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Chapter Text

Prologue – Arrival in New York (2013)

The brownstone on the corner of 5th Avenue and East 61st Street was the sort of house that could impress strangers and intimidate the timid. Its’ tall windows framed grand views of the tree-lined street, its polished wood floors reflected the afternoon sunlight, and the rooms were filled with antique artwork and pieces passed down through generations of Brooks, Van Rhijns and Livingstons. The house felt impossibly large to 17 year old Marian Brook as she stood on the threshold of the living room, her small suitcase resting at her side. The walls reaching up to the high ceilings were covered with a luxurious jacquard wallpaper that had perhaps started to fade in places where the sun had caught it, punctuated by gilded frames containing portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow her with quiet judgment. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, dust motes suspended in the golden glow, giving the entire room a kind of ethereal hush.

Marian’s aunts, Agnes Van Rhijn and Ada Brook, were waiting for her in the living room. Agnes, the elder by nearly sixteen years to Marian’s late father Henry, carried the poise of someone born to command attention. Once a renowned socialite and model, she had graced magazine covers and society pages in her youth, and even now, at over sixty years of age, she remained strikingly beautiful. Her tall frame, perfectly styled light blonde hair, and impeccably tailored cream boucle dress and pearls made her presence almost regal. Her attention, not long held by the teenager before her, was already at one of the bay windows peering out, her hands clasped behind her back as she inspected the street below.

“Monstrosity,” she muttered, almost to herself, a disapproving moan that carried across the room.

Ada, a few years younger than Agnes, was gentler in appearance, rounder in figure and softer in expression, but no less distinguished in looks. The two women had inherited not just wealth but a deep sense of history, their family dating back centuries in Manhattan and boasting several famous ancestors whose portraits hung in the brownstone. She sat primly on a settee, hands folded in her lap, and peered cautiously at her sister.

“Monstrosity?” she echoed gently, as though testing whether her sister’s vocabulary had faltered.

Agnes waved a hand in the direction of the mansion across the road, opposite the Van Rhijn House. “The Russells,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “For all his tech billions, that George Russell has no taste, and Bertha Russell even less so. None. They’re taking that poor old Gilded Age mansion across the way and ripping it apart. Modernizing everything. Stainless steel balconies, glass walls, the most egregious chandeliers. It’s hideous, Ada. Absolutely hideous.”

Marian, tall and blonde like everyone in the family, watched her aunts quietly, the words washing over her. She bore the high-cheekboned elegance and calm confidence of the Brooks, though at seventeen, her grief still shadowed her features. Her father, General Henry Brook, had been killed six months earlier in active service in the Middle East. It had been all over the news with sympathy from every direction. But even so, it left her uprooted at the end of the summer term at Boarding School as there was nobody to pay next year’s fees and sent to live with the women she had always heard about and not necessarily in the best way.

Ada gave a small, reassuring nod in Marian’s direction. “Don’t mind Agnes, dear,” she said softly. “She simply has… high standards. That is all.”

Marian managed a small, polite smile, her fingers tightening around the mobile phone in her pocket. The brownstone, so beautiful and imposing, suddenly felt like both a refuge and a cage. She had lost her father, the one person who had always felt like home, and now she was under the roof of her aunts: wealthy, elegant, exacting, and undeniably formidable. Even with Ada’s gentle presence, she felt small and uncertain.

After breakfast that morning, Marian was tasked with a simple errand: walking Pumpkin, Ada’s cocker spaniel puppy whilst her aunts and the housekeeper sorted her room out. The small dog, fur the color of spun caramel, had already bounded energetically around the living room, sniffing the corners and wagging his tail so hard his stubby legs could barely keep up. Marian knelt to secure the leash, finding a quiet sort of comfort in the puppy’s chaotic energy.

By the time she reached the street, the midday early summer sunlight was sparkling off the sidewalks and the scaffolding that still covered the Russell mansion across the way. Five times the size of any other house on the road it appeared more of a palace to Marian, with the removal trucks carrying the family’s belongings coming and going, their drivers barking instructions over radios. Marian adjusted Pumpkin’s leash, careful to keep the puppy from darting off too eagerly.

And yet, despite her vigilance, Pumpkin did exactly what she feared whilst she was distracted watching the Russell mansion: with a sudden burst of excitement, he tore from her grasp, bolting into the street.

“Pumpkin! No!” Marian shouted, rushing after him. Her shoes clicking against the pavement as she ran, panic prickling her chest.

A moment later, a boy, tall, lean, and with a mop of dark curly hair stepped between her and the oncoming traffic. He scooped Pumpkin up with ease, holding him safely in his arms.

“Whoa there,” he said, grinning. “This little guy has a death wish?”

Marian skidded to a halt, panting slightly. “Thank you! I - he’s… he’s not usually like this.” Her voice caught for a fraction of a second, and she looked down at Pumpkin, who wagged his tail enthusiastically, oblivious to his near demise.

The boy held Pumpkin at arm’s length, examining him with amusement. “You’re a Van Rhijn, aren’t you?” he asked. His tone was curious, not accusatory, though there was a trace of recognition in his eyes.

Marian blinked, a bit startled. “Yes. Well, sort of. Agnes Van Rhijn is my aunt… I’m Marian Brook,” she said, her words cautious, polite.

The boy nodded thoughtfully, as if putting pieces together in his mind. “Ah,” he said. “I went to high school with Oscar Van Rhijn, your cousin. He was a couple of years ahead of me.” He smiled faintly. “Small world. I’m Larry Russell.”

Marian studied him for a moment, noting the easy confidence in his posture, the subtle tilt of his head, and the hint of mischief in his eyes. “Russell… as in… the house across the street?” she asked, gesturing toward the scaffolding-covered mansion with the trucks parked outside.

Larry glanced over, then back at her. “Yeah. I’m just home from my first year at Harvard for the summer. We’re just moving in… finally finished renovations. So we’ll be neighbours - or will be soon enough.” His tone was casual, but his smile and eyes lingered on her in a way that suggested genuine interest, not mere politeness.

Marian swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. “I-I… just moved here,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “After… my father… he died recently. My family-” She stopped, feeling her eyes sting, the tears threatening.

Larry’s expression shifted instantly from casual amusement to immediate recognition and concern. “Oh… I - yes, I saw it on the news. I’m so sorry.” There was a pause as he put a caring hand on her upper arm, just long enough for Marian to appreciate the sincerity in his voice. She hadn’t expected anyone, especially not some older Harvard boy she didn’t know, to acknowledge her loss with such genuine care.

Marian managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said softly, brushing at her eyes. “And… thank you for rescuing Pumpkin. I think we should head home now, after all this excitement.”

Larry held the puppy in one arm and regarded her thoughtfully. “Hold on,” he said. “Do you… have BBM?”

Marian blinked. “BBM?”

“BlackBerry Messenger,” he clarified with a faint grin.

“Oh, yes I know th-“ Marian tried to reply. Was he asking for her number?

“Can I… add you? I’m home all summer… maybe we could… hang out. As neighbors. I have a younger sister too.”

Marian’s lips curved into a genuine smile. Despite the tears and the heartbreak of recent months, this moment felt comforting, grounding, even hopeful. She would have a friend here after all.

“Yes,” she said. She dug her BlackBerry phone from the side pocket of her jeans and handed it to him.

Larry entered the details and for a moment, they stood there, watching Pumpkin wag his tail between them, oblivious to the nascent friendship being forged.

“You’ve got a brave little one,” Larry said finally, handing the phone back to Marian. “Not many dogs would try to cross New York traffic without thinking twice.”

Marian laughed softly, a sound that felt new in her ears. “Yes… I think he’s going to keep me on my toes.” She adjusted the leash, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you… really, for everything.”

Larry nodded. “No problem. I’d say it’s my good deed for the day.” He grinned, and Marian felt the faintest flicker of warmth in her chest. “See you around, Marian.”

“You will,” she said firmly, and for the first time since she’d arrived in New York, she felt something like belonging.

As she walked back toward the Van Rhijn brownstone, Pumpkin trotting obediently beside her now, Marian allowed herself a glance across the street at the Russell mansion. The scaffolding, the trucks, the modern renovations, it all seemed less imposing than it had this morning. Across the road, a boy she would come to know as Larry Russell was standing, hands in his pockets, surveying the street. Somehow, she had the distinct sense that life in New York, even in its most terrifying and opulent forms, was about to become a little more… interesting.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – The Setup

11 years later…

The Van Rhijn name still meant something in New York, though whether that was good or bad depended on who you asked. To Agnes Van Rhijn, it meant history, lineage, and an unassailable place among the old guard of society in the Upper East Side. To Marian Brook, her niece, it meant a suffocating whirl of matchmaking cocktail parties and forced introductions she had not asked for and did not enjoy.

Tonight was another one of those nights.

The Fanes were hosting, which meant her older cousin Aurora had hand-picked the guest list. Aurora’s parties always carried a faint scent of old New York glamour, no doubt at Aunt Agnes’s insistence. Every man with an Ivy League degree and a trust fund was considered fair game to push towards Marian. The matchmaking was as unsubtle as it was exhausting.

Marian stood politely at a table near the back of the crowded room, her pale blue silk slip dress gleaming under the soft ambience lighting. She shifted slightly in her strappy heels, smiling through the slurred monologue of Edward Morgan, a young Wall Street banker who seemed to believe that quoting quarterly earnings made him irresistible.

“…and when the market swung back in April-” Edward hiccupped, nearly spilling his scotch onto her dress, “-I told my boss we needed to short the Eurobond futures. Brilliant call, if I do say so myself.”

Marian nodded, her smile fixed. “I see.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm and sour with liquor. “You know, Marian, you have the most incredible eyes. Have I told you that? They’re like… like…” He squinted as if he had to locate the right metaphor on the horizon. “Like two Tiffany diamonds.”

Marian fought the urge to sigh. Aurora had done it again: set her up with a man whose sense of self vastly outweighed his charm.

“I think you’re looking at my earrings Edward…”

Edward’s brow furrowed, confused, as he attempted to stand, stumbled and knocked over a glass from the next table. “Oops! My bad.”

Several guests turned to look. Aurora, standing across the room, sent Marian a wide-eyed, imploring glance simultaneously apologising and asking her to just try. Marian lifted her champagne flute to her lips, praying silently for an escape.

And then she heard a familiar, deep voice.

“Darling, there you are.”

Marian blinked and turned. Larry Russell stood a few feet away, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit his frame a little too perfectly. His dark curls flopped into his eyes in that careless way that made women, and if Marian was honest, men too, notice him instantly.

“Larry,” Marian breathed, genuine delight flooding her voice. “When did you get back?”

“Today,” he said smoothly, his eyes crinkling with mischief as he slid a hand obviously around her shoulders. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was murder.”

Edward frowned, his face flushing. “Excuse me-”

“Oh, sorry. We haven’t met” Larry cut in, extending a hand with all the easy confidence of someone used to commanding a room. “Lawrence Russell. Marian’s boyfriend and you are…?”

For a beat, the words hung in the air, shimmering with audacity.

Marian felt her lips twitch into a smile. Boyfriend? He hadn’t even warned her. And yet the relief she felt at being rescued from Edward’s clumsy advances was so overwhelming she wanted to laugh.

Edward blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. He muttered something about needing another drink and staggered off.

Marian turned to Larry, barely containing her amusement. “Boyfriend? Really?”

He grinned, boyish and unrepentant. “Seemed like you needed saving.” He said whilst taking her glass of champagne off her and finishing it in one gulp, “You’re welcome.”

She laughed, the tension of the evening sliding off her shoulders. “I did, actually. Thank you. I don’t think I could’ve endured another monologue about bond yields.”

Larry chuckled and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You look incredible, by the way Brook.” His eyes flicked briefly down her slip dress and back up, and Marian felt a heat rise to her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Then, gathering herself, she asked, “So, how are you? How’s LA? Or were you in London? Singapore? You never sit still.”

He chuckled. “Just Dallas this time. Dad has me working on a project, architecture meets tech, I’ll bore you with the details later. But I wasn’t about to miss Aurora’s infamous parties. I knew you’d be suffering somewhere in here.”

Marian laughed again, the sound genuine this time. He always had that effect on her, lifting the heaviness, making her forget the ache that still lingered from her ex Tom Raikes’s betrayal and the resultant break up.

“Come on,” Larry said suddenly. “Let’s get out of here. At least out of this room.”

Before she could protest, he snagged a chilled bottle of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and tugged her toward the terrace.

“Larry!” she hissed, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You just stole that.”

“Liberated,” he corrected, popping the cork with a mischievous grin and flick of his thumb. “Your cousin will never miss it.”

They stepped into the cool night air, the hum of traffic mixing with the muffled strains of music from inside. Larry handed her the bottle.

“To surviving Aurora’s matchmaking,” he toasted.

Marian raised it in salute and took a swig, the bubbles tickling her nose. They passed the bottle back and forth, leaning against the stone balustrade like co-conspirators.

After a while, Larry shifted looking around before finalising his gaze at the steps, pulling his leather wallet from his back pocket. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Put this in your purse? These pants are too tight to sit on it.”

Marian arched a brow, teasing. “Whose fault is that? You’re the one wearing them.”

He smirked. “Occupational hazard of being Bertha Russell’s son. Fashion before comfort.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped the wallet into her small evening clutch.

Later, when they were in a cab back to Fifth Ave and East 61^st Street, Larry asked for cash to pay the taxi, she opened the wallet. Inside, nestled between crisp bills and a sleek Amex card, was a dogeared old photo.

Her breath caught.

It was them, ten years ago. Her senior prom.

In the photo, Marian stood in a shimmering navy gown, awkwardly clutching a bouquet. Beside her, Larry in a tux, his hair longer, but still unruly, grinning like the world was theirs. Ada had taken the photo in the brownstone hallway, insisting on “one for posterity.”

Marian’s throat tightened. She smiled at the memory, at the boy who had come back from Harvard just to be her date when she had no one else.

She slid the photo back into the wallet without comment, but her heart swelled. He still carried it.

Flashback: Prom, 2014

Eighteen-year old Marian had stood at the bottom of the Van Rhijn staircase in her prom dress, nerves fluttering. Yesterday, she had thought she’d just not go to the Prom rather than alone after her date backed out, but Larry had texted from Harvard: Got your back. Save me a dance. L.

And sure enough, there he was on the night, arriving in a tux that fit slightly too tightly as he filled out, his curls combed but still rebellious.

“You look like you stepped out of Vogue,” he’d said, grinning as Ada fussed with his bowtie. “Seriously, Marian, you’re going to make the whole school jealous.”

She’d rolled her eyes but smiled, warmth flooding her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But I’m also technically your date.” He said as he slung his arms around her shoulders. “And tonight, it's my job to be nice to you.”

Ada had snapped the photo then on her digital camera, beaming at them.

Back in the cab in 2024, Marian tucked the wallet away, saying nothing, but her lips curved in a private smile. Some things never changed.

“Hey,” Larry said gently, pulling her from her thoughts. “How are you really? Since Tom Raikes?”

Marian sighed, her gaze drifting to the city lights outside. “Still bruised. Still a little numb, if I’m honest. It’s not nice, being cheated on.”

Larry’s jaw tightened. “He’s an idiot.”

She snorted softly. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Silence settled for a beat, companionable, threaded with unspoken things.

Larry nudged her shoulder. “You know I’ve got your back, right? Always.”

Marian turned her head, meeting his eyes. The cab rolled on, the city buzzing around them, but for a moment it felt like they were suspended in time.

She smiled. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – The Scandal’s Shadow

The trouble started with Marian’s phone buzzing.

She was perched on one of the high-backed stools at the Van Rhijn kitchen island, a space Agnes still referred to as “that vulgar modern addition” even though the renovation had been done nearly twenty years ago. Morning light streamed in through tall sash windows, catching on the polished marble counters and stacks of mismatched mugs Ada insisted on keeping.

Marian had made herself tea and a bowl of granola, intending to paint later in her studio before teaching her afternoon art class. Instead, her phone was lighting up like a Broadway marquee.

Buzz.
Buzz-buzz.
Ping.

She frowned, scrolling through the notifications. Push alerts from the New York Times, Page Six, People, and, God help her, TMZ.

The headlines made her stomach flip.

“Billionaire Heir in Newport Love Nest with TV Star Susan Blaine”

“Lawrence Russell, 29, Linked to Married TV Anchor 30 Years His Senior”

“Scandal at RussellCorp: Family in Damage Control After Affair Revealed”

Marian’s eyes widened as she tapped one. The article unfurled in garish detail. With equally garish photographs.

Susan Blaine. Of course she knew the name. America knew the name. The impeccably coiffed television anchor who had been a staple of morning shows since Marian was a child, the same Susan whose best-selling memoir had been made into a Netflix docuseries. Her husband, the philanthropic venture capitalist, had nearly died of cancer earlier this year.

And apparently, Susan Blaine had been having a torrid affair with… Larry.

Marian set the phone down, rubbed her temples, and let out a disbelieving scoff of laughter. Larry Russell. Of course.

She scrolled further. More photographs. Long lens Paparazzi shots of him at Susan’s new oceanfront mansion in Newport, lounging naked by her swimming pool, sunglasses shoved into his curls. A blurry night photo of them in the back of a black car, faces close together.

Her stomach twisted with something that was half disbelief and half… something else she couldn’t name.

Buzz. Another notification. This one wasn’t from a news app but a text.

Larry: Come over.

No preamble, no explanation. Just that.

Marian stared at it, then sighed. She slid her phone into her hoodie pocket, pulled the baseball cap low over her brow, and slipped out of the brownstone.

The Russell house loomed across the street like a palace transported from another age. Even in the bright sweep of morning, its marble façade gleamed, massive Corinthian columns dwarfing the pedestrians who hurried by. Unlike most of old Fifth Avenue, which had been demolished and modernized, the Russell house remained almost exactly as it had been built a century and a half ago by some Gilded Age millionaire.

The security guard at the gates nodded. “Miss Brook?”

She pulled up her cap, cheeks warming at the familiarity. “Yes. It’s me.”

“Mr. Larry’s expecting you.”

The great hall swallowed her as she stepped inside the front door. Its soaring ceiling stretched nearly four stories, a marble staircase sweeping upward in a dramatic curve. The space smelled faintly of polished stone and lemon oil, the hush broken only by the squeak of her Birkenstocks on the floor.

She craned her neck. Paintings the size of billboards hung along the walls, originals, not prints, collected by George Russell himself. Agnes had once called it “a museum pretending to be a house.” The irony was not lost on Marian.

Then came the soft sound of bare feet on stone.

“Hey.”

Larry padded down the staircase, hair sticking up like he’d only just rolled out of bed. He wore shorts and a worn Harvard T-shirt, the crimson faded to a softer maroon. The sight made Marian laugh despite herself.

“Very collegiate,” she teased.

He grinned. “This is my work-from-home uniform.”

The housekeeper appeared, a trim Scottish woman in her fifties. “Coffee, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Yes, thanks, Mrs. Bruce. Americano for me, skinny vanilla latte with one shot for Marian.”

Marian blinked. “How did you-”

He shot her a sideways eye roll. “I know what you like Marian...”

Her lips curved despite herself.

“Come on.” Larry gestured for her to follow him upstairs. They wove through hallway lined with gilt-framed mirrors and marble columns until they reached the TV room.

If the great hall was a museum, the TV room was a retreat: huge windows overlooking the landscaped courtyard, contemporary art breaking up the traditional walls, and the largest sectional sofa Marian had ever seen. Larry collapsed onto it, patting the spot beside him.

Marian sunk down into it, tucking her legs under herself. “Okay,” she said carefully. “So. Is it true?”

Larry ran a hand through his hair. His jaw tightened. “Yeah, Mar. It’s true.”

Marian swallowed. “All of it?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Not all. The press doesn’t even have the half of it. But what they do have is enough to make me look like some playboy who preys on married older women and runs around Newport naked. They don’t know Susan and her husband have been separated for years and now my ass cheeks are literally on the front every magazine on every news stand. It’s wrecking the company’s stock. Dad’s had to fly to L.A. for a board meeting. Mom’s… God.” He scrubbed his unshaven face. “Mom’s furious. She’s in Dubai right now, been blowing up my phone since 5am.”

Marian winced. “Larry… Susan Blaine? Really? She’s your mother’s age.”

He groaned. “Why does everyone keep reminding me of that?”

“Because it’s insane,” she said, though her lips twitched. “You really do know how to pick them.”

He threw the remote at her chest. “Here. You pick.”

Marian caught it, laughing. “Smooth deflection.”

“I’m serious. Pick something.”

She scrolled through the options. “Fine. If you put The Last Kingdom on again, I swear I’m leaving.”

Larry looked mock-offended. “Excuse me? That’s art.”

“It’s men in leather shouting at each other with swords.”

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes, but the heaviness eased.

Mrs. Bruce returned, placing a tray of drinks on the coffee table. Americano for Larry. Skinny vanilla latte, one shot, for Marian. The scent curled upward, familiar and comforting.

Marian sipped, then glanced at him. “So… what’s your plan? How do you get out of this mess?”

He leaned back, rubbing his face. “Apparently, I’m singlehandedly destroying the Russell name. I look like a playboy who can’t keep it in his pants, and it’s hurting the company. The shareholders are circling like sharks. Dad’s exasperated. Mom’s… God.” He dropped his hand, looking at her. “I don’t know, Mar. I’m tired of being everyone’s favorite tabloid punchline when I’m a good person and work hard.”

Larry sighed. “Apparently, my life is an open wound for public consumption. The shareholders think I’m reckless. The press think I’m a walking cliché at best, a womanising playboy at worst. Dad’s worried I’m going to tank the company’s reputation.”

“You might,” Marian teased softly, then added more seriously: “You need to show people you’re not just… that. You need to rehabilitate your image. Show them the real Larry—the one I know.”

Larry tilted his head, considering. Then a spark lit in his eyes.

“Wait. That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“What if people thought I was in a relationship, like, a real one. Stable. Respectable. Someone they think has saved me, or whatever.”

Marian blinked. “You mean… like a fake girlfriend?”

“Yes.” He leaned closer, grinning now. “Exactly like that.”

She laughed, incredulous. “Larry.”

“Think about it Brook. It’d kill the Susan Blaine narrative. Give the press a wholesome fairytale to chew on. I’d stop looking like the guy who can’t keep it in his pants.”

“Wait, what! Me?” Marian turned to him with her eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

“Come on Marian,” Larry leaned forward fixing her with his most charming grin

Marian raised a brow. “This is possibly the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said…and that’s saying something.”

