One month after the Langham mixer.
Anita didn't date. She negotiated, delegated, conquered. The idea of letting someone in had always felt like a liability wrapped in silk. But Marcus Delaney didn't knock on her door—he slipped through the cracks she hadn't realized were there.
They met again—"coincidentally"—at a panel she was moderating. Then again at a gallery showing she almost didn't attend. Always at the fringes. Always exactly where he needed to be. She told herself it was fate. Now, she knows better.
Still, back then, she let him in.
She let him cook.
**
He stood barefoot in her sleek marble kitchen, chopping herbs like he'd grown them himself. Miles Davis crooned from her speaker system. She leaned against the counter, still in her work clothes, watching him like he was a rare performance art piece—unexpected and oddly intimate.
"You're domestic," she said, amused.
"I'm adaptable," he replied. "And I figured someone should make sure you eat something that didn't come from a boardroom tray."
He handed her a glass of red wine. "Sit. Relax."
She did. Not because he told her to, but because—surprisingly—she wanted to.
As he moved around her space, she realized how unnatural it felt to have another body in her home. And how natural he made it seem.
"You always this smooth?" she asked.
Marcus looked over his shoulder. "No. Just with you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
He turned to her fully then, leaning on the counter, wine in hand. "Because you're the kind of woman men write their regrets about."
It was a line, but he delivered it like a confession.
**
Later that night, after the plates were cleared and the wine had dulled the edges of her caution, he kissed her.
Not like a man claiming territory.
Like a man asking permission.
And when she said yes—not out loud, but in the way her fingers curled into his shirt—he took her to bed like it was sacred ground.
That night, Anita didn't dream of quarterly reports or strategic takeovers. She dreamed of warmth. Of closeness. Of something resembling peace.
For the first time in years, she woke up not alone.
And she told herself—this might be the beginning of something real.
She didn't know yet: it was the start of something calculated.
Something cruel.