before he walked out. He didn’t even look back.

And suddenly, you understood something new about Joe Goldberg.

You walked out of that bookstore like the street would crack open beneath your feet. The keys burned in your hand. His words still lingered like rot.

You hated him.

---

When you emerged back into the restaurant, Kate looked up from where she sat in the bar, still radiant and flawless with her skin flushed underneath the pendant lights and from intoxication. 

You didn’t know if she saw what just happened, but when her eyes narrowed just slightly like she felt something was wrong, you suddenly knew that she always did.  But it didn’t matter anymore because she wasn’t going to stay. Not for you.

Teddy refused your offer to drive him home, saying that he wanted to walk off the alcohol and use the time to think alone, so you didn’t press further. 

This left you with Kate. She was very obliging when drunk, wordlessly letting you help her in the car, but she had this piercing gaze that watched your every move. 

You fought everything in you not to think about it. Or the shape and softness of her mouth on yours, every slope and curve. The kiss still lived like static on your skin. How she tasted with that desperate drag of her lips on yours. That intoxicating sound when she gasped after you— 

Fuck.

You were not okay. You were going absolutely insane with how tense the silence inside the car was. Tense in that specific way that made your lungs feel too small. 

The city passed in streaks of amber and red, but your pulse was louder than the traffic. The air inside the car was too warm. Or maybe it was just her—the heat radiating off her skin like secondhand smoke with the citrusy bite of negroni. 

Kate had reclined the passenger seat, already halfway gone. Her blouse had shifted slightly, exposing further the expanse of her collarbone, and the sheen of her skin luminous in passing headlights. Her hair, pinned up in a soft knot, was starting to come loose, with just enough strands framing her face to make her look undone.

Just like in the gallery.

You tried not to look, but you would always fail no matter what she was wearing or what circumstances you both were in. You glanced at her once at a red light. Her profile was stark and contrasting against the dark, a cheekbone catching the streetlight glow. 

She hummed along quietly to whatever soft jazz the car stereo had defaulted to, her head tipped back against the leather seat, lips parted just slightly, and she turned toward you with a gaze that was anything but innocent.

She let out a withering breath. Maybe she was about to speak. Maybe she was about to explain why she let you kiss her. Why did she kiss you back? Why was she staring at you like that, like she wanted to— 

Chrissake, you need to call up Dr. Lorenz and set up an emergency session. 

You decided to act fast before her drunken state of mind could bring you fully to the point of no return. A topic that would shift the focus to another urgent matter. “Maddie wouldn’t have done that.”

“Hm?” she hummed absent-mindedly. 

“She wouldn’t give her vote to Reagan willingly. Something’s off.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “You’re not exactly an objective party.”

Your head tilted slightly, but your eyes remained on the road. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been invested. Calling. Asking around. I heard you were practically canvassing the city.”

“I’m worried,” you replied plainly. “She disappears for days after giving her vote to the one person who’s been trying to dethrone you for months on Instagram Live.”

Kate’s jaw ticked. “When exactly did you decide to launch your own private search party for her? You’re always saving Lockwood women. Should we be worried about your type?”

“Are you actually jealous right now?”

“Of course not.”

“You sound like you are.”

“Fine, I am jealous,” she said. Then, without looking at you, she murmured, “You’re driving like you’re angry with me.”

You didn’t respond. She was always like this when she drank. A little unbuttoned, softened by the slow burn of alcohol in her bloodstream. There was a particular quality to her tonight—quieter, yes, but also hungrier.

Kate turned her head toward you slowly, like it took effort. Her lashes were heavy, lips slightly parted, a slow and satisfied smile tugging at the corner. “Am I that hard to look at?”

You gritted your teeth. “No,” you rasped. You fought to keep your eyes forward, fingers tightening on the steering wheel; she was that hard to unsee. “I’m trying not to crash your car. I’m trying to get you home in one piece.”

“I liked you in that lighting back in the restaurant. You looked so tense and full of restraint like someone trying very hard not to want me.”

Your knuckles whitened around the wheel. “Don’t do this.”

She raised an eyebrow lazily. “Don’t do what ?”

“ This. You know what.”

Her eyes dropped to your hands that were still white-knuckled on the steering wheel, then dragged up your chest, your throat, your lips. “I don’t think I do,” she said, tilting her head coyly. “You’ll have to spell it out for me.”

You turned your head to look at her and found her already watching you, green eyes heavy-lidded but bright despite the liquor. The streetlight painted golden shadows across her face, making her look older, wiser, and sadder than you were ready for.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m aware,” she whispered. “You make it so hard to behave. Watching you try not to look at my mouth.”

The silence swelled. You could feel your pulse in your ears, in your fingertips, in the ache coiled low in your belly because this wasn’t playful. It was reckless.

“Kate,” you warned, but it didn’t come out stern. It came out frayed.

“You say my name like it’s a warning. That’s new.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

“Don’t tempt me, then.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You don’t have to. You breathe and I can’t think.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” You exhaled slowly, almost stepping on the brakes when you turned down Fifth. The headlights ghosted across the sidewalk as you peered further into the windshield, trying to distract yourself. “Don’t flirt with me right now.”

“Why not?” She tilted her head, eyes dragging over you like she was cataloging each part of your body she wanted to memorize with her mouth. 

“Because you’re drunk and planning to leave the country. Because I just had a horrible conversation with your husband. Because this is a moving vehicle and I might crash it.”

She chuckled; it sounded low in her throat. “God, you’re so tense. Were you always like this?”

Your laugh came out harsher than expected. “I’m not tense. We kissed and we’re both pretending that it didn’t happen.”

“You kissed me first,” she snapped back.

“You pulled me in.”

“You let me.”

“Are you trying to make this harder?” 

She smirked faintly, and it was unfair how cruel she could be while sounding kind. “I’m just saying what we both know. The thing between us… It doesn’t go away just because I’m leaving.”

“Exactly. You’re leaving.”

“And you’re not stopping me.”

That silenced the entire car.

Because you could. You could open your mouth and say the words. Tell her to stay. Tell her that you loved her and couldn’t keep pretending it was professional anymore, but you didn’t. Because if she stayed for you, she might come to resent you. And if she left without you, she might never forgive herself.

In one single motion, you could just drive into the nearest building to not have this conversation. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? To want you this much and have to watch you walk away?”

Kate turned her body slightly toward you, resting her head against the seat, eyes heavy-lidded. “You think walking away would stop me from feeling this way?”

That shut you up.

She leaned in just enough for her breath to touch your skin. “I think about that kiss,” she whispered. “More than I should. The way you touched me like you were trying to unmake me.”

A red light stopped you at an intersection. The city pulsed around the car, neon slashing across her bare shoulder, her collarbone catching the glow like something sculpted to tempt you. The air between you tightened and thickened with desire. 

“I dreamed about it last night,” she said, eyes fixed on your mouth now. “You. Pressing me against the wall again. Hands on my thighs.”

Her nose brushed yours for half a second, and the only thing keeping your mouth from crashing into hers again was the tremble in her restraint.

“Sometimes I hate you for making me want this.”

“And yet you still do.”

Your throat tightened. “I always will.”

“Fuck,” she breathed.

You weren’t sure if it was regret or a confession.

You didn’t dare to move.

Her hand reached for your thigh, bold and effortless, the tips of her fingers dragging slowly over the fabric like she was testing just how far you’d let her go. Your breath stuttered in your chest. She felt it, making her smirk.

“You’re not supposed to touch me,” you said, though your thighs parted the slightest inch.

“And yet,” she whispered, palm grazing upward, “you haven’t stopped me.”

She shrugged. “Just trying to understand the limits of your self-control.”

You glanced at her again, incredulous. “Kate.”

“Yes?”

“Stop.”

Her eyes had vulnerability masked as a curiosity. “I think about it,” she said simply. “Not just the kiss. I think about... What you’d sound like if you ever let yourself lose control with me.”

Your stomach flipped. Heat crawled up your spine. “You’re not serious.”

“Not in the way people throw themselves around like it’s easy. I mean it in the way that ruins things. In a way that makes me selfish.”

The light turned green.

You stared ahead, the road a blur in your vision. Every part of you was on fire. If you pulled over right now and kissed her, you would not be able to stop, but you wouldn’t do it because this still ended with self-control.

Not after watching her sit in front of her brother while pretending she wasn’t tearing herself in two. 

Not after realizing she might leave without ever doing it again.

Her voice softened. “You’re very composed, even now. It’s admirable. Frustrating at the same time.”

“I don’t think you should be saying this right now,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

“I’m just talking,” she said. “Is that a crime now?”

“What kind of question is that? You’re married,” you hissed. “I would’ve kept going because if I touched you the way I wanted, we’d never come back from it.”

You stared at the steering wheel until your pulse climbed into your throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“For what?” you asked, still not looking at her.

“For wanting to keep you and knowing I don’t deserve you.”

You pulled the car into the curb near her apartment building, not trusting yourself to respond. You could feel your pulse everywhere. Your throat, your wrists, behind your eyes. The city lights flickered across the windshield, and the car headlights ghosted the sidewalk. 

She didn’t get out right away. The world outside your windshield was still moving, but the car felt like it existed in a vacuum.

As you put the car in park, she reached out and rested her hand over yours on the gearshift. Her fingers were warm, familiar, and tethered to yours as you held them.  She leaned slightly toward you, slow, deliberate, and entirely maddening. Her lips were inches from your jaw. 

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m trying not to do something stupid,” you rasped. 

She leaned closer, breath brushing your cheek like heat rising from coals. “What if I want you to do something stupid?”

You looked at her finally, and fuck, you wished you hadn’t. The tension in the air crackled. She was so close now. You could see every tiny freckle on her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline, the way her pupils dilated when her gaze dropped to your mouth. The delicate hollow of her throat moved with every breath. 

“I wanted to ruin you,” you said at last, barely holding it together. The truth came out before you could stop it. “I wanted to wreck you. And I wanted you to let me.”

She shuddered like you had touched her spine. “Then why didn’t you?”

“You’re leaving.” Your voice was hoarse, your restraint cracking like thin ice. 

“I know.”

“And you’re married.”

She closed her eyes. “I know that, too.”

“I’m not some fantasy you can drag between shame and want,” you continued.  

She didn’t flinch. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said softly. “And I’ll dream about what it could’ve been, and maybe… maybe that’s punishment enough.”

The words landed in your stomach like a blow. You wanted to scream. You wanted to kiss her. You wanted to burn. Your hand reached for her cheek and stopped a breath away. Her forehead dipped against yours. You could feel the heat of her skin in the space between. You could feel her breath catch.

Your eyes locked.

The moment stretched.

Your heart beat so hard you could feel it in your throat.

But you didn’t move.

And she… didn’t kiss you, but you almost did.

Instead, she leaned back slowly, letting her hand drift down your forearm as if to punish you for not being reckless enough. Her gaze stayed like she had already stripped you bare, and liked what she found, that hunger swimming just under the surface. Eyes wild, lips parted, a flush blooming across her throat.

“This is why I have to leave,” she said fondly. “Because I don’t know how to want you without burning us both alive.” She turned her head to the window, her profile soft now, breath fogging the glass. “And if you weren’t my assistant,” she added lightly. “I’d have made a mess of us years ago.”

You swallowed hard, eyes still on her, trying to breathe like your lungs hadn’t just caved in. “If you’d met me before all of this,” you replied slowly. “I wouldn’t have known how to love you the way you needed.”

Her eyes returned to yours, and you would miss those eyes of hers. She smiled sadly; it was enough to break you. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make loving them feel like a war.”

“Then why does it still feel like losing you is the war?”

She didn’t answer. The silence cracked like ice beneath your feet.

After a while, you managed to speak, finding the words difficult like pulling the very muscle of your heart from your chest. “Goodnight, Kate. I’ll see you around tomorrow.”