“It’s not just for me. You’d get Agnes and Aurora off your back. No more dreadful set ups with corporate drones and hedgefund managers. You’d look independent, not heartbroken. No more pitying looks after Tom Raikes. Win-win.”

She stiffened at the name. “Oh please don’t bring up Tom.”

Larry tilted his head. “I thought we weren’t saying his name.”

“You just did!”

“Fine.” Larry rolled his eyes. “He-who-shall-not-be-named. Happy?” She glared, but he only smirked. “Come on, Mar. I know what he did. Or should I say who. Cissy Bingham?” His nose wrinkled. “You deserved better.”

The sting of it still flared in her chest. She wrapped her hands around the mug. “He was supposed to be safe. A lawyer. Steady. Agnes was thrilled. And then he…” She swallowed. “He made me feel like a fool. I wasn’t enough for him or he didn’t think I would amount to enough in status or success in life for him. One of the two.”

Larry lowered his head, “Want me to have him assassinated?” he whispered.

Marian laughed, startled. “What?”

“I’m serious. Dad knows people.” He leaned closer, voice dropping theatrically. “We could make it look like an accident.”

She burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”

He grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe I just hate seeing you hurt.”

Her smile faltered. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Then Larry leaned back, breaking it. “All right, fine. No assassination. But I can definitely get Jeff B. to block him on Amazon. Every device, every account.”

She hesitated. Her mind flitted to Tom Raikes, to the humiliation of learning he’d cheated with Cissy Bingham of all people. To Aurora’s pitying looks, Agnes’s sighs. To last night, when Larry had rescued her with a single word: girlfriend.

It had felt good. Too good.

“So. You’re serious?” she asked finally.

“Dead serious. The weasel will never order toilet paper again.”

Marian looked at him. “No, stupid. About this phony PR relationship.” His dark curls, his easy grin, the way he was watching her like she was the missing piece of some puzzle.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Absolutely.”

“All right,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

Larry fist bumped the air before flopping back on the sofa.

Marian snorted, nearly spilling her latte. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“But you’re smiling,” he pointed out.

And she was.

Chapter Text

Nearly a week had passed since the deal Marian and Larry had struck at Russell House. The rambling corridors of the Van Rhijn house felt strangely hollow without Agnes and Ada’s usual presence.

Having recently returned home after teaching watercolours all morning, Marian padded barefoot into the formal sitting room, phone tucked against her ear as Oscar’s voice crackled down the line. He was in Newport, staying with Enid Winterton whilst plotting whatever dubious “investment” he claimed to be considering.

“I promise you, Marian,” Oscar was saying with that drawl of exaggerated patience, “there is no reason to worry. Enid and I understand one another perfectly. A joint business venture of mutual advantage, nothing more. We’d both be free to explore other opportunities separately.

Marian rolled her eyes, sinking onto the chaise. “Oscar, you can’t reduce multi-million dollar investments to some sort of informal open relationship you don’t know that well. Enid Winterton isn’t trustworthy. She was fired when working for Bertha Russell you know. If you need a silent partner to stump up the cash, can John not help?”

“You’d be surprised how often it works. Besides, asking John isn’t a good idea. Love can be a liability. Look at you.”

Her grip on the phone tightened. “Excuse me?”

“Tom Raikes,” he said smoothly. “Case in point. You put your trust in romance, and where did it leave you?”

Marian’s chest prickled with irritation. “I have to go.”

“Marian-”

She ended the call, exhaling through her nose and tossing her mobile phone down on to the side with perhaps more force than was warranted.

The sound of the front door opening pulled her from her frustration. A familiar voice called through the hall:

“Hello? Marian?”

Peggy Scott swept into the room, overnight bag over one shoulder, her expression both warm and weary.

Marian brightened immediately. “Peggy!” she exclaimed as she rushed towards her friend.

They embraced, the hug long and grounding.

“You’re staying?” Marian asked hopefully.

Peggy smiled ruefully, adjusting her bag. “Only for work, sadly. Agnes has me buried under correspondence. She may be in the South of France, but her emails have not taken a holiday. And the Heritage Society gala is in chaos without her. I’ve got meetings downtown this afternoon.”

Marian laughed softly. “That sounds… very Agnes.”

Peggy studied her a moment, then her eyes narrowed, teasing. “So. I see Larry’s back in New York full time?”

Marian’s cheeks warmed instantly. “Yes. He’s across the street again. Just like old times.”

Peggy tilted her head knowingly. “Marian…”

“What?” Marian asked in an innocent and drawn out voice as she and Peggy walked through to Agnes’s study.

“Be careful, please.” Peggy emplored as she picked up the laptop and letters off of Agnes’s large imposing desk. “This is starting to sound like your teenage angst years all over again.”

Marian sputtered. “It is not!”

Peggy arched a brow. “The blush says otherwise.”

Marian turned away, trying to hide her smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m your friend,” Peggy said, patting her shoulder. “And I’ll always say what no one else does.” She straightened, hoisting her bag on to her should whilst cradling everything else in her other arm. “Now, I’m off to my room to catch up, then downtown at 3pm for the meetings then straight out for dinner with William. Try not to let your childhood crush complicate your life again.”

Marian muttered something under her breath, but Peggy was already heading upstairs, her laughter trailing behind her.

Larry arrived at 5.30pm, having come straight from work, with an armful of flowers.

Peonies, lush and pale pink, the scent filling the oak panelled hallway as he handed them over with a flourish before dumping his rucksack at the bottom of the stairs unceremoniously.

“Peace offering,” he said. “For having to spend your life in this mausoleum.”

Marian gave him a look. “This house has been in my family for almost 180 years. Since it was built.”

“Exactly,” he said cheerfully, brushing past her into the sitting room. “All it needs is a coffin propped up in the corner to complete the vibe.”

She swatted his arm with the flowers. “You’re awful.”

“Awful but charming,” Larry corrected, grinning as he dropped onto the sofa kicking his shoes off.

Marian went downstairs, to the kitchen, placed the peonies carefully in a vase, arranging them until they looked less like an afterthought and more like a centrepiece. She grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the refrigerator before running back upstairs to join Larry on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her.

“So,” Marian began, putting the bottle and glasses down on the coffee table before reaching forward for the notebook and pen, “rules.”

“Rules?” Larry repeated, lounging on the sofa, stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam with his hands behind his head.

“For our… arrangement.”

He grinned, suddenly sitting up and leaning forward as though the negotiation thrilled him. “Ah yes. Terms and conditions. Like my father, I also love a good contract negotiation. Go on, Miss Brook, shoot.”

Marian hesitated; cheeks pink. “OK. Rule number one… no bailing without notice. If you agree to an event, you show up.”

Larry cocked his head. “Are you suggesting I’m unreliable?”

“You were two hours late to your own birthday lunch.” She replied, leaning back in to the sofa cushions and crossing her arms, as if to reaffirm her point.

“I was fashionably late.” He countered, brushing it off with his usual smooth tone.

“Larry, you were hungover.” Marian chuckled.

He grinned, “Semantics.”

Larry reached past Marian, to open the bottle of wine. After reading the label and making an appreciative mumble, he poured healthy measures in to each glass. He handed Marian her glass first before leaning back with his and clinking glasses to say cheers. He took a sip, pausing to consider his words whilst looking across the sitting room, contemplating the ostentatious Victorian fireplace that dominated the space. Currently glowing a rugged orange in the last of the evening sunshine.

“Rule two then,” Larry said crisply, he eyes focusing back on Marian’s face, “no public arguments. If we’re supposed to be in love, we can’t be seen fighting. That would just create more fuel for the tabloids.”

“Even if you’re wrong?”

“I’m never wrong.” He finished with a roguish smile, resting one arm across the back of the sofa.

Marian gave him a look that suggested this was highly debatable, but wrote it on the paper in front of them, “Dangerous confidence Mr Russell, but fine. Rule two: no fighting in front of the cameras. Noted.” She got up and crossed the room to turn the soft lighting on as the daylight started to fade.

“Rule three: logistics. To make this believable, there will have to be visits….and, er… sleepovers.”

His grin widened wolfishly. “Why, Miss Brook, I didn’t know you planned to move so fast.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It means leaving clothes, toothbrushes, things like that. Authenticity.”

“Ah, so you mean the official version of what you’ve been doing for years. Half your wardrobe already consists of my jumpers.”

Marian froze, glaring. “That is not—”

“You’ve stolen at least a dozen. Possibly more. I should start charging rent.”

“I’m not having any more,” she muttered, cheeks burning.

“Tragic. I’ll have to find another excuse to see you wearing my clothes, then.”

“Rule four,” she said quickly, ignoring him, “social media. At least one post per week. We approve photos before posting. No subtweets, no unfollows, no cryptic messages.”

Larry tipped his head back with a groan. “You’re turning this into a full-time job.”

“It is a job.”

“Fine. But I reserve the right to post a black-and-white candid captioned ‘her’. Minimalist. Poetic. Very tasteful.”

“You will do no such thing.”

He smirked. “We’ll revisit that.”

“Rule five: the press. If your scandal comes up, I’ll say you’ve changed. If my breakup comes up, you’ll say I deserve better. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” He softened, just slightly. “Though I’d have said that last part anyway.”

Her throat tightened before she buried it under briskness. “Rule six: the timeline. One year. No longer.”

Larry leaned forward, mock-serious. “Minimum agreement: six months. Non-negotiable.”

“Six months?”

“You think I’ll let you break up with me before Thanksgiving? Absolutely not.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Six months minimum, one year maximum.”

“Rule seven,” she said, pencil tapping the page, “physicality. We… need to look like a couple.”

Larry raised a brow. “Physicality, huh? Finally, the fun part.”

She glanced down, cheeks warm. “Not fun exactly. We need to… practice. Holding hands, a hug, maybe… a kiss. Privately. Otherwise, the first time in front of family or friends, it’ll look awkward. Everyone will notice. It’ll give us away.”

He leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “Ah, so this is your cunning plan: rehearsal before the grand performance?”

“Exactly,” she said, firm but hesitant. “We can’t have anyone thinking it’s fake. Or… sudden.”

Larry chuckled, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I can practice. Intensely, if necessary.”

She rolled her eyes, hiding a smile. “I said privately. Not in front of a crowd.”

“Privately,” he echoed. “Agreed. But I can’t promise my imagination won’t wander.”

“Larry.”

“Rule noted,” he said, mock-saluting. “Physicality. Private practice. Got it.”

“And finally,” Marian said, voice quiet but firm, “no actual feelings.”

Larry placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Cold. Brutal. Straight to the point.”

“Larry.”

He raised his hands. “All right. No feelings. Written in stone.” A wicked grin flickered. “Of course, renegotiations are always possible.”

She snapped the notebook shut. “Contract closed.”

“Until our first amendment,” he teased with a wink.

“Remember Oxford?” Larry said suddenly.

Marian blinked. “What?”

“You were in your second year. I was doing that architecture program in Barcelona, remember? I hopped over to England for the weekend. Showed up at your halls of residence, with flowers I might add.”

Marian’s lips curved at the memory. “Lilies. You nearly got me expelled, showing up unannounced like that and just wandering through the gates.”

He laughed. “But you smiled.”

She had. She remembered opening the door, books piled everywhere, hair unwashed after a sleepless night revising, and there he was on the stairs with lilies and that crooked grin. It had been reckless, impossible, and exactly what she’d needed at the time.

Larry stretched out on the sofa now, hands behind his head. “See? I’ve always been good at the cliché boyfriend thing. Even back then. ”

Marian rolled her eyes, but her heart beat faster.

As the evening drew on and the scented candles burned lower, conversation circled back to logistics: Marian querying who they’d tell first, how to stage casual appearances, what to do about social media. Larry dismissed her worries saying that’s what his mother’s PR team were for until he leaned closer, mischief in his eyes.

“You know,” he said, “we should probably… test it.”

“Test what?”

“The physicality clause.”

Marian swallowed. “Larry-”

“Purely professional,” he said lightly, “Practice. Otherwise, people will see right through us and the Russell Consolidated event later this week when my parents are home could be a great opportunity to set the ball rolling on…this.”

She hesitated, every nerve buzzing. But then she nodded, just once.

He shifted, closing the space between them on the sofa. His hand brushed her cheek, gentle, guiding her face towards it. And then his lips touched hers. It was supposed to be brief. A technical exercise. But the moment stretched. His mouth lingered, warm and sure, hers parting instinctively. The air between them grew electric, charged with everything unspoken.

When they finally drew back, both were slightly more breathless, more affected than they had anticipated.

Marian looked away quickly, heart racing. It was just practice. That’s all. Nothing more.

Larry leaned back, forcing a laugh. God, what was that? It’s Marian. And I can’t… I can’t go there.

Neither spoke of it. The silence was thick, but neither broke it. The rules were set. The terms agreed. And yet both knew, deep down, that nothing about this arrangement would ever be simple.

Chapter Text

Russell House was abuzz with activity with house staff and Bertha’s team of work assistants running about downstairs when Larry stepped in, sleeves rolled up from a day at the office, his tie loose around his neck. He found his mother standing before the great marble fireplace of the formal sitting room, her phone in hand, lips pressed thin as she scrolled.

“You wanted to see me, Mom?” Larry asked, already guessing this wasn’t a social summons. It never was.

Bertha turned sharply, her mid-length, silk Hèrmes dress rustling. “Yes. Sit down. We need to talk.”

Larry arched a brow and stood firm, crossing his arms in defiance. “What’s the crisis this time? Newport gossip? Or is Lina Astor rearranging the furniture at the Waldorf Astoria again and you feel compelled to keep pace?”

“Don’t be flippant Lawrence,” Bertha snapped, though her eyes gleamed briefly at his teasing. “It’s Susan Blaine.”

Larry’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in weeks, though the shadow of the scandal still trailed him. “What about her?”

“She has taken it upon herself to give a statement,” Bertha said, lifting her phone to read, “‘I wish Lawrence Russell all the best, but I cannot condone dishonesty, nor the way he trivialized our relationship.’” Bertha pressed the off button on the device and tossed it on to the mantlepiece, her voice sharp. “Susan has cast herself as the victim, and by extension, cast you as frivolous and unreliable. I cannot allow that image to stick. Not when you are the future of Russell Consolidated.”

Larry sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “So, what do you want me to do?” he asked, exasperated as he plonked himself down on the meticulously upholstered sofa. “Release a counter-statement exposing she and her husband have been separated for years? Write her a thank-you note for painting me as the villain?”

“I want you to manage this,” Bertha replied crisply as she took a seat next to her son. “And I think you already are…intentionally or not.” She leveled her gaze at him. “You’ve been... noted...with Marian Brook. A few times. Once leaving a café, once walking down Madison Avenue. The photographs have circulated online. You must know.”

Larry felt a flicker of heat climb up his neck. He hadn’t realized the paparazzi had been that quick nor the online detectives so detailed. “Marian is my friend,” he said evenly. “My best friend even. She always has been.”

Bertha’s lips curved into the faintest knowing smile as she put her hand gently on top of his. “Friends do not look at one another the way you looked at her in those photographs.”

Larry shifted in his seat on the sofa. “And how exactly did I look at her?”

“Like she had found the answer to every problem you had in the world,” Bertha said softly, surprising him. “You may forget, Lawrence, but I have been watching you since you were a baby. I know when you are performing, and when you are not.”

He met her eyes, suddenly aware that this was not the confrontation he had expected. “So you’re not horrified…if there was something…more, with Marian that is?”

“Horrified?” Bertha gave a small, elegant laugh. “Why on earth would I be horrified? Marian Brook is from an impeccable old New York family, with all the refinement that entails. An Oxford graduate, intelligent, charming and she was always kind to Gladys when others were not at school.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hands to finish. “If anything, I am surprised it has taken this long.”

Larry blinked. “That’s… unexpected.”

Bertha tilted her chin, triumphant. “I built this family’s place in world, in the public eye. Do you think I would object to a match that is both socially sound and personally meaningful? Marian would make an excellent wife for you, Lawrence, certainly better than some of those popstars and influencers you’ve dated. And more importantly, she seems to make you happy.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And that, perhaps, is the best answer to Susan Blaine.”

Larry swallowed. “We’re not even thinking marriage, or even… official.” He trailed off, unwilling to box himself in with words he hadn’t yet spoken to Marian herself or even to directly lie to his mother by claiming the pretend relationship was real. “We’re… seeing where it goes.”

Bertha studied him for a long moment, then gave a single nod, pleased. “Then do everything in your power Lawrence to make Marian see you are the only man for her.”

With that, she stood up and gave him a kiss on the top of his mop of curly hair before mussing it gently, like she used to when he was a child.

“In the meantime, leave handling the PR around this to Andre and my team. We can definitely work with this.” She ended, before picking up her phone and walking out the room towards her office, leaving Larry to ponder his thoughts.

Later that evening, Larry was stretched across the leather sofa in his bedroom, phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he played on his xbox console. Gladys’s voice chirped through the line, the faint lilt of polished southern England starting to wrap around her vowels occasionally.

“So it’s true then?” she said without preamble. “The photographs, the speculation, the whispers on every society page in New York?”

Larry groaned, closing his eyes. “Good evening to you too, sis. Shouldn't you be asleep by now over there?”

“Don’t deflect,” she teased. “I’ve been sent three full articles already, each more dramatic than the last. One even suggested you and Marian are secretly engaged.”

Larry let out a short snort. “Well, that’s premature.”

“Not impossible though, and don't think I didn't notice that you didn't deny it!” Gladys said, her tone suddenly softer. “Larry… is it really her? At last?”

There was a beat of silence as Larry stared at the ceiling, pausing his game as the memories flickered. Marian that summer they first met, Marian teasing him over sketches, Marian’s smile when she thought no one was watching. “It’s her,” he admitted finally, the words almost reverent as he surprised himself. He knew he was meant to be actively trying to convince people it was true as part of the deal, but this didn’t quite feel like a lie.

Gladys gave a delighted gasp. “I knew it! I told Mom years ago this would happen. Marian always looked at you differently.”

Larry chuckled. “She looked at me like a nuisance.”

“Only sometimes,” Gladys retorted. “Most of the time, she looked at you like someone she'd do anything for. And you’ve always looked at her like, well, like she was yours.”

Larry went quiet, his throat tightening. “It’s complicated,” he said at last. “We’re not just… running into each other and getting photographed. We’re…trying. But we’ve probably got a lot to work through as we’ve been friends for so long. So it’s early days.”

Gladys’s voice warmed. “Then work through it. It’s Marian, it will be worth it. Even if you have to stand off against Agnes Van Rhijn.”

He smiled faintly into the phone, grateful for her certainty when his own felt less secure. “Thanks, Gladdy.”

“Now don’t ruin it, I’m not just saying that because she’s one of my best friends too.” she said cheerfully. “And don’t let Mother pressure you too quickly. Though I suspect she’s already plotting wedding invitations.”

Larry groaned, having had enough of dissecting every aspect of him and Marian, but laughter edged his voice. “Goodbye, Gladys.”

He ended the call, tossing the controller aside as the television screen went dark. The room felt suddenly too quiet, the city’s hum pressing at the windows. Larry quickly responded to the texts from his friends in their group chat, grabbed his laptop and slid under the covers, cursing to himself as he skimmed through his inbox. At least three messages flagged with Susan Blaine’s name sat waiting, her persistence bleeding through even in subject lines. He muttered a curse under his breath, forcing himself to click the first one open. If the world was going to speculate about Marian, the last thing he needed was Susan fanning the flames for her own clout.

The next morning, the city was bright and sharp, a cool April wind rattling the leaves as joggers traced the winding paths of Central Park. Marian stood by the reservoir’s edge, stretching, her long frame balanced against the railing. She wore running leggings and a fitted navy top, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. When Larry arrived, sweatshirt slung over one arm, grin crooked, he felt an almost physical jolt at the sight of her.

“You look serious,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

“I plan to outrun you,” Marian replied coolly, though her eyes sparkled. “Consider it retribution for every time you teased me as a teenager.” She looked around and realised Larry was alone. “Where’s your security?”

“I managed to give them the slip before leaving.” He gave a low chuckle but then sobered, shifting his weight as he stood beside her as they stretched. “Before we start… I should tell you, Mother cornered me yesterday after work.”

Marian blinked. “Bertha?”

“Yes. About… us.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking half-sheepish, half-amused. “She’s worried about the PR nightmare from Susan Blaine’s little ‘poor me’ performance. But then she started in on you.”

Marian raised a brow as she chewed her lip, concerned. “Oh?”

“She said, and I quote, you are smart, an Oxford graduate, from an excellent family and you were always kind to Gladys when she needed it most.” Larry gave her a sideways look, his tone softening. “She wasn’t horrified, Marian.” He said as he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, “So stop worrying. She was… supportive.”

Marian froze mid-stretch. For as long as she had known Bertha Russell, the woman had seemed immovable, her expectations towering. And yet, here was Larry, looking faintly astonished himself, as though Bertha’s approval had rattled him as much as it reassured him. Bertha thought she was approving a real relationship between them, not an…arrangement, or whatever this was.

“And what did you tell her?” Marian asked carefully.

“That we’re seeing where it goes,” he admitted. “That we’re not a stunt. Not for me.”

Her chest tightened unexpectedly as a flush of butterflies appeared in her stomach. It shouldn’t have felt so steadying, after all, this was supposed to be pretend but hearing him say it made something in her want to believe it. She swallowed, masking it with a small smile. “Well then. Let’s see where it goes…on… the path, where I still intend to outrun you.”

Larry laughed, grateful for her pivot. “In your dreams Brook.”

He fell into step as they set off down the path at a steady pace, weaving past dog walkers and other early runners. Marian felt her body fall into rhythm, her breath syncing with the pounding of her shoes crunching against the gravel. Larry kept easily beside her, his longer strides measured to match hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she stole a glance: his chest rising steadily, curls damp at his temple, the concentration on his face. He looked maddeningly unbothered, like this was a casual stroll.

Larry noticed her attention on him and nudged her playfully with his elbow, “Don’t tell me now that Oxford made you soft. Is this the best you’ve got.”

“Don’t worry Harvard. Oxford made me fast,” Marian shot back, surging ahead.

Larry gave chase, laughter escaping him despite himself. Passersby glanced curiously at the tall pair weaving through the park, their easy banter and undeniable chemistry drawing attention. A photographer, who had followed Larry from outside his house, now half-hidden behind a bench, lifted a camera.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“I won.” Marian declared as she slowed near a lamppost to catch her breath, cheeks flushed, Larry was grinning like he’d just won something greater than a race.

“You cheated,” he said, arms gesturing in mock outrage. “You started before I was ready and cut across the grass.”

