Anna gripped the bathroom counter like it might save her from herself, staring down her own reflection. The blue Valentino gown hung like a question mark on the back of the door. Her phone sat on the vanity, Victor's latest message still glowing like a dare.
Tonight. My place. I'll send a car.
Don't think. Just come.
She'd shot back Where and when? in one brief blaze of recklessness. But now, with Alexander's footsteps echoing through the apartment and the museum gala bearing down, reality crashed in hard.
What was she doing?
She couldn't pull this off. Couldn't torch her whole life for a man who'd made her feel alive for five minutes on a rooftop. Couldn't risk Sam, her marriage, the safe little world she'd built—for what? A handful of stolen seconds, a collection of whispered nothings.
Her fingers typed before her brain could catch up.
I can't. I'm sorry.
She pressed send and turned the phone facedown, heart thundering.
Three seconds later: buzz.
She refused to look.
"Anna?" Alexander's voice drifted in from the bedroom. "We're leaving in twenty."
She steadied her breathing. "Almost done."
Buzz. Buzz. She ignored them, slipping into the gown with trembling hands. The silk was cold as river water. She fastened her earrings, painted on lipstick, and became Mrs. Alexander Kingsley again.
Perfect. Impeccable. Untouchable.
When she finally dared check her phone, there was only one message from Victor.
You're afraid. I get it. But this isn't over.
She deleted it, then walked out to meet her husband.
The Met glowed like some kind of cathedral, all gold light and hushed voices. Outside, camera flashes sparked as town cars pulled up, spilling out the city's royalty for the night.
Anna stepped from the Rolls, midnight blue gown sweeping behind her, Alexander's arm steady at her side. Photographers barked her name. She smiled, slipping into her public face as easily as sliding on gloves.
Inside, everything shimmered, champagne flowing, strings sighing out Vivaldi, diamonds throwing sparks under the lights. Old money and new, everyone playing their parts.
Alexander handed her a glass of champagne, not bothering to ask if she wanted it. "Senator Williams is here. I need a few minutes."
"Of course," Anna said.
He kissed her cheek perfect, practiced, for the cameras, and vanished into the crowd.
She sipped her champagne, trying not to think about the texts she hadn't answered, the empty curb where Victor's car probably waited. She'd chosen safety, she reminded herself, over the wildfire that had been burning ever since that rooftop. She had to believe it was right.
"Mrs. Kingsley." Bianca Travers shimmered up beside her, silver dress catching the light, smile sharp as razors. "You're absolutely luminous tonight. Positively glowing."
"Thank you, Bianca."
Bianca's eyes glittered with mischief. "Did you see my little post yesterday? The engagement is off the charts. Everyone's talking."
Anna's grip on her glass tightened. "I saw."
"Good. Because between us?" Bianca leaned in, perfume thick and sweet. "Manhattan lives for scandal. You, darling, are getting very interesting."
Before Anna could reply, Bianca drifted away, leaving a cloud of poison behind.
Anna's chest tightened. She needed out, away from cameras, gossip, Bianca's knowing smirk.
She slipped through the crowd, heels ticking on marble, heading for the main exhibit. Here it was quiet, shadows stretching between Renaissance paintings and ancient sculptures.
The centerpiece held court at the far wall: Eros and Psyche, locked in a kiss that looked like heaven and damnation rolled into one. Caught between bliss and ruin.
Anna stopped, transfixed.
"You always find the places you shouldn't be," came a voice behind her—low, achingly familiar.
She didn't turn. "And you always follow."
Victor's reflection appeared in the glass over the painting. Tuxedo, bow tie askew, hair just messy enough to look intentional. He moved closer, warmth radiating off him.
"You didn't come," he murmured.
"I couldn't."
"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"
Anna finally turned. His eyes searched hers, hungry for answers she couldn't give.
"Does it matter?" she whispered.
"It does." He stepped closer, close enough to steal her breath. "If it's couldn't, there's hope. If it's wouldn't, I'll walk away."
The world fell away—just them, the painting, the soft echo of voices in the distance.
"This is dangerous," she said.
"So is pretending you don't feel it." His voice roughened. "So is going home to someone who treats you like a trophy."
"You don't know my marriage."
"I know what I see." He brushed a strand of hair from her face, fingers feather-light. "I see a woman who's forgotten what it means to be wanted, just for herself."
Anna blinked, eyes burning. "Victor—"
"Tell me you don't feel it," he breathed, thumb tracing her jaw. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll walk away. I mean it."
She should say it. She should lie and walk away clean.
But she couldn't.
"I can't," she whispered.
His eyes darkened. "Can't tell me you don't, or can't walk away?"
"Both."
The word hung between them, bare and raw.
Victor's hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. He drew her closer, so close she could feel his breath, see the gold in his eyes.
"Then stop running," he said, voice barely there.
Her whole body trembled. She knew she should step back, but she couldn't, he pulled her in like gravity.
"Someone could see," she managed.
"Let them."
His lips hovered a breath from hers, electricity crackling between them. The painting behind them seemed to glow, Eros and Psyche paused in their own impossible kiss.
Click.
A flash of light. Sharp, unmistakable.
Anna jerked back, panic clutching her chest. In the glass, she caught a flicker, someone had snapped a photo, now gone.
"Someone took our picture," she whispered, voice tight.
Victor's jaw clenched. He scanned the gallery, but whoever it was had vanished.
"It's fine," he said, but his tone was cold. "They talk anyway."
"You don't get it." Anna's hands shook. "In my world, talking is only the beginning. They ruin you."
He reached for her, thumb tracing her knuckles. "Let them try."
For a second, she wanted to believe him. But she knew how quick whispers became headlines, how fast everything could unravel.
She pulled her hand away, needing space—air.
"I have to go," she said.
"Anna—"
"Please," she pleaded, voice cracking.
He hesitated, then nodded, jaw set. "For now. Not forever."
She turned before she could cave, before she could let him pull her in again.
Her heels clicked a fast retreat as she left the gallery, his gaze burning holes in her back.
When she found Alexander, he was still chatting up Senator Williams, every gesture calculated. He glanced her way, nodded, and kept talking.
She was invisible. Always had been.
Anna grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing tray and downed half of it in one go.
Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.
The rest of the night blurred by—forced smiles, hollow talk. She felt Victor's presence, even when she couldn't see him, like a flame she couldn't quit.
By the end, her cheeks ached from pretending.
The car ride home was silent. Alexander scrolled his emails, unreadable as ever. Anna watched Manhattan blur by.
She didn't know that, miles away, someone was about to set her world on fire.
Page Six was buzzing, caffeine and computer screens everywhere. Marcus, the editor, hunched over his monitor, scrolling through the night's gala photos.
Then he stopped dead.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
There it was, Anna Kingsley, Manhattan's ice queen, caught with Victor Roman in front of Eros and Psyche. His hand at her face, their eyes locked, the lighting perfect and damning.
Marcus zoomed in, grinning.
"Hey, come here!" he called to his assistant. "We've got tomorrow's lead."
The assistant leaned in, whistled. "That's her, right?"
"Oh, it's her." Marcus typed fast, headline already forming:
Billionaire Beauty and the Golden Playboy?
He added a caption: Anna Kingsley, wife of Wall Street mogul Alexander Kingsley, caught in an intimate moment with VC bad boy Victor Roman at the Met. Sparks fly. Now what?
Marcus sat back, admiring his work.
"Put it up first thing. Front page. Push it everywhere."
His assistant was already on her phone.
With one click, the rumor was news.
And Anna's carefully built life began to unravel.