She nodded, tapping the armrest of the car door. “If I go upstairs, don’t follow me.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, I won’t stop you this time. And I need you to stop me.”

You didn’t stop her when she opened the door with that same impossible grace that had made you fall for her in the first place, but you didn’t look away, either.

She stood in the streetlight, barefoot and heels in hand, her blouse rumpled, her skin glowing like the most exquisite dare.

And just before she shut the door, she whispered, “But God, I want you to fail at stopping me.”

You gripped the steering wheel like it could hold you together from holding you back from every inch of her skin. You didn’t follow. You didn’t stop her. You sat there, alone in the dark. Long after she was gone. Long after her heat had faded from the passenger seat.

You wondered how a single sentence from her could unravel everything you were trying so hard not to want.

Notes:

People asked to see Kate, either jealous, drunk, or both, in the Google Forms survey (Check out Chapter 18 to vote on changing the content rating of Misty Blue!). I hope you guys liked this one ;) Let me know your thoughts, comments, and questions! We are so close to ending S05E04!

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: May 2025 - T.R. Lockwood Corporation Main HQ

Summary:

Guess who's about to graduate and become officially unemployed! Fuck my university for finishing in July, but we don't get to graduate by September, and godforbid the Philippine job market aligned with my Bachelor's degree doesn't take those who don't have an undergrad diploma.

.... And when I was trying to escape a mandatory seminar, I found out that the only acceptable excuse for absence was employment... So, I put my work as a writer and the company as Organization for Transformative Works (aka AO3), AND PEOPLE IN MY UNI BELIEVED IT? I had been pretending that I worked for a non-profit org FOR TWO MONTHS. I swear to god my university is really fucking with me or something.

Back to more urgent matters, out of 24 votes, 22 agreed to change the rating of Misty Blue, so here you go, you nasty, nasty fucks...

Also, I have made a collaborative Spotify playlist for you guys to put your song suggestions that remind you of Misty Blue.

Anyhoo, enjoy this chapter muhahahahahhaha

You followed her.

Against your better judgment. Against the slow-burning ache of guilt and reality that had been humming under your ribs since the moment your mouth had touched hers a few days ago.

But you did; you hadn’t meant to.

In fact, you had parked the car, clenched the steering wheel until your hands shook, and told yourself ‘ no ’ in every way a person could say it, in the four languages that you knew. But your feet still moved like they didn’t belong to you, like the decision had already been made in another universe where she wasn’t your boss and you weren’t trying to be good.

You were tired of pretending that you could watch her disappear into the French countryside and pretend that she left behind in New York didn’t matter to you.

You locked the car, crossed the marble-tiled lobby, and stepped into the elevator as you told yourself, again and again, that you shouldn’t have followed her until you stepped inside the silence she lived in.

Kate stood in front of the fireplace, sipping a glass of cold water that she set on the mantel as soon as she heard the elevators ding and opened to reveal you. She didn’t glance up; she didn’t need to. She knew you would come after her.

You barely got two steps in before she looked over her shoulder, half-lidded eyes unreadable. She didn’t speak for a while. The silence was tense and hot as she stood there, framed in the low amber light from the foyer’s chandelier and wall sconces.

You crossed the room slowly, giving her one last chance to say ‘no’ and send you to leave at once, but she didn’t. She only looked at you with those glassy green eyes, tired and drunk. As well as filled with wanting and desperation, you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

She whispered in a voice that almost picked apart your restraint from shoving her against the nearest wall again, “ Well? Took you long enough. ”

With her back still facing you, she reached behind to unzip her blouse, exposing a line of skin that made your hands already come for her when the zipper reached halfway down. She gasped when your hands found her waist, and you felt her tremble under your palms. Your palm ran up to her back that was exposed to you slowly, up to her neck, and your teeth bit softly in her earlobe as your fingers pulled the pins out of her hair one by one. You caught a glimpse of her bra. Black lace and delicate, which was a choice because it was meant to be seen rather than hidden behind layers of clothing, and your knees almost gave.

“Is this what you want?” you asked once her zipper reached the end, the blouse falling on one shoulder as if on cue. 

Her breath hitched slightly as she turned to face you. Her hair was now fully undone, a few strands clinging to her flushed cheek. “Just for tonight,” whispered, and it had been enough. 

She reached for your face gently, feeling the warmth of her wedding ring, but she still leaned in, then you met her halfway, and her mouth was on yours in a kiss that wasn’t sweet, wasn’t slow— starved . Like you had been holding this in your throat for too long since the gallery, and now it was spilling out of you, and you were drowning her in it.

You wanted to memorize the exact temperature of her mouth before she disappears from your life. 

Kate kissed you back like she needed to forget something. Like she wanted to disappear inside your body and touch and mouth. Her fingers dug into your shoulder blades like she needed to leave marks just to prove this happened. 

Clothes came off in sharp, frantic motions. Buttons popped and fabrics yanked with frantic fingers, you weren’t sure whose. Somewhere near the fireplace were her discarded blouse and whatever was left of your top. 

She gasped your name, making you pause. 

“Still want me to stop?” you murmured, forehead pressed to hers.

Her answer was a breathless laugh, “Do you think I’d let you in if I meant it?”

You kissed her again, deeper and slower this time. For a second, you let your thoughts drift towards another possibility, that maybe this didn’t have to end with heartbreak. Her arms wrapped around your neck, her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, and you knew this was never supposed to have a beginning in the first place. 

Then, her hands were feverish against your skin, roaming, tracing. Her mouth brushed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, until you were shuddering.

“Bedroom,” she rasped against your throat.

You barely made it that far.

You backed her into the couch first, half-tumbling onto it as she pulled you down, and swung her legs so she could straddle you instead. Her legs wrapped around you, arms anchoring around your shoulders as your mouth slanted more insistently against hers before you kissed every inch of her that you could reach, starting with her shoulders.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered, breath hitching as you kissed down her neck. Her fingers skimmed under your bra, feeling how your heart was beating impossibly fast. 

Kate’s raked her nails up your spine, and you shuddered as you bit gently at her bottom lip. Her head tipped back, offering more of her. 

Your hands find her ribs, the delicate slope of her waist, the soft, warm curve of her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra. You kiss down her throat, tongue trailing over the pulse that beats fast beneath your lips. 

“You’re the reason,” you answered, before dragging your tongue along the hollow of her collarbone.

She arched into you, gasping as her hips ground against your thigh. “Jesus…”

The sound went straight to your core. You wanted to ruin her, like you had said back in her car. You wanted to see her come apart, undone. All of it.

Her bra finally slipped from her shoulders when you unclasped it. You pushed it off, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor because you wanted it to be the first thing that Joe would see when he came home to her later.

You took your time with her breasts first, circling each nipple with the flat of your tongue until they were stiff and aching, sucking hard enough to make her whimper. 

“Fucking hell, you’re really taking your time,” she whined. She arched into you, as you continued to lick and bite her, then blowing cool air over the wetness you left behind her breasts just to hear her gasp. 

She groaned low in her throat, one hand slipping under your waistband and palming you through your underwear, where she found you shamelessly moist. Her mouth was hot on your neck. You were panting now, dizzy and full of her and desperate for her.

“God, Kate,” you whispered as you looked at her. Her skin was flushed, her lips were wet, and her eyes were dark. 

She whispered something you couldn’t hear into your neck, but you couldn’t care less when, and you were already gasping against her shoulder, burying your face in her skin.

“Bed,” she ordered firmly. “ At once .”

Somehow, you stumbled to your feet. She tugged you away from the living room, laughing breathlessly as you almost collided with the vase in the middle of the foyer. You made it up the stairs and past the hallway until her back hit the wall near the bedroom, and she moaned, which you silenced with another kiss.

“Your son’s asleep,” you reminded her as you pulled away briefly. 

She nodded, dazed, but lucid enough to clutch your waist and pull you into her. Her fingers dragged you closer as you pressed your body flush to hers, pinning her against the wall as if to sink into her skin, blood, and bones.

Eventually, you stumbled your way to the bedroom, and you weren’t sure how you had gotten there. The bedroom is unlit, only the glow of the city washing in through the curtains.

She tried to find the button that would slide the doors closed, but you had been stubborn enough to press your lips on the nape of her neck when you pushed her hair aside to one shoulder. You hurriedly unclasped her gold necklace, and it fell to the floor, forgotten already. 

“Fuck,” she gritted through her teeth. “You’re so fucking impatient.”

She sank down onto the mattress and looked up at you. Her face filled with vulnerability that split you open.

“Is this what you want?” you asked her just to make sure she wanted to follow through with it. 

“I want you. Right now,” she admitted. She pulled you down to the bed and bit back a sound when you kissed down her collarbone.

Her thighs trembled beneath your hands, and her lips never stopped searching for yours.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling your mouth back to hers with need. You kissed her until your lungs burned. 

You slid between her thighs slowly as you kissed lower. She spread for you without hesitation, hands fisting the sheets, breath breaking open on your name. You started slow, just to tease her by hooking her thighs over your shoulders, kissing the inside of her knees, and nipping at the soft skin of her inner thighs just for her to squirm before you even touched where she needed you the most. And then—

She cried out from the slow, filthy drag of your tongue. “Fuck! Oh, God… Please—”

You took your time, deliberate and unrushed, just to stop yourself from counting the hours until the sun would come up to rip her away from you. Because in the morning, she would still be married, and she would still leave, but you would remember every fucking inch of it.

All the unspoken tension that had been lingering around for days redirected itself into the slick, swollen heat of her, into the way your fingers curled inside her while your mouth worked her clit in slow circles. You teased her to the edge until she was sobbing. 

“God—don’t stop—” she moaned, fingers gripping the sheets, her spine arching under your tongue. “Please—I can’t—”

You wanted her to fall apart slowly and feel every second of it. You circled her clit again with slow, teasing flicks until she was whimpering above you, hips trembling, thighs clenched tight around your shoulders.

You sucked her clit between your lips, just so, and she saw stars.

“Fuck,” Kate cried.

When you pulled back just to watch her hips chase your tongue, your name was the only word she knew how to say coherently. When she was trembling and begging, you swallowed her cunt whole, sucking hard, and she shattered with her thighs clamping around your head.

She came with a strangled moan, your name falling from her lips as her fingers tangled in your hair, but it didn’t stop you. You stayed with her through it, hands steady, tongue gentle over her again, not until she was writhing and oversensitive, that pulled you up and kissed you with all her remaining strength.

You didn’t relent. You couldn’t with the way she fell apart for you, and she trembled, soft and shaking, and finally let go of all the shared restraint you had with her. You murmured into her skin, low and half-desperate, that you needed to taste her again, needed to feel her come apart one more time. 

Kate gasped when your fingers sank into her and found the rhythm that made her shake and beg for more, and you gave it. She clawed her way through the sheets and clung to your shoulders. 

She cried when she came with your hand buried between her thighs, your teeth on her shoulder, your body slotted perfectly against hers. You weren’t sure if it was from pleasure or heartbreak.

You held her long after the sweat cooled. And still, none of it felt like a victory. It felt like a loss because you knew even then that she would still leave in the morning. That her mouth on your skin wouldn’t change the trajectory of her flight. And maybe that was the point.

To your surprise, she flipped you over. Your skin was burning when she straddled you, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her mouth found the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, her tongue dragging across your skin.

“Say something,” you pleaded, breath catching as her fingers trailed down your stomach.

She kissed the underside of your jaw, voice barely audible when she spoke, “Wake up.”

“What?”

“ Wake up .”

You woke up.

And realized that it was a dream. You were sobbing into your pillow.  Your shirt was soaked at the neckline. Your throat was so dry that it hurt. You sat up too fast and choked on your breath, clutching your chest like it could hold the memory in.

You glanced, the alarm clock on the nightstand read 5:38 AM.

You wiped your face with your wrist. “Fuck,” you whispered.