“Semantics,” she teased using his word, tossing her ponytail.

Larry stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You realize you’re dangerous like this?”

Marian blinked, thrown. “Dangerous?”

“Flushed cheeks, breathless, looking like you’re enjoying yourself with me,” Larry said softly from where he leaned. “Half of New York probably thinks we’re madly in love already.”

Marian’s heart gave a traitorous leap, though she forced a smile. “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?”

Larry held her gaze, something unspoken sparking between them. Then he reached past to tap her water bottle. “Hydrate, Brook. Before you faint and I have to carry you home.”

She laughed, the tension breaking but the echo of his words lingered.

Marian reached for her water bottle, needing the coolness against her lips. But even as she drank, she felt his gaze on her, steady and unguarded, and it was far more unsettling than the camera lenses she half-suspected were trained on them from across the park. As they started to run back, shoulders brushing now and then, Marian found herself uncomfortably aware of how easy it was to slip into this: the banter, the laughter, the shared rhythm. It wasn’t supposed to feel this natural.

The run slowed to a jog, then finally to a walk as they wound their way toward the shaded loop. Marian unscrewed her bottle and took another sip, cheeks still warm, though not only from exertion. Larry glanced sideways at her, easy smile tugging at his mouth.

“So,” he began, his tone light, “what’s your plan for today? Aside from leaving me in the dust on the track?”

Marian gave a small laugh. “I’m not teaching today so I’ll be at the gallery all day instead. We’re preparing for an exhibition, photographs by a Swedish artist. Stark landscapes, very striking. Lots of snow and empty fields.”

Larry tilted his head. “Sounds bleak.”

“Bleak in the most beautiful way,” she corrected. “They’re less about the scenery, more about how isolation can be… haunting. I think you’d like them, actually.”

He gave her a sidelong smile. “That’s you trying to talk me into going, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she teased, but her voice softened. “It matters to me. The work deserves an audience.”

“Then I’ll be there.” They walked a few steps in companionable silence, passing a young mother pushing a stroller and a dog tugging insistently at its leash. The park was alive with the bustle of a city waking up, but between them, there was an ease, a bubble carved out by their laughter and breath.

“And you?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “What’s on your calendar?”

Larry groaned quietly. “Meetings. Endless meetings. It’s the start of Quarterly Business Reviews, which means I’ll be locked in conference rooms for two days straight. Numbers, charts, strategy slides, all that fun.”

Marian gave him a mock-solemn look. “Poor you.”

“I’ll survive.” His grin widened, softening the words. “At least my father will be in town for this one. We don’t always get to sit side by side, but when we do, I remember why I’m doing it. He’s built something extraordinary, I want him to see I can grow it, not just inherit it.”

There it was again: that flicker of earnestness beneath his usual charm. Marian glanced at him, seeing past the perfectly tousled hair and easy bravado. “I don’t think George doubts you, Larry.”

“Maybe not,” he said, voice quiet now. “But sometimes I doubt myself. The disappointing son of a great man, the poor second act, the failure.”

She slipped her hand in to his, wanting to say more, to offer the kind of encouragement she suspected he rarely let himself hear but before she could, a flicker of motion caught her eye. Across the path, a man lingered with a camera, pretending to study a map. Another, further down, angled his phone a little too deliberately. Marian’s body clenched with nerves. She stopped herself from reacting visibly, choosing instead to squeeze Larry’s hand twice in hers to get his attention.

“I think we’ve drawn an audience,” she murmured, almost under her breath.

Larry followed her gaze, then smirked without breaking stride. “Pap shots in Central Park. Very unoriginal. I was wondering when they’d show.”

“And you’re… fine with that?” she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged, his tone matter-of-fact but edged with playfulness. “This is what we signed up for, isn’t it? They’ll speculate, write headlines, maybe even photoshop me into a tuxedo and you into a wedding dress by tomorrow morning on Reddit. Comes with the territory.”

Marian gave a nervous laugh, lowering her gaze. “It still feels strange. Like we’re letting them… into something that isn’t really theirs.”

Larry slowed, brushing his fingers against hers as he held her hand. The touch was light, deliberate, and though she could have pulled away, she didn’t. “Then let them think what they want,” he said softly. “We know what’s real. That’s enough.”

Her pulse quickened, not from running now but from the quiet certainty in his voice. She looked up at him, ready with some quip to deflect the sudden warmth between them, but instead found herself holding his gaze.

Behind them, the camera clicked. Marian straightened, clearing her throat. “I suppose we should give them what they came for, then.” She stated, unable to make eye contact with him.

Larry’s lips curved into a grin. “Careful, Brook. Sounds like you’re starting to enjoy the perks of this arrangement.”

She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with a faint flush. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Before she could react, Larry swooped down without warning, brushing his lips against hers in a quick, mischievous kiss. It left her blinking, startled, while he leaned back with a grin that said he was entirely too pleased with himself.

“Too late,” he said with a wink, and with that, they continued down the path, their steps falling into rhythm again, aware of the lenses, aware of the game, and yet, for the briefest moment, not entirely pretending.

Once home, Marian headed straight for the shower and to get ready for work. As she walked out of her bathroom, her phone went off with a flurry of notifications.

Page Six: Billionaire Russell Heir Hits the Park With New Lady

Town & Country: A Society Spring Romance in Bloom?

@UpperEastSideAnon: “Larry Russell spotted running with Marian Brook. I repeat: NOT SUSAN. 👀 #NewItCouple”

@LabubuQueen99: “They look way too good together to just be friends. Calling it now: wedding in 2025. #RussellRomance”

@FinanceBro420: “Larry Russell still makes time for cardio before QBR week. Respect. Also… who’s the girl??”

@GalleryGirlNYC: “That’s Marian Brook!! She teaches at my friend’s daughter's school and works at a gallery. She’s the real deal. Love this for her 🥰”

@SocietyWatchDog: “Bertha Russell is either plotting the wedding of the century or quietly screaming into her pearls. Either way, I’m here for it.”

 

But there was one headline that made Marian pause as she sat on her bed, still wrapped in her towel.

The Cut: Larry Russell Has a New Girlfriend - And It’s Not Who You Think

Forget Susan Blaine. Forget the Hamptons flings. Larry Russell, dubbed last year as “The Most Eligible Bachelor in America”, appears to be taken, by none other than Marian Brook, a fixture of uptown New York family soirees and art gallery openings. She may not be a billionaire, but she’s smart, stunning, and already beloved by his family. Internet, meet “Larian.”

 

Marian sighed, a knot of guilt forming in her chest. She hadn’t even had the chance to gently broach the idea of her and Larry being “together” with her aunts yet. Ada and Agnes were still sunning themselves in the South of France, blissfully unaware of the scheme she’d been swept into. However pretend this relationship might be, the thought of them learning about it secondhand from gossip rags made her stomach twist. She was towelling her hair dry, trying to push away the unease, when her phone lit up from the top of the bed.

The name flashing across the screen made her freeze.

Ada.

Chapter Text

The bar Oscar had chosen was tucked discreetly off Madison Avenue, all dim amber light, high end décor and clinking crystal. Marian spotted him instantly, stretched out like royalty in a corner booth, silk cravat knotted at his throat and a martini glass balanced elegantly between his fingers. Beside him sat John Adams, his long-term boyfriend; calm, well-dressed, and effortlessly charming, with a hint of old Boston in his posture.

“Marian, darling!” Oscar called, waving theatrically as she approached. “The guest of honor. At last!”

John rose and kissed her cheek warmly. “We’re glad you came,” he said, voice even and kind.

Marian slid into the booth, laughing. “You make it sound like a political state dinner.”

“In a way, it is,” Oscar quipped, eyes glinting. “You’re the most talked-about woman in Manhattan right now. Surely you’ve seen the coverage? ‘Teacher Led Astray By Russell Paramour’ is my personal favorite headline.”

Marian groaned. “Please don’t.”

John chuckled. “Don’t let him get under your skin. He’s been scrolling nonstop, collecting every headline screenshot like trading cards.”

Oscar feigned offence. “I am conducting cultural analysis. Anyway-” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I also wanted the opportunity to say I was out of line the other day. On the phone. Sharp with you." he shook his head with self-awareness, "That wasn’t fair.”

Marian's frown softened and she squeezed his arm in familial affection. “Thank you for saying so. I appreciate it.”

“Forgive and forget?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, raising his martini. “Now we can return to the business of merciless interrogation and teasing.”

They were still laughing when a familiar voice carried across the bar.

“Teasing her already? You couldn’t wait for me?”

Larry.

Oscar practically leapt to his feet, grinning. “Russell!” He clapped him on the back, pulling him into an old-friends hug. “My God, it’s been ages. It’s great to have you back in the city again full time.”

Larry smirked. “We’ll see.” His eyes flicked to Marian as Oscar released him from the hug and softened at once.

She couldn’t help smiling back.

After shaking John's hand, Larry slid into the booth beside Marian, close enough that their thighs touched and without hesitation he reached for her hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze before tucking his arm around her shoulders. A simple gesture, but one that said plainly: she’s mine. Marian relaxed into him almost instinctively. His aftershave hitting her nose in a pleasing wave.

Oscar’s eyes widened in delight. “Well, well, well. This isn’t just PR, is it? Public displays of affection in front of me? Larry, you old fox.” His direct comment about public relations nearly made Marian spit her drink out mid-mouthful. If only he knew how close he was. Trust Oscar.

Larry only grinned and, to Marian’s shock, dropped a casual kiss to her temple. “You wanted confirmation,” he said lightly. “There you go.”

John arched a brow, smiling warmly. “I’d say that counts.”

Oscar leaned back, amazed and wagged his finger. “I knew it. I absolutely knew it. Larry, you’ve been mooning over my lovely cousin since the Ice Bucket Challenge was a thing.”

Marian blinked. “What?”

Larry shot Oscar a warning look, but his old friend, with his tongue loosened by alcohol, was already in full swing, delighted to be holding court in a way that he would be horrified to know, resembled his mother greatly.

“You borrowed the family jet to swoop in to take Marian to her high school senior prom when her date bailed. And you spent the better part of the following decade sending each other Snapchats, selfies with those ridiculous dog filters. Always so… insufferably cute.”

Marian groaned, laughing. “That was supposed to be private!”

Larry shrugged nonchalantly, joining in on the teasing, “I thought it was adorable. And Marian in dog ears with a pink nose was asking to be shared, by the way.” Everyone at the table laughed as Marian covered her face with her hand in mock horror.

“Don’t deny it!” Oscar continued over the music blaring, “Everyone in Eliot House at Harvard could tell, John, honestly” he added to involve his boyfriend in the story. “Case in point. Marian got a week off at Oxford during her first year for their Study Week before exams, so she flies over the Atlantic to Harvard to visit me. Larry’s in his final year of his bachelor’s degree, I’m slogging through the MBA madness but we were apartment sharing. Anyway, Marian turns up in that oversized Oxford scarf with a suitcase bigger than she was. Larry practically fell down the staircase trying to carry it for her.”

Marian covered her mouth, half-laughing, half-incredulous. “Larry?”

Larry groaned, rubbing the back of his neck, but he didn’t let go of her hand or shift his arm. “Maybe. Once. Mr Van Rhijn exaggerates.”

“Exaggerates?” Oscar cackled. “You hovered in Lamont Library for three nights straight just because she was there. John, I swear, it was the most tragically sweet thing I’d ever seen.”

John laughed softly. “I can imagine.”

Marian turned to Larry, cheeks pink and hot, a smile tugging at her lips. “You never told me that.”

Larry met her gaze, his own sheepish, boyish smile breaking through. “Some things were better left unsaid back then.” The both fell into laughter, the kind that came easy between old friends.

Flashback – Harvard, Summer Term 2016

Marian stepped onto the red-brick campus of Harvard, her luggage in tow, and immediately felt that familiar mix of excitement and nerves. She had been at Oxford University in England for just under a year, and while she loved it, the chance Aunt Ada offered her with airplane tickets to come home, see her cousin Oscar; who had become like a brother to her and, as a consequence, see Larry, was too good to pass up.

Larry was already on the steps of apartment building when she arrived, leaning against the railing. He spotted her getting out the cab instantly and grinned, jogging down to meet her.

“Miss Brook,” he said, bowing theatrically. “Is this an official visit, or are you here to sabotage my MBA friend’s sanity?”

Marian laughed, rolling her eyes. “Definitely the latter. Oscar begged me to come. He said he wouldn’t survive his case study and revision without me.”

Larry grabbed one of her smaller bags and hoisted it effortlessly. “And here I thought you were coming to see me,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair from her face before grabbing her large suitcase. “Looks like I’ll have to settle for being the lowly baggage handler.”

She hit his arm lightly, grinning. “You’re hopeless.”

He shrugged. “But reliably hopeless. That counts for something.”

After dumping Marian’s things in the apartment Larry and Oscar shared, the two friends quickly headed out. Over the next few hours, whilst Oscar was in lectures, they walked through Harvard Yard, laughing at campus quirks, dodging students who jostled past, sharing everything they had been up to in the many months since they had last seen each other. Marian noticed how easy it felt to be with him again; no pretences, no awkward pauses, just the comfortable rhythm of two friends who’d shared enough moments to know each other well.

Back in the apartment that evening, where Oscar had set up a study session, Marian discovered the full scope of Larry’s charm…. and his playful competitiveness. They competed over silly tasks: who could stack cups faster, who could balance more pencils on their nose. Every time Marian won, Larry would feign indignation, then chase her around the room in mock fury, making her laugh until her ribs hurt.

Eventually, Oscar had given up on revision and headed out to meet friends at a bar. Larry stayed home with Marian who was not yet 21 so couldn’t get in any venues. They had exhausted the playful competitions and settled into the couch, scrolling through their phones. Snapchat became their language of the evening. Silly selfies, ridiculous filters, ridiculous faces. Larry sent a photo out of him and Larry with antlers and an exaggerated tongue, pretending to scream, captioned: “Oxford menance incoming.” Marian responded with a feline filter and whiskers drawn perfectly over her grin.

“You realize this will live forever, right?” Larry said, smirking at her face in his phone.

“Good, I’m putting it on my photo wall back at Uni.” Marian shot back, her eyes sparkling.

Larry leaned closer, their heads nearly touching. “Over two years we’ve known each other, and somehow, every time I see you, it feels like the first time.”

Marian’s heart skipped, but she laughed lightly. “Keep up the charm, Mr. Russell. It might just get you into trouble.”

He grinned crookedly, sliding his phone aside. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

Much later that night, Marian lingered on the balcony of the apartment. The night air was cool, the campus quiet except for distant laughter from students in other halls or being merry on the streets. Larry stepped up beside her, close enough that the warmth from his body brushed against hers. They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the stars peek through the city haze. For a moment, their hands brushed, and they both froze, hearts fluttering. Slowly, Larry leaned closer, his gaze locking with hers, and Marian felt that same thrilling tension, the one that had been building quietly over the two years since they met on the street.

Marian’s eyes fluttered shut in anticipation, and just as it seemed their lips might close the distance, the apartment door burst open.

“Laaaaarry! You will not believe the night!” Oscar’s slurred voice echoed through the hall. He stumbled in, arm-in-arm with his date, laughing and clearly intoxicated. He didn’t even notice Marian, too busy turning to drag his companion toward his bedroom.

Marian and Larry jumped apart, startled, and simultaneously burst into laughter.

“Right,” Larry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “never happened.”

“Never happened,” Marian agreed, avoiding his eye contact, though her cheeks were warm.

They laughed a little more, then fell into easy chatter, acting as if nothing had changed. The almost-kiss, the pause, the electricity, it was all quietly filed away, unspoken, never referenced again. The night carried on with music and a few rounds of Just Dance as dictated by an inebriated Oscar, but that fleeting moment remained theirs alone, a secret they both tucked safely into memory. The instant Oscar barrelled into his bedroom, dragging his date along, both Larry and Marian froze, eyes wide.

“Well,” Larry said, exhaling a laugh, “I suppose the airbed is off-limits tonight.”

Marian’s brow arched. “You mean…we have to share your room?”

“Seems that way,” Larry said, shrugging with a grin. “Unless you want to try contorting yourself into a pretzel on the floor outside.”

Marian laughed. “Not a chance. You’re going to have to tolerate me in your bed.”

They stepped into Larry’s small room, the walls lined with textbooks and framed photos of friends and family. Marian paused at the sight of the modest bed, realizing with a mix of amusement and mild panic that it was just a single. Larry, meanwhile, was grinning, clearly entertained by her reaction.

“Just so we’re clear,” Marian said, smirking, “this is strictly platonic. I expect full personal space.”

Larry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. Full personal space. Absolutely.”

She perched on the edge of the mattress, carefully making room, while Larry sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. Despite their teasing, both of them felt the sudden awareness of how close they actually were. Marian’s arm brushed against his as she shifted, and Larry felt a small thrill that had nothing to do with anything friendly. They both laughed nervously, trying to focus on trivial conversation.

“I can’t believe the airbed is trapped in Oscar’s room,” Marian said. “At least he’s…busy. With his… date. Glad someone is enjoying themselves.”

Larry chuckled. “Yes, very busy. We’ll survive this night together. Barely.”

They arranged themselves on the bed so they weren’t directly touching, sort of. But it was impossible not to notice how Marian’s long legs filled half the mattress, the warmth radiating from her, and the subtle floral fragrance she carried. Larry’s thoughts kept drifting despite his best efforts to stay lighthearted.

“You’re quiet,” Marian said, raising an eyebrow.

Larry glanced at her, forcing a grin. “Just…thinking how strange it is. We’ve been friends for what, two years, your my sister’s friend and now suddenly we’re…here. Sleeping in the same bed. Not awkward, but…different.”

Marian laughed softly. “Not awkward? You mean you’re terrified.”

“Terrified, yes. And…aware,” he admitted quietly. “Of how much I notice you now.”

Marian’s laughter faded into a soft smile. “Larry…”

“I mean it,” he said. “It’s just…you’ve grown into this brilliant, beautiful…well, you. And now we’re here. Best friends, chums, amigos in a bed together. Nothing could make it more complicated.”

She shook her head, smiling, a little breathless from the intensity of the moment. “We’ll survive,” she said softly.

They settled into the bed, side by side but not directly touching, although their shoulders occasionally brushed. The air was quiet except for the distant sounds of Oscar fumbling around with his date next door. Neither spoke for a long moment, just letting the comfortable yet electrified silence hang between them.

“You think we should…talk about it?” Marian asked finally.

Larry shook his head, smiling gently. “No. Not tonight. Let’s just…enjoy the absurdity of this situation.” He wiped his hand down her face to close her eyes “Now shh. Pretend it’s normal.”

Marian rolled her eyes but laughed, the sound echoing softly in the small room. Larry leaned back slightly, glancing at her with a quiet intensity. She was beautiful, confident, and yet completely familiar and now, impossibly close. He put his head back against the pillow and sighed, it was going to be a long night. They managed to fall into a companionable quiet, sharing the bed, talking softly about trivial things, laughing quietly at the absurdity of Oscar’s antics. And as they drifted toward sleep, both knew something had subtly shifted, even if neither dared admit it aloud. Best friends, yes, but now also something more, something quietly, thrillingly new.

The laughter from the flashback still lingering in her mind, Marian blinked at her martini, the laughter fading into warmth as she looked at Larry. He caught her eye and grinned, that same crooked smile from Harvard. She looked around the softly lit cocktail lounge. The smell of aged wood and the faint tang of citrus from expertly shaken drinks reminded her that she was no longer in a cramped student room in Cambridge. She was back in New York, seated across from Oscar at a polished table, his boyfriend John Adams beside him, the beat of the music, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounding them.

Oscar’s eyes sparkled as he raised his glass. “To old friends,” he said warmly. “And to the fact that some things, apparently, never change.”

Marian grinned and clinked her glass gently against his. “Cheers. Some things do get better, though,” she added, stealing a glance toward the door as Larry arrived.

Larry laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I still don’t understand how we survived that night without fainting from embarrassment.” They both chuckled, and Marian felt that familiar warmth of ease she had always had with him, the same comfort that had survived every year and every complication since.

Oscar leaned back, taking a sip of his cocktail. “You two are ridiculous,” he said with affection. “But I have to admit, seeing you finally together… it’s about time.”

Marian’s eyes flicked to Larry, and she caught the mischievous glint there. “Well,” she said softly, “some things just take a little longer to happen.”

Larry’s thumb brushed hers under the table. “Not a moment wasted,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers with an unspoken promise.

John Adams, grinning, leaned in. “So, who wants to hear about Oscar wearing one of my button up pyjama shirts out as a top last week?”

“Silk is very on trend right now ok.” Oscar tried to defend himself.

Everyone laughed.

The night air was cool as Larry and Marian stepped out of the bar off Madison Avenue, the city’s hum blending with the sharp staccato bursts of camera shutters. A few photographers had caught wind of their night out with Oscar and John, and now the sidewalk was alive with flashing bulbs and phone cameras.

Larry’s security detail, dark-suited and efficient, formed a protective barrier as they guided the two towards the waiting blacked-out Russell car. One of the guards leaned in, murmuring, “This way, Mr. Russell.”

“Smile, it’ll look better tomorrow in print.” He lowered his head toward hers, speaking just loud enough for her to hear. Larry kept his arm lightly at Marian’s back, steadying her as they walked. Marian, unused to such attention, instinctively clutched her small purse a little tighter but managed a polite smile. Larry’s fingers brushed against hers, grounding her in the chaos of shouted questions.

“Marian! Over here! How long have you been together?”
“Larry, is this serious, or just a rebound after Susan?”

They didn’t respond. Instead, Larry opened the door of the black Mercedes-Maybach and gestured Marian inside first. Once she slid across the smooth leather seat, he followed, the door shutting with a comforting finality that blocked out the din outside. As the car pulled away, the flashes grew faint, replaced by the soft purr of the engine.

“Goodness, does it ever get easier?” Marian exhaled, leaning back against the seat. 

Larry chuckled, tugging lightly at his tie. “Not really. But you get used to it. Or at least… you learn how to fake being used to it.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’ll take notes from the master, then.”

“Smart girl,” he teased, and they both laughed.

By the time the car turned through the grand gates of the Russell house and into the sheltered courtyard, Marian’s shoulders had relaxed. Here, hidden behind high walls and wrought iron, the frenzy of the outside world melted away.

Larry stepped out first, offering his hand to help her down. “See? Safe and sound.”

She smirked. “For now.”

