The room smelled faintly of smoke and whiskey, curtains drawn though it was already late. He sat in the armchair, coat draped carelessly over the side, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Papers littered the desk behind him, contracts, letters, names that weren’t yours.

You were there, as you always were, silent in the dim light, waiting for a sliver of his attention. When his eyes finally found you, the weight of them made your chest tighten. He looked at you like he wanted to keep you, like he needed you. But only here, behind closed doors.

He didn’t say her name, didn’t have to. You’d seen the way the world shifted when she entered a room, the way everyone already knew her place in his life. Yours was the secret one.

He reached for you, knuckles brushing your hand, softer than the reputation that followed him. For a moment it almost felt like enough.