You looked at your trembling hands. The dream had felt so real. You could still feel the weight of her on your hips, the ghost of her lips on your neck, her soft voice whispering something you couldn’t quite remember, but—

You shuddered, trying to pull your brain back into rational thoughts.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Just a fucking dream.

You buried your face in your hands and wondered if the universe was fucking with you on purpose. Or maybe your subconscious was telling you to stop pining over your very married boss.

Fuck. 

You really should be doing the assignment that Dr. Lorenz gave you a few days ago. 

---

You had been twiddling with the flash drive between your fingers as you sat behind your desk, waiting for the board members to arrive at the company building. 

It had been almost a week since Teddy had given you the flash drive, but with what was happening around you recently, it lay in the back burner of your mind until you found it again sitting on top of the old folio before you left your apartment for work, just after you had finally recovered from sex-dream Kate. 

You hadn’t touched the leather folio in days. But today felt like a turning point, and you weren’t sure what direction you were about to face.

There was no plan that had been coherent enough to run through your mind on what to do with this piece of evidence in your hand; your mind was elsewhere, particularly in a quaint house in Provence and semi-realistic sex-dream Kate. 

You sighed and threw the flash drive into the deep recesses of your drawer underneath the desk, and went back into business. You were her assistant again, for the last time. 

When you went inside her office carrying a mug of lavender London Fog with your laptop tucked in your other arm, she was already there, very real not-sex-dream Kate. She was radiant in a navy blazer over a cream blouse. Her hair curled perfectly, and fresh fuchsia lipstick swiped across her mouth. The same gold necklace she was wearing last night gleamed underneath the sun streaming through the glass walls. The same necklace you took off sex-dream Kate—

Oh, fuck.

Kate accepted the mug from you without glancing up from the draft of her resignation letter, but her lips twitched up. “Well? Took you long enough.”

Your heart stopped. Your stomach flipped. You tried not to remember how your body still hummed with the aftershocks of orgasmic sex-dream Kate. Your mouth still tasted like the word ‘ please ’ in the flavor of her voice.

Was this a glitch in the matrix? Was she in your dream somehow? Did you need another therapist? A priest?

“Sorry,” was your Harvard MBA intellect could only come up with, trying not to think about eating out sex-dream Kate, or even making out with real-real Kate.  

You were highly aware that, in some very lucky dimension, you had given her at least two orgasms with your mouth on her cunt last night. Now, you had to hand her tea and pretend none of that happened. You were trying to act normal as her assistant, pretending that the government couldn’t waterboard that information out of you if they even tried. 

‘Note to self: do not look at her until the end of the meeting. ’

She raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

You nodded mutely, trying to pretend your soul hadn't just stepped into another dimension where sex-dream Kate lived. 

Before she could reply, the board meeting reminder popped up in your phone’s notification. You felt your heart dropping deep into the depths of your despair. 

Kate also got the notification, and her phone was already out of her pocket. With a sigh, she stood up, draining the contents of the mug in one go before buttoning her blazer, oblivious to your gay panic. 

“It’s show time,” she muttered, motioning for you to follow her into the executive floor’s meeting room. 

On the way there, you hurriedly grabbed your folio and a legal pad from your desk, falling just a few steps behind her as you tucked them in the same arm carrying your laptop. You passed by Joe’s associate's office, but Kate didn’t spend a lingering look at him, and he didn’t even smile at her like he used to. Meanwhile, you avoided his gaze, still seething at that fucked up conversation you had with him. 

The board members were already there, talking amongst themselves near the glass doors, while others already sat in silence around the conference table that gleamed underneath the two round pendant lights

Kate greeted them warmly as always. “Hi,” she said, gesturing towards the inside of the meeting room. “Thanks.”

However, there was no sign of the twins. 

Your boss glanced around for any sign of them, but you knew she was mostly concerned about Reagan. She was always the first to be present in every board meeting, and it was unlike her to be late for a big announcement that would rock the Lockwood dynasty. Regardless of the creeping sense of dread crawling into your skin, you still followed Kate inside and silenced whatever second thoughts you were having.

Kate was resigning, and you still had no plans moving forward.

The least you could do right now was to fetch the usual coffees that the directors would take from the coffee urn nestled on the left side of the room, while others, especially the older ones, preferred a warm glass of water.  

Just as you set a coffee mug for David Reyes, senior vice president of New Technologies, Reagan finally sauntered into the meeting room. Some of the board members, particularly the most conservative ones, regarded her with an affirming nod and a practised smile, but Reagan ignored all of them as she took her seat at the end of the table. 

Kate sat at the head of the table. “Good morning,” she bid her eldest sister. 

“Good morning, Katie,” Reagan replied, setting down her Prada leather tote and pulling the seat for her with finesse. “You look tired.”

Kate took the comment as a jab, even if she had heard it every meeting. Reagan knew what she was doing. You took this as a cue to begin the minutes on your laptop as you sat away from the inner circle, as you usually do. 

Nevertheless, Kate’s voice, as always, was perfect, smooth, and unshakeable. “I’d like to call to order the T.R. Lockwood Corporation Board of Directors meeting for the 19th of May 2025 to action. Thank you very much for joining us on such a late notice.”

She flipped over a document.

“We have an apology for absence this morning, belonging to Maddie Lockwood, head of Public Relations. She cited personal matters and a desire to protect the integrity of this company during a time of internal volatility. As we all have been informed, her vote will be represented by her sister, Reagan.”

‘ Understatement of the century, ’ you thought when you received the apology and saw the words ‘ internal volatility ’ this morning. Nevertheless, you confirmed and verified it anyway.

Kate moved over to another.

“Can I then ask for the approval of the minutes of the board meeting held on the 23rd of April?”

Everyone simply nodded.

“Alright, thank you very much, no amendments made.” 

You took notes like muscle memory. It was a script you knew by heart, but none of the lines made sense to you anymore like they used to. The meeting preliminaries were always fast and easy. Now, for the hard part…

“Good morning, everyone,” Kate said with a smile that you knew very well lacked mirth. “Big day.” She nodded as she eyed each director, but her smile faded as she continued speaking, the reality of her resignation getting closer with every word spoken. “I’m sure we’re all eager to get to the vote, but before we start, I have a bit of an announcement to make.”

Everyone in the meeting room stilled, sensing the seriousness of her tone. Your hands froze over the keys of your laptop, unsure if you could go through the announcement without shedding a tear. 

Kate’s eyes lingered on the hard and unyielding gaze of Reagan. She almost faltered. “Forgive me, this is, uh…” She glanced down and closed her eyes briefly, and tried to mask the shame with a smile. “This is proving tougher than I expected. She licked her lips, glanced up, and her eyes found yours for a second. It was enough to steal your breath away. “It is with a heavy heart that I—”

“Oh, spare us, Kate,” Reagan interrupted.

What the fuck? Would she be stealing the moment to announce it herself? It was a dick move, but Reagan would want to swing her dick around at any opportune moment to prove that hers was bigger than Kate’s. 

“We all know you’re not sad to see me go.” Reagan’s gaze was piercing sharp, and her lips curved up, almost a sneer, when she stood gracefully. She inhaled softly. “What Kate is trying—and failing —to say… is that I will be taking a step back from my role as CFO of Lockwood Corp.”

A beat. For everyone to exchange stunned expressions.

Your eyes, filled with panic and relief at the same time, found Kate’s, and she gave you a look that made your nerves calm. She leaned back in her seat, equally stupefied as you. 

Reagan continued, “This may come as a shock to some of you—” another understatement of the century “—but there are some personal matters in my life that I need to focus on. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I hope you can respect it.”

Kate looked over you again, as if to ask if this was really happening. You pinched yourself, thinking that this might still be in the dimension with sex-dream Kate. Your head shook before any lascivious thought could cross into your mind.

“Thank you,” Reagan ended. She simply sat down, pulled herself back into the chair towards the table, and folded her hands, almost mechanically. 

No grandstanding. No speech that showedboated her years of service in the family company. You thought it might have something to do with being found out that she was embezzling, but still, it wasn’t like her. 

Kate was lost in thought, and so were you. The remaining agenda of the board meeting dissipated. Numbers. Projections. Strategic investments. Q3 stabilization forecasts. All of them did not make anymore sense to you. 

Then, almost as if another glitch in the matrix, Reagan seemed to have forgotten something important. “Oh! And…” She stood up. “I have spoken to Maddie…” She took another breath, as if pushing the name from her tongue seemed so foreign. “... Who has decided not to step down. I will retain my board seat and cede all votes to her after today.”

A few board members exchanged glances, the quiet tension returning to the room like a dropped pin.

Kate cleared her throat. “So noted for the record. Effective immediately, Ms. Maddie Lockwood will exercise full voting authority on behalf of Mrs. Reagan Lockwood-Jacobs.”

Pamela Johnson, senior vice president of Worldwide Communications, leaned in. “For governance, compliance, we’ll circulate an updated delegation of authority, requiring both signatures within forty-eight hours after the adjournment of this meeting.

“Actually,” Reagan reached down, set her leather tote bag on the conference table, and produced folders of the aforementioned document before Johnson could continue. “Here is the copy of said agreement,” she said. “Witnessed, timestamped, and notarized with Legal this morning.” 

Johnson blinked, then took the folder as soon as it was passed to her, flipping through the pages. After a pause, she gave a curt nod to Kate as she handed her a copy. “In that case, it’s valid and binding as of this meeting. We’ll still circulate for official records.”

You sat still, not sure if you were holding your breath or just forgetting how to exhale. Kate simply stared at the document; with the way that it rendered her speechless, you knew that Maddie’s elaborately loopy signature was legit that even Reagan couldn’t forge. 

She looked down, composing herself and willing the words to existence to move forward to the first item on the agenda. “Um… Well—”

“Don’t hurt yourself trying to think of something nice to say, Katie,” Reagan cut her off. Her smile turned acidic. “We all know you’re ecstatic.”

Third understatement of the century. But this didn’t feel like triumph. 

Kate paused, her eyes moving past the conference table and to the glass walls, then to you. And for a moment, you thought that her looking at you was a grounding thing for her because the tension in her expression disappeared. She allowed herself to hide a smile. 

“Well, with that…” She stood, buttoning her blazer, and eyed the directors once more as she finally moved to the first item. “I would like to propose a new motion. As you know, we have an open board seat,and I would like to nominate Theodore Hayes. Do I have a second?”

“Seconded,” one of the more liberal board members spoke.

“All those in favor, raise your hand. Proxy votes will be recognized.”

The meeting room rippled with murmurs. Kate looked around on whose hands were raised, but she was mostly concerned for the two votes that Reagan currently possessed. To your surprise, Reagan raised both—one for herself, and one for Maddie.

Seven votes, reaching the quorum needed, especially the majority vote. 

“Motion passed,” Kate declared. 

Kate didn’t sit back down. The air was shifting, and she knew it. With the first motion passed, the weight of the room felt less like performance, more like governance. The Lockwood empire in her reign, for a moment, felt like it could survive.

Teddy was called in to be given the good news. He looked stunned, then proud, then tearful when he entered the meeting room. He covered his mouth with his hand as he thanked every board member who congratulated him. You mouthed one to him when he glanced your way, and you felt relief to finally see a familiar ally in this shark tank aside from Kate.

“There’s one more matter I’d like to bring forward,” she said, her hand resting lightly on the table. “As you’re all aware, last month at the Lockwood Foundation’s art gala organized by the Lockwood Museum, we publicly unveiled the long-range goals of the Lockwood Literacy Initiative.”

A few members stiffened, others nodded.

Kate remained unfazed. “This board previously reviewed the draft prospectus in your monthly packets. Today, I move to formally ratify the funding structure outlined therein, specifically, to earmark up to twenty-five percent of T.R. Lockwood Corporation’s annual profits for the initiative, beginning this fiscal year. The disbursement would be tiered, performance-adjusted, and audited quarterly by an independent philanthropic monitor that would support the foundation in this endeavor.”

