“I own the building.”
“You can’t keep using that as an excuse for...”
His mouth moves to my collarbone, and I forget what I was objecting to. His hands slide up my thighs, and my fingers are in his hair, and the desk is cold beneath me but his body is warm against me, and somewhere between his lips on my skin and his whispered “Zia” against my shoulder, the world outside this room ceases to exist.
After, when my blouse is retucked and my hair is re-pinned and I’m fairly certain the flush on my cheeks is going to announce to the entire fourteenth floor exactly what happened on the executive level, he holds the study door open for me and says,with composure that borders on offensive: “I’ll have Ruby send lunch down.”
Like the last twenty minutes were a meeting that went well.
I walk to the elevator with as much dignity as a woman whose legs are still unreliable can muster, and when the doors close and I’m alone, I press my back against the wall and grin at the ceiling like an idiot.
My phone buzzes.
I look down, still grinning, expecting Trish’s daily interrogation or maybe a message from Alexei, something dry and extraordinary like “You left an earring,” and the grin dies.
Unknown number.
I talked to my family. I told them they were wrong about you. I told them I should have fought. Zia, I’m fighting now. Please.
I stare at the screen. The elevator hums around me. The fluorescent light is too bright and the residual warmth from Alexei’s study is still on my skin, and here is Billy Stein, texting me from yet another number, using the wordfightinglike it’s something heroic when the real fight was two years ago and he surrendered without a single blow.
I block the number.
The elevator doors open. I walk out. I go back to my desk. I work on the V-Series humidity calibration until the flush fades and my heart rate returns to something that could belong to either the desk or the text and I choose to believe it’s the desk.
At three o’clock there’s a company-wide presentation in the main auditorium, quarterly review, the sort of thing that usedto mean sitting in the back row trying not to fall asleep. Now it means sitting in the front row because my husband is presenting, and the surreal, dizzying privilege of watching the Prince of Atlantis command a room of three hundred employees while knowing what his face looks like when he sleeps.
He’s magnetic at the podium. That stallion presence, amplified. Every eye in the room tracks him, and his voice fills the space without effort. He talks about growth projections and strategic partnerships with the Bellecourts, and I watch his mouth move and think about what that mouth was doing an hour ago and nearly combust in my seat.
Trish, sitting beside me, leans over.
“Your face is doing a thing,” she whispers.
“Shut up.”
“A very specific thing.”
“Trish.”
“I’m just saying. If thoughts were visible, yours won’t be safe for work.”
After the presentation, I’m gathering my tablet when I feel him behind me. Not touching. Just close. That gravitational shift.
We walk through the lobby together, side by side, his hand on my lower back, and people see us. Employees, delegates, visitors in the marble foyer. They see the Prince of Atlantis walking with his wife, and there is nothing secret about it. Nothing hidden. Nothing whispered or denied or kept behind closed doors.
Billy kept me in the dark for two years.
Alexei walks with me in the light.
The drive home is golden. Late afternoon light pouring through the windows, the mountains catching fire in the distance, and Alexei’s hand on my knee again. He’s telling me about a Lyccan trade negotiation that went sideways, and the way he describes it, bone-dry, with a single aside about the delegate’s negotiation skills that makes me snort-laugh so hard I embarrass myself, is a reminder that the man I married is unexpectedly, quietly funny, the sort that sneaks up on you.
We eat dinner in the kitchen because I asked and he agreed and I think it secretly delights him that his wife would rather sit on a counter stool and eat pasta than be served in the formal dining room that seats forty. He makes the pasta himself, sleeves rolled, dishcloth over his shoulder, that look of focused determination that says the fettuccine has personally wronged him, and I sit on the counter and steal pieces of basil and tell him about Trish’s collar theory and he does the almost-smile.
I’m telling him about Trish’s boyfriend’s 5 p.m. goodnight texts, how they arrive like clockwork, how Trish turns pink every single time, how she hides in the server room to read them, and he listens with that quiet attentiveness that makes you feel like the most interesting person in any room, and when I’m done, he says: “She should marry him.”
“They’ve been dating for two months.”
“I married you after a week.”