They climbed the wide stone steps together, and as they entered the marbled great hall, the click of their footsteps echoed off the gilded ceilings. The butler, or house manager as he liked to be called, was an older gentleman called Mr Church in a perfectly pressed suit. He nodded his head in greeting slightly as they passed.

“Mr. Larry, Mrs. Russell and Mr. Russell have already retired for the evening,” he informed them discreetly.

“Thank you, Church,” Larry replied easily, his hand brushing Marian’s lower back as he led her toward the grand staircase.

They ended up in Larry’s favourite room, the family TV room. Less formal than the rest of the house, but no less sumptuous. Plush armchairs, a long sectional sofa, and soft lamplight created a cocoon against the outside world. A tray with crystal decanters and bowls of snacks sat waiting on the sideboard, as though the house itself anticipated late-night conversations.

Marian slipped off her heels and curled her legs beneath her on the sofa, sighing in relief. “Your mother must think of everything.”

Larry poured two glasses of whiskey and brought hers over. “That, or Mrs Bruce and the staff know my habits.” He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “To surviving paparazzi ambushes.”

She laughed, taking a cautious sip before grimacing at the harsh liquid. “Barely.”

Larry sank down beside her, close enough that their knees brushed. He picked up his vibrating phone, scrolling through the alerts. “Well, the internet’s already hard at work.”

Marian leaned in as he held up a headline: “Larry Russell’s Secret Date Night EXPOSED — Fans Are Losing It!.”

“Oh dear,” she said, half-laughing, half-mortified.

“Here’s a good one,” Larry grinned, reading aloud with mock seriousness: “‘From Oxford to Upper East Side—Russell Finds Himself an Intellectual Beauty.’” He shot her a sideways glance. “Flattering, don’t you think?”

She nudged him with her elbow. “Hardly accurate. You know I hate that kind of fluff.” They traded phones, scrolling and swapping headlines. Each one was more dramatic than the last: “NYC Nightlife Gets Heated as Russell Heir Taken Home by Society Beauty?” … “Meet The Teacher Who Stole the Scandal King’s Heart.”

Marian shook her head, laughing. “They make it sound like I swooped in and rescued you from ruin.”

Larry smirked, leaning back comfortably, one arm draped over the sofa behind her. “Well, maybe you did. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

After a moment, Larry turned serious, his voice softer. “Hey. Be my date to the Met Gala.”

Marian blinked. “The Met Gala?”

“Yeah. It’s next month. Mom can sort it with Anna Wintour when they have dinner this week. Perfect opportunity to cement the narrative. Plus…” his grin returned, “I hear the theme’s ridiculous this year. I need someone who won’t let me wear whatever crazy ensemble my Mom’s stylist comes up with.”

Marian covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, Larry. Aunt Agnes would be beside herself. The Met used to be the highlight of her entire social calendar. She’d probably faint if she saw me walk in on your arm.”

“Then we’ll make sure there’s a fainting couch nearby,” he quipped, his eyes dancing.

Marian shook her head, still laughing as she leaned into him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, letting his arm settle warmly around her shoulders, “you’re still here.”

The moment stretched, comfortable and intimate, the glow of the lamplight softening everything between them. Outside, it felt like the world was already buzzing with speculation. But here, in the quiet of Russell House, it was just the two of them, half in jest, half in something more real than either dared to say aloud. Marian let her head fall back against the sofa, her glass empty, her laughter subsiding. She tucked her feet under the hem of her dress and sighed, content. The glow of the lamplight caught her profile as she shifted slightly, leaning against Larry’s shoulder without even seeming to notice.

Larry went very still as he responded to an earlier email from one of his dad's management team, Richard Clay on his phone. He could feel the gentle weight of her head, the warmth where her hair brushed against his jaw. Slowly, her breathing deepened, steady and even, and he realized she’d dozed off. He looked down at her, his lips quirking in a private smile.

Eleven years. From that first summer playing games and going on road trips, to these strange days of contracts and paparazzi, she had always been there. He thought about the “rules” they’d set for this pretend relationship, all the boundaries carefully drawn. And yet… here she was, asleep on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It struck Larry, as it had before, that he was actually enjoying this, the nightly recaps of her day, the teasing back and forth, the shared jokes no one else would ever understand. He wasn’t sure when “pretending” had started to feel so much like something real. He studied her in the quiet. The faint flush of whiskey still warmed her cheeks, and her lashes cast long shadows across her skin. Even like this, completely unguarded, she was beautiful, no, more than that. She was Marian. Larry leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes briefly. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose himself in this. Maybe he already had. A clock somewhere down the hall chimed midnight. Larry exhaled softly, then tilted his head toward her.

“Marian,” he whispered, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge.

She stirred, blinking up at him, disoriented for a moment. “Mm… what time is it?”

“Late. Too late for you to be drooling on my jacket.” He grinned, softening the words.

She sat up quickly, smoothing her hair, her eyes darting toward the door. “Oh goodness, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Larry! You should have woken me sooner.”

“I didn’t mind,” Larry said honestly, rising to his feet. He held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

They walked through the hushed halls of Russell House, their footsteps muted against the marble. Out on the steps, the night air was cool, the street quiet now that the photographers had dispersed. Across the way, the windows of the Van Rhijn house glowed faintly.

Larry slipped his hands into his pockets as they crossed. “Come on. Let’s get you home before your Aunts put me on an Upper East Side blacklist.”

Marian smiled, brushing her hair back from her face. “They’re still in France but thank you… for tonight. For everything.”

At her door, he hesitated just a beat longer than necessary. “Anytime, Brook,” he said, using the old nickname, softer than usual.

And as she slipped inside and clicked the front door shut, Larry found himself thinking he’d never meant it more.

Chapter Text

The Van Rhijn kitchen was awash in the golden glow of late afternoon light, catching on the marble counters and bouncing against the polished brass fixtures. Marian perched on one of the island stools in a pale silk robe, her hair pinned into curlers, makeup artist bustling behind her. Peggy sat at the opposite stool, typing rapidly on her laptop between sips of iced coffee.

On Marian’s phone, the FaceTime screen glowed with Ada’s smiling face, framed by a cascade of bougainvillea in full bloom. Behind her, the Mediterranean shimmered an impossible blue.

“Oh, Marian, you look divine already, and they haven’t even finished with you!” Ada declared, leaning too close to the camera.

From somewhere out of frame came Agnes’s unmistakable voice: “Ada, stop hogging the phone. Let me see her.”

The camera jostled, and then Agnes appeared, hair swept back in a silk scarf, enormous sunglasses covering half her face. Even over FaceTime, her presence filled the room.

“Marian,” she said crisply, “do not let those Russell people overdress you. They always mistake excess for elegance. I really don’t know why they feel the need to invite you to everything. ”

Marian bit back a smile. “I’ll be fine, Aunt Agnes. It’s just a charity gala, and I enjoy their company.”

“There is no such thing as ‘just’ when it comes to the Russells,” Agnes replied. “Remember who you are. You are a Brook and a Van Rhijn.”

Peggy caught Marian’s eye across the island, smothering a grin.

“Aunt Agnes, enjoy the Riviera,” Marian said gently. “There will be lots of people we know there such as Lina Astor, her daughter Carrie and Mamie Fish. I promise I’ll represent the family with dignity.”

“See that you do.” Agnes sniffed and then retreated, leaving Ada waving again before the call ended.

Marian lowered the phone with a sigh. “Well. That was uplifting.”

Peggy eyes twinkled as closed her laptop with a snap. “Your aunt is consistent, if nothing else.”

Marian chuckled, then froze as Peggy’s gaze flicked to the last stems of the pale pink peonies holding on in the vase on the counter, Larry’s peonies.

“So,” Peggy said lightly, “flowers?”

Marian felt the flush climb her neck. “Yes. From Larry. He- he thought the sitting room was gloomy.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed, amused. “Marian…I know you and Larry have always been close, ever since I met you in fact. But seriously, what is going on? Are you a couple now? Officially?”

“What? I-I- well, Larry and I...” Marian’s voice pitched too high as her face turned scarlet. Which told Peggy everything she needed to know.

Peggy arched a brow and hummed. “That was some stuttering.”

Before Marian could scramble for an excuse, her phone buzzed again. She snatched it up, relief flooding her.

“Saved by the bell,” Peggy murmured, sipping her iced coffee.

It was Gladys, over from England for her mother’s charity gala. Marian answered quickly.

“Marian!” Gladys’s voice sang down the line, full of youthful energy. “What time are you heading over? Mom wants everyone ready by six, but honestly, she’s been pacing since lunch.”

Marian smiled, her blush deepening. “I’ll be there soon. I’m nearly ready, the stylists are just finishing my hair then I can slip my dress on.”

By six-thirty, the Van Rhijn brownstone was quiet again, Peggy gone downtown and Marian stepping into the marble foyer of Russell House. Even with the scaffolding long removed, the sight of it never failed to stun her, the grandeur of its Victorian marble arches, its gilt-edged mirrors, the chandeliers dripping with Swarovski crystal.

And at the top of the grand staircase, descending like he owned the world, was Larry.

His Tom Ford tuxedo was classic, perfectly tailored, his dark curls falling just enough over his forehead to soften the sharp lines of his jaw. When he saw her, his lips parted slightly, his eyes sweeping her in one lingering look as she stood there, looking ethereal is an cream, custom-made Anastasia Zadorina couture gown that floated gently to the floor around her like a cloud.

“You look…” Larry trailed off, almost boyish for a moment. “Wow.” He found himself quite distracted with how the cream gown complimented Marian’s blonde hair and fair complexion, making her look almost angelic. In his eyes, anyway.

Marian fiddled with the top of the strapless gown nervously. “Thank you.”

Larry reached her in a few strides. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “One thing before we face the lions.”

She tilted her head, confused. “What thing?”

“Practice.”

Her breath caught. “Larry-”

“Just a quick one.” His grin was teasing as he took a final step towards her, but his eyes held something steadier. “To sell it.”

Before she could answer, his hand brushed her jaw, tilting her face up. His mouth met hers in a kiss that was meant to be casual, quick. But the moment his lips moved against hers, she leant in to it.

The kiss deepened, almost without conscious thought. Marian’s manicured hand gripped his lapel. His tongue brushed against hers, tentative at first, then more certain.

The air between them went molten.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, eyes wide.

“That was…” Larry began, then laughed, a little breathless. “Educational.”

“Mm.” Marian’s cheeks flamed, her heart pounding. “Yes. Very… instructive.”

They both laughed, too loudly, the sound a cover for the trembling in their hands.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, champagne glasses clinking, jewels flashing against gowns. George and Bertha Russell moved through the crowd like royalty, Bertha’s hand resting on George’s arm as though she were staking her claim on the city itself.

Gladys found Larry and Marian almost immediately, squealing as she embraced Marian. “Finally! I’ve been waiting to show you off all night. I’ve missed you!”

”It is soo good to see you.” Marian said warmly, hugging her friend back tightly.

George shook Larry’s hand firmly with a smile. “Larry! And now I have both my children beside me again. A rare treat.”

Bertha’s eyes flicked between Marian and Larry, her smile sharpening with satisfaction with whatever she saw. “Well,” she purred, “I am very pleased to see you again Marian, especially with Lawrence. Mrs Fish won’t forgive me if I don’t take you both straight to her now the cat’s out of the bag.” She sent a knowing look to her son who laughed it off whilst sharing a look with his sister.

Paparazzi cameras flashed from the doorway as word spread that Lawrence Russell had arrived, with Marian Brook on his arm. Before she knew what was happening, Marian found herself pulled in to the Russell family photographs in front of the press, with Larry’s arm around her waist.

By morning, the internet would be buzzing. Marian Brook, New York society’s golden girl, wasn’t just dating but was officially in a relationship with Larry Russell, billionaire heir and scandal survivor. The Susan Blaine whispers already looked like old news.

And for tonight, Marian and Larry smiled, danced, said all the right things to Lina Astor and anyone else who spoke to them. Letting the world believe it despite the twinge in the pit of Marian’s stomach reminding her not to get carried away.

It was nearly dawn when they slipped out of Russell House. The city was hushed, only the faint hum of taxis and dust carts in the distance.

Larry carried his jacket slung over his shoulder, bow tie undone, unruly curls tumbling into his eyes. Marian’s heels clicked softly against the pavement as they crossed 61st Street together.

The Van Rhijn brownstone loomed ahead, its windows dark.

Larry slowed. “Well. First real test complete.”

Marian smiled, exhaustion and exhilaration mingling in her chest. “How do you think we did?”

He glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Convincing enough to fool even Bertha Russell. And that’s saying something.”

They paused at her steps.

“Well, you haven’t faced Aunt Agnes yet.Thanks for walking me home,” Marian said softly.

Larry leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, almost chaste, except for the way it lingered just a second too long.

“Let me handle your aunts. Sleep well, Marian.”

And then he was gone, striding back across the street, leaving her heart hammering in her chest as the first light of dawn crept over Manhattan.

Two days after the charity gala, Marian was back teaching. She slipped into the quiet of the art department’s small office between her afternoon classes, rinsing the paint from her hands in the sink and dabbing them dry with a paper towel. The hum of the school seemed distant, almost muffled by her thoughts. Larry had been sending her screenshots of articles about them all morning with the crying laughter face emoji.

Billionaire Playboy Finds His Match: Marian Brook Steals the Spotlight With Larry Russell at Red Cross Gala

From Scandal to Stability: Larry Russell Debuts Longtime Friend as Official Partner

Russell Family Sighs in Relief: Larry Settled with New York School Teacher,

“It’s Official!” Larry Russell Off the Market—Meet Marian Brook

From Billionaire Bad Boy to Boyfriend: Larry Russell’s Surprising Transformation

Internet Melts Over Larry Russell and Marian Brook’s Gala Photos

Scandal Subsides, Markets Respond: Russell Consolidated Trust Sees Bumper Growth

Investor Confidence Boosts Russell Consolidated Trust Stock After Strong Public Showing

 

Marian had to hand it to Bertha, the Russell PR machine did not waste any time. Although she wasn’t quite sure what Aunt Agnes, with all her family pride, would make of the press referring to her as just a school teacher. Let’s hope Agnes doesn’t look at The Daily Mail, Marian thought.

She sighed. She had been meaning to call her other aunt, Ada since the party, and now, with a brief window before her next group of students, she finally scrolled to her aunt’s name and pressed the button.

It was early evening in France, and Ada’s gentle voice answered almost at once. “Marian, dearest! What a surprise. I was just pouring a cup of tea.”

Marian smiled, even though guilt tugged beneath the surface. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. How are you both faring?”

Ada launched into a lively report: the St Tropez sun, a party with Joan Collins, the walks along the sandy beaches, the way Mrs. Bauer had practically rescued them from starvation by insisting on familiar meals when Agnes scowled at French sauces and Escargot. “And Jack,” Ada added, “has been an absolute godsend; chauffeuring us about, carrying parcels whenever we give in to a shopping spree. Agnes grumbles, but she secretly likes being waited on again since Bannister retired.”

Marian laughed softly, picturing it. “I’m glad they’re with you. It sounds… wonderful.”

“And you?” Ada asked, her tone softening. “How is the teaching? The painting?”

Marian told her about her students. How their energy made the long days fly by and mentioned that Bridget was popping over, still cleaning at the house several times a week, keeping things running in their absence. She kept her voice light, but even as she spoke of lesson plans and studio hours, she felt the weight of what she wasn’t saying.

Then Ada’s voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “Unlike Agnes, I’ve seen a few of the papers, Marian. About you and Larry Russell. I didn’t want to pry- last time you seemed so reluctant when I called for that very reason in fact. So I didn’t push it. But the headlines are hard to avoid.”

Marian’s throat tightened. For a moment she considered laughing it off, but Ada’s patience and gentleness left her nowhere to hide. “There’s always been… something, I suppose,” she said carefully. “I don’t know exactly what it is yet. We’re just…seeing where it goes.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but not a lie either. Still, guilt pricked sharper: she was preparing Ada, perhaps, to accept something that wasn’t real. Sweet Aunt Ada who would always take her side in the face of Agnes’s resistance.

There was a pause, and Marian feared she’d said too much.

Until Ada sighed softly. “Marian, I can hardly claim to be surprised. You’ve always spent so much time with the Russell boy. When I think of Luke, my Luke, God rest his soul. I remember how we never knew how short our time would be. If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be: don’t wait. Don’t analyze every step until the moment has passed you by. If there’s something there with Larry, Marian, even the smallest chance, you must live it now.”

Marian pressed her eyes shut, a lump forming in her throat. Ada’s words, so tender and wise, only deepened the guilt pressing at her chest. How could she carry this lie when Ada believed so sincerely?

“I’ll remember that, Aunt Ada,” she whispered, her voice low. “Truly, I will.”

The bell rang faintly down the hall, calling her back to her students. But long after she hung up, Marian sat at her desk with her brushes idle, caught between Ada’s faith in her and the truth she could not yet bring herself to say. She knew, with a sinking certainty, that one day she would have to, before the lie grew too large to untangle.

What a mess this was going to be.

Chapter Text

Marian had been bent over her desk at the gallery in the West Village all morning, fussing with the wall plans for an upcoming photography exhibition. The Swedish artist had a fondness for stark landscapes and blurred figures; Marian was still figuring out which prints would command the space best. On top of that, she endured highly unsubtle questions from gallery colleagues about her new boyfriend, and was behind on her coursework marking for her high school pupils. Larry had sent her a voice note mid-morning in between his meetings, sounding irritated with everyone and everything. So his day clearly wasn’t going any better than hers.

By half past twelve, though, she found herself tapping her pencil against her notebook and staring out the front window at the steady hum of traffic. Her mind wandered elsewhere, to a certain skyscraper downtown, its steel crown gleaming even through the late spring haze.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she shoved her phone and notebook into her leather satchel, slipped on her trench coat, and called to her nearest colleague, “Back in an hour!”

The yellow New York taxi whisked her south down Broadway to the Financial District, depositing her in front of the Russell Consolidated Trust building. It was a soaring monument to modern wealth and ambition, all glass and steel with the Russell name burnished in gold above the doors.

Marian stepped inside the marble lobby and walked past the fountains toward the welcome desk, the click of her heels echoing. The receptionist glanced up from her desk, took in Marian, and gave a knowing smile.

“Miss Brook, welcome. How may I help you today?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Russell- Mr Lawrence Russell, that is,” Marian said, trying not to feel self-conscious.

The receptionist didn’t even check her screen. “Of course, Miss Brook. You know where you are going, so please go right ahead.” With a click, the turnstile unlocked.

Marian blinked. She had been here before of course, but it wasn’t that. She hadn’t realized how firmly her name was already linked with Larry’s in the public eye. But she squared her shoulders and pressed forward towards the elevator bank.

Up on the 85^th floor, Marian strode past the hushed executive floor, heels clicking against polished stone. As she rounded the corner, she caught sight of George Russell through the glass wall of his sprawling office. The letters C.E.O embossed on the door.  George was mid-argument, pacing, with his phone to his ear, voice tight with irritation and commanding even through the glass. Then he turned, caught sight of her, and his expression shifted in an instant. The hard angles melted into warmth; he gave her a brief but genuine smile and raised his hand in greeting. Marian’s lips curved as she waved back before moving on. Whatever else George Russell was to the world, to those he loved he was endlessly kind.

A few doors down, Marian found the corner office with the sweeping view of the Hudson, Larry’s office. Through the glass walls, she saw Larry hunched over his laptop in his suit, brow furrowed, one hand dragging through his hair in frustration. His desk was a sprawl of architectural sketches shoved aside in favor of spreadsheets and printouts, reminders of a job he hadn’t originally set out to do. He’d once imagined he’d run the real estate and property division, finally put his architect’s training to proper use. But with Clay’s messes and George’s expectations, Larry was being pulled into every crisis across the empire.

“Knock, knock!” Marian voiced cheerfully to announce her presence, leaning against the doorframe with a smile.

Larry’s head jerked up. His expression shifted instantly, from exasperation to surprise, then warmth. “Marian!” He shut the laptop halfway, as if grateful for the interruption. Rising, he crossed the room in a few long strides and kissed her cheek lightly in greeting, before pulling her in to a hug.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’m having the worst day. What brings you here?”

“I needed to get out of the gallery for a bit.” Marian smiled, setting her satchel down on a chair. “And you sounded like you needed rescuing from whatever that spreadsheet was doing to you.” She added, gesturing at his laptop in teasing.

Larry groaned, running a hand down his face. “Quarterly Business Reviews. The numbers are tight so my dad is, quite rightly, ripping everyone to shreds. But instead of just seeing that the common denominator in all the over-budget projects and failed KPIs is Richard Clay, he’s just…” he sighed, “Well never mind, it’s just it makes everyone come and moan to me as they’re scared to disagree with him. Two more days left of this before the reviews are over. But you-” he gestured at her outfit, a chic skirt that showcased her long legs and a Ralph Lauren blouse still dusted with a smudge of gallery chalk near the neck bow, “-are a very welcome distraction Miss Brook.” Larry ended with a relieved smile.

“Do you have time for lunch?” Marian asked in earnest, wondering if she ought to fetch some and bring it to him here if he was bogged down. “Or am I dragging you away from the downfall of the empire?” she teased dramatically.

Larry checked his watch, his nose scrunching up in annoyance. “I can squeeze it in. But only bagels, I’m afraid.” He added with an apologetic look. “Delmonico’s will have to wait.”

“Bagels will do,” Marian confirmed with a smile, looping her arm through his as they walked out of his office.

The elevator ride down was crowded for the lunch rush. Larry shifted instinctively closer and without thinking, his hand found hers, pulling her into his side. Marian felt the pressure of his palm, warm and certain, as though it belonged there. She glanced up at him, startled, but he was staring resolutely at the numbers above the door.

Other passengers shuffled out and shuffled in, murmuring polite hellos every time they saw Larry, which he always acknowledged warmly without relinquishing his grip on Marian’s hand.

By the time they stepped out onto the street, one of Larry’s security detail had fallen in behind them, 'blending with the crowd but watchful. Marian tried not to notice.

“Do you always travel with an entourage?” she asked lightly.

“Only when certain people are determined to drag me into trouble.” Larry said, shooting her a one of his crooked grins. 

The café he chose was just under a block down, a place with fogged-up windows and the smell of toasted sesame seeds hanging in the air. Larry ordered quickly and paid, knowing Marian’s order by heart and whilst the server assembled their bagels, Marian leaned across the little standing table.

“Tomorrow I’m taking the afternoon off gallery work to meet up with your mother,” she said, her tone both casual and not.

Larry raised a brow. “Oh? For what?”

“At a couture atelier. To work on my Met Gala gown.”