A quiet breath moved through the room. 

“Do I have a second?”

“Seconded,” came a voice. It was Reagan, almost uncharacteristically high-pitched as if she had hesitated before piping up.

“All those in favor?”

Kate didn’t watch the hands this time. She kept her eyes down as the votes were cast one by one. Teddy, of course, raised his hand. And then Reagan, without hesitation, raised both of hers again.

“Eight in favor,” Johnson confirmed grimly. “None opposed. Motion carried.”

Kate finally exhaled. Not visibly, but somewhere deep in the posture of her spine, and so did yours. She didn’t wait for everyone to relax. “With the board’s permission,” she went on, still standing. “I’d like to introduce an urgent but time-sensitive matter for consideration, given the structural changes that just took place.”

Everyone gave a neutral nod; she took this as an opportunity to move forward. You stared at the item list of the agenda, flipped back to the previous meetings, just to see if you had missed one because you weren’t sure where Kate was going with.

Kate turned briefly toward Teddy. “With Mr. Theodore Hayes’ appointment to the board and in accordance with our internal leadership continuity protocols, the position of Chief of Staff to the Office of the CEO is now vacant.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone registered the shift. Kate’s gaze drifted across the table, resting on no one, especially not you. You held your breath, but an invisible force suckerpunched you when she announced your full government name. 

You gaped at her with eyes wide, like a deer caught by the headlights, and she was torpedoing you with the full force of a truck. 

“I move to appoint her, currently serving as my EA-slash-PA, to Chief of Staff, effective immediately. Her institutional knowledge, strategic coordination experience, and direct involvement in crisis operations make her the most qualified candidate for continuity.”

You blinked twice before realizing this was not up for debate.

She paused only slightly. Her hands flexed subtly at her sides. “This transition also preserves operational integrity while the executive office stabilizes following Mrs. Lockwood-Jacobs’ withdrawal. I trust in her capabilities to guarantee cohesion of executive function and strategic alignment.”

A few directors were already flipping through their folders or scrolling through tablets.

“Do I have a second?”

“Seconded,” Teddy said immediately. He glanced sideways at you, but you didn’t move.

“All those in favor?”

Hands went up, one after the next, including Reagan’s, which you already guessed by now, was a given.

“Motion carried. Promotion effective today.” Kate nodded, but not to the board, but to you. Her eyes met yours, and your lungs refused to work.

Holy fucking shit.

The whole board meeting had taken twelve minutes after you were promoted. Twelve minutes to wipe out three years of chaos. Not even when the applause came. That hollow, perfunctory kind of clapping that meant progress had been made, even if no one knew what direction.

Just as you wrapped up the minutes, Reagan gave a shallow smile. Her eyes had darted across the table once. Not at Kate, but at you, which was new to you, as Reagan never looked your way if her rival sibling was in the same room. The look in her eyes was familiar, like you weren’t staring back at Reagan, for some reason you couldn’t name. 

Once the meeting was adjourned, Reagan stood and hastily left before you could corner her. There were a lot of things going on in your mind right now, but you were still concerned about Maddie’s whereabouts. 

Even so, the meeting was over, and the world had not ended.

You floated behind Teddy, who clapped you on the back and whispered something about buying you a drink later, but you didn’t hear him. He was congratulated by a few sincerely, while the rest of the board members tried to maintain civility but still came out as hostile, nevertheless. 

“Thank you, thank you,” he replied as he shook hands. “I appreciate that.”

Kate, on the other hand, went outside as soon as she saw Joe. You tried not to look, or even eavesdrop, but with their body language, you knew it wasn’t a warm conversation.

Teddy noticed as well, but maintained a plastic smile that only became genuine when another board member told him it was a relief to see black representation as the new Chief Operating Officer. Wordlessly, you both exchanged nervous glances before you went ahead with cleaning the conference tables of paperwork, used coffee mugs, and water glasses. 

You wanted to keep your hands occupied, so they wouldn’t shake so much from the meeting aftermath. As you did, you kept looking your way towards Kate, who just stepped back inside the room as her husband walked away, but she refrained from glancing back at you, so you kept going with your menial task since it would be the last before you settled into your new position.  

Eventually, after a long round of congratulations and corporate pleasantries, the board of directors filed out of the meeting room, but Kate remained, and so did you. 

The door clicked shut behind them. Now, it was just you and her, and the silence between you that felt louder than the resignation and promotion.

You approached her slowly, no agenda in mind this time, just the fact that you wanted to be near her again. Kate looked up when you reached her.

You didn’t speak, not at first. You just stood there, the sound of distant footsteps and muffled voices echoing until they faded from your earshot.

She turned to you slowly, her expression unreadable. The light caught on the edge of her cheekbone. Her hands trembled, but she reached for yours. Her grip was warm and firm. “Congratulations,” she said.

You gave her a look, trying to keep your voice neutral. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I figured that with the many changes around here, we need more hands on deck to hold the reins… I had to act fast.” She adjusted the sleeve of her blazer. “And you have always been overqualified as an assistant.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted it.”

“I know, but I’m proud of you,” she reasoned. “You earned this, not because of me. It’s in spite of me.”

“Kate—”

She shook her head, cutting you off. “No. I need you to hear this. You’ve given more than I ever had a right to ask for. And if you’re not comfortable with the role—”

It was your turn to cut her off. “The role’s not the issue,” you corrected her gently.

She inhaled, as if bracing for the rest. “Then what is?”

“You know what is.”

Her voice, when it came, was steady but gentler than you had heard in days, especially in her car last night. “We need to keep this professional from now on.”

You nodded, keeping your features still. “Of course.”

She didn’t look away. She looked at your mouth. You looked away.

“I mean it,” she added. Her throat worked around something else, something she didn’t let out.  “No more moments. No more... whatever that was.”

You nodded again, even as your fingers twitched with the memory of her lips. “Yeah. Whatever that was,” you echoed, though it broke something in your chest for you to say it. “Right. We’re fine. Clean slate.”

And you hated how much you wanted her still.

She just looked at you with those green, green eyes and said, “If it were another life,” she said.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You drew in a breath. She was standing too close now. The sunlight slanted across her cheekbone. Her mouth was soft, parted like in the car. In the gallery. In the aquarium. 

“The kiss meant something to me,” you said, pulse roaring in your ears. 

“I know.” She looked like she might break, but she didn't; you were proud of her for that. Her thumb traced the line between your knuckles in long strokes as if she would never get the chance again. “Me too.”

Kate leaned in, and you thought for a moment she might kiss you. She pressed her forehead to yours, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank you for staying.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“Well, I had an entire script outlined, but it went flying out of the C-suite window the minute Reagan resigned instead,” she replied.

“We should talk about that.”

“Yeah.” 

You squeezed her hands once. No one made a move to talk about the board meeting. Because, when Kate continued to speak, it was soft and unexpected, which made your heart stutter.

“I love you.”

She said it first back in the gallery. She said it first, again, just as you both ended an affair before it even started. 

You wanted to touch her, one last time. But instead, your hand hovered near her elbow. You met her eyes and whispered back, “I know.”

You always knew.

Then, she leaned in, not to kiss your mouth, not to take anything from you anymore, but to press her lips on your cheek. You closed your eyes at the contact, willing it to burn in your memory.

When she pulled back, you didn’t ask her to stay, and she didn’t ask you to follow. The space between you reformed.

She let your hands go. “What happened between us—”

“Doesn’t change anything,” you finished.

“Precisely.”

You weren’t sure if the steadiness of her voice hurt more than it helped.

Still, you said the only thing that wouldn’t make your voice shake, “Of course, Ms. Lockwood.”

You walked out of the meeting room, into the new job, into the life you had earned. The blood in your veins roared as your mind was engulfed in a singular thought: to protect her. You made a beeline for your desk, fished out the flash drive, and headed straight for the nearest restroom. Your heart was pounding everywhere as you moved, locking the door behind you. 

Without any single thought of hesitation, you chucked the flash drive into the toilet bowl, but for a while, your fingers trembled when you reached for the flush. But you were determined to see this through. She would be staying, and this meant you needed to protect her, even if it meant that she chose a man like Joe over you. 

So your hand pressed firmly, triggering the rush of water, and the flash drive sank down with it. As the toilet water stilled, you felt a sense of calm washing over your nerves, but the dread crept into your skin as you sat on the toilet seat, pondering if you had made the right decision.

And for the second time that day, you realized you were crying. You fished for your phone in your pocket, pulled up a contact, and pressed your phone into your temple. 

The call went straight to voicemail, but you spoke nevertheless. 

“Hi, Dr. Lorenz, it’s me,” you started once you heard the beep. “I—I have been thinking about the assignment that you g—gave me. You know, list three…”

‘What do you want that isn’t survival, and when you aren’t afraid of the price? ’

The tears sprang free from your eyes, all heat and unstoppable. You didn’t care anymore to hold back through your hiccups and cries, even when it echoed off the shiny tiles. 

“The answer’s Kate,” you sobbed. “Oh, god. It's her... It’s always been Kate.”

Notes:

It's slow burn and unresolved sexual tension for a reason :p

Chapter 21: May 2022 - 69 Cornwall Gardens, South Kensington, London

Notes:

Wow, I had the most fucked up weeks since the last day and I am starting to believe that AO3 is cursing me whenever I am not writing LOL.

To begin, I am currently appealing my graduation status with my college dean because I had the unfortunate luck to cross paths with a professor who actively makes his students' lives a living hell. After all, he had been marking my attendance as "absent" despite I was physically fucking present in his class, which I just found out earlier when I finally got a copy of our attendance, which he initially refused to show twice. Always take pictures! I am a bit fortunate to have photographic evidence and correspondence with others who could attest to my presence.

Second, I had my big gig cancelled without notice, which I wouldn't have known if I didn't ask the organizer, and I had to cancel my internship for an art gallery, which really bummed me out as I was looking forward to it. I was hoping to use the money I've earned to have my laptop fixed.

And lastly, as I have mentioned earlier and in my twt, my laptop keyboard is giving up on me. Using an external keyboard helps, but what I only have is a gaming keyboard, which is difficult to haul around, especially since I am not at home all the time, and that slows down my writing. I'll be having it replaced with an official part from MSI, even if it will cost me a lot, considering I want to bring my laptop outside, and probably be a good investment. However, it will cost me around $70 for everything! I have already made the $17 down payment, so the keyboard part would be ordered ASAP.

This has been a big dent in my savings, so I am setting up my Kofi page again! Any amount will surely be a big help. This isn't mandatory, of course ~

There had been two types of assistants that went through the current CEO of Lockwood Corp: (1) ghosts, who had disappeared without a trace, and (2) martyrs, who didn’t survive the fire that was Kate Lockwood. 

You were trying not to be either of the two. 

You had been in London for exactly five weeks. Long enough to memorize every shortcut to every Pret within a three-block radius of Kensington. Long enough to learn that your boss never said ‘ thank you ’ unless it was in the fine print of a quarterly shareholder letter. Long enough to forget what real sleep felt like.

It was just after 10 PM when you received the notification ping, while you were finalizing the floor plan check-in and polishing the proposal deck for her art schools.. 

Kate 🔒🌲: My flat. ASAP.

No subject line. No explanation. Just a location to an address you already knew by heart. You didn’t even have the heart to shut down your laptop. You just closed the lid and shoved your laptop into your bag, threw on your coat, and hailed a black cab into the night. Once you arrived at her flat, you entered without knocking. You simply pushed inside with the duplicate key she had given you a few weeks ago.

Ms. Lockwood didn’t greet you. She merely gestured towards the inside, where you were greeted with sleek French doors and windows and heavily curated artworks strategically placed around the white-walled and wainscoted flat. She was still dressed in workwear consisting of black slacks and an emerald shirt unbuttoned at the collar with sleeves pushed up.

“I assume you’ve seen this,” she said coolly, pointing at a budget sheet with vendor line items placed on the glass coffee table. One line item had been circled in red ink.

