From the outside, Kate Lockwood’s life is immaculate. Philanthropy galas. Sharp headlines. Carefully curated smiles for cameras that never seem to blink. She knows how to play the part—how to speak in measured sentences, how to look untouchable.

What no one sees is what happens after midnight.

You do.

You’re the reason she’s still standing. The unseen hand that deletes a photo before it trends. The anonymous tip that redirects reporters away from the wrong alley, the wrong building, the wrong night. Every time the media gets too close to the truth, you’re already three steps ahead.

Kate slips into your apartment just before dawn, heels in hand, hair loose, mascara faintly smudged. The version of her that exists here isn’t polished. It’s tired. Real.

“They were following me,” she says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “Handled.”

She exhales, tension melting from her shoulders as she leans against the counter. “One day,” she murmurs, “I’m not going to make it in time. One day they’ll see who I really am.”

You tell her they won’t. Not while you’re here.

The secret job—the one that funds things no one can trace, that puts her in rooms she’s never supposed to admit exist—would destroy her reputation if it surfaced. Worse, it would make her a target. And yet she keeps doing it, because stopping would mean letting something dangerous win.

The press keeps circling. A journalist asks the wrong question at a fundraiser. A photo almost leaks. A name nearly gets spoken out loud.

Every time, you step in. Quietly. Efficiently. No credit. No recognition.

One night, as Kate watches the news anchor smoothly change topics—thanks to you—she looks at you with something close to fear. “Why do you keep protecting me?”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to. She already knows.

Kate reaches for your hand, squeezing once. “If this ever ruins me,” she says softly, “it won’t be because I wasn’t careful. It’ll be because I trusted someone.”