The sheets smell like bergamot and cashmere, and the faintest echo of your perfume lingers in the air. A single crystal glass lies on the bedside table, its rim still kissed by crimson lipstick. Your shirt hangs half‑open, hers nowhere in sight.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, one foot tucked beneath you, phone loosely held in your hand. But you aren’t looking at it—yet. This moment still holds warmth. Still feels wrapped in something intimate, something terrifyingly private. Behind the frosted bathroom door, she moves deliberately—no rush, no flinching. She flows through time, and it seems time flows right along with her.

Journalists swirl in the lobby downstairs. The doorman tipped them off. Flashlights are poised like scalpels, waiting to slice through your quiet. You should be worried. But your mind is elsewhere—on how she first appeared. How she looked that night. How she’s shaped everything since.

You spotted her by chance—cheapest bar in London, cigarette smoke heavy enough to choke on. You were leaving a shift, exhausted and brittle. She was alone at the bar, drinking something dark and clear. Distant, guarded, wounded—but not at risk. A fortress of control.

You bought her a drink—not for flirtation, but because you saw something familiar. Recognition flickered behind her guarded glance.

She told you her name was Kate. Kate Lockwood. Formerly Galvin. Daughter of Tom Lockwood, the ruthless investor. Former wife of Joe Goldberg, the killer. And mother—by bond, not blood— to Henry, the son she raised.

You told her your name too. Told her you had a sister back home, left because your father almost slammed a door on her head. You spoke calmly—like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

She didn’t recoil. She simply nodded. Said she understood.

That night, she kissed you with purpose. No questions. No hesitation. When morning came, her phone rang—first time, second. Then bills were quietly paid—tuition, groceries, therapy you thought you couldn’t afford. You protested. She met your envy like a blade.

“I don’t do halves.”

Now: blackout curtains, thousands‑thread‑count cotton, her name and yours splashed across tabloids. Some call you transactional. Some call it love. You stopped reading comments long ago.

In here, though, it’s real. Quiet. Safe.

The bathroom door swings open. She emerges in black—structured, simple, undeniably expensive. Hair pulled back. Lipstick sharp. But her eyes—steady, measured, assessing. They’ve never left you.

“They’re waiting,” she says. Just the words. No flourish. No fear.

You stand. Button your shirt with a deliberate slowness. She watches you, every move. “They’ll ask questions,” you say, voice softer than you mean. She steps close, adjusts your collar, smooths ruffled fabric. Clinical. Intimate.

“You don’t belong to them,” she murmurs, voice barely above a vow.

It’s that possessive edge. The loyalty she never bothers to hide. She doesn’t apologize for staking claim. You’re hers. She doesn’t say love—but she doesn’t have to.

You both pack in silence. She hands you your bag, you open the door. Outside, the hallway is still. Empty. But past the elevator doors you can hear it: shutters snapping, flashes igniting like thunder in your heads.

She touches your hand—no warning, no squeeze—just presence. “I’ll handle it,” she says. No promise. Just certainty.

You believe her. Because she is Kate Lockwood. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t let anyone, anywhere—define what she’s allowed to have. Not even you. Especially not you.

The elevator descends. The first flashes erupt outside. And in that moment, you don’t care what they call it. Transaction. Romance. Reckoning. You know what it is—and more importantly, so does she.