“You’re already on fittings? Can I see the sketches? The mood board?” He leaned forward playfully, nudging her shoulder with his, curiosity bright in his eyes.

She gave him a sly smile. “You sound like Gladys. But no, it’s a surprise.”

“Wait. Has Gladys seen the designs?” Larry asked with his eyes narrowed.

Marian smirked mischievously, “Yes, of course.”

Larry groaned dramatically. “So I’m just supposed to wait like everyone else, while you parade in, looking…” He trailed off, as if catching himself remembering how she looked in that cream gown at the charity gala, then grinned. “Never mind. I’ll wait.”

Her cheeks warmed. To distract herself, she glanced at the window... and froze.

A girl across the street was holding her phone aloft, unmistakably live-streaming. The red dot blinked in the corner of the screen, denoting the live TikTok stream. Another passerby angled their phone too, whispering something excited to their friend as they zoomed in on the café window.

Marian’s stomach sunk uncomfortably.

Larry noticed instantly. Without hesitation, he shifted, so his height and broad shoulders blocked her from their sightline and gestured at his security. “Ignore them,” he murmured in Marian’s ear with a reassuring hand on her back. “Just bagels. Just lunch. OK?”

Her phone buzzed just then on the table making her jump. She glanced down and smiled immediately in relief. It was a photo from Ada: a snapshot of St. Tropez, France, at sunset with the Mediterranean horizon glowing pink and gold. ‘Agnes insists it isn’t nearly as beautiful as Long Island Sound. She is missing New York now I think.. But I think you’d love it here. How are you, sweetie?’

Marian typed a quick reply, ‘Beautiful! Busy here. Will call soon. Give Aunt Agnes my love.’ before tucking her phone away again.

Larry was watching her curiously. “Ada?”

“Yes. Sending me French sunsets while I’m trying to wrangle creatives, art collectors and high schoolers with watercolor palettes,” Marian said with a fond smile. “She’s the sweetest.”

“She is. Reminds me of Gladys sometimes. Quiet, but she notices everything.”

Marian nodded, touched, then forced herself to smile when the server brought their order. The world outside was already churning with speculation about them, and Marian found a sudden discomfort at the thought ordinary people around them might be commenting and talking about them. She sighed as Larry steered her out the door. This was what she had signed up for, after all.

By the time they returned to Russell Consolidated, the livestream clip was already circulating online, Marian’s phone buzzing in her bag with notifications. She tried not to check, but the temptation gnawed. She caught the headlines of a couple of reposts:

Fans Freak Out Over Larry Russell & Marian Brook’s Adorably Normal Lunch Date

Billions in the Bank, But Bagels for Lunch? Larry Russell Keeps It Cheap off Wall Street.

Marian started to scroll further, before Larry gently plucked the phone from her hand and dropped it into her bag.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Let them say whatever they want. You and I know the truth.” Her chest tightened. The truth. That was the part she wrestled with most.

Larry’s assistant had arranged for plates, cutlery and a carafe of still water to be placed in his office for them. They carried the paper cafe bags into his office, settling by the widest window with the river view. Larry was already loosening his tie, and shrugging his tailored suit blazer off. Slipping back into the role of the architect at heart rather than the corporate scion. Over Marian’s shoulder, he saw curious glances coming their way from the main office, so reached over and pressed a button on his desk to turn the glass walls to the rest of the office, opaque. “A little privacy.” He explained.

Marian noted Larry's old drafting table leaned against the far wall still, and the corner of a model skyscraper peeked out from under a dust cloth. Larry noticed the direction of her interested gaze.

“Some days I wonder if I should’ve stuck with just this,” Larry muttered, reaching to the right and running a hand along the edge of the model as if it were a lifeline. “Designing, building. Instead, I’m being pulled into finance, politics, supply chain… all because Clay’s clearly in it for himself and Dad thinks I should learn every angle of the business.” He said the last part in a perfect imitation of George’s gravelly tone.

Marian tilted her head, her smile soft. “Maybe it’s not an either/or situation. You’re so much more than just an architect. You always have been.” His eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, as though weighing whether to believe her.

“You’re a talented and shrewd deal negotiator Larry.” Marian added, to reiterate her point as she poured them both a glass of water from the carafe.

Larry’s eyes flicked up, a mischievous glint in them. “A good deal negotiator, you say?” His voice lowered just enough to suggest he might be thinking of something entirely unrelated to business. He let the words hang just a beat too long, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Marian’s eyes rolled. “I was speaking of business, Larry.”

“Oh really?” He leaned closer, grin spreading. “Because I’m recollecting another very successful non-business deal negotiation of mine…”

Marian swatted him sharply, though a small smile tugged at her lips. With mock exasperation, she handed over his wrapped bagel. “Here. Seal the deal with the bagel, Mr Russell.” She carefully unwrapped her sesame bagel, glancing at Larry as he tore into his own. The city hummed far below, the world churning with speculation about them,but here, for a quiet moment, it felt almost ordinary.

Almost real.

They ate slowly, the city their backdrop. Conversation flowed easily from her students at the high school, Marian laughing as she told him one girl had painted in nothing but neon colors for three weeks straight, to his latest architectural sketches, tucked in a drawer but clearly on his mind. For a while, it felt ordinary, even domestic, the hum of New York below them, two old friends turned…somethings sharing a stolen hour.

After finishing her bagel, Marian wiped a crumb from her lip and checked the time on her phone.

“Oh no.” She sat forward. “I should have been back at the gallery twenty minutes ago. We’ve got deliveries coming in this afternoon!”

Larry leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out above his head, unbothered. “They’ll forgive you. You’re indispensable.”

Marian gave him a mock-stern look. “They won’t forgive me if the Italian sculptures for Lina Astor grow legs and run away through the West Village because I wasn’t there for the delivery.”

He pushed aside the bagel wrappers and stood, already pulling out his phone. “Then let me have the car take you back. You’ll be there in ten minutes instead of half an hour.”

“The chauffeured town car?” Her smile tugged wider, despite herself. “That sounds very… un-Larry.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he teased. “It’s not bribery, it’s efficiency. Besides-” he glanced at her, half-serious, “I like knowing you’ll get back safe.”

Marian softened, genuinely touched. Her lips curving as she nodded. “That’s… thank you.” Their eyes met, a warmth sparking between them before she shrugged her coat back on with a guilty smile.

He slid his laptop shut and came around the desk, guiding her out the door. “Give me two minutes. I need to drop something off to my dad.” Marian followed him down the hall, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. George Russell’s office door was ajar, his gravelly voice sharp as he barked at two department heads. Larry slipped inside anyway, setting a paper bag down on the corner of his father’s desk.

“Eat something, Dad. You’re unbearable on an empty stomach and it’ll piss Mom off.” he said with his usual musical lilt in his voice.

George glanced up, pausing mid-rant, his expression softening when he saw Larry. He gave a brief nod of thanks before returning to his conversation, one hand already reaching for the bagel.

Marian lingered at the threshold, watching the exchange with a curious smile. George Russell, the man Wall Street and Silicon Valley feared, disarmed by a sesame bagel from his son. She followed Larry back toward his own office, mulling over the tenderness hidden behind all that steel.

As they approached the elevators, Larry placed a guiding hand lightly at the small of her back. The gesture was casual, practiced even, yet Marian felt her pulse jump at the contact. They waited in silence until the doors slid open.

Just as they reached the doors, Marian glanced up at him. “You’re still coming tonight, right? Movie night? I promised Peggy I’d make popcorn the proper way, not in the microwave.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said easily.

They paused in front of the lift. The doors slid open with a low chime, but for a moment neither of them moved. Before she could step inside, Larry caught her wrist gently and tugged her closer. He wrapped her in a hug; steady, warm, longer than she expected. She almost forgot to breathe.

Just as he drew back, he pressed a quick kiss to the crown of her head. “I’ll see you just before six,” he murmured.

Pulling back at last, he gave her that grin of his; crooked, boyish, a little dangerous. “Go on then Brook. Don’t keep the Swedes waiting.”

She laughed and stepped into the lift, turning back to meet his eyes just before the doors closed. “See you at six.”

He lifted a hand in farewell, his voice a low promise as the gap narrowed: “Count on it.”

Marian’s cheeks flamed as the elevator doors closed, cutting her off from him. She leaned against the cool metal wall, trying to calm her racing heart, knowing full well she would fail.

Later that evening, Marian was perched on the corner of the Van Rhijn kitchen island, legs dangling, whilst watching Larry rummage noisily through the cupboards like a man on a mission.

“I swear, your aunts live like ascetics,” he complained, pulling out a jar of prunes and setting it aside with a look of betrayal. “Do they own anything that isn’t dried, pickled, or from another century?”

Marian giggled. “You’re very dramatic, you know that?”

Larry turned and gave her a mock glare, curls falling into his eyes. “Dramatic? I’m starving.”

“There’s popcorn, and you arrived eating a slice of pizza!” she said, nodding toward the top shelf.

He stretched up, tugging it down. “Popcorn. Right. Because nothing says ‘luxury’ like tiny explosions of corn.”

“Popcorn is fun,” Marian countered, trying not to laugh as he held up a dusty bag of kernels like it might explode. “And healthy.”

Larry turned, deadpan. “Popcorn is fun only if you pour an irresponsible amount of butter on it.” Without warning, Larry swooped towards her, poking her middle. Punctuating every word he said.

“You’ll thank me,” Marian replied primly, though her eyes sparkled.

“Not unless you let me drown it in butter.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Can I order sushi anyway?”

“Larry!”

“You love it,” he teased, and the easy grin he gave her was so familiar it made her heart give that dangerous little skip she was learning to dread.

Marian did, and she hated that he knew it. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She scoffed whilst hopping off the counter and walking round to open a bottle of red wine.

“Too late,” Larry countered lightly, and went back to hunting for a stovetop popper which he duly found and held up triumphantly. He poured in kernels and shook it over the flame. The kitchen soon filled with the rhythmic sound of kernels rattling and the buttery scent of nostalgia. Marian leaned over the counter, chin in her palm, watching him shake the pan with mock-serious concentration. The warmth in her chest startled her. Larry looked every bit the billionaire’s heir in a sharply tailored suit, but his goofiness and silly narration as he acted like making popcorn was the final of MasterChef also looked like the boy next door she’d known forever, someone she could never quite push away.

Marian ordered the sushi delivery for Larry on her phone app and poured two glasses of wine and watched Larry hunt for a large bowl for the popcorn, with a warmth she quickly tried to disguise. It looked too domestic, too… real.

“How’s your painting going?” Larry asked casually, pouring the popcorn into the bowl.

She shrugged, toying with her necklace. “It’s ok, I think. But honestly? I’m loving teaching more. Watching the girls discover watercolors, it’s magic. I’d do it full-time if I could, maybe not at a school but a studio of my own.”

Larry pondered her words seriously and then handed her the bowl without hesitation. “You’d be brilliant. You already are.” The sincerity in his tone made her throat tighten. She busied herself with the popcorn so she didn’t have to answer.

Hr leaned a hip against the counter, watching Marian gather the bits to take upstairs, with that thoughtful expression of his that always seemed to cut straight through her defences. Reaching out, he plucked the phone from her hand and set it down on the  marble counter beside his own with a soft clink. “No phones tonight,” he said firmly but with a smile. “No headlines, no scrolling, no dissecting whatever photo opportunity my Mom’s PR team lined up for this week. Just us. Popcorn, wine, and hanging out. Like the old days.”

For a moment, Marian just gaped at him, startled by the easy decisiveness of it. Then the knot in her chest loosened, and she felt the smallest, most dangerous flicker of relief because she wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.

Upstairs, the old Van Rhijn sitting room was dim except for the glow of the TV, casting shadows over the Victorian oak panelled walls. The sofa cushions were faded velvet, soft with age, and the fire in the grate crackled quietly. Larry dropped onto the sofa, stretching out so comfortably that Marian had to swat his legs before sitting. “You take up more space than anyone I’ve ever met.” The sofa cushions dipped under their weight as they settled in.

“Big shoulders,” he said innocently, nudging her knee with his.

“Big ego,” she retorted, grabbing the bowl of popcorn before he could.

He feigned injury, pressing a hand to his chest. “Cruel!” Larry slung his arm casually across the back of the sofa. They argued over Netflix choices until Marian won, smugly cueing up a TV series about cowboys in Montana that they could binge through.

Their banter continued as the movie started, the kind of easy rhythm only eleven years of friendship could build. But Marian was increasingly aware of him, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa with his fingers brushing her shoulder now and again as they sipped their drinks, so subtle she couldn’t quite decide if it was deliberate.  Aware that his thigh pressed just close enough to hers, the way their fingers brushed when they both reached into the bowl.

The doorbell rang and Marian jumped up before Larry could move. He barely looked away from the screen until she walked back in balancing the plastic trays.

“Sushi!?” Larry sat up enthusiastically, blinking in surprise. “When did you-”

“I ordered whilst you were making the popcorn,” she said, setting it on the coffee table with a little smile.

“Thank God!” he groaned, leaning forward to peek inside as if salvation had just arrived. He plucked up a piece with his fingers before she even handed him the chopsticks out of the bag, closing his eyes in theatrical bliss as he chewed. “You’re an angel. I was starving.”

“You could’ve said something, you know.” Marian teased, passing him a paper plate and napkin.

“And admit weakness? Never,” he shot back, but he was already reaching for another salmon roll.

They ate cross-legged on the sofa, cartons and plastic trays spread between them, trading favorites with mock-serious negotiations. Marian slipped a piece that she knew he liked, onto his plate just as he reached for it, their fingers brushing, and he gave her a grin that was almost boyish. He still tried to steal one of hers in retaliation, but she smacked his hand lightly with her chopsticks, both of them laughing as soy sauce nearly sloshed onto Agnes’s upholstered cushions.

When they were full at last, the cartons were pushed aside and they sank back into the old velvet cushions, shoulders touching. Larry stretched his arm along the back of the sofa again, casual but close enough that his fingers returned to dancing across her shoulder and upper arm now and then. Marian tried to keep her focus on the flickering TV, but she was increasingly aware of him, of the warmth of his thigh leaning against hers, of the easy way his presence and aftershave filled the room.

Once, she thought she felt his fingers hook hers deliberately, but when she glanced up, he was watching the screen with a studious expression.

“Larry,” she whispered, leaning toward him.

“Mm?” he hummed, tossing a popcorn kernel into his mouth.

“You’re hogging all the good pieces.”

“You’re imagining things.” He reached again, and their hands collided in the bowl. This time, neither pulled away immediately. His thumb brushed across the back of her hand, caressing her knuckles as light as a feather.

Marian’s breath caught.

He shifted slightly closer, voice low. “Guess I can share.”

Two hours in, Marian, with perfect aim, flicked a piece of popcorn at his chest.

Larry looked down, deadpan. “Did you just-”

Another piece hit him square in the shoulder. Marian went to throw another piece at his face but Larry caught it midair with smug satisfaction. “That’s it. You’ve declared war.”

The TV show was forgotten. What began as a flick of kernels escalated quickly into a full skirmish. Soon they were tossing popcorn at each other like children, dissolving into laughter, until Larry lunged to rescue the bowl from her lap. They wrestled for the bowl, laughing so hard Marian’s stomach hurt. Marian yanked it back, and in the scramble half the remaining popcorn spilled across the cushions. Laughter bubbled out of her uncontrollably.

“Give it up, Russell!” she cried, clutching the bowl like a shield.

“Never.”

In one swift motion, he wrested it from her grasp, which sent her falling backwards along the seat of the sofa. Larry ended up leaning over her, pinning her wrists to the cushions without force as she tried to escape, but with enough closeness to send a rush of heat through her veins. His wide grin was boyish, his chest rising with laughter.

Marian’s giggles faltered.

Larry’s weight pressed into her just enough that she felt the breadth of him, solid and warm. The warmth of his palm against her bare wrist. Marian’s chest rose quickly against his as her heart hammered. Her blouse had ridden up in the tussle, and she felt the heat of his other hand on the bare skin of her hip where his grip had landed. Larry’s curls had fallen into his eyes, his face softening as he looked down at her. The world went strangely still, Marian was no longer paying attention to the TV or the spilled popcorn, just the pounding of her heart and the impossible proximity of his face.

The world narrowed to the sound of her pulse and the warmth she saw in Larry’s eyes.

Larry’s gaze lingered on her lips, then flicked back up to meet her eyes, studying whatever he saw there. Something unspoken passed between them, something both terrifying and thrilling. He felt everything shift and the air around them thickening with electricity, causing him to swallow nervously and close the distance slightly so his nose just grazed hers..

“L-Larry…?” she whispered, uncertain.

“Mm?” he murmured, but his eyes never left hers but the fingers of his left hand continued to slowly stroking the skin of her midriff, where it rested.

Seeing his soft gaze and before she could lose her nerve, Marian leaned up, closing the distance between them and brushed her lips to his. Gently, almost cautious. The kiss began tentative until Larry kissed her back. The taste of butter and salt, the press of his mouth, the heat of his body it was everything. His right hand released her wrists and cupped her side of her face, holding her head closer to him, as her hands crept up to his hair.

The popcorn bowl slipped from the sofa to the floor unnoticed.

Larry responded to Marian’s pace, but when she sighed against his mouth, clutching his shoulder, the kiss deepened. His weight pressed her further into the cushions, his body aligning with hers, the warmth of him unmistakable.

He kissed her again, and again. Hungry, unhurried, as though he’d been waiting years for this. Marian’s fingers tangled in his curls, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly against her lips. His hand slid under the hem of her blouse, fingertips grazing her ribs, sending a shiver through her. Marian arched toward him instinctively. The end credits of TV show’s latest episode flickered on the television, forgotten, as the bowl of popcorn slid unnoticed to the floor.

Larry broke the kiss only to press another along her jaw, then returned to her lips, deeper, more urgent this time, leaving them both breathless. It would have gone further, too far perhaps, but the creak of the sitting room door cut through the moment.

“Marian?”

Peggy froze in the doorway, overnight bag slung over her shoulder. At her side stood Dr. William Kirkland, tall and devastating in his work suit.

“Oh!” Peggy’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. Sorry!”

Larry sprang upright, rushing popcorn from his shirt and raking a hand through his curls, breathless but attempting trying for casual. “Evening guys.”

Marian scrambled up in a panic, cheeks flaming, tugging her skirt and blouse back down. “Peggy! Will! We were just-” she looked to Larry for help.

“Practicing,” Larry supplied, deadpan.

Marian elbowed him sharply, mortified.

Peggy’s lips twitched, amusement breaking through her shock. “Right. Of course.”

Marian’s mouth opened and closed as she stumbled over her words. “I—I didn’t realize you guys would be here yet, I thought-”

“Clearly!” Peggy burst out laughing. “Mar, I texted you and even tried calling… twice.”

There was a beat of silence as Marian flushed, and both she and Larry glanced at each other in sudden recognition, of course. Their phones were still sitting abandoned on the kitchen counter downstairs, side by side, exactly where Larry had left them.

William cleared his throat, gentlemanly but clearly trying not to laugh. “We’ll just… let you get back to it. Good to see you Larry.”

The door clicked shut. Silence hung for a beat before Marian turned on Larry as he leaned back against the sofa with a grin.

“Practicing?” she hissed.

He rubbed his ribs where she had elbowed him, wincing but grinning. “What? It wasn’t a lie.”

She buried her face in her hands, mortified, but his chuckle, low and warm, dragged her laughter out too. “Come and sit over here Brook and chill out, the next episode is starting”.

Later, when the credits of the next episode rolled, they sat close but quieter. Marian’s head drifted onto his shoulder, her fingers brushing his forearm in idle, unconscious movements. Their earlier laughter had mellowed into something calmer, sweeter, harder to name.

She fell asleep like that, curled into him.

Larry stayed awake, staring down at her with a look he would never admit to. She was supposed to be a shield against gossip, a convenient arrangement that meant he could just hang out with his best friend as usual instead of some socialite he didn’t know. Yet here she was, soft and trusting against his chest, making him wonder if the lie they told the world wasn’t becoming the truth between them.

He brushed a stray strand of blonde hair from her forehead, thinking about what would’ve happened if they hadn’t left their phones in the kitchen and whispered, “Best missed call ever.” He sighed, “You’re trouble, Brook.”

By the time the credits faded, Marian was stirring awake, stretching her arms as if she’d only meant to close her eyes for a second. She blinked, realizing she was still nestled against Larry, her cheek pressed to his chest.

“I must have dozed off,” she murmured, sitting up quickly and brushing her hair back.

Larry smirked, gathering the empty popcorn bowl from the floor. “You didn’t just doze. You snored.”

“I did not,” she gasped, swatting at his arm.

“Like a chainsaw,” he teased, dodging her halfhearted slap. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. “Anyway, I should head out. It’s late, and we’ve both got work in the morning.”

He stood, stretching, but Marian’s voice stopped him.

“Larry-”

He turned, half-smile lingering, expecting another retort. Instead, she looked smaller somehow, perched on the sofa with the blanket still wrapped around her knees.

“Stay.” The word slipped out before she could second-guess it. She flushed, but forced herself to go on. “Just- stay tonight. You can take the guest room if you want, but… I don’t want you to go.”

Larry froze, the easy humor draining from his face. Something softer replaced it, more searching. “Mar…”

She twisted the blanket between her fingers. “I know it’s supposed to be pretend and any sleepovers just a part of the arrangement. But after the day we’ve had, I don’t think I could stand the silence if you left. Just stay. That’s all I’m asking.”She broke off, shaking her head. “Not after the day we’ve had.”

His throat worked as if he were swallowing words he wasn’t sure he should say. Then, quieter, “Truth is, I get it. Really, I do. I never… had this with Susan. And I know for a fact you never had it with Tom Raikes or that older idiot you dated. Hanging out like this… it’s-” He gestured vaguely between them. “It’s nice.”

Marian’s shoulders relaxed, and a tentative smile tugged at her lips.

“Alright,” he said finally, a faint grin appearing as his usual bravado bounced back. “I’ll stay.”

Larry leaned down, pulling her up from the sofa by both arms. “But if you hog the covers, Brook, deal’s off.”

She laughed softly, though her heart was racing. “Fair enough.”

They finished tidying up together in companionable silence. Marian washed the popcorn bowl in the sink while Larry went up to sweep the popcorn up from around the sofa.

Together they then climbed the stairs, close enough that their shoulders brushed andtheir footsteps soft against the creaking staircase. As they reached the landing, Marian realized she was smiling, wide and unguarded, in a way she hadn’t in a very long time.