It hit you before she even opened her mouth.

Shit.

“The vendor,” Ms. Lockwood began, like she was chastising a toddler, “tried to redirect sixty-two thousand pounds from the oncology grant budget into administrative overhead. You signed the release without flagging it.”

It was an oversight. Your oversight.

“I caught it just a while ago,” you explained quietly.

Wrong answer.

Her head lifted slowly, and her mouth curled. “You ‘ caught it ’? That’s your explanation?” 

You froze. It was as if she just bitch-slapped you with the sharpness of her tone. “I was going to escalate it tomorrow—”

She stepped forward, but you stood your ground. “You were going to let it slide until the press release was published and children went without treatment. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“I thought I submitted the updated version—”

“You thought .’ That’s the best you have?”

You winced, cheeks hot. “I know—”

“No, I don’t think you do,” she cut in, her voice rising just a fraction enough to make your stomach twist. “You work for me, which means when you make an error, it reflects on me. My name. My judgment. Do you understand what that means?”

You responded quickly and shoved your shaking hands behind your back, “Yes, Ms. Lockwood.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

Your stomach dropped. She wasn’t yelling; that would’ve been easier. She was disappointed and clinical about it, and it was cutting you open.

You tried to hold your ground. “I understand it reflects poorly. I didn’t mean to—”

“This isn’t about your intentions. I didn’t hire you to mean well.”

Your lips parted to respond, but nothing came out.

“I took a risk hiring you,” she continued. “No UK experience. No political instinct. And this is what I get. You’re overqualified, but apparently, that doesn’t mean reliable.”

That landed like a blow to the chest. You had triple-checked the damn paperwork.  You didn’t even remember when you last slept. “I’m trying.”

Her arms folded. “Not hard enough,” she said. “You missed it. You missed it, and now a program designed to treat children with leukemia is being siphoned by leeches who think the company’s charity arm is just another line item to exploit.”

“I’m sorry I made a mistake—”

Ms. Lockwood stalked across her living room like she was about to pace holes into the floor with her heels. “I didn’t hire you for ‘mistakes,’” she snapped. “I thought you were the kind of person who didn’t need hand-holding.”

You wanted to defend yourself by explaining the seven projects you were juggling, the late invoices, and the time zone chaos between New York, Zurich, and Singapore, but your breath caught in your throat before you could line the excuses up like folded napkins.

“I—” you started, instead you swallowed, your mouth too dry for words. 

“I don’t need your explanation!” Ms. Lockwood kept pushing through. “I need to know if you’re competent enough to work for me.”

For the last thirty-seven days, you had lived and breathed and bled for this job. You had skipped meals. You had missed birthdays and text messages, and the feeling of being someone outside your inbox. You had worked twelve-hour days with the kind of quiet, dutiful fear that you’d never admit out loud.

And now she was calling you incompetent.

Something inside you cracked.

“What do you want me to do?!” you bit out before you could stop yourself.

Ms. Lockwood halted abruptly, her head turning slowly like she was holding a live grenade you’d just lobbed at her. “Excuse me?”

You didn’t mean to speak. Truly. Let alone shout at her. You hadn’t planned it. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe it was the two Red Bulls you had chugged to get through working in New York and London time zones. Somehow, the underfed and overworked part of you, the kind of part that you demote as an intrusive thought,  surged forward and replaced all reason. 

“I haven’t taken a single sick day. I wake up at five and don’t sleep until you stop texting me at midnight. I don’t have friends because no one wants to add to a non-work group chat the person whose life revolves and rotates around their CEO, and I haven’t cooked myself a single meal in four weeks because I’m too busy trying to keep up with a woman who never thanks me and never slows down. So, yes. I missed one thing. One thing , and you act like I lit your PR stunt on fire.”

Ms. Lockwood stared at you. The look on her face could have frozen molten gold. “This isn’t for a PR stunt or my fucking reputation!” she yelled back in such a volume that the neighbors would absolutely love it at this hour. “That grant would’ve covered fifty treatment cycles for children. Children, for chrissake! It could have saved innocent lives.”

“I had a life, too!” you blurted, too late to stop yourself. “You don’t get to pull the generous-to-the-poor card when you’re putting my life at your expense. You want to talk about risks? I left my entire life for this job. Because I’m sleeping four hours a night, living on protein bars and caffeine. I moved countries. I dropped friends. I haven’t had a real conversation with someone I care about in weeks.” 

“And that’s my fault?” She was appalled as she gestured around her. “This is about your performance . I don’t have the luxury of good intentions or emotional fragility. Neither do you.”

You weren’t even done. Your voice cracked. You tried to breathe, but you were so angry and fed up that you kept going. “I don’t even have the luxury of being human around you. I haven’t had a weekend since I started. I take notes at 3 AM board meetings and have to be on-call across at least two time zones a day. I’ve been sleeping four hours a night and eating standing up and—”

Ms. Lockwood blinked. Her head tilted just slightly, while her expression stayed unreadable. “You think I owe you gratitude for doing your job?” she asked coldly, folding her arms across her chest. “I hired you to do your job well enough for my liking . ”

“If I’m not good enough for you, fire me,” you challenged her. “ Because your board treats me like I’m one bad day away from being replaced by someone with whiter teeth and no opinion. Yeah, I know what your board says, what your brothers and sisters say… That you’re just using Daddy’s empire to stroke your ego… A figurehead with good shoulders.”

That did make her flinch. Her mouth parted, but you weren’t finished. 

You drew a shaky breath. “I try so hard to make you impossible to criticize. I want them to know you’re better than them. Smarter than them. You demand perfection, but no one can be perfect around you, not for long, and I am so fucking tired of being afraid,” your voice began to break, the sob that you were trying to push down began to rise to your throat, “... Of what happens when I’m not. And I’ve still shown up. Every. Single. Day.”

When you stopped, you were breathing so hard that your lungs felt like they were on fire. Your cheeks were damp and warm.

You hated the silence that followed because now there was no going back. You braced for her to tell you to get out. You could feel the sting of tears in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. 

As the old mask slipped easily on, you realized what you had done. 

“I’m sorry. That was out of line,” you tried to add quickly. Your hands trembled at your sides. You hated that they were trembling. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

A long pause.

Ms. Lockwood’s composure didn’t falter, but something shifted in her eyes. “Actually, no,” she said with a wave of her hand, encouraging you. “Say what you mean.”

Your mind was blank, so your mouth only said what your physiological needs were screaming at you. “The only food that I had eaten that was prepared in a kitchen within the same day of consumption was the salad back served in the gala catering, but the balsamic dressing made my stomach hurt…”

That was the part where she chose to react with a frown. “How is that my fau—”

“That is not the point!” you shouted with a wild gesture of your hands. 

Ms. Lockwood looked at you as if she were amused. “Alright… Go on.”

You took a deep breath, your voice quieter now. “I see the way you work. You’re running a one-woman war trying to undo your father’s legacy, and anyone in the blast radius has just to keep up or get out.”

“I don’t tolerate mediocrity,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I ask for martyrdom.”

You almost laughed. “You don’t ask for it. You just make it the only option. You don’t ask for those sacrifices directly, but you don’t have to. Everyone bends around you. You demand excellence , and I understand why.”

You swallowed.

“I’m not saying I didn’t make a mistake,” you spoke as the tears that you had been trying to swallow finally streamed down your cheeks nonstop. “I’m trying... Trying really fucking hard. And if I make a mistake, I’ll own up to it, but I’m not the reason the board doubts you. I’m just trying to make sure they don’t get it right. But this? Working for you? It’s like holding a live wire with bare hands and pretending I’m not bleeding because being Kate freaking Lockwood’s assistant is one of the most isolating jobs a person could take.”

Silence.

The whole flat felt like it stopped breathing with you.

She said nothing.

You hadn’t meant to say that part aloud. But it was out now, humming in the room like a second heartbeat. Her expression had gone blank. For the first time since you met her, she didn’t know what to say next.

She just blinked once, slowly, like the words had landed in a place she hadn’t been ready to let you see.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” you said instead.

If you were going to be fired, you wanted to see it coming.

But she didn’t yell. She didn’t sneer. She simply… looked at you . The way someone looks at a locked door that they hadn’t realized could open.

When she finally spoke, her voice had dropped into something low and strange. “I was raised to believe that people who cry or flinch or slow down are liabilities. That’s the air I breathed growing up. I don’t know how to unlearn it overnight.”

You blinked. 

She looked through the French windows, and you followed her line of sight, which was another flat in the other building across. The other flat was dark, as if no one was there, but you could see the faint outlines of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and touches of dark academia architecture that contrasted with the contemporary light of her flat. 

You didn’t know what to say next, but neither did she.

From what you could see in the way her eyes shifted, the flat, or whoever lived or lives in it, mattered to her because when she turned back to you, her face had a wash of calm that wasn’t there when you had arrived earlier.

“Get some sleep. In my bed. I don’t care,” she said as if she were ordering you to move meetings in her schedule. “And when you wake up, I will order in so you’d have actual meals instead of whatever you have in yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I do ,” she interrupted. “I want to lead this company with integrity, which means protecting the people who hold it up.”

You nodded, stunned and numb to even argue further.

“You’re dismissed for the evening,” she said with finality, stepping back, slowly. The tension in her jaw released. She looked more tired than you had seen so far. “Don’t check your phone.”

That was it? Wasn’t she supposed to fire you?

And just like that, your brain stopped cataloguing logistics and started spiraling into the terrifying realization that you might not survive this job with your heart intact.

“Of course, Ms. Lockwood,” you replied. You were fully shaking now. You didn’t even try to hide it.

She turned, picked up her phone, and made a single call as she crossed the other side of her flat. “Triple the original amount. Redirect it. I want it in the nonprofit’s account by morning,” she said flatly through the phone. “And blacklist the vendor.”

Your hand hovered on the doorknob of her bedroom door as you stopped to listen. Glancing behind, your boss was still talking on the phone, quietly this time. She met your gaze, expression still difficult for you to decipher what was going through her head, then she hung up the call.

The moment didn’t end. It just receded like a wave, leaving silence in its place. 

You simply turned and went inside her bedroom. In the weeks that you had been in London, you already knew what the interior looked like, but her bedroom was always a mystery. Sure, the layout was tastefully planned by the decorator she and her brutally murdered ex-boyfriend had hired, but the artworks were definitely her choice. 

However, the large crystal on her nightstand was definitely not . Probably kept around for sentimental reasons.

You settled into her bed, trying not to think of how the pillows and linen smelled like her perfume, and when you lay your head down, you began to process what the fuck had happened. 

You didn’t cry at first. You had yelled at the most powerful woman in the world, called her egotistical, and accused her of burning you alive just to keep the fire of her ambition going.  It was humiliating. However, it was true. 

Working for Kate Lockwood was like orbiting the sun with no protective gear. Glorious, bright, all-consuming, and you had gotten too close.

The selfish part of you had wanted her to see it. Not because you had a stupid crush on her or were seeking to be promoted soon . Not as a function of her calendar or a memo in her inbox, but as a human person. A human person who had given up your humanity just to keep her world spinning.

You had told yourself it was also your own ambition. You thought that being good enough for her would actually mean something. That all the work, the sacrifice, and the silence would eventually be for the greater good, as the company intended.

She hadn’t seen any of that. She had only seen one mistake, and she had come down on you like a hammer. 

You bit down on your knuckle, blinking hard.

What made it worse was that there was a part of you that still wanted her approval.

You hated yourself for it. You were still so in awe of her and so angry at her, at yourself, at the impossible position she put you in.

Because somewhere, deep down, beneath the professionalism and the exhaustion and the fury, there was still a heartbeat of something tender. Something that ached when she was cold, and thudded when she walked into the room, and quieted when her voice dropped to that low register that sent chills to your bones.

You were so tired, but you also didn’t want to leave, and that terrified you. You weren’t sure what the difference was anymore between being competent and being consumed.

