The town car drifted through Manhattan like a shadow slipping past, silent and smooth. Anna pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the city blur by in streaks of light and shadow. Her lips still tingled where Victor's breath had almost grazed them. Her whole body was humming, adrenaline tangled with guilt, with something darker, something electric.
What had she nearly done?
The driver didn't glance once in the rearview mirror. Discretion was his mantra. She wondered how many other women he'd ferried home in the dead of night, escaping mistakes they wished they could erase.
Her phone lay dark in her lap. No texts, no calls. Just the quiet thrum of the engine.
By the time the car eased up to her building, her shaking hands had finally stilled. She slipped out and nodded at the night doorman, who pretended not to notice the late hour.
The penthouse was dark when she stepped inside. Moonlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting marble floors in a pale glow. Alexander's briefcase sat on the hall table, he was home. Probably asleep, confident she was exactly where she should be.
She kicked off her heels and padded barefoot through the space, heart pounding as she passed their bedroom. The door was cracked open. Inside, Alexander lay on his back, one arm shielding his eyes, breathing deep and even.
She exhaled, relief washing over her. Safe.
Grabbing a blanket from the linen closet, she curled up on the living room sofa instead. Sleep seemed impossible, and she didn't trust herself to lie beside him, not when her skin still burned with the memory of Victor, her pulse racing from the near-crossing of a line.
Hours dragged by. The city's lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling. Anna stared, replaying every word, every glance, every breath she and Victor had shared on that rooftop.
You deserve to be wanted.
She shut her eyes, but his voice echoed in the silence.
By dawn, she'd managed maybe an hour of restless sleep. She heard Alexander stirring, his morning routine precise and mechanical: shower, suit, coffee. He appeared in the living room doorway, sharp in a charcoal Tom Ford suit.
"You're up early," he said flatly.
Anna wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Couldn't sleep."
He studied her a moment, then checked his watch. "Back-to-back meetings today. Dinner with the Vanderbilts tonight. Wear the blue Valentino."
Not a question. A command.
"Of course," she said softly.
He nodded once and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Anna was alone again.
She grabbed her phone from the side table. Notifications flooded in, emails, calendar alerts, texts from her publicist.
Then she saw it.
An Instagram notification. Tagged by Bianca Travers.
Her stomach dropped.
With trembling fingers, Anna opened the app. Bianca's post was already viral. The photo was from the Broadway premiere, not last night, but it made no difference. The damage was done.
Anna's profile caught mid-laugh, Victor leaning close, body angled toward her like she was the only woman in the room. The lighting made it look intimate. Romantic. Dangerous.
The caption read: "Guess who's been whispering to whom? Manhattan loves a forbidden story."
Comments exploded.
"Is that Mrs. Kingsley???"
"He's SO into her. Look at the body language."
"Poor Alexander "
"Anna K can do better than her ice king husband tbh"
"Scandal incoming "
Anna's hands shook. She set the phone down before she could read more, but the words were burned into her mind.
She moved to the window. The city stretched out below like spilled diamonds, glittering, indifferent. Those lights once felt like power, proof she'd built something untouchable. Now they felt like spotlights, aimed straight at her.
The air in the penthouse suddenly felt too thin. She opened the balcony doors, stepped out, letting the cool morning air wash over her. Traffic hummed below. A helicopter buzzed in the distance. The city was waking up, ready to devour its next scandal.
Her phone buzzed inside.
She ignored it.
Buzzed again.
And again.
Finally, Anna grabbed it. More Instagram alerts. More comments. Her publicist calling. A text from Dolly: "Anna, are you okay? I saw the post."
Then, cutting through the noise, a message from an unknown number.
You shouldn't let them get to you.
Her breath caught. She knew that tone. That confidence.
Victor.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She should block him. Delete the message. Pretend last night never happened.
Instead, she typed: You shouldn't text me. It'll only make things worse.
The reply came instantly.
I don't lose. And I don't want to lose you.
Anna stared at the screen, her reflection faint in the glass door behind her, a woman in silk, hair undone, standing on the edge of everything she'd ever known.
The city buzzed below, oblivious. Inside, her heart pounded like it might burst.
She'd spent years building the perfect life, the perfect marriage, the perfect image. All a lie. Polished, cold, hollow.
Victor saw through it. He'd looked past the diamonds and gowns and seen her. The woman gasping for air beneath it all.
I don't want to lose you.
Her chest ached. She pressed her palm to it, trying to steady her breath.
Another message.
Tell me you don't feel this too. Tell me I'm imagining it, and I'll walk away.
Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, tears slipping down her cheeks.
She couldn't say that. It would be a lie.
She felt it. Every reckless, dangerous, impossible feeling.
Her fingers moved before she could stop them.
I feel it.
The moment she hit send, the world tilted.
No going back. No pretending. No more masks.
She'd lit the match.
And somewhere, Victor was smiling.
Anna set the phone on the balcony railing, wrapping her arms around herself. The morning sun climbed higher, painting the skyline gold, beautiful, brutal, unforgiving.
Her phone buzzed again.
She picked it up.
Then stop running.
Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled. Every logical thought screamed at her to stop, think, remember what was at stake.
But she was tired of being rational. Tired of being cold. Tired of pretending she didn't want to burn.
She typed three words, hitting send before she could hesitate.
Where and when?
The reply came seconds later.
Tonight. My place. I'll send a car.
Her knees nearly buckled. She gripped the railing, staring at the words like they might vanish.
This was madness. Alexander would be at dinner with the Vanderbilts. She was supposed to be there, in her blue Valentino, playing the perfect wife.
But Victor offered something else. Something real.
Her phone buzzed again.
Don't think. Just come.
Anna closed her eyes. The city's noise swirled around her.
Below, Manhattan pulsed with a thousand secrets, lovers sneaking away, scandals brewing, lives unraveling.
And now hers was about to join them.
She flipped the phone face down on the railing.
But it didn't matter.
The damage was done.
The fire she'd buried for years was awake now, wild and unstoppable.
Tonight, she would let it burn.