On the second floor, Marian pushed open the door to her bedroom. Larry had been there countless times before, late-night study sessions, painting critiques, moving boxes, the occasional drunk nap when he’d walked her home after a night out when they were younger. Still, he paused on the threshold, taking it in.

The space was utterly Marian. Pale yellow wallpaper with tiny white blossoms, floaty curtains framing the tall windows, a scattering of books stacked on the nightstand. Her easel stood in one corner with a half-finished canvas propped up on it, and the mantelpiece bore framed photographs of family, her father in uniform, friends, and one of her with the late Pumpkin, smiling so wide she looked like a girl again.

Larry’s eyes immediately landed on the bed. Draped across the quilt, half-forgotten, was a worn crimson Harvard sweater. His Harvard sweater.

“Exhibit A,” he said, pointing at it, his brows arching in mock offense. “You accuse me of thievery but look at this theft ring you’ve been running for years. I think I recognize at least three other pieces of mine in here.”

Marian flushed but tried to look innocent. “Liberated as you’d say, not stolen. There’s a difference.”

Larry crossed the room, picked up the sweater, and held it up between them. “Mystery solved. I thought I lost this sophomore year. And let me guess, you wore it so much it smells like your detergent now, doesn’t it?”

She laughed, swatting at his arm. “Maybe.”

He tossed the sweater back onto the bed, shaking his head with a smile. “At least it saves me from having to bring an overnight bag for our more…contractual sleepovers. Half my wardrobe’s already here.”

“See?” she said sweetly, throwing her arms up. “Convenient. Top drawer of the dresser, if you need more.”

“Mm-hm.” His gaze lingered a second too long before he cleared his throat and gestured toward the bed. “I’ll, uh… sleep on top of the covers. Keep it respectable.”

Marian rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. We’ve shared beds, tents, sofas a hundred times over the years. You’re not that irresistible.”

Larry opened his mouth to counter, but she’d already disappeared into the en-suite. The sound of running water filled the quiet room. He stared at the half-open door, his mind replaying the kiss downstairs in vivid, aching detail.

Her lips. The way she’d whispered ‘Larry ‘even though they both knew better. The way her body had fit against his like it had been waiting. Larry exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face as he remembered the plan. This was just an arrangement, it had to be for the sake of their friendship. “Get a grip, Russell,” he muttered.

When Marian emerged, she was in a soft matching pyjama set with shorts, her hair damp and curling against her shoulders. She slipped under the bed covers, flicking through TV channels with the remote like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to have Larry Russell wandering about her bedroom.

Larry disappeared into the bathroom, for his turn, emerging minutes later, freshly showered in jersey shorts and a faded T-shirt. His unruly curls wet after a quick shower, clinging to his forehead. He glanced at her in the large double bed, her profile lit by the glow of the TV. For a moment, it was disarming, like stepping into a memory of all their years of friendship, layered with something unspoken and new.

“If you steal the covers…” she warned lightly as he crossed the room.

“Brook. You steal my clothes,” he shot back, climbing in beside her. “So, I used your toothbrush.” he added with the air of someone scoring a decisive victory.

Marian gasped. “Larry, ew!”

He smirked, tucking himself in. “Relax. I rinsed it after.”

The mattress dipped under his weight. For a while, they both stared at the late night television talk show without really watching. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, and each time, Marian felt sparks ripple through her.

Her mind was a whirl: the kiss, the rules, the warmth of his hand earlier on her waist, her ribs. She tried to breathe evenly, to push it away, but every inch of her was alive with awareness of him.

At last, she rolled to her side, facing the wall, putting as much distance between them as the bed allowed. “Goodnight, Larry,” she whispered, her voice tighter than she intended.

There was a pause before she heard a deep chuckle reverberate. Then, softly: “You’re being ridiculous.”

She frowned. “What?”

He shifted closer until his chest pressed against her back, his arm looping around her waist pulling her towards him. “This whole inch-away-like-I’m-contagious thing.” His voice was warm, teasing, but threaded with something gentler. “It’s only me, Marian and we’re not nervous seventeen year olds.”

Her breath caught as he finally pulled her firmly against him.

“Plus it’s actually really cold in this mausoleum.” he added, making her laugh. Her resistance melted in the warmth of his hold, her hand drifting down to rest lightly against his forearm. Slowly, she relaxed, her breathing steadying until she slipped into sleep. The television flickered unnoticed. Outside, the city hummed.

Larry didn’t follow immediately. He lay awake, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, his mind caught between what they’d agreed and what it felt like now. The arrangement had started as strategy; appearances, convenience, protection, all with the added bonus of doing it with a friend. But here, with her curled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, it no longer felt like a game he could control.

Her steady breathing was soft against his chest, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. He stared at the ceiling, then at her face in the shadows, peaceful, beautiful, hers. His phone buzzed again on the nightstand, screen lighting the room. With a sigh, he reached for it, answering a string of work emails one-handed, the other still curved protectively around Marian. Clay’s name flashing up more times than he liked in the urgent emails from the LA office and his Dad. Business was easier to deal with than this mess of feelings. Yet every so often, his gaze drifted back to her face in the near darkness, soft and unguarded where she slept soundly against him.

And each time, the same thought pressed heavier against his chest: if this was only supposed to be pretend, why did it already feel so dangerously real?

Chapter Text

The morning light slipped between the pale curtains in Marian’s bedroom, casting soft golden streaks across the muted yellow wallpaper. Marian stirred first, her cheek pressed against something warm and solid. For a moment, she didn’t move, letting the quiet hum of the city seep into her bones. Then she blinked, slowly, and realized it was Larry’s chest beneath her. His arm was still curled around her waist, his breath steady against her hair. She shifted closer into to his side, hardly daring to breathe. His weight and warmth were comforting in a way that unsettled her, because it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt… straightforward and sincere.

“Morning, Brook,” Larry murmured, his voice deep and rough with sleep.

Marian smiled, despite herself. “Good morning… You stayed.”

"I promised you I would." He gave her waist a gentle squeeze before pulling back slightly, as if remembering the invisible line they’d drawn between real and pretend. He stretched, groaning, and looked down at her with a crooked grin. "Your bed’s not bad, but you still hog the covers.”

She laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “You were the one clinging to me like a human furnace.”

“I’ll plead guilty,” he said, rolling onto his back. For a few beats, they lay in silence, the kind that only comes with deep familiarity. Outside, the city stirred; horns honking, birds calling, the distant hum of life.

Marian’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, her thoughts swirling. The rules they’d written, the boundaries they’d set. It was all starting to blur. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.

She turned slightly, her fingers brushing his forearm. “We should probably get downstairs. If Peggy catches you sneaking out, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Larry groaned, raking a hand through his messy curls. “Too late for sneaking.” He said as he walked to the en-suite bathroom, before poking his head back out the door with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows. “Guess I’ll just have to charm my way through.”

Downstairs, the Van Rhijn kitchen was already humming with quiet energy. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the buttery aroma of freshly cooked pancakes, and the soft clink of cutlery echoed against the marble countertops. Marian padded downstairs barefoot, her dress floating around her knees as she tied a bow at her waist, cheeks still flushed from sleep and something else she didn’t want to name.

Peggy stood at the stove, dressed in tailored taupe trousers and a crisp white tee, flipping a golden round onto a plate, whilst William sat at the kitchen island, sipping coffee and reading something on his phone, his presence calm and grounding.

“Morning,” Marian greeted brightly trying to sound casual, stepping in with Larry just behind her, nonchalant as always. He reached for a couple of mugs, looking far too comfortable for someone who didn’t technically live there.

Peggy’s eyes flicked from Marian to Larry, and her brows arched ever so slightly. She recovered quickly, but the pointed look she shot Marian, complete with a subtle nod toward Larry as if to say, 'WTF a sleepover?', did not go unnoticed.

Larry, perfectly polite, inclined his head. “Morning Will, Peg.”

Peggy looked up at Larry, her eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. “Morning Larry, it’s a pleasant surprise to see you.”

Marian poured coffee, avoiding eye contact. Larry accepted the steaming mug from her and turned, grinning. “I was held hostage by popcorn and a rom-com. I had no choice.”

William glanced up, offering a polite smile. “Good to hear. You missed a very dramatic email thread from Agnes last night. Something about the Heritage Society’s seating chart and a fake antique Dutch panelling scandal involving the Astors.”

Marian chuckled, grateful for the distraction as Peggy put a plate of pancakes in front of her. “Sounds about right, sadly we were out for the count.”

“Speak for yourself!” Larry stole Marian’s fork to take a bite of the pancakes before pointing at Marian. “She snored.”

“I did not!” Marian gasped.

“Like a chainsaw,” Larry said solemnly. Peggy and William burst out laughing, with Larry joining them once his poker face broke.

Marian peeked through her fingers. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”

Peggy held her gaze a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the stove. “Would you like some pancakes, Larry?”

He patted his stomach with mock regret. “Tempting, but I’m trying to keep this under control. I should head home across the street, get a workout in before the office. We’re in the penultimate day of quarterly reviews.” Marian had already slid onto a bar stool, finally tucking in to her pancakes. That left her awkwardly perched there as Larry lingered, clearly in no rush to leave, while Peggy and William exchanged glances over their coffee mugs. Struggling to mask their thinly veiled curiosity.

Larry crossed to her, reaching around her shoulders in an easy hug. Marian’s eyes fluttered shut instinctively as she snuggled into his chest, her pulse skipping. When he pulled back, he gave her hand a squeeze. “Have a good afternoon with my Mom,” he said warmly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret.

“You too,” Marian replied, a little breathless. With a final nod to Peggy and William, Larry strolled out, whistling under his breath. The door had barely clicked shut when Peggy pounced.

“Well,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “You owe me an explanation.”

Marian, cheeks still flushed, grabbed her fork like a shield. “I’m running late for work. Back-to-back lessons this morning. I’ll tell you later.”

Peggy narrowed her eyes but let her go, watching as Marian hurried out with her bag slung over her shoulder, nearly tripping over the umbrella stand in her haste.

William sipped his coffee and looked at his fiancé, “That was definitely not just popcorn and a rom-com.”

By the time Larry stepped into the Russell Consolidated boardroom, the buzz of the morning had faded into the sterile hum of corporate tension. The room was a gleaming box of glass and steel, perched high above Manhattan like a throne room for titans. Executives lined the table, laptops open, coffee cups steaming, and George Russell sat at the head like a general surveying his troops.

Larry slid into his seat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He’d barely had time to change after leaving Marian’s, and the scent of her shampoo still lingered faintly on his skin. It was distracting.

“Let’s begin,” George said, flipping open a folder. 

An hour later they were deep in to the marketing review. “Why are we still allocating budget to influencer partnerships on products not aimed at consumers?” Larry asked, flipping through the deck with a frown. “These are business-to-business services, not B2C. That spend is never going to convert any return on investment.”

The room fell quiet for a beat. George looked up from his notes, brows raised.

“Explain.” he said, voice clipped but curious.

Larry leaned forward. “We’re throwing money at lifestyle influencers to promote enterprise software and industrial real estate portfolios. It’s not just ineffective, it’s tone deaf. We should be focusing on targeted LinkedIn campaigns, industry webinars, and direct outreach to C-Suite decision makers. Not TikTok reels.”

George’s mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Good catch.” he said, nodding. “Let’s reallocate that spend to the Space R&D. I want a revised strategy by Monday.”

Then, as an afterthought, he added, “In fact… send it to Larry. Let him take the lead.”

Larry’s eyes shot to his father’s in surprise. That was a big bone to throw him, a signal of trust, of responsibility. He didn’t verbalize it, didn’t let the flicker of shock reach his expression in front of everyone else. He simply nodded, as if it were nothing at all.

“Understood,” he said evenly, flipping to the next page of the deck.

After a short break, Larry found himself sat back at the table with George and the next group for the following review meeting.

“Q3 projections." George probed, "Larry, you’ve reviewed the Morenci numbers?”

Larry nodded, pulling up the spreadsheet. “Yes. The Arizona deal is going to collapse. Clay and his team missed two deadlines, and the current owners are threatening to walk.”

George’s jaw tightened. “Then fix it.”

Larry hesitated. “I’ll fly out next week. Meet with some new surveyors, walk the land myself.”

George gave a curt nod. “Good. I want this cleaned up before the next investor call.”

Larry found himself zoning out. The numbers blurred. The voices around him became background noise. His mind drifted back to Marian, her laugh over pancakes, the way she’d leaned into him during the night without hesitation, the way her eyes had fluttered shut when he hugged her goodbye. He should’ve felt confident. He was doing everything right. But instead, a flicker of doubt crept in.

What if Marian was just playing along because of their deal? What if she was still holding back, waiting for the moment he proved her a fool like Tom Raikes had? He rubbed his temple, trying to focus. The spreadsheet stared back at him like a challenge he couldn’t solve.

“Larry?” George’s voice cut through the fog.

Larry blinked. “Sorry. Yes. I’ll handle it.”

George studied him for a beat longer than necessary. “You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” Larry admitted. “Too many spreadsheets.”

George raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. As the meeting wrapped, Larry gaze kept sliding to the window, staring out at the city. Somewhere across the park, Marian was probably teaching, laughing with her students, unaware of the knot tightening in his chest.

Larry’s mind slipped back to the night before. Marian curled against him in bed, her breath warm on his chest, her fingers brushing his forearm in sleep. The way she’d whispered “stay,” and how he hadn’t hesitated. The way she’d looked at him in the morning, sleepy, soft, and entirely too beautiful. It was an excellent way to wake up. He’d slept better than he had in ages, and it put him in an unusually good mood for the day.

He opened his phone subtly under the table, scrolling through his camera roll until he found it: a candid from a few weeks ago in the Russell House TV room. Marian was curled up in one of his hoodies, laughing at something off-camera, her hair messy, her cheeks flushed. She looked happy. Real.

He stared at it for a long moment before taaping share.

Instagram Post
📸 Marian Brook, Russell House TV Room
“She stole my hoodie and my popcorn. #BrookAndRussell #Larian #NoFilter”

Larry reviewed it, hit post and tucked the phone away unsure if he’d just made things better—or worse. He ignored the immediate buzz of likes and comments. Let them speculate. Let them talk. He liked the photo. He liked her.

He opened his calendar to check the rest of the week. A new invite had appeared, dropped in by his PA: Carrie Astor’s Spring Party – Saturday, 8pm. He smirked. He’d go with Marian. It would be good press, and more importantly, Aurora Fane wouldn’t be able to throw another pathetic hedge fund dork at her like a sacrificial offering.

He leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. He’d made a smart call in the meeting, posted a great photo, and secured a weekend plan that involved having a laugh with Marian.

Not bad for a Thursday morning.

By midday, Marian’s back-to-back teaching marathon was finished. She rushed home, but instead of turning into her own townhouse, she crossed to the massive Russell mansion opposite, waving at security as she walked in. Time for her afternoon of fittings with Bertha.

Marian stood in the grand marble foyer of Russell House, her coat draped over one arm and her nerves bundled tightly beneath it. The usual hush of the mansion had been replaced by the buzz of stylists, assistants, and garment bags rustling like silk sails in a storm. Church, the Russell butler, greeted her with his usual composure. “This way, Miss Brook.” He led her up the sweeping staircase to the ballroom.

The vast room had been transformed into a full-blown fashion studio. Lighting rigs glowed softly from every corner and camera stands were set up, rails of gowns lined one wall, and tables glimmered with shoes, jewellery, and accessories. Bertha’s PA, Andréa, moved briskly among stylists and designers, orchestrating the chaos.

Marian leaned against the accessory table, slightly overwhelmed, and pulled out her phone. She texted Ada: What time is your flight back tomorrow?

The reply came quickly: First leg from Nice to Paris in an hour. Overnight in Paris. Early morning to New York.

Safe travels, Marian wrote back, just as Bertha swept in.

Bertha Russell swept into view, radiant in a deep ruby silk blouse and tailored cream trousers, her hair pinned in a sleek twist. She gestured grandly toward the chaos. “Marian!” Bertha’s voice filled the room, her eyes lighting at the sight of her. “Perfect timing. Come in, instead of going out we’ve taken over the house, the atelier has come to us.” She greeted Marian with a warm smile and a sweep of her hand, ushering her deeper into the transformed ballroom. “It’s good to catch up, darling,” she said, her voice rich with affection and command. “I feel like I haven’t seen you properly since the charity gala.”

Marian hesitated, glancing around. “Wait… we’re not going to the atelier?”

Bertha gave a theatrical gasp. “Good heavens, no. Why would we? I don’t do fittings under fluorescent lighting. They’ve brought everything here. Much more civilized.”

Marian laughed, tension easing slightly. “Of course they have.”

Bertha’s French PA, André, appeared beside her like a conjured spirit, holding a clipboard and murmuring updates in rapid French of which Marian understood snippets.

Marian eased into the rhythm of Bertha’s presence. “I'm so sorry I haven't been round to see you. It’s been a busy few weeks. Teaching’s been full on, my students are experimenting with abstract expressionism now, which mostly means splattering paint and calling it ‘emotional chaos.’”

Bertha chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “Ah, the future of art. Bold, messy, and probably unprofitable. And your own painting? Still finding time for it I hope?”

“A little,” Marian admitted. “Mostly evenings. I’ve got a few canvases in progress, but nothing I’d hang in a gallery just yet.”

Bertha waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You’ve always had an eye. And your aunts, still sunning themselves in the South of France?”

Marian nodded. “Ada sends me sunset photos daily. Agnes sends critiques of the local architecture. She’s unimpressed with the Riviera’s modern resort developments.”

Bertha smirked. “Of course she is. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to redesign the coastline.”

Marian grinned. “Give her time.”

“And you?” Marian asked, tilting her head. “How’s work? Still running half of New York from your office?”

Bertha gave a theatrical sigh. “Business is booming, as ever. Three board meetings, two gala committees, and one minor contract rejection with Enid Winterton to extinguish, all before breakfast. Honestly, I’m considering charging the press every time they use my name in a headline.”

Marian laughed. “You’d make a fortune.”

Bertha’s smile softened. “Well, let’s make sure you look like one on Met Gala night. Come, up on the platform. I want to see how this gown moves before the photographers do.”

Soon, Marian stood on a small platform while a pair of designers fussed over layers of gold silk and brocade. The Met Gala theme this year was The Gilded Age, and Marian’s gown was a shimmering homage: a sculpted bodice, delicate embroidery, and a grandiose bustle that made her think fleetingly of her aunt, Agnes.

The dress shimmered under the lights, a sculpted bodice cascading with draped fabric that swished with every movement. It was a nod to the Gilded Age, elegant and dramatic, and Marian felt both regal and slightly overwhelmed. Pins clicked, fabric swished, and Marian caught herself smiling at the transformation. Bertha, nearby, was also being fitted into a dramatic gown of deep ruby, her hair pinned high.

Bertha circled her like a curator inspecting a priceless painting. “You’ll be the talk of the evening,” she declared. “The gown, your looks, my son on your arm, it’s a perfect trifecta.”

Marian flushed. “It’s a lot.”

Bertha waved a hand. “It’s exactly right. And Larry will be beside himself when he sees you. As he should be.”

Marian’s heart skipped. She glanced at her reflection, trying to see what Bertha saw; a woman poised, powerful, and perfectly composed. But beneath the silk and sparkle, she still felt like the teenage girl who’d arrived in New York with a suitcase and a broken heart. Gladys FaceTimed halfway through the fitting, her voice chirping through the speakers as her face appeared on the screen, fresh from dinner in London. “Darling, look!” Bertha angled the camera, showing both her own dress and Marian’s.

Gladys squealed. “Marian! You look divine! Hector’s in the bath, but I’ll show him after. Mom your gown is gorgeous.”

Marian blushed. “Thank you. Tell him I said hi!”

When the call ended, Bertha turned thoughtful. “You know, Marian, I’ve seen such a difference in Larry lately. He’s steadier. More focused at work. He laughs more. You’ve given him something I never could and you’ve reminded the world that he is more than a headline.”

A twinge of guilt pierced Marian, as the weight of those words settled on her chest but she forced a smile. “He’s… he’s talented. Loyal.” She paused as she considered whether is was her saving Larry, or if he was saving her. “He deserves to be happy.”

“He does,” Bertha agreed firmly. “And so do you. The two of you can achieve great things together.”

Marian nodded, her throat tight. The truth was, everything she’d just said about Larry was real. The lie was pretending it was only for show. The fitting carried on, with stylists debating accessories. Marian tried on earrings, necklaces, even a delicate golden choker. The room buzzed with energy as photographers clicked through test shots.

By late afternoon, the gowns were packed away, and Bertha stood before the cameras, draped in jewels while her team captured every angle. Marian, forgotten for the moment, leaned against a wall, watching.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar low voice whispered near her ear, “Fancy seeing you here.”

She turned, startled, to find Larry grinning at her. “You scared me!” Before she could say more, George strode in, his presence commanding as ever. He greeted Marian with a warm hug, then crossed to Bertha and kissed her with unselfconscious affection.

“You missed the dresses,” Marian told Larry as they slipped from the room together.

“Quid Tragoedia!” What a tragedy he said dramatically in Latin. “Will I get a fitting too?”

“Nearer the time, probably,” Marian said breaking in to an amused smile. “Suits are easier.”

“Hmm, true enough.” His hand brushed the banister as they descended the grand staircase. “Will you stay for dinner with us?”

She adjusted the strap of her bag. “I really should get home. I’m need to get all the students' marking finished by tomorrow.”

“Duty calls eh!” Larry teased, but there was no mistaking the softness in his eyes.

The city was quieter now with the sun dipping low behind the skyline. Marian adjusted her coat, her cheeks still flushed from the excitement of the day. Larry slipped his hands into his pockets as they crossed the large marble foyer. “So, what’s the verdict? Did Mom approve?”

Marian smirked. “She’s already planning the press release with her team, so I think I passed.” She didn’t tell Larry what Bertha had said about seeing improvements in him, that felt…private, somehow.

They paused by the front door. “I saw your post,” Marian said, her voice casual but edged with curiosity.

Larry raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Instagram. The photo of me. In your hoodie. At your house.”

Larry’s lips curved into a playful grin. “Ahh. That one…” he teased, “Not the repost of my Aunt Monica’s puppy video. That got a lot of attention too.” Causing them both to burst out laughing before Marian sobered slightly.

“You didn’t warn me,” she said, but her tone was more curious than accusatory.

“It’s in the agreement.” he said lightly. “Social media posts. You approved the clause.”

Marian rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I thought we’d discuss them first.”

Larry stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I liked the photo. You looked happy. Real. I didn’t want to overthink it.”

