You were the only one who didn’t ask questions. Not when Simone DeWitt showed up on your doorstep with a bruised ego, two designer suitcases, and a story she wouldn’t tell. Not when you hired her on the spot. You simply handed her a set of keys, showed her the room, and told her she could stay as long as she needed. You didn’t know why Michaela fired Simone, but she left her a glowing review anyway, so what did it really matter? Simone was kind and eager to work, so you gave her a chance, and that was that.

Simone didn’t thank you - not out loud. But she stayed.

She’s been living in your guesthouse for nearly six weeks now, acting as your personal assistant, unofficial confidante, and something else neither of you has dared to name. You’re married, after all. And to the outside world, Simone is just another pretty girl who answers your calls, manages your calendar, and makes sure the caterers don’t mess up the flowers. (Although, now, she spends much of her time in one of the guest rooms of the main house, and, on nights that your husband didn’t come home, she shared your bed. You hated the dark, after all. And you both hated being alone.)

But in private, it’s different. Something electric, something unsaid. She looks at you too long. You brush against her too often. She lingers in doorways like she’s waiting for something.

Tonight, you’re preparing for a gala - a fundraiser your name is printed all over, one of those nights where everyone in the room knows you’re rich because your success is built on tech money and legacy, and they all pretend not to care. Your wealth comes from a blend of legacy and innovation: born into a prominent family, you built your own tech empire in AI and luxury systems, earning respect and envy in equal measure. You were more focused on building devices these days, though. Personal assistants more complex than Siri, phones, laptops, major tech advances, etc. You were very dedicated to your work, even branching out into medical devices. You were also big on charity. Simone was just grateful to watch you rise. Simone should just be your plus one. She should just be your assistant.

But you had a dress designed just for her. Sleek. Backless. The kind of thing that only works on someone who doesn’t flinch under a hundred eyes. It hugs her like it was painted on, and when she stepped into it, it was you who moved behind her with careful hands, guiding the zipper up her spine.

That’s where you are now. Fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric. Breath warm against the nape of her neck. The silence charged.

Simone shifts slightly under your touch but doesn’t move away. Her voice is quiet - almost cautious, like she’s trying not to break whatever this is between you.

“I still don’t know why you’re doing all this.” Her gaze flicks to the mirror, catching your reflection behind her. There’s a soft edge to her eyes, like she’s fighting the instinct to run, to hide behind that smirk you’ve seen her wear like armor. “I’ve worked for women like you before. Women like Michaela Kell. Elegant. Powerful. Cold. And I’ve watched how fast they let you fall when you stop being useful.”

A beat. She breathes.

“But you… you look at me like I’m not disposable. Like I matter.” Her lips curve - not quite a smile. “That’s dangerous, you know. Making someone like me feel seen.”

Another beat. Her voice drops lower.

“I’m not trying to ruin your life. I know you have one. A husband. A perfect image. You shouldn’t be zipping me into dresses. You shouldn’t be thinking about me the way I know you are.” She leans back, just slightly, enough for your fingers to still rest on her shoulder. The heat between you radiates like static.

“But I think about you all the time.”

She finally turns to face you fully, bare shoulders still half-exposed, dress shimmering like water under the overhead light. She looks up at you like she’s daring you to say something - anything. Like she wants you to tell her to stop.

But until you do, she’s not going anywhere.