The bright lights of the Broadway marquee spilled gold across Times Square, turning the city's heart into a glittering stage. Sleek black cars pulled up, releasing Manhattan's crème de la crème onto the red carpet. Camera flashes erupted like stars, voices called out, and the summer night thrummed with anticipation.
Anna Kingsley emerged from the Rolls-Royce, Alexander's hand firm at her elbow. Draped in a crimson silk gown that hugged her figure, a diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist, catching the city's glow. She felt the cameras devour her image. Smile for the queen of Manhattan—the mask slid on effortlessly.
Alexander acknowledged the photographers with a practiced, cool smile. His tailored black suit made him look every bit the Wall Street king, but his grip on Anna's arm reminded her he was also the man who demanded perfection at every turn.
Tonight wasn't just about the show. It was a delicate dance of power, perception, and influence. Every handshake was a calculated move; every seat, a strategic placement. Anna knew her role well: to glide, to shine, to remain untouchable.
Inside, the lobby draped in velvet buzzed with champagne-fueled chatter. Socialites posed beneath glittering chandeliers, senators mingled with producers, and Bianca Travers held court in a shimmering silver dress. She caught Anna's eye, raising her glass in a sly salute, a silent reminder that the polo match gossip was far from over.
Anna's chest tightened at the memory of Dolly's words: The world never forgives women like us.
Lost in thought, she spotted him.
Victor Roman.
Leaning casually near the grand staircase, bowtie undone, tux jacket slung over one arm like the night was his playground. The crowd gravitated toward him, but his eyes locked on Anna with an intensity that made her pulse race.
She looked away quickly, pretending to study the program, but his gaze was a weight she couldn't shrug off.
Before long, he was at her side, the crowd parting as if for a golden ship cutting through water.
"Mrs. Kingsley," he said smoothly, a grin sharp as a knife. "Twice in one week, if I didn't know better, I'd say fate was playing games."
Anna steadied her breath. "Or maybe Manhattan just has very small circles."
"Don't spoil the mystery," Victor whispered, leaning close. His cologne, warm, wild, dangerous—brushed her senses. "I like the idea of fate."
Her skin warmed under his attention. She turned toward the stage, resisting. "Careful, Mr. Roman. People are watching."
"That's part of the fun." His smile deepened, voice dropping low. "Do you always look this flawless when you're pretending not to want something?"
Her heart skipped. She opened her mouth to scold but couldn't. He was right. She did want something—wanted to feel alive, seen, more than a trophy on Alexander's arm.
"You assume too much," she said, but the edge was gone.
"I assume nothing," Victor said, eyes steady. "I just observe. And what I see is a woman who's forgotten how to take risks."
Before she could reply, Alexander returned, flanked by a senator.
"Anna," he said.
Victor straightened, charm back in place. "Alexander," he greeted, shaking hands. "Congratulations on the bill's passage. Impressive work."
Alexander's eyes flicked between them, calculating. "Victor. Didn't expect you here."
"Couldn't resist," Victor smiled. "Art, politics, good company, the perfect mix."
Anna forced a polite smile, slipping back into her role. But Alexander's gaze lingered on her, sharp and searching.
The usher called guests to their seats. Alexander offered his arm; Anna took it, her hand trembling slightly. She glanced back once more.
Victor's eyes held hers, daring and unshaken.
And Alexander noticed.
His jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed as if a storm had just passed over his kingdom.
The show was brilliant, the lead actress's voice broke crystal, the orchestra swelled like waves, but Anna barely heard it. She was too aware of Alexander's tense stillness, the telling tap of his fingers on the armrest.
He was calculating.
When the curtain fell, Alexander rose at once, guiding her swiftly toward the exit. No lingering, no mingling, just a controlled retreat.
The ride home was quiet. City lights flickered past, but Anna felt his gaze burn into her.
Finally, he spoke.
"You were careless tonight."
Her throat tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
His eyes were cold, sharp as stone. "Don't insult me. I saw the way Roman looked at you. More importantly, I saw how you looked back."
Her breath caught. She wanted to deny it but couldn't.
"It meant nothing," she said softly.
"It was worse than nothing," Alexander snapped. "Do you understand what's at stake? You're not just my wife, you're my asset. Every photo, every headline, every whisper builds the Kingsley brand. One misstep, one scandal, and it all comes crashing down."
The word asset hit like a blow.
She turned to the window, blinking hard. Outside, the city pulsed with strangers who didn't know her, didn't expect perfection, didn't demand a show. For a moment, she longed to disappear into that freedom.
Alexander's voice cut through again, cold and practiced. "I married you because you know this world. You were born for it. Flawless, elegant, untouchable. Don't make me regret trusting your discipline."
Her fingers clenched the silk of her gown. He never spoke of love. To him, their marriage was a business deal. She was a trophy, not a woman with a heart that raced for another.
"Reputation matters most," Alexander said, sinking into the leather seat. "More than feelings. More than passing desire. Do you understand?"
Anna nodded stiffly. "Yes."
"Good." His expression softened just a touch, but his eyes stayed cold. "We won't speak of this again."
And that was that.
Back in the penthouse, Anna moved like a ghost through glittering rooms. She let the maid unlatch her gown, lock away her diamonds, and stare at herself under harsh lights—stripped bare.
But when she slipped into bed, lying beside her silent husband, her body still thrummed with Victor's memory, the spark in his eyes, the teasing words, the way he made her feel like a woman, not a prize.
Her pulse raced, restless in its cage.
Alexander's breathing deepened beside her, already asleep. He'd given his warning and considered it done. To him, Anna would obey. As always.
Her hand reached for her phone.
A message lit the screen.
No name. No greeting. Just three words:
Meet me. One hour. Don't say no.
Her breath caught, heart pounding so loudly she was sure Alexander would hear. She glanced at him—eyes closed, breathing smooth and slow, sure of his control.
Her fingers trembled.
An invitation. A temptation. A warning.
Anna stared, thumb hovering.
She should delete it. Block the number. Remember Dolly's tear-streaked voice: The world never forgives women like us.
Remember Alexander's cold words: You're my asset.
Remember the gilded cage.
But Victor made her feel alive.
Her fingers moved before her mind caught up.
She typed: Where?
The reply came instantly:
Rooftop. My penthouse. The car is waiting.
Her heart thundered. One last look at Alexander, peaceful, confident.
She slipped from the bed, pulled on a simple dress, grabbed her coat.
And stepped into the night.
Toward the fire that would burn it all down.