A soft ping broke the silence. You looked at your phone screen, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms. You gaped at the new event on your calendar in bright blue that spanned almost half the week.

OOO: DO NOT CALL UNLESS FIRE OR DEATH. (I mean it.) – KL

Most executives left this to HR or assistants. She never had before until now. Your boss added two full days of mandatory PTO and blocked out the following Friday and Monday.

You didn’t know what that meant, so you tried to delete it. 

A warning popped up:

This event was created by your manager and requires approval to remove.

A week later, the Lockwood Cancer Treatment Initiative made international news after its benchmarking was a huge and unprecedented success. The very first recipients of the funding were five thousand children in Alberta, Canada, and it was bound to expand further globally in developing regions and countries.

CBC, CBS, CNN, and Reuters ran a short segment on the hospitals, treatment plans, and logistics process. To appease her siblings, your boss sent her eldest brother to handle the press, considering he was also the chairman of the board. They said it was the least she could do, being Daddy’s favorite while their father ‘fucked them over from the grave’ during the reading of his will. 

As you had expected, they demanded a celebration in London, and your boss negotiated by having Clotho Gallery—her home court advantage—as the venue. It was a big win for the cancer initiative; everyone in the corporation deserved a little party to let loose. There was music, cameras, cocktails, and speeches enough for you to wallflower hard into the artworks.

You weren’t sure where you would fit in an upscale celebration filled with donors, execs, and press without having any agenda in mind or tablet in hand, but you came anyway, dressed modestly in a black pantsuit. Just in case your boss needed something, yet you couldn’t find the means and opportunity to ask her yourself, as you watched her from afar mingling with British aristocrats and technocrats.

You really haven’t spoken to her since the confrontation and the very awkward breakfast that came after. She assured you that you weren’t fired, although you couldn’t help but feel that things had changed with you. 

That is when she took the microphone and delivered her speech in the middle of the gallery. The crowd fell into a hushed silence as they watched her, looking incandescent in that white Jenny Packham Thalia beaded short-sleeve dress that you had picked out weeks ago for this occasion. Her bob-length hair was styled in messy curls. 

Meanwhile, you floated to the open bar to use it to your advantage, listening mindlessly as you knew already the contents of it.  You were halfway through an Aperol spritz when a set of hands clapped both of your shoulders.

“Are you here to haunt me, or do you want me to get security?” came Teddy’s voice from behind you. 

You turned, setting your drink gently down on the bar table. “Sorry?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Mr. Hayes, I just—”

He waved his hand dismissively, cutting you off with a grin. “I’m kidding,” then, he cocked his head to the side as he added thoughtfully, “Well, mostly…” 

You tried to return the banter, but you weren’t much in the mood to do so without falling back into a crying mess. The alcohol from the spritz was buzzing in your nerves at this point, so you simply nodded and tried to listen to your boss. 

“My father and the late CEO, Tom Lockwood…” Ms. Lockwood said, the corner of her smile twitched like she was held at gunpoint to speak this part ”... Had championed the front on the battle against cancer through the LICF, or the Lockwood International Children’s Fund, emphasizing the need to detect cancer at an early stage and allow for more effective treatment and recovery, and most of importantly, being accessible to all. I had chosen to put out this cancer treatment initiative to put a premium on the intersection of purpose and profit in T.R. Lockwood Corp.”

The gallery erupted in polite applause. Her siblings, most notably Reagan, bristled but joined along as if they were legally obligated to support their half-sister. 

Teddy noticed your detachment. He offered his bottle of BrewDog Lost Lager towards you when you picked up your glass of Aperol spritz again, clinking it gently against his bottle before both of you drank in silence. 

“What I meant earlier is that you shouldn’t be here on the sidelines,” he clarified. “You should be up there behind her. Behind every great woman is also a great woman.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know much about that, Mr. Hayes,” you replied, a little bitter.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Katie told me all about the scuffle you two had a week ago.”

“Let me guess… You’re here to defend her?” you asked, choosing to glare at the rim of your glass. 

“Actually, no,” he replied, tone more serious. “I’m here to say you were right. She’s scary and under so much stress, but that doesn’t mean she gets to be careless with people who care about her.”

You nodded, mulling over his words. Before you could reply, applause broke out; your boss was finishing her speech in time with you finishing your drink. 

You thought about going home early. She looked like she didn’t need anything from you, and technically, you were still on leave. Before you could move, you heard your name being spoken through the sound system in her voice.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention one of the people without whom none of this would be possible,” Ms. Lockwood explained through the microphone with a wry smile. “My assistant, who I suspect hasn’t slept in a month, made sure every document, dollar, and disaster was accounted for.”  

The air around you stilled. You stopped mid-step.

The world went very still. Your breath caught before your name even finished echoing. There she was, already looking at you, and so did the rest of the crowd. Barely enough for anyone to clock, but enough for you to hear the blood rushing that made your face red hot. Your heart was doing something complicated inside your chest, holding her gaze and trying not to do something stupid like panic.

Teddy smiled. “And she never gives speeches like that,” he said. “Take it in.”

“The one person who’s been in the trenches with me since day one and has sacrificed more than I’d ever ask,” she continued, so unaware that you were about to pass out at this very moment. “This initiative has my family name on it, but it only exists because she made sure it wasn’t just an idea.” 

Shit.

Shit .

Teddy was right. Kate Lockwood wasn’t the kind of executive who casually acknowledged her assistant at a party filled with the glitterati of the business world. So if she did just like right this moment, it’s a big fucking deal, especially to you. It was still professional, but to you, it was a whole level of being personal.

You barely registered Teddy beside you, raising his lager toward your stunned form like a toast. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He stepped away from the bar to slip back into the crowd, straight to the DJ booth, “I’ll be having a very polite conversation about why this party sounds like a Whole Foods opening. God forbid someone play something with a bassline. No more of this NPR-core playlist.”

The applause rose, polite at first, then firmer and fuller with a few wolf whistles. As soon as she finished, Ms. Lockwood was already moving towards you, the applauding crowd around her parting like the sea to make way. 

‘Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck ,’ your mind went. This didn’t stop you from meeting her halfway.

When she finally stood just at an arm’s length, you could see very clearly that her eyes were still bright from being the center of attention. “You came,” was all she said.

“I did.”

“You stayed.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but a tentative smile grew across your face. “I did.”

A comfortable beat of silence passed between you as the murmurs of the party came back in, like she hadn’t just publicly named you the right-hand of her biggest initiative, which would her half-siblings definitely love once the press cycle had picked up on it.

She broke the silence first. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, even in speeches.”

“I figured,” you replied, ever deadpan but still cracking inside. “Thought it was an elaborate way of not describing me as an HR liability.”

That earned a smile from her. It released a valve from the simmering pressure that you were under from all the tension you were both in since the night in her flat. 

As her mouth began to open, the DJ shifted the music with the hot and heavy opening guitar riff of Santana’s Smooth broke through the gallery speakers, filling the room of museum-grade lighting with a sultry wave. The crowd cheered at the music change. Some execs winced.

“God, this is such a 90s banger,” you sighed longingly. People were starting to loosen up, donors were tipsy, and younger execs were less rigid now.

Ms. Lockwood tilted her head. “Do you want to dance?” she asked curiously, as if it were something you needed. 

You hesitated reflexively, eyeing the execs and the press near the perimeter of the dancefloor warily. Then, the VIP area and the cluster of siblings who would murder you for less. You hadn’t gone dancing since your senior year of college during biz school’s mixer, and you were fairly certain your last attempt at rhythm had ended in emotional damage and a sprained toe.

“This feels… inadvisable,” you tried to turn down the offer gently.

“Come on,” she said, cocking her head, offering a hand that made it look like she never expected to be refused. “One dance. You deserve a little fun.”

You stared at it. Was she not above coercing her staff to celebrate? “I’m really not good at—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With the alcohol still buzzing in you while the music vibrated in your bones, all your inhibitions were down, so you took her hand, because how could you not? With that smug smile on that smug face of hers?

And then you were dancing.

If it could be called that.

Powerful CEOs danced with their staffers in social gatherings, even with their assistants; it was hardly a scandal. You told yourself that this was like Tony Stark dancing with Pepper from that one scene in that Marvel film.

However, on the floor, you were both out of place. Still, you were dancing professionally, careful not to be pressed close and not too far apart as well.

It was mostly awkward steps at first, your shoes slipping as you tried to recall how basic chachacha, your hips unsure if they were skilled enough to follow the rhythm. You didn’t know where to put your hands until she placed one on your shoulder and the other on your hand.

“Relax,” she murmured. “You're making me look bad.”

“I’m making you look bad?” you whispered back. “This whole thing feels like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“You’re off the clock,” she said. “And off the record.”

You tried not to think about the smooth touch of her hand in yours. “Still very much on the internet.”

Your boss didn’t belong here with you. She was too polished and mythically wealthy, and yet here she was. Relaxed shoulders, half a smirk. A sway that says she’s having fun and knows how rare that was. She was good at this. You didn’t know how she had talked you into this.

You decided to break the ice, mostly to ease the awkwardness building inside you. “Congratulations, Ms. Lockwood.”

“Congratulations to you as well, for surviving me,” she replied evenly.

You thought for a moment about what to say next before speaking. “I’m sorry that Mr. Goldberg is unable to join you.”

Your boss had chosen to work here to be closer to her homeland, in the guise of accomplishing unfinished business and finalizing her few documents, when in reality, she was regularly checking in for a good friend named ‘Lady Phoebe,’ who was still confined in Welder Hill Hospital and was bound to be discharged soon. It was really sweet of her, like really . You made the necessary arrangements for a quiet settlement of the Borehall-Blaxworth fiasco, under your boss’ request, so that her friend would peacefully fly out to Southeast Asia without the scrutiny of the press. 

Ms. Lockwood sighed. “Well, Jonat—” she cleared her throat, correcting herself “— Joe … He isn’t a big fan of the live press, given what his ex-wife did to him. I’m guessing he’s still on the West Coast to negotiate visitation rights with our lawyers for his son.”

“Let me know if I could do anything to help, Ms. Lockwood.”

She glanced at you, as if she was not expecting that you would offer. Her smile dimmed slightly, but her hand stayed on yours.

You were out of sync and out of rhythm, but somehow you both kept going . Her gaze softened when you stopped apologizing for how your body moved and sang along instead. “And if you say this life ain't good enough, I would give my world to lift you up.”

She continued, “I could change my life to better suit your mood…” Then, she hesitated, not entirely, but briefly enough to realize something in the lyrics. “Do you remember what you said to me? That night in my flat?”

Your smile faltered, remembering you had said an entire monologue to her. “Which part?”

“The part where you told me I burn people alive just to keep the fire going. That working for me is like holding a live wire with your bare hands.”

Your pulse spiked. “I meant it.”

“I know you did,” she looked down briefly as she thought for a moment, “I kept thinking about all of it, and I think you’re right. I ask too much. I forgot what it costs. I also don’t know how to do it any other way, maybe not yet. But you stayed, when I thought you’d walk away, and perhaps that counted for something….”

“Is that an apology?”

“No,” she said. “Not yet. Just a fact.”

You weren’t even sure if you were still technically on the clock. You weren’t sure what this was. You were still raw from the confrontation and hadn’t quite figured out if her kindness was a manipulation, a truce, or something else.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Why haven’t you fired me?” you suddenly asked.

She thought for a moment. “And because, despite everything, you make me better at my job.”

You answered the truest thing you had in mind, “Of course, Ms. Lockwood.”

The bridge picked up a faster tempo. The crowd blurred to nothing. She spun you in a half-circle, then you tripped over your feet, only to catch yourself before you stumbled. 

“You’re really fucking terrible at this,” she declared.

You squinted. “Then, stop looking at me like you’re impressed!” you protested, breathless and shameless. “You did this to humiliate me.” 

“Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to see you in something other than a panic spiral for once.”

“Is this dancing?” you asked, half-laughing. “Or a monthly performance review?”

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

“Because I’m pretty sure I just stepped on your foot.”

“I’m aware of the many ‘ouches’ I’ve cried.”

“God, you love having the upper hand, don’t you?” You were laughing now, and so was she. 

“I’ll apologize with a slow dance next time,” she teased. 

You were suddenly aware of how close her face was to yours, how her perfume still smelled like the first day you had met her back in New York. 

Oh.

Oh no.

Kate Lockwood, by far, was the stupidest crush you ever had on.

Of course, you still had a crush on her. You were tired, underpaid, and stupid. But mostly? You were in too deep to call it anything else.

Notes:

Thank you so, so, so much for the wait <3 I revisted Season 4 again just for the sake of picking up canon references, and the desire to write Rhys' character has been making my mind itch a lot. Please let me know your thoughts and reactions in the comments! We'll go back to the next chapter where we will be at post-Episode 4 and pre-Episode 5...

Chapter 22: May 2025 - CBS New York, 524 W. 57th Street

Notes:

I want to begin by apologizing for taking so long to update. It took me a loooong while to get back in writing, where it won't feel a chore, because I genuinely didn't want to compromise my well-being and writing in the process after what I've been through this August. The good news is that I have successfully appealed my graduation status, so I'll be able to graduate on time! It was such a mentally draining experience to go through my university's bureaucracy shit, but I'm glad it's all over now.

And a big thank you to those who've bought me Ko-Fi! I appreciate it so so so much.

Other yaps will be heard in Twitter LOL. I won't make this long.

(Follow me on TikTok @heythereflyboy because I've finally get a hang on making edits, but it's mostly going to be The Rookie and Mercedes Mason)

You shared a company-wide communication with the T.R. Lockwood Corp employees this morning.

You had workshopped the copy seventeen times, sent it to Comms, Legal, and even HR for that extra layer of meaningless, performative due diligence, making sure it was scrubbed clean of any traces of the past three weeks' mess.

Minka insisted on a few changes in the wording, such as from using “change” to “transformation” instead, to keep an actively positive tone. However, you were far from being anything but positive. 

Truth was, you were angry. 

Angry from watching someone you love stay married to a monster. Angry enough that you had gotten emotional clarity and had done absolutely nothing constructive with it.

And it became a spectacle in the C-suite.

Of course, it started with you storming into her office because she had rescheduled a meeting without informing you, let alone a CC in the email.

Kate sat there with her legs crossed and a pen between her fingers. She looked up as if your arrival was simply the weather news update—unavoidable yet mildly inconvenient.

You didn’t even sit down.

“Chief, what can I do for y—”

“Rescheduling the executive sync without you lopping me in?” you snapped. “That’s cute?”

She had the balls to be appalled, like you’d just brought out a clown nose and worn it. “It was a minor adjustment.”

“You moved it four hours early and didn’t even try to CC me,” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “I showed up at an empty boardroom.”

“Perhaps, IT hadn’t looped your account yet as an exec,” she pondered innocently. “I’ll have it looked over. And if I were being truthful, I thought you needed more time to absorb everything.”

Wrong answer.

You laughed bitterly. “Thoughts? Oh, so you have thoughts? Ms. Lockwood, I need you to stop pretending that your weird mix of guilt and martyrdom is you being considerate.”

One of the setbacks with the company’s transparency was having the execs’ offices. renovated to lack doors. This was to avoid any backdoor deals or any under-the-table business matters accomplished.

However, this also meant that any conversation could be heard by the entire floor, bouncing off the glass walls, especially for an argument.

Kate glanced warily past you. From your periphery, you could see a handful of employees gathering to see what the hell was going on in their CEO’s office. They were not audacious enough to approach closely, yet they remained to watch and listen from a ‘respectable’ distance that would rule them off as intentionally eavesdropping. Others pretended not to listen, but failed terribly when some of them seemed to pass by further.

She stood up slowly, smoothing down her skirt. “Are we really doing this now?” Her wedding right caught the light as she dug her hand through her hair.

The sight of it made you angrier than you should be.

“Yeah, we are because I know how to do my job,” you replied. “What I don’t know is why you are being so passive-aggressive with me suddenly.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I’m the one being passive-aggressive? Well, then, let’s circle back to your little memo. ‘With Ms. Lockwood’s continued leadership’? Tell me that’s not intentional.”

“Of course, it’s intentional!” you almost shouted. “It’s boilerplate text. PR-speak! Everyone uses it as it’s neutral and safe.”

Kate frowned. “Safe?” she repeated, like it personally offended her.

“Yes, safe,” you answered, but lowered so it wouldn’t reach the ears of the bystanders outside the office. “Like your marriage. Like this entire building. Like every carefully curated thing in your life that you refuse to admit is falling apart.”

“Are you saying this is my fault now?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did the Chief of Staff job come with a clause that bans me from calling out your bullshit?”

Her eyebrows lifted as a bitter smile spread across her face. “Wow, so this wasn’t about the meeting or the memo. You’ve been waiting to throw this at my face.”

“Oh, please… You were the one who took issue with a single sentence because it sounded passive-aggressive. It’s a fucking job title.”

“Who barged into my office screaming about being left behind an email when it was an honest mistake like a child throwing a tantrum?”

“Last I heard, children have better emotional maturity than whatever execs are feeling right now.”

“Don’t talk to me about feelings when you’re the one who’s making a scene right now,” Kate said firmly.

You glanced back. All you could see was probably a dozen pairs of eyes looking back at you. When the fury in your face, they all scrambled back to their respective offices, desks, and even floors. The floor cleared of obvious bystanders, and you breathed a little, starting to regret picking a fight.

So stupid.

You should leave.

Kate was looking straight at you once you turned back to her. “Look, I’m trying to be professional,” she pleaded. “I’m trying to make the right decisions.”

“Right,” you muttered. “Like marrying a serial killer was such a moral masterstroke.”

Her face twitched. “He’s not a serial killer.”

You hummed. “This—” you gestured between you “—this is what you don’t get. You can pretend all you want… Pretend to be back being Ethical CEO Barbie, but I wake up every day knowing you love me and you’re still choosing him.”

Her eyes went glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually,” you argued.

You turned to leave.

She called out your name.

You didn’t look back.

She said it again, more insistently, that you finally stopped. You turned back and saw the way she was fighting to go after you, like her feet were frozen on the ground.

“Do you hate me?”

It was as if she was asking you something else entirely, and the best that you could come up with was: ‘Why are you still mad at me?’

And as you held each other’s gazes, you could see that she was realizing that she could feel your resentment in her bones, but couldn’t let herself do anything about it. Kate Lockwood, CEO of a global empire—a woman who could bend councilors with a phone call and could silence the press in one deposition, yet she couldn’t stop you from leaving.

You love someone who couldn’t love you the way you deserve to be. That wasn’t your fault, but you were so exhausted trying to turn restraint into a saintly virtue.

Instead, you said, “We have this segment at CBS later. Don’t tomorrow.”

So you turned slowly, walking away.

Never giving her the satisfaction of an answer.

---

You remained silent as your friends voiced their loud opinions in the midday at Little Collins NYC, over your berries and cream French toast, a flat white espresso, and a Buzzy Bloom drink. Their loud opinions collided with the business end of your failed situationship that almost bordered on an affair. 

“I’m sorry, but she’s still her assistant! I don’t care how many board promotions or sexy hallway glances there are, there’s a power imbalance,” Minka said, glaring at Vic, as she dug into her Mary’s mushrooms order.

“Oh, honey, sometimes a little imbalance is exactly what a woman needs to get on top,” Vic replied nonchalantly with a dismissive wave of her hand before taking a big bite of her halloumi gyro.

“But Kate’s married!” Minka cried. ”Married to him—Joe Goldberg, the Prince Charming.”

Vic rolled her eyes, pushing the generous amount of truffle fries she had ordered towards Minka, whom the latter accepted as if they were not arguing at all. “Ugh! The husband is the least interesting part.”

“Yeah, because someone else’s husband interests your parts very much,” Minka shot back before sipping into her Las Lajas pour-over.

“Anyways, going back to the topic!” Vic said as she sneered at Minka, sipping from her Buzzy Bloom drink. Then, she turned to you. “How are you holding up, honey?”

Honestly? You just wanted them to keep on debating about your love life rather than thinking about Kate or your feelings for her. You adjusted meeting cadences, restructured workflows, and built backchannel diplomacy protocols. You even got two of the board members who once glared at you during coffee runs to start CC’ing you proactively.

“I am doing a fine job in top-level calendar optimization with a Gantt chart that made three different directors weep with gratitude,” you replied with a shrug. “My therapist said I need to go and meet new people—” your phone buzzed on the table “—which unfortunately isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”

You answered the call at once. “Hi, yes,” you said; it was either CNBC or TMZ. “Ms. Lockwood sends her regrets and would like you to choke quietly on your own speculation.” 

Minka and Vic shared a wary look when you ended the call with a sigh. They had always been friends first before you even came to the company, so their understanding, despite mutual jabs at each other, went without saying. The former leaned in as Vic held your arm affectionately. 

“Hey,” Minka said gently. “We’re happy for you. Truly. But we’re also wondering if this is…” She trailed off, as if to rewrite a script she had rehearsed in her head, but didn’t sound right when delivered. 

Vic got the message from the look on Minka’s face, so she turned to you. “Now, you’re the chief of staff to one of the most cutthroat CEOs in the hemisphere. You don’t see a problem here? Like, a week ago, you were just cleared to work after you had yourself checked in a mental health facility in Idaho.”

You tried not to wince. Sometimes, you forget that you have to keep up the pretense of not being fired weeks ago. “It’s more of a spa,” you tried.

Vic’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t a joke.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Don’t joke this away,” Vic scolded. “We know what you went through, and we know who you work for. You’re not worried about relapse? Overwork? All that stuff the doctors warned you about?”

You were beginning to experience the repercussions of the elaborate lie Cynthia had concocted, and you simmered in regret. “They also told me to avoid gluten, and look at this French toast.”

Minka leaned in, elbows on the table. “Even if you don’t tell us every sordid detail, we know you went through hell in there, and you came out looking—” she glanced at Vic “—better, but not bulletproof. And now you seem determined to ruin your life in the most poetic way possible. Again.”

“I can handle her.”

“That’s what everyone says before they can’t,” Vic muttered, stirring her drink in her grasp like she wanted to strangle it.

You bit back the automatic defense, the part of you that wanted to explain that this was different, that you knew Kate’s tells, her pressure points, the lines she wouldn’t cross, except you weren’t entirely sure about that last part. 

Instead, you shrugged. “It’s a promotion with a heck of a pay bump. I’m not going to apologize for taking it.”

Vic glanced at Minka, as if she were passing her the emotional baton. 

Minka sighed, softer this time. “We just don’t want to see you disappear again.”

“Genuinely,” Vic agreed. “Like, we get that Kate Lockwood is such a confectionery paramor with all the NDA shit—”

“—Did you just describe our boss as a ‘sugar mommy’?” you asked in between.

“—But, we care for you a lot, in every lifetime, including this one. We are here for you, no matter what.”

Your heart warmed. It was always nice for your friends to have your back, even if they couldn’t understand what was happening. They would always assume that you wouldn’t and couldn’t share much of your burden because a non-disclosure agreement blocked it. However, this time, your problem revolved around almost participating in a marital affair, where you ended up bawling your eyes out during your mandatory therapy sessions (which also served as company-sponsored to keep up the Idaho pretense).

And, speaking of therapy…

During yesterday’s session, Dr. Lorenz gave you an unusual assignment that you couldn’t even begin to understand how to bring up naturally.

She had said, “If you won’t confront her directly, then at least get the ache out of your system. Go find someone to fuck—just to remind your body that she’s not the only one who can set it on fire.”

