Anna woke to the sound of Alexander's morning routine—shower running, Bloomberg News playing from the bathroom speakers, the precise clink of his coffee cup against the marble countertop. She kept her eyes closed, savoring these last few minutes of peace before the day's performance began.
The bed beside her was already cold. Alexander rose at five-thirty every morning without fail, following the same rigid schedule that had built his billion-dollar empire. Shower, news, coffee, gym, office. He operated like a machine, efficient and emotionless.
Anna rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, trying to hold onto the fragments of a dream where she'd been someone else entirely. Someone free.
"You're still in bed." Alexander's voice made her jump. He stood in the doorway, already dressed in his charcoal Armani suit, checking his phone. "It's nearly eight."
"Good morning to you too," Anna mumbled, sitting up and pushing her hair back.
Alexander's eyes flicked over her dismissively before returning to his screen. "Don't forget lunch with my mother today. She wants to discuss the foundation board meeting."
Anna's stomach clenched. Lunch with Catherine Kingsley was always an exercise in passive-aggressive criticism disguised as motherly concern. "What time?"
"Noon. Le Bernardin. And Anna?" Alexander finally looked at her directly, his pale blue eyes cold as winter. "Try to look more... engaged. Last time you seemed distracted. Mother noticed."
Of course she did. Catherine Kingsley noticed everything, catalogued every flaw, every crack in Anna's perfect facade. She'd been doing it since the day Alexander brought Anna home eight years ago—a twenty-four-year-old art gallery assistant who'd somehow caught the attention of Wall Street's most eligible bachelor.
"I'll be fine," Anna said, forcing a smile.
Alexander nodded curtly and left without another word. No kiss goodbye, no affectionate touch. Nothing that might suggest actual warmth between them.
Anna fell back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. This was her life. This cold, beautiful prison where every day felt exactly like the last.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Dolly Blake, her sister-in-law: "Coffee this morning? Need to talk."
Anna typed back quickly: "Can't. Lunch with Catherine. Rain check?"
"Of course. Good luck. You'll need it."
Anna smiled despite herself. Dolly was the only person who understood what it was like to be married into the Kingsley-Blake dynasty. Steve, Anna's brother, might be charming and fun-loving, but he was still a Blake. Still part of the machine that crushed anything soft or real.
Anna forced herself out of bed and into her morning routine. Yoga in the private studio Alexander had built for her—not because he cared about her wellness, but because a fit wife was good for his image. Breakfast with their housekeeper Maria, the only person in the penthouse who actually smiled at her. Shower in their marble bathroom that felt more like a museum than a place where people lived.
She stood under the scalding water, letting it wash away the remnants of last night's performance. But Jake Morrison's question kept echoing in her mind: "Do you ever get tired of it?"
The answer was so obvious it hurt. She was drowning in it.
Anna chose her outfit carefully for lunch with Catherine—a cream-colored Chanel suit that screamed expensive respectability. Nothing too flashy, nothing that might draw criticism. Catherine had strong opinions about what was appropriate for a Kingsley wife, and Anna had learned to dress for approval rather than personal taste.
The ride to Le Bernardin felt like preparing for battle. Anna rehearsed safe conversation topics in her head—the foundation, upcoming charity events, their plans for the Hamptons house. Nothing personal, nothing real. Catherine didn't do real.
Le Bernardin was Alexander's choice, of course. He'd made the reservation, chosen the time, probably even pre-selected Anna's meal. Control disguised as consideration.
Catherine was already seated when Anna arrived, her silver hair perfectly styled, her black St. John suit immaculate. She looked up from her phone with the smile she reserved for public consumption—all teeth, no warmth.
"Anna, darling. You look lovely."
The compliment felt like a criticism waiting to happen. Anna kissed Catherine's cheek and settled into her chair, wondering what offense she'd committed this time.
"The gala last night was beautiful," Catherine continued, studying the menu she probably already knew by heart. "Though I noticed you seemed a bit... subdued in the photos."