Marian’s breath caught. “Well, it’s everywhere now!”

“I know,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t care what they say. I care what you think.”

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “I think… it was a good photo.”

Larry smiled, slow and sure. “Then I’ll keep posting the good ones...in between puppy reels.”

Chapter Text

Marian had spent most of Friday morning moving from easel to easel, guiding her students through the subtleties of light and shadow. She paused beside a girl struggling with a charcoal sketch of a vase, tilting her head as she considered the lines. With a patient smile, she leaned closer. “The light is coming from the left, so the shadow must fall to the right. That gives it weight,” she explained. The girl nodded, chewing her lip in concentration, while at the next desk a girl had smudged too heavily. Marian knelt beside her, showing how to soften the edge with the side of her hand. The room hummed with the steady rhythm of work chatter, the scratch of pencil on paper, the scrape of chair legs across the wooden floor.

Outside, the weather had turned bleak. Rain streamed down the tall windows in silver sheets, gusts of wind rattling the panes so hard the glass seemed to shiver in its frame. The air smelled faintly of damp wool from school coats drying on their hooks, mixing with the sharper notes of graphite dust, tempera paint, and turpentine. The storm pressed itself into the studio, an undercurrent beneath the concentration of the students, and Marian found its presence almost unsettling.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, twice in a row. She glanced down, expecting texts in a group chat. But it was two missed FaceTime call. As she took the phone in her hand, Larry’s name glowed insistently across the screen again.

Her heart fluttered. Excusing herself, she slipped in to the art supplies office as the phone lit up once again.

“Finally she answers!” Larry’s face filled the screen, sun in his hair, that crooked grin already tugging at his mouth. He was standing in his bedroom, with shirts and trousers being folded in the background by staff moving too quickly to catch on camera.

“Hey, aren’t you meant to be at work today?” she asked softly, cradling the phone closer. “Is everyone ok?”

“I come bearing bad news,” Larry replied.

Marian’s stomach dipped. “W-what kind of bad news?”

“My dad’s shipping me off to Arizona. Morenci mines. He wants me to walk the land with the surveyors, talk to the people, sort things out before the deal collapses for good this time. It wasn’t meant to be until later next week. I was going to ask you to come with me as you were going to be off work anyway, but-” He spoke lightly, but the tension around his eyes betrayed him through the phone camera. “I leave today now. Which means… I can’t take you to Carrie Astor’s party tomorrow.”

“Oh,” The word slipped out, thin and unguarded before Marian could mask it. “Today?”

“In a few hours. They’re tossing clothes into a suitcase behind me right now.” He gave a half-smile, softer this time. “Don’t look so crushed.”

“I’m not crushed.”

On the tiny screen, he paused, studying her expression. “You’re making the face.” He pointed out in his usual teasing lilt, though it was threaded with fondness.

“I’m not making any face.” Marian protested, her voice pitching higher than she wished.

“You are. Your eyebrows always give you away,” He tilted the phone closer until one amused eye filled her screen, mock-inspecting. As Larry’s full face returned to the call, his tone gentled, coaxing. “It’s only a long weekend. Dad needs me to close this before markets open on Monday. I’ll be back before you’ve even finished your next canvas.”

Marian tried for composure. “Well… at least I’ll have a quiet few days without you pestering with your noise and nonsense.” At his exaggerated eye-roll, she fought back a smile. “You are rather time-consuming.”

“Ouch! That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten,” he laughed, eyes crinkling. “But listen. When I get back, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll do something fun and I promise to get you a nice apology present.”

She couldn’t help smiling at that, though disappointment still sat surprisingly heavy in her chest.. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” Larry interrupted softly. “You deserve more than me ducking out at the last second. It goes against rule one.”

For a beat, neither spoke. They just looked at each other, the hum of the storm and the muffled noises of the art room in the background falling away. The warmth between them lingered even as the call wound down.

“Make sure you text me when you land.” Marian said finally.

“Yes Ma’am” Larry gave her a wink and a mock salute before the screen blinked to black.. Marian exhaled slowly, tucking the phone into her pocket. She told herself her disappointment was only because she dreaded walking into Carrie Astor’s glittering party alone. That was all.

By one o’clock, her class was dismissed, the storm still lashing against the windows as she packed her large art folder and gathered her coat. The subway ride was damp and crowded, commuters smelling faintly of rain and wool, and by the time she reached East 61st Street the sidewalks shone slick and uneven under the gray sky. The Van Rhijn brownstone stood tall and prim, defying the weather, but inside was far from quiet.

“Bridget?” Marian called, as she set down her heavy bag and oversized folder of student work, rain dripping steadily from her sleeves.

The young cleaner darted across the hall and nearly colliding with her, earbuds dangling around her neck, a feather duster clutched in one hand like a weapon. Marian laughed, startled. “What an earth has you in such a state?”

“Oh, Miss Marian!” Bridget flushed, immediately scrubbing at the doorframe. “Don’t mind me. Mrs Van Rhijn and Mrs Forte are due back tonight, and if Mrs Van Rhijn spots even one fingerprint on the bannister, she’ll have my head.”

Marian smiled reassuringly, shaking droplets from her cuff. “Bridget, the house is immaculate, as always. You’ll wear yourself out.”

“Better worn out than chewed out,” Bridget replied with a rueful grin. “You know how she is after a long journey.”

“Come down to the kitchen. We’ll put some coffee on. You can spare ten minutes.”

Bridget hesitated, eyes darting to a side table she’d just polished as she walked towards the stairs, as though dust might materialize again out of spite.

Before Marian could follow, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Marian called over her shoulder, moving toward the door. Bridget muttered something about ‘heaven help me if it’s food deliveries’ ans she darted downstairs toward the kitchen.

Marian opened the door against a rush of wind, blinking as rain splattered in.

Larry stood there, casual in chinos, a navy polo shirt and Hermes jacket. Rain was dripping off the curls of his hair and the end of his nose, but his grin spread wide at the sight of her startled expression.

“You didn’t really think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

Before she could answer, he stepped forward and wrapped her in a long, strong embrace. Marian sank into it, her arms curling instinctively around his broad back. She breathed in his cologne, her cheek against the warm cotton of his polo shirt. He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, the warmth of it searing.

As he drew back, his hand stayed at her back, holding her face near. “I’ll call you, I promise.”

Her voice wavered, though she tried for lightness. “You’d better not forget Russell.”

“Never.” His hand slid down her arm before he stepped back. “Just text me to ring you with a fake emergency if the party is awful!”

“Larry-” she began, but he was already jogging across the street to avoid the rain. The Russell town car waited, glossy and black, its door held open by his driver. He glanced back once, lifted a hand in farewell, and ducked inside.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Marian pressed her palm to the wood, her heart racing far faster than she wanted to admit.

By four o’clock, the Van Rhijn brownstone was alive with noise. Outside, rain poured steadily, slicking the pavement and pooling along the gutters while the wind whipped umbrellas inside out. Two black Escalades pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking against the gloom, their trunks piled high with Louis Vuitton luggage and carefully wrapped souvenirs. Jack Trotter hopped out of the front passenger seat. He moved with easy competence, hefting a heavy case onto the wet sidewalk with one arm while directing the movers with the other.

“Easy on that one, it’s got the Baccarat glass,” he called, his voice carrying above the hiss of rain.

Inside, the house was no quieter. Mrs. Bauer had resumed full command, her German-accented voice rising over the shuffle of trunks and wet coats in the hallway. “Bridget! Can we get some fresh bedding as a priority, people are wanting to nap for the jetlag! Marian, darling, you mustn’t stand in the way - Ada will want to get straight upstairs. And do not touch that charcuterie board until I’ve arranged it properly!” she added warmly, bustling past.

Bridget scampered by with a laundry basket, muttering under her breath. Jack caught the words as he passed, balancing a trunk easily. He smirked at Bridget, who rolled her eyes light heartedly, but Marian noticed the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long before he headed upstairs.

Moments later, Ada and Agnes swept through the door.

Ada was glowing, her hair gleaming from the Riviera sun, arms laden with duty free bags. “Home at last!” she cried, and when she spotted Marian, her face lit. “Marian, my dear! Look at you.” She pulled her niece in to a wam hug.  “You’re… radiant.”

Marian flushed. “It’s only the schoolwork and gallery keeping me busy.”

“Nonsense. There’s more to it.” Ada squeezed her hands with a knowing look, while behind her Agnes surveyed the sitting room, sharp-eyed and unimpressed.

“We could have managed with half the luggage and come back two weeks earlier. Honestly, St. Tropez turned overnight in to a hive of overindulgence. Sunburnt tourists, yachts blaring music at all hours… ghastly.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Ada whispered, indulgent mischief in her smile. “She had a marvellous time. I caught her drinking champagne on the balcony more than once.”

“Only because there was no proper tea.” Agnes retorted, never one to be beaten.

The staff bustled around them: Mrs. Bauer directing suitcases upstairs, Bridget darting in with pillows, Jack hauling a garment bag longer than he was tall. Marian watched the rhythm with quiet admiration, the household springing back to life.

Later, when Agnes retreated to her room and Mrs. Bauer finally released them from her orbit in order to prepare dinner, Ada caught Marian alone at the foot of the stairs.

“You seem happy, Marian,” she pointed out kindly. “Happier than when we left.”

Marian hesitated, her throat tightening. “Do I?”

Ada’s eyes twinkled. “Would this happiness have anything to do with a certain charming young man who lives across the street? Tall, dark curls, suspiciously adept in rescuing you from dreadful dates and parties?”

Marian’s lips parted, caught off guard, but she quickly masked it with a small laugh. “Maybe.” It was truth, or close enough. Life had grown brighter since Larry returned to New York full time.

Ada’s smile turned knowing, her voice warm and gently teasing. “Things do seem to be going rather well between you and your young Mr Russell if the reporters and articles are to be believed. He’s always been such a kind boy. Thoughtful. Loyal. To both you and Oscar. But I haven’t been able to stop wondering, why the change now? You’ve been firmly friends for so very long.”

Marian hesitated, unwilling to lie to her gentle and sweet souled aunt, but not able or ready to explain everything either. “I suppose things just… evolved,” she supposed smoothly. “We are older now. Perhaps we’ve just never been single at the same time, in the same place before.” Part of her wanted to just tell Ada everything; about the arrangement with Larry, about the feelings strengthening their solid grip around her heart more and more every day. But she kept silent for fear of Ada’s disappointment in her.

Ada tilted her head, searching Marian’s face with that gentle persistence that always left her feeling exposed. “Perhaps. Just be certain, my dear. Of your own heart.”

Marian smiled faintly, evasive. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ada reached out and touched Marian’s hand with quiet affection. “Because a true friendship lost to confusion or haste… that’s a terrible thing. And you two have always had something rare.” With that, she gave her niece a maternal kiss on the cheek with promises to talk more on this later.

That afternoon, the brownstone settled into its familiar hum: Mrs. Bauer clattering in the kitchen, Bridget’s voice drifting as she prepared to leave, Jack’s low murmur on the telephone upstairs. But Marian lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling while the rain battered against the shutters.

Larry’s hug still lingered, warm as sunlight, even as unease pressed heavier than the storm outside. She told herself again it was only the party, only appearances. Yet in the restless kitchen, with the wind rattling the windows like an unspoken warning, she knew better.

That evening, the storm outside had only worsened. Rain streaked down the tall parlor windows, the wind rattling the panes in sharp gusts as if echoing the unease that still gnawed at Marian. The house smelled of rosemary and lemon, Mrs. Bauer’s chicken crisping in the oven, her voice carrying commands through the halls with her usual authority. Peggy was at William’s apartment for the weekend and Bridget had long gone home. Jack, however, hurried back and forth with glassware and folded napkins, trying to keep pace.

By seven o’clock, the Van Rhijn dining room had been transformed. Candlelight shimmered across the long mahogany table, catching on polished silver and crystal, as if determined to chase away the gloom pressing against the windows. The household bustled with an energy Marian hadn’t felt since before her aunts trip abroad. For all Larry’s jokes about the house being an old Mausoleum, when everyone was here, the old building felt like the beating heart of the family.

Oscar arrived first, sweeping in with theatrical ease, his long-term boyfriend John Adams close behind him. He kissed Ada on the cheek and accepted a nod from his mother Agnes, who was sat like a queen at the head of the table. Her expression already softer than Marian had dared hope since her return.

John Adams was tall, clean-cut, with the kind of handshake that spoke of campaign trails yet to come. Already he was rumored to be considering a congressional run, and he carried himself with the cautious optimism of a man who knew eyes were on him. For a little while, conversation was steady, even pleasant, Oscar boasting of new clients, Ada recounting small Riviera adventures, John speaking earnestly of the causes close to his heart much to Ada’s delight.

For a fleeting moment, the warmth at the table almost lulled her. The weather outside being the only storm.

“Mr. Adams,” Agnes started, “how goes your… work?” She made the word sound suspiciously like “nonsense.”

John smiled politely. “Busy. I’ve been consulting on a campaign in Queens. It’s good training for the road ahead.”

“Politics is a crooked business,” Agnes said flatly.

“Which is why we need people like John in it,” Ada countered warmly. “Someone principled.”

John inclined his head. “That’s the hope.”

Agnes inclined her head in polite approval. “Ambition is admirable, provided it does not outstrip judgment. You seem sensible enough, Mr. Adams.”

The main course was served; chicken with lemon and rosemary, roasted potatoes, haricots verts. Jack moved deftly at the sideboard, pouring wine, while Mrs. Bauer hovered like a hawk from the doorway.

Conversation drifted, Ada telling an anecdote from some of her charity work, John explaining the mechanics of voter outreach. Marian was happy to listen rather than participate, grateful for the food and the relative calm. For a brief spell, the mood was easy. Marian found herself almost enjoying it, the laughter, the bustle of the house once more. She even caught herself smiling at Jack as he passed by again with a dish, his sleeves rolled neatly, his boyish grin quick and shy.

But then Oscar, ever restless and unthinking, steered the night off course.

“So, Marian,” he opened, almost idly, “how’s your lovely Larry Russell these days?”

The clatter of Agnes’s fork striking her plate cut the air like a crack of thunder. The room fell still and silent. Even the candle flames wavered in a draft, as if the storm had forced its way in. Ada’s eyes widened with a flicker of dread. Crystal glasses and silver cutlery lay untouched, apart from a small wobble caused by Marian’s sudden movement as she pushed her chair back. Agnes sat upright at the head of the table, her hands folded on the linen like a magistrate ready to deliver sentence.

“Larry?” Agnes repeated, her tone sharp enough to slice.“And why should I care about the state of Mr. Russell?”

Marian’s stomach knotted. Oscar glanced around, belatedly aware of the trap he had sprung. “Well…surely you’ve seen the papers? He and Marian-”

“Oscar!” Ada interjected quickly, ready to smooth things over, but the damage was done.

Agnes’s gaze turned to Marian, hard and unyielding. “Explain. Now.”

Heat flushed Marian’s face, the warmth of candlelight suddenly unbearable. She opened her mouth, faltering. “It’s not...well, Larry and I-”

Agnes’s lips curled into a bitter line. “Good heavens. So it is true! The Russells, with all their vulgar ambition, have sunk their claws into this house at long last as well.” She cast her napkin down on to the table with a dramatic flourish. “ And so Bertha Russell has chosen you. Useful, reliable Marian, with no scandals of her own. What better way, no, what safer pawn to clean up the image of her libertine son?”

The words struck Marian like a blow. She flinched, though she tried to hold herself steady. How close to the truth those barbs cut too close.

The words landed like blows. Marian tried to sit straighter, but she felt her voice tremble. “That’s not fair. Larry has been my friend for more than a decade. Since high school. He isn’t parading me for anyone’s sake.” But even as the words left her mouth, Marian felt the sting of their hollowness. Because in truth, that’s exactly what this was, a performance. A carefully constructed arrangement, born out of convenience and damage control. She had agreed to it, willingly, even rationally. And yet, sitting here under the scrutiny of Agnes’s gaze, the lie felt heavier than ever.

Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Not because Agnes was wrong, but because she was close enough to the truth to make Marian flinch. Larry wasn’t parading her, no, but they had built something on a foundation of fiction, and now she couldn’t tell where the pretending ended and the wanting began. The warmth of his hand, the feel of his lips when no one else was watching , it all felt real. But it wasn’t. Not officially. Not safely.

Agnes gave a sharp laugh. “You are naïve, child. Larry Russell is a playboy from a family that think they can just buy their way to everything. He will use you until he tires of you, and then cast you aside so you’ll be left with nothing but scandal and a footnote in his story.”

“Mother!” Oscar tried to interrupt, shifting uncomfortably. “Larry isn’t like that. He’s my friend too. He genuinely cares for Marian.”

“Do not lie to me, in defence of your friend. You should have looked out for your cousin in my absence and prevented this!” Agnes snapped.

Agnes turned on Ada, who sat pale and trembling. “And you - you knew, didn’t you? You have sat next to me for months it seems and conspired to keep it from me.”

Ada wrung her hands, her voice soft but shaking. “Agnes, please, be rational. Marian is an adult. She can choose for herself.”

“An adult?” Agnes spat the word. “An adult fool, led by the nose into disgrace.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about Aunt.” Marian said, her voice low but trembling.

Agnes leaned forward, her blue eyes piercing. “I know what men like him do. They take what amuses them, then discard it when the shine wears off. And when they’re finished with you, Marian, what then?”

Marian’s hands shook as she set her fork down. The fury that rose in her chest was hotter than she had expected, fuelled by months of careful silence and the memory of Larry’s kiss only hours ago. Her pulse pounded. The storm outside rattled the windows hard enough to make the glasses tremble. She heard her own voice rise before she had fully chosen the words.

“You don’t know him!” she declared, surprising herself with the steadiness of her words. “Larry isn’t what you think. He sees me for who I am and he’s here to stay in my life, whether you like it or not. If you can’t accept that…then maybe I don’t belong here anymore.”

Agnes’s face hardened as her voice grew louder. “Ungrateful. After everything this house has given you-”

“No,” Marian cut in, her shout raw. “After everything I’ve given this house. You don’t want what’s best for me, Agnes. You want domination. You’re a bitter old control freak who can’t stand the thought of someone being happier than you. Or maybe it’s because your time in the limelight is long gone, you can’t bear for anyone else to shine!”

A sharp silence followed, broken only by the faint clatter of Mrs. Bauer in the kitchen. Ada’s face was pale with worry; Oscar and John looked anywhere but at the two blonde women as if the table itself might swallow them.

Agnes stood and drew herself up to her full, imposing height “If that is truly how you feel, then perhaps you would be happier across the street.” She gestured towards the direction of their neighbour’s abode sarcastically. “The Russell house is quite large enough.”

Something inside Marian snapped. She scraped her chair back, standing to match Agnes, her voice rising.“Fine! I’m done!”

The words rang through the dining room, louder than she had intended. Before anyone could answer, she turned on her heel and stormed out, her heart hammering in her ears as she left the room in a stunned silence. Her skirt swished against the carpet as she climbed the stairs two at a time, her throat tight with fury and shame.

Upstairs, she shut herself in her bedroom and locked the door. The sobs broke loose before she could stop them. The storm pressed against the glass, its fury matching the tumult in her chest. She could hear the wind clawing at the house, as if demanding she confront the truth she had long buried. Her heart raced in a tempo with the thunder; wild, unstoppable, and aching, the rhythm seeped into her bones.

She seized her phone with shaking hands, knowing Larry was still hours away, somewhere beyond the horizon flying over some dark stretch of desert on the Russell jet to Arizona. And yet she needed him now, needed the tether of her best friend’s presence in this night of roaring chaos.

Her thumbs flew across the screen, the message to Peggy spilling out without hesitation.

I’ve blown my life apart.

She hit send. And then she buried her face in her pillow, wishing Peggy were there beside her.

Marian lay face-down in her pillows for a long time after she pressed send until her tears lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, her body felt as if it had been wrung out and discarded, every muscle taut from holding back against Agnes’s sharp words until the final breaking point. The quiet of the house mocked her. Her own ragged breaths echoing where, just moments before, silver cutlery had been striking porcelain downstairs.

She thought she might have imagined the whole thing, except her phone buzzed against her nightstand. She fumbled for it, eyes swollen, hands clumsy. It was Peggy.

Peggy: Marian?? What happened?

Marian: Huge fight at dinner. Agnes found out about Larry. She hates him, hates the Russells. She thinks he’s just using me. I yelled at her. It was awful.

Peggy: …oh no. How bad?

Marian: Bad. She said I was convenient. That the Russells just need me to fix his reputation.

Peggy’s typing dots appeared, vanished, then returned.

Peggy: That’s a bit cruel. She's never actually taken the time to know him.

Marian: It hurts because… it feels close to the truth. Too close.

She bit her lip, staring at those words, wanting to delete them but unable to as a tear slipped down her cheek. Her phone buzzed again.

Peggy: Marian. Don’t let anyone else get in your head, even your Aunt. You care about him. He cares about you. That’s real.

Marian: I don’t know what’s real anymore. I just know I can’t stop crying.

Another pause, then:

Peggy: Do you want me to come? I can leave now.

Marian: No. Stay with Will. It’s late. I’ll come in the morning. I just… I needed someone to know.

Peggy: No. I’m not leaving you like this. Just get in a taxi and come here. Will is on call for the hospital anyway.

Marian didn’t stay in her room long. The silence of the brownstone felt suffocating, every creak of the floorboards echoing Agnes’s words. She grabbed her coat, her phone, and her keys, and slipped out the front door without a word to anyone.

The taxi smelled faintly of pine air freshener and old leather. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the city lights on the way to Gramercy Park into a watercolor wash of gold and red. Marian curled into the corner of the back seat, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her phone clutched like a lifeline.

She tapped out the message to Peggy with trembling fingers.

Marian: I’m on my way now.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. She closed her eyes, pressing the phone to her chest, trying to slow her ragged breaths. The driver turned onto Lexington Avenue, the tires hissing against the wet asphalt. Marian stared out the window, her reflection ghosted in the glass, eyes swollen and red.

Then it buzzed again. A call this time, Larry.

She swiped it open with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” Larry said warmly, his deep, familiar voice calm but carrying the faint edge of exhaustion. The hum of airport voices and rolling wheels rumbling in the background. “We just landed in Arizona. Thought I’d call so you’d know I made it in one piece.” He paused upon hearing Marian’s shaky sobs. “But- wait… Are you crying?”

“Larry…” she whispered, her voice trembling. Even over the line, he could hear the tension, the tightness in her chest.

“Hey… hey, what’s wrong?” His tone sobered, concern threading every syllable. Even from thousands of miles away, he could feel it: something was very wrong.