You hadn’t said yes, but you hadn’t said no to that either. Her clientele acknowledged her for having unconventional, yet effective therapeutic assignments.

Who knew that your $400-an-hour shrink would make you run for your money?

---

Every corner of the building was filled with journalists and reporters who were pissing you off more than they were asking your qualifications as the new chief of staff to Lockwood Corp’s CEO. If another reporter asked anything remotely similar to Kate pushed her sister off the board with Louboutins, you would send them a fruit basket with live hornets.

You spoke of logistics, budgets, and community engagement. When they asked about who would be the new CFO, you were tight-lipped; instead, you casually mentioned that the interim is currently overseeing the responsibilities until the board meets again for the elections.

When it came to Maddie’s social media silence…

Well, you used the Lockwood way: deflecting by bringing up the company’s charity work on women’s health and motherhood.

Meanwhile, Kate spoke of vision, legacy, and impact. She handled each question with her usual clinical efficiency, only pausing when someone mentioned Reagan’s resignation—no doubt to recall pointers from crisis management to get the story straight.

“Yes, effective immediately,” she answered evenly, folding her hands. Expression still unreadable as ever. “I was informed just the day before we held the board meeting. I won’t speculate on her reasoning because that would be beneath this institution. All I will say is that I accept her resignation with gratitude for her years of service to our company.”

The camera lights had cooled down when you tore the mic pack from your jacket. You both gave a flawless, exclusive interview about the current state of the company, especially with new faces on the board and the literacy initiative. It was exactly what the producers wanted: a steel-spined CEO with compassion and her unflappable chief of staff, fresh from promotion.

The second the red light on the camera blinked off, the iceberg between you and her returned.

You took this as your cue to step in.

“Okay, that’s a wrap! Ms. Lockwood will not be taking questions at this time,” you announced. Your hands held up as if to appease vicious dinosaurs. “All inquiries can be directed to the Office of the Chief of Staff,” you gestured towards yourself, “That’s me. And if you’d like to schedule an interview, please do so through the appropriate channels, not through our CEO’s Instagram DMs. Thank you very much for your time.”

That earned a ripple of polite laughter from the reporters as they slowly gathered their things and filed out of the press room. A nerve twitched in your head.

She brushed past you, answering the producer’s questions with the practiced Lockwood charm. You followed dutifully, forcing another polite smile when the crew offered congratulations

But you did not look at her.

The elevator doors closed behind you both. Silence filled the stainless-steel box, humming faintly with fluorescent light and awkward, bubbly elevator music.

Kate tried to reach out.

“That went well,” she started casually, like you were two colleagues catching a cab. “For sure, it’s a strong segment.”

You sighed, eyes locked on the floor numbers as they glowed. “Just doing my job.” Then, you added as an afterthought, “I may have also said you trained with MI6.”

However, she did not find a leeway for a follow-up to your response, but she pressed anyway with another topic. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Of course,” you lied.

“You must be tired,” she tried again.

“Not more than usual.”

“You handled the financial questions perfectly.”

“I did, Ms. Lockwood.”

“You don’t have to ‘Ms. Lockwood’ me, you know.”

“Force of habit.”

She shifted restlessly, unused to finding herself cornered in conversation.

The tension in the box was unbearable. Every second felt longer than it was. You could sense her frustration. Kate Lockwood did not fumble conversations, yet here she was, fumbling with you. It was a satisfying irony, knowing fully well that you were not out here trying to crawl back to her.

Suddenly—

CREAK!

The elevator shuddered and slowly stalled. A mechanical groan rattled through the air before everything went dark and still.

“Shit,” you cursed, grabbing hold of the railing. Once you regained balance, you had your phone out. “I’ll contact the station manager.”

Noon break.

Fuck. You stabbed at anything with a dial pad: your phone, your tablet, the call panel.

You tried the CBS line.

No signal.

The building desk.

Unattended.

Every communication line you had was up in dead air. A half-dozen of your contacts somewhere outside with sandwiches in their hands, while you were sealed in with the one woman you couldn’t bear to be near with and couldn’t bear to be without.

You let out a sharp breath and began pacing the small confines of the box. Out of all places to be stuck with her…

Why does your life keep going in the opposite direction? Why couldn’t one thing be ever so simple, such as a

Meanwhile, she stood calmly in the opposite corner, watching you as if she could command the steel walls to move by will alone so you wouldn’t be this stressed out.

“Relax,” she said. She leaned against the railing with her arms crossed. Her expression calm, it was maddening. “Panicking won’t make it move.”

You laughed sharply. “Panicking? This is called ‘trying to fix it!’ I’m locked in a fucking elevator at lunchtime with no signal and no way out.”

“We’ll be out soon enough.”

You whirled on her. “Oh, that’s easy for you to say. Because everything always works out for you. Someone cleans it up. Someone pays it off. Someone—” your voice broke.

She opened her mouth, but you kept going.

“Do you know what this is like?” you asked. “To be the person who has to fix everything all the time? To be three steps ahead while my own life is collapsing behind me? To be the person who has to anticipate everything, patch everything, keep every Lockwood from imploding?”

For once, Kate didn’t have a ready speech. Her eyes softened as she held your gaze, but you couldn’t stop now.

“You want to know why everything in my life goes wrong? Because I keep letting it. I keep letting you—”

You bit your tongue, stopping short in your tracks when you realized that you crossed the small distance, and now you were just breath away. The small confines of the elevator shrank around you.

She licked her lips.

That mouth again. God help you.

With the proximity, you could see the green, green eyes, and for a second, you thought you could get lost in them. She didn’t speak, only returning the look of a waning self-preservation inside a tiny space you were both trapped in.

Remembering that your self-preservation was stronger, you took a full step away. You pressed your palm against the cold steel wall, collecting yourself. Your breath came in too hard.

“I’m so tired, Kate,” you rasped, almost on the verge of crying again. You pressed your forehead against the wall. The coolness seeped through your skin, but that wasn’t the reason you shivered.

From behind, Kate pushed off the rail slowly, and she was suddenly there, behind you. A palm ran up your spine, and you melted towards it, both soothing and seductive at the same time.

“You’re exhausted,” she said carefully. Her tone wasn’t defensive for once, yet you hated how she still sounded like she was making up excuses again. Hated the way you could feel her breath on your ear. “I push too hard, I know that.”

“If you knew that, how come you aren’t suffering the way I am?” you asked. “You’re still my job, gave me this job… And then, you pretend like nothing happened, but I still wake up with you in my mouth.”

She inhaled sharply, but didn't move. “I’m not pretending; I compartmentalized—there’s a difference.”

“Glad it’s working for you,” you scoffed.

You lifted your head and turned, only for your pulse to stutter when you realized how close she was to you again. The hand that was behind your back moved to your waist, holding you in place against the steel wall.

Her other hand hovered just above your jawline, trembling with restraint, and you leaned into her touch without meaning to.

“What are you doing to me?” you asked, pulse hammering. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, equally torn. “The last thing I will do is hurt you more than I already have.”

“Well, too late for that,” you said bitterly.

A flash of guilt passed her eyes. “Do you hate me?”

You nodded weakly, but she wasn’t convinced.

“Answer me honestly,” she insisted.

You nodded again, still a lie.

“Please,” she begged. She was so close that you could fee the graze of her breath on her lips.

You were not sure why she was begging and which reason.

You were tired.

So what you did was that you brushed your lips against hers once, testing. She went rigid, and for a moment, you thought that you had made a mistake because as you were about to pull away, she brought you back in.

Her hand moved to the base of your skull tangling in your hair as she deepened the kiss. It wasn’t as smooth as the one you had in her museum. It was more teeth clashing and lips moving with fury.

Then, her hands were everywhere, unsure whether to hold you or tear you apart. She settled with unbuttoning your shirt with the kind of impatience you had only seen in her when someone wasted her time.

“God…” she whispered into your mouth, before dragging your bottom lip between her teeth. “I think I had a dream like this.”

You laughed, almost whimpering. “You dream about me?”

The elevator felt like it was shrinking. There was nothing left in the world but her body against yours, the slick feel of her lips against yours. When her fingers felt your skin, you jolted with a gasp in her mouth. Her hands slid up your stomach, cupping your ribs, and settling against the fabric of your bra.

“Kate…” you moaned, and that was all the permission she needed.

She swallowed the sound like it belonged to her. Wetter, deeper. Then, her mouth dropped to your throat, licking up the column of it before biting hard enough to mark. You were so dizzy and drunk on her.

“Fuck—” you gasped, nails digging into her dress.

Her mouth worked its way up to kiss your jaw, biting and licking until you cried for her. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be doing this to you. Tell me to stop,” she rasped. “Please… Because if you don’t—God…” Her hand caught yours and dragged up against her breast. “I won't.”

Her words crumbled when your nails scraped up the line of her spine. She keened, pressing her forehead against yours like she was about to lose her composure entirely. You dragged her dress up, hands fumbling already. She helped you, yanking the fabric up past her hips until the lace of her knickers and the softness of her thighs were on your palms.

Your knee was caught between her thighs. She straddled it shamelessly, making you wonder if she had planned this all along with those knickers of hers so thin it was practically indecent. Her hips ground down hard enough to make you dizzy. She bit your shoulder through your bra strap, muffling a moan. Her breath shuddered, chasing friction as she ground harder.

“Fuck, you feel—” you hissed, clutching her hips. Too breathless and overwhelmed by the slick rhythm she was working against you. “We can’t—”

Her thumb touched your lower lip, sliding lazily over the length of it. You held her wrist, but instead of pushing away, you sucked her thumb into her mouth, teeth grazing it, and it undid her. Her pupils were wide. She clutched your shoulders, head tipping back as her hips rolled again and dragged herself against your thigh.

“Fucking hell,” she mewled.

The elevator swayed faintly with the motion, metal groaning as she did, but neither of you cared.

You kissed her again, still messy but equally impatient.

Her hand slid lower, tugging the line of your trousers. She shoved her way past the waistband with zero finesse. The shock of her cold fingers against the bare heat of your cunt made you cry out.

“Already wet for me?” she asked smugly.

You gave her a withering look, which she kissed away, deeply and filthy, that you were reduced to shuddering moans when her fingers finally stroked you, sliding through the slickness until she found out how she would make you whimper.

“You don’t get to talk about how wet I am when you’re dripping on my leg,” you managed to bite back.

Kate leaned again, lips touching your ear as she whispered. “Do you want me to stop or let me finish what I started?”

And then—

Reality slammed back.

A jolt.

A crackle of the intercom. The loud groan of the elevator doors began to pry, coupled with voices shouting from the other side.

You both instantly jumped from each other, instinctively straightening yourselves like nothing had happened.

Kate immediately dragged her dress down and smoothed her hair with shaking hands. Her face was still flushed, lips swollen, and lipstick smeared.

Meanwhile, you wiped your spit-slicked mouth and buttoned your shirt against your still heaving chest.

She looked over you once, but didn’t say a word.

The cables shifted as you heard the hydraulics hiss. The elevator doors screeched open, and suddenly, the small space was flooded with fluorescent lights.

“NYFD! You’re safe now!”

The firefighters averted their eyes from your disheveled state, but they seemed like they had seen this scenario in elevators multiple times. Still, you tried not to act like she didn’t just nearly devour you against a wall.

One of the few good things about working for the Lockwoods was access to hush money.

Apologies tumbled from the CBS producers and staffers. Excuses and promises. You barely heard them, let alone felt the chaos from the emergency responders.

Kate wanted to say something in the midst of it, but you couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her. The first chance you could walk away, you took it. You couldn’t stand to see the look on her face, knowing you would just read the hurt and disbelief in her eyes.

As your body hummed with every nerve screaming at the loss of her, one thought floated in your head.

First agenda for tomorrow: accomplish the latest assignment from Dr. Lorenz.

Notes:

Well...

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Painted in UItraviolet Light