There it was. Anna's smile had been analyzed, measured, and found wanting.
"I was just tired," Anna said carefully.
"Tired?" Catherine's eyebrows rose slightly. "From what? You don't work, you don't have children to chase around. What exactly are you tired from?"
The words stung, even though Anna had heard variations of them countless times. You don't work—as if managing Alexander's social calendar, attending endless events, and maintaining their public image wasn't work. You don't have children—as if that wasn't a wound that cut deeper every year.
"From the schedule," Anna said quietly. "Three events this week, the foundation meeting, the planning committee for the fall gala..."
"That's what wives do, Anna. We support our husbands' careers and maintain our social obligations. It's not supposed to be easy."
Catherine's tone suggested Anna was being dramatic, weak. As if wanting to feel something other than emptiness was a character flaw that needed correcting.
The waiter appeared, and they ordered—Catherine's usual Dover sole, Anna's salmon that she probably wouldn't eat. Her appetite had been disappearing lately, along with her ability to pretend this life satisfied her.
"Alexander mentioned you've been distant lately," Catherine continued once they were alone again. "Distracted. He's concerned."
Anna's hands clenched in her lap. Alexander wasn't concerned about her wellbeing—he was concerned about his image. A distant wife reflected poorly on a man who was supposed to have everything under control.
"I'm fine," Anna said. "Just adjusting to the fall social season."
Catherine leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Marriage is work, Anna. Real work. You can't just coast on your looks forever. Alexander needs a partner, not a pretty decoration."
The irony was suffocating. Anna had spent eight years being exactly what Alexander wanted—a beautiful, compliant wife who enhanced his reputation without demanding anything inconvenient like attention or affection. Now she was being criticized for not being engaged enough in her own objectification.
"I understand," Anna said, because agreeing was always safer than fighting.
"Good. Because Alexander is too important to be distracted by domestic issues. His work matters, Anna. What he does affects thousands of people, millions of dollars. Your job is to support that, not complicate it."
Their food arrived, and Anna picked at her salmon while Catherine delivered a monologue about the foundation's upcoming fundraiser. Anna nodded at the appropriate moments, made the expected responses, and felt herself disappearing a little more with each passing minute.
This was her life. This would always be her life.
After lunch, Anna walked aimlessly through Central Park, trying to shake off the weight of Catherine's words. The afternoon sun filtered through the autumn leaves, and for a moment, she could almost imagine being someone else. Someone who walked through parks because she wanted to, not because she needed to escape.
But escape to where? This was her world. These were her people. She'd signed up for this life, hadn't she? Traded her dreams of art and independence for security and status.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Alexander: "Dinner at home tonight. 7 PM. Don't be late."
Not "How was lunch with Mother?" or "Hope you're having a good day." Just another command disguised as information.
Anna typed back: "Of course."
She kept walking, letting her feet carry her wherever they wanted to go. Past the playground where children laughed on swings, past the reservoir where couples jogged together, past the Shakespeare Garden where she used to come when she was young and still believed in love.
When had she stopped believing? When had cynicism replaced hope, and duty replaced desire?
Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Alexander.
The number was unfamiliar, but the message made Anna's heart skip: "Saw you at the museum last night. You looked beautiful, but sad. Coffee tomorrow?"
Anna stared at the screen, her pulse quickening. Who could this be? The number wasn't in her contacts, but someone had been watching her last night. Someone had seen past the perfect facade to the sadness underneath.
She started to type a polite decline, then stopped. When was the last time someone had asked her to coffee? When was the last time anyone had noticed she looked sad?
Before she could second-guess herself, another text arrived: "This is Jake, by the way. The photographer from last night. I hope I'm not overstepping."
Jake Morrison. The freelance photographer who'd asked if she ever got tired of perfection. The one person all evening who'd seemed to see her as something more than just another beautiful socialite.
Anna's fingers hovered over her phone. She should delete the messages. She should block the number. She should go home and prepare for dinner with her husband like a good wife.
Instead, she found herself typing: "How did you get my number?"
His response came quickly: "I have my sources. Occupational hazard of being a photographer. So... coffee?"
Anna looked around the park, suddenly aware of how alone she was. Not just in this moment, but in her entire life. When was the last time she'd had a real conversation with someone who wasn't part of Alexander's carefully curated social circle?
"I can't," she typed, then immediately regretted it. Why couldn't she? Because Alexander wouldn't approve? Because Catherine would disapprove? Because perfect wives didn't have coffee with strange photographers?
"I understand," Jake texted back. "But if you change your mind, I'll be at Joe Coffee on the Upper West Side tomorrow at 2. No cameras, no agenda. Just coffee."
Anna stared at the message for a long time. A simple invitation to something normal, something real. The kind of thing she used to do before she became Mrs. Alexander Kingsley, before her life became a series of scheduled appearances and approved activities.
She didn't respond. But she didn't delete the message either.
By the time Anna returned to the penthouse, Alexander was already home, dressed in casual clothes that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. He was in his study, door closed, voice raised in what sounded like an argument with someone on the other end of his phone.
Anna changed into a simple black dress—nothing too flashy for a quiet dinner at home, nothing that might suggest she was trying too hard or not trying hard enough. Everything with Alexander was a calculation.
She found him in the dining room, sitting at the head of their massive table, scrolling through his tablet while their private chef set out dinner. The table could seat twelve, but it was just the two of them, separated by several feet of polished wood and eight years of accumulated silence.
"How was lunch with Mother?" Alexander asked without looking up.
"Fine. She's excited about the foundation fundraiser."
"Good. I need you to be more engaged with that project. The optics are important right now."
Optics. Everything was always about optics with Alexander. How things looked, how they appeared to the world, how they reflected on his reputation.
Anna picked at her dinner—some elaborate fish dish that tasted like nothing. "She mentioned I seemed distant lately."
Alexander's eyes flicked up from his screen. "Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Seem distant. You've been... different. Less focused."
Anna set down her fork. "Different how?"
"Distracted. Going through the motions. Last night at the gala, I had to remind you to smile three times."
There it was—the criticism Catherine had warned her about. Anna's performance hadn't been up to standard.
"I smiled plenty," Anna said quietly.
"You smiled when I told you to. That's not the same thing." Alexander leaned back in his chair, studying her like she was a problem to be solved. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
The question hung in the air between them. Was there something she needed to tell him? That she felt like she was disappearing? That their marriage felt like a business merger that had never paid emotional dividends? That she'd been thinking about a stranger's question for twenty-four hours because it was the first time in years someone had cared if she was happy?
"No," Anna said finally. "Nothing to tell."
Alexander nodded and returned to his tablet. Case closed. Problem addressed. Anna was supposed to go back to performing perfection now, and he was supposed to go back to ignoring her except when her behavior reflected poorly on him.
They finished dinner in silence.
Anna was getting ready for bed when her phone buzzed. She expected it to be Dolly, or maybe Bianca with some gossip from the gala. Instead, it was another unfamiliar number.
The message was short, cryptic: "See you tonight?"
Anna stared at the screen, her heart pounding. The number wasn't Jake's—she'd saved his contact information from earlier, though she hadn't responded to his coffee invitation. This was someone else entirely.
She checked the time. Nearly eleven PM. Who would text her this late? And what did they mean by "tonight"?
Anna glanced toward the bathroom where Alexander was brushing his teeth with the same methodical precision he applied to everything else. She could text back, ask who this was, demand an explanation.
Or she could pretend she never received it.
But as she stared at those four words—"See you tonight?"—something stirred in her chest. Something she hadn't felt in years.
Curiosity. Possibility. The electric thrill of the unknown.
Anna set the phone on her nightstand without responding, but she didn't delete the message. Instead, she lay in bed next to her sleeping husband, staring at the ceiling and wondering who in her carefully controlled world would dare to text her something so mysteriously intimate.
And why the thought of finding out made her feel more alive than she had in months.
.