Her throat tightened instantly. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you’re clearly not fine,” Larry said, voice sharp with worry. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“It was just meant to be a family dinner. Agnes and I fought.” She sniffled, pressing the phone to her ear. “I… I don’t know why I’m so upset. It’s… it’s stupid, really.” Her voice faltered, tears spilling despite her efforts to hold them back. “I know our… our relationship isn’t even… real, and yet…”

“Marian, hey…” He ran his hand through his hair with stress as he paced in the airport lounge. “Just… talk to me. What happened?”

She drew in a shuddering breath, her words tumbling out like debris in a gale. “Agnes… she said such awful things. That you were using me. That I’m naïve. That I should just- just leave the Van Rhijn house and go move across the street to the Russell house if I feel that way. She basically told me to get out. And I… I lashed out. I called her names. I said things I shouldn’t have, but, God, Larry, it hurt so much.”

A pause.

Larry’s jaw tightened, the raw edge in his voice breaking through for the first time. “Marian… I-” He stopped, swallowing hard. Then, quieter, almost a confession, “It hurts. More than I expected. That she said those things… about me. About us. That your family doesn’t think I’m good enough for you. I-” He broke off again, then steadied himself. “I hate that. I hate that it matters, and yet… it does. More than I thought.”

Marian’s chest ached at the vulnerability in his words. “I didn’t want to tell you like this… crying in a taxi, in the middle of the city. But I had to call someone who knows me. Who knows us.”

Larry’s voice softened, almost breaking entirely. “Marian… you don’t need to justify yourself. I’ve always been here for you. But right now, I just want you safe. I want you okay. Where are you?” A beat of silence, then: “No, wait. I’ll get back on the jet as soon as they’ve re-fuelled.”

“No!” She sat up straighter in the back of the cab, clutching the phone tight. “Larry, you can’t. This trip is so important for your dad, for you. You said so yourself. Please don’t.”

His breath hissed down the line, all impatience and worry. “Then tell me where are you right now? Because I can hear that you are not at home.” Larry’s voice softened, almost breaking entirely.  “Please, Marian. I am worrying to death here.”

“I’m… in a taxi,” she admitted, her voice catching on the words. “On the way to Peggy and Will’s apartment, on Gramercy Park.”

“Thank God,” he breathed, relief flooding his tone. “At least you have somewhere safe. At least you’re not out alone in this…storm”

She let herself shiver, pressing the phone to her cheek. “I’m… alright. I’ll be okay there for now. I just… needed to hear you.”

“I’ll wrap up here in Arizona as quickly as I can,” he said, raw honesty still threading through his words. “And then I’ll be back to you. In the meantime… I’ll think of a plan. Something. Anything to make sure you’re not facing all of this alone. You’re not. I swear, Marian. You’re not.”

She closed her eyes, listening to the rain thrumming against the roof and the distant roar of traffic, feeling the storm echo the turmoil still in her chest. But the warmth of his voice was a tether, a steadying pulse against the chaos. Tears still ran down her face, but the tight knot in her chest loosened slightly, “Okay,” she whispered, “okay.”

A long pause stretched across the line. Larry’s voice came quietly, careful. “Just… let me know once you’re at Will’s. Marian, I…” He stopped himself, swallowed, and then added, a little more firmly, “…just make sure you let me know.”

“I will,” Marian said softly, pressing the phone to her cheek. The taxi pulled up outside Peggy and William’s apartment “The taxi is pulling up in Gramercy Park now.’

“Good,” he said, voice low, steady. “That’s all I need for now. I’ll text you. Bye, sweetheart.” The line clicked shut.

Marian paid the driver and stepped out into the drizzle, the ache in her chest still burning. But beneath it, there was a strange warmth too, the memory of Larry’s voice, protective and certain, echoing in her ears.

Larry ended the call and stared at his phone, the weight of Marian’s words pressing on him. Her voice, trembling, raw, and achingly honest echoed in his mind. How had he let himself be so far away, chasing business and deals, while she wrestled with this alone? Part of him still recoiled at the thought: after all, their arrangement had always been clear, “fake,” practical, designed to placate the press and satisfy expectations of his family and hers. And yet, hearing her cry, hearing how hurt she had been by Agnes’s words… it made the arrangement feel suddenly fragile, unreal in its simplicity.

He strode through the airport with his security and PA, outwardly calm but taut beneath the surface. Each step was heavy, the hum of the terminal blending with the pulse of his own thoughts. He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message to Will:

Marian arriving at your place. Huge Van Rhijn fallout. I'm in Arizona. Keep me updated please. LR

He hit send before slipping into the waiting black cars outside.

The Arizona sun struck across the leather seats, glaring and unrelenting. Larry leaned back, staring out the window as the city blurred past, his mind whirling. Agnes’s disapproval gnawed at him more than he expected. He had thought it irrelevant. After all, she didn’t dictate their lives. And yet, the sharp edge in her words, the judgment heaped on him for daring to be in Marian’s orbit, had stung. He realized, with an uncomfortable clarity, that part of him cared deeply whether her family accepted him, not for pride, exactly, but because he wanted to be worthy of her. As a man, not as a friend.

And then, unbidden, memories surfaced: the quiet brush of her hand against his, the fleeting, heated weight of her lips on his own, the stolen moments where nothing else existed but the two of them. Those small touches, those soft glances, had left a mark he couldn’t deny. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that secret hope lingered that perhaps, for her too, this arrangement had begun to feel like something more. But if that were true, he had to tread carefully. He would need to pay attention, move slowly, and respect her boundaries, even as his own longing pulsed like a constant drum.

He gripped the edge of the seat, jaw tight, replaying her words and his own: the anger, the tears, the quiet confessions. He hated that he couldn’t be there to steady her, hold her, hated that she might feel she had to face this alone. And beneath it all, that quiet, fierce care, more than just strategic concern pulled at him relentlessly. His feelings for her, which he had carefully tucked away under duty and habit over many years, were no longer so easily denied.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders settle just slightly, and then straightened. He would be back to her as soon as possible. He would make sure she was safe. Not long. Not ever.

Sliding the car door open, he turned to his team, his voice crisp and commanding. “We now have less than twenty-four hours to wrap this up. I want everyone notified to be on site by 7 a.m. sharp. No exceptions.”

Heads nodded, pens scribbled, and phones tapped, but in the back of Larry's mind, Marian’s trembling voice and the memory of that night on her sofa lingered, a quiet, insistent reminder of everything he was now determined to protect.

Chapter Text

By the time Marian stumbled up the stairs to Peggy and Will’s apartment on Gramercy Park, her dress clung to her skin, plastered in uneven patches from the downpour. The cab ride had helped little, she’d had to sprint to the door of the building, her jacket useless against the wind. Peggy opened the door almost before Marian could knock, her face a mixture of concern and wry amusement.

“Oh my god, you’re drenched!” Peggy exclaimed,, pulling Marian into a tight hug without hesitation before ushering her in. “Get inside. Shower. Now. I’ll make hot chocolate. We’ll talk when you’re warm.”

Marian wanted to argue, to insist she was fine, but the kindness in Peggy’s voice softened her resolve. She nodded mutely, her throat tight and slipped off her soaked shoes, letting Peggy guide her down the hallway. The apartment was well finished but cozy, filled with books, framed photos, and the scent of cherries from a candle burning on the windowsill. William was at the hospital, operating on an emergency patient, leaving the apartment quiet except for the hum of the storm outside. In the shower, the rush of hot water was a balm against the chill that had seeped into Marian’s bones. For a while, she simply stood there, head bowed, trying to let the steam untangle the knot in her chest.

When Marian emerged, wrapped in a t-shirt and flannel bottoms that were too short for her and clearly belonged to Peggy, she found her friend waiting on the sofa. A mug of hot chocolate steamed beside her on the coffee table, topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional rattle of rain against the windows. Marian slid onto the other side of the L-shaped sofa, fingers curling gratefully around the warm mug. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Peggy studied her carefully. “No thanks needed. Now, what on earth happened?”

Marian swallowed hard, the chocolate suddenly thick in her throat. She told the story haltingly. Oscar’s slip up, the way Agnes’s disapproval had crested into full-blown anger, the words that had cut sharper than she wanted to admit. She spoke of feeling suffocated, unheard, and finally, pushed past breaking.

Peggy listened without interruption, her expression calm but sympathetic. When Marian faltered, she reached across the counter and squeezed her hand. “Agnes can be impossible once she gets fired up, I know that better than anyone.” Peggy said quietly. “But Marian, you can’t keep carrying this alone.”

Marian’s eyes pricked with tears she was too tired to fight. “I didn’t mean to run here like some stray dog-”

“You’re not a stray,” Peggy interrupted firmly. “You’re family.” Her gaze softened. “Besides, Will’s at the hospital until who-knows-when. You’re saving me from an empty apartment. It’s strange living here after so many years living in the hustle and bustle of your house.”

The clock on the bookcase chimed one in the morning, its sound oddly loud in the small living room. Peggy stood, gathering Marian’s empty mug. “Enough for tonight. You’ll take the guest room. It’s cluttered with my boxes from your house and my parents in Brooklyn, but the bed’s comfortable.” She fixed Marian with a pointed look. “Tomorrow we’ll sort through what’s really going on.”

Marian hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude-”

Peggy cut her off. “You’re not intruding. I’ll text Ada so she doesn’t worry when she wakes. She deserves to know you’re safe.”

That night, Marian lay curled in the guest bed, surrounded by cardboard boxes labelled in Peggy’s neat hand. The scent of cedar and old books lingered in the air. Unable to find sleep, she reached for her phone and peered at the home screen: 2:45am. She unlocked it, her thumb hovering over Larry’s name before she gave in.

Marian: In bed now. Peggy made hot chocolate and fussed over me like a sister.

Larry: Good. I hated hanging up when you walked inside, but I needed to know you were ok.

Marian: I am. Promise. You don’t have to keep worrying.

Larry: Impossible, Brook.

Marian: You should be sleeping. It must be nearly midnight there?

Larry: Close. But I’ve got about 20 maps and surveys spread all open. Meeting with the engineers at dawn.

Marian: Only you would be working on blueprints at midnight.

Larry (voice note): What can I say? I’m a Russell. If I’m not chasing deals at all hours, Dad worries the fortune will just wander off and invest itself in railroads.

Marian: 🙄 You make it sound like money grows legs.

Larry (voice note): Doesn’t it? I was told it grows on trees. Been planting hundred-dollar bills in the garden in Newport for years. No sprouts yet, but I’m optimistic.

Marian pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, shaking her head at the ceiling. He had this infuriating way of pulling her from heaviness back into lightness with just a few words.

Marian: You’re literally ridiculous.

Larry: And you’re smiling now. Mission accomplished.

Marian: I am not.

Larry: You 100% are. Anyway, I need my beauty sleep Brook. Speak tomorrow.

Marian: Night Mr Russell.

She set the phone down, her chest tight, and curled under the quilt, the glow of his words lingering long after the screen went dark.

The smell of coffee drifted through the apartment when Marian woke. She stretched, tugging down the hem of the borrowed loungewear that rode up awkwardly on her taller frame. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she found Peggy and Will perched at the breakfast bar, their heads bent together over mugs of steaming coffee. William looked up first, offering his steady smile. “Morning. There’s a fresh pot if you want some.”

“Good morning,” Marian murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Peggy, already moving to the stove, waved her toward a seat.

“Sit. I’ll make breakfast,” Peggy said briskly. “Then you can tell us what’s really going on.”

Marian froze halfway into the chair. “I already told you, Agnes and I fought…”

Peggy arched a brow. “Marian. We’ve known each other since we were twenty-one. A spat with Agnes usually invigorates you. It does not send you running through the city in the rain, in the middle of the night. There’s more. Isn’t there?”

William’s deep voice was gentle but firm. “Peggy’s right. You don’t have to hide from us.”

The words undid her. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold it in, but tears spilled through the cracks. “It’s Larry,” she whispered. “It’s all of this… mess.”

Peggy turned off the burner and sat beside her, hand warm on her back. “Mess? Tell us.”

And so she did. Once Marian started, the words tumbled out; the fake relationship they’d staged to quiet the tabloids for Larry and the would-be matchmakers for Marian, the year-long “contract,” the lies to her aunts, his parents. So Agnes, was closer to the bone than she’d ever imagine with her digs last night.

Peggy set down her coffee cup and leaned forward across the breakfast bar, her eyes steady on Marian. “All right, enough circling. Everything else aside, what’s really going on with you and Larry outside of any staged photo ops or agreed events? Don’t give me half the story. Is this arrangement of yours really all pretend?”

Marian froze, her fingers tightening around the mug in her hands. She looked from Peggy to Will, then back down at the countertop, as though the pattern in the marble might give her courage.

“It was supposed to be,” she admitted softly.

“Supposed to be?” Peggy pressed, her brows rising.

Marian swallowed hard, the words bubbling to the surface faster than she could control. “Yes. At first. We thought, well, Larry thought it would calm the press after that Susan Blaine scandal, and it would stop Agnes and Aurora from throwing every dreadful single man in New York at me. So we agreed. A year. Just one year maximum, six months minimum. A contract, almost. Appearances, photographs, pretending for everyone else so we could just hang out as usual but be left alone by everyone.”

Will sat back, listening intently, but Peggy’s gaze sharpened. “And for you?” she asked gently but firmly. “Was it all an act?”

Marian’s throat tightened. She shook her head, unable to meet their eyes. “No. It just became…effortless.” The words tumbled out now, faster, unchecked. “Every smile, every kiss, every time he looked at me, I couldn’t keep pretending it was just part of the arrangement. I’ve known him for eleven years, longer and better than anyone, and the more we… acted, the more I realised it wasn’t an act at all. Not for me.” Her voice cracked on the last words, her eyes stinging. She pressed her palm against her face, ashamed and yet finally relieved to say it aloud.

Peggy exhaled slowly, the sternness in her gaze softening to compassion. “Oh, Marian…”

“That’s what we thought. It was written all over your face.” William leaned back, arms folded, watching Marian with quiet sympathy. “Marian… we walked in on you two at the Van Rhijn house, remember? That kiss didn’t look the slightest bit fake. You don’t make out with someone like that for the sake of an audience, let alone when there is no audience.”

Marian groaned, covering her face with both hands. “Oh, don’t remind me. I still haven’t recovered from the embarrassment.”

Peggy bit back a smile, exchanging a glance with Will. “Well,” she said lightly, “at least we finally know what Larry meant when he said you guys were ‘just practising.’ I thought he was joking. Clearly, he was taking rehearsal very seriously.”

Marian let out a helpless laugh through her tears as they dried up, half mortified, half grateful for the levity. “You are not helping, Peggy Scott.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peggy teased, pouring her another cup of coffee. “A little humour might keep you from drowning in your own melodrama.”

William chuckled. “Careful, Peg. You’ll end up officiating their wedding if you keep defending him like that.”

Peggy shrugged, grinning. “Only if they promise not to ‘practise’ during the ceremony.”

Even Marian laughed then, a real, unguarded sound that loosened the weight in the room. For the first time that morning, the heartbreak didn’t feel quite so impossible.

“Thank you to the future Mrs Kirkland for successfully derailing the conversation.” William returned, peering down his nose affectionately at his fiancé. “All jokes aside Marian. As a man, I can tell you, that you don’t look at your best friend the way Larry looks at you unless it’s… real…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “…romance.”

Marian’s throat closed. “That’s the problem. It is real for me. But there’s an end date. One year, and then it’s over. I can’t-” Her voice broke. “I can’t imagine stepping back in to the friend zone after everything and one day seeing him with someone else now I’ve had a bite of the forbidden fruit.”

Peggy’s eyes softened, though her tone was sharp. “But Marian. What on earth were you thinking? Pretending with Larry of all people? You two have been joined at the hip since you were teenagers in the Larry and Marian Club that none of us were invited to. Of course this would get complicated.”

Marian buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t think. I just… he wanted to help me. And he needed me too.”

Will reached across the counter, his large hand steady over hers. “Listen to me. I know a man in love when I see one.” He explained as his gaze rested on Peggy. “Larry isn’t faking this. He’s crazy about you. Always has been.”

Marian shook her head, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks. “He’s had lots of girlfriends, flings…”

“Exactly,” Will interrupted. “Flings. Short, shallow, convenient. Probably because none of them were you.” His voice softened. “Last night, after I checked in at the hospital, Larry texted me. He asked me to look out for you while he’s gone. Do you understand? That’s not a man in a business arrangement. That’s a man terrified for the woman he cares about.”

Marian’s breath hitched. The image of Larry, thousands of miles away, still trying to make sure she was alright, undid her. She covered her mouth with her hand, as if to swallow down the sob threatening to start again. Peggy slipped an arm around her shoulders, holding her close. “Oh, Marian. I should scold you for the mess, but I can’t. You’ve both been circling each other for over a decade. Maybe this ridiculous arrangement was the only way you’d finally see what everyone else already knows.”

Marian sniffled, her voice small. “What if I lose him though? Even as a friend?”

“You won’t,” Peggy said firmly. “Not if you’re honest. Not if you finally admit what’s been obvious since you were seventeen and he was nineteen.”

Will squeezed her hand again. “Marian, some people spend their whole lives searching for a friendship like yours, let alone a love. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared.”

For a long time, Marian sat between them, tears drying on her cheeks, the weight of their words settling deep in her chest. She felt exposed, chastened, but also for the first time in weeks, not entirely alone. Peggy rose, returning to the stove. “Now eat something before you waste away. Love may be complicated, but breakfast is simple.”

Will chuckled, pouring Marian a mug of coffee. “And for what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I’d bet on the two of you. Every time.”

Marian wrapped her hands around the warm mug, the ache in her chest still sharp but threaded now with a fragile hope. For the first time, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, the ending she feared wasn’t inevitable.

The shrill buzz of Peggy’s phone cut through the kitchen. She checked the screen and sighed. “Ada,” she said, before answering. Marian tensed instantly, every muscle bracing.

“Hello, Ada,” Peggy said evenly. “Yes, she’s here. Came in very late last night, after the quarrel. She’s safe, she’s with me now, having coffee. Mm-hm. I’ll see she gets some rest. You needn’t worry.” She listened a moment longer, then offered her gentle assurance before hanging up.

Marian’s eyes were wide, panic sparking across her features. “Peggy, please, please don’t tell her anything else. Not what I told you. Not the truth about Larry. No one can know. Not Ada, not Agnes, not even Larry himself. If the press ever caught wind that it was fake after everything they’ve already written…it would destroy him. And me. You must promise me.” Her voice cracked on the last word, raw with desperation.

Peggy reached across, covering Marian’s trembling hands. “All right. It stays between us. You have my word.”

Will added his quiet strength. “Mine too. We won’t breathe a word. Not to anyone.” As Marian relaxed a fraction, he reached for his phone and sent a quick text to Larry, just to reassure him as promised. Then he slipped the phone away without a word.

Marian exhaled shakily, relief loosening her shoulders. “Thank you. I couldn’t bear it if…if it all unravelled because I opened my mouth.”

Peggy gave her a reassuring squeeze before releasing her hands. Then, with a flash of her usual brisk humor, she stood and turned back toward the stove. “Well, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful. I’ve got a stack of wedding favours to cut out and wrap that we can get a headstart on. Consider it your first official bridesmaid duty.”

Marian blinked, half-startled, half-relieved by the shift in tone. “Now? At breakfast?”

“Why not?” Peggy replied, pulling open a drawer for scissors and ribbon. “Love may be complicated, but organza bows are not.”

Will chuckled, pushing back his stool. “That’s my cue to make myself scarce. Nothing terrifies me more than an army of little favor boxes.”

Peggy shot him a fond look as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Coward,” she teased.

He grinned, grabbing his jacket. “Guilty as charged. I’ll leave you ladies to conquer the battlefield of bows and ribbons. Behave, both of you.”

And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving Marian and Peggy alone, the weight of last night softened now by the laughter that lingered in his wake. “Peggy? Thank you.”

Peggy nodded in acknowledgement and went to fetch the box of wedding preparation materials. Marian reached for her phone out of habit, the screen lighting briefly with Larry’s last message from the night before. “Mission accomplished.” She smiled faintly to herself, before texting Larry quickly and tucking it away again. For the first time since the storm, the ache in her chest felt less like a wound and more like a heartbeat.

The desert was still half-asleep when Larry’s phone buzzed in his hand, the glow of the screen cutting through the pre-dawn dark of the jeep as it bounced over the rough road. Another alert from the PR team, the daily digest of online headlines he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t quite bring himself to mute. He glanced down and exhaled through his nose at the bold text splashed across the top of the message:

Inside the Russell Romance — Sources Say ‘Larian’ Is Serious.

They’d even given them a couple name now. The article preview showed the same photo that had been following him around for weeks, him and Marian at his Mom’s charity gala, caught mid-laugh, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve as he had his arm around her. The caption beneath it read like fiction: “An insider close to the family says the next step could be on the horizon for the young Russell heir and New York’s sweetheart, Marian Brook.”

He swiped the notification away before the irritation could settle too deep. Half the world thought he’d found the perfect love story, the other half thought it was just another passing fancy. And only he and Marian knew the truth; a truth that had long since blurred at the edges.

Outside the window, the first streaks of gold light brushed the copper hills of Morenci. Larry pocketed the phone, adjusted his watch, and looked ahead to where his team’s vehicles waited amongst the rocky outcrops. Time to get back to work. There were bigger things to worry about than gossip columns, like the multi-billion dollar deal that could change everything for Russell Consolidated in to the next century.

Dust clung to Larry’s boots as he stepped out of the jeep, squinting across the expanse of rough, copper-colored land. His crew was already gathering; surveyors, engineers, and foremen with clipboards and thermoses of coffee.

“Seven sharp,” Larry called, checking his Rolex watch. “Glad to see you all took me seriously.”

They laughed weakly, a few rubbing sleep from their eyes. He’d insisted on this early meeting, knowing the data mattered but wanting to get home to New York as quick as possible. Before Russell Consolidated could commit to buying out the remaining shareholders of the Morenci land, they needed every inch of it understood, what it could yield, what it could cost. One wrong calculation and the entire development plan could collapse.

But beneath the precision and purpose, Larry was running on barely three hours of sleep. His mind was still tangled with Marian’s voice from the night before. The soft cadence of her goodnight, the way she’d told him to stay in Arizona for his Father, like it cost her something.

He dragged a hand through his unruly curly hair, forcing focus. “Let’s start with the southern ridge,” he said, flicking through the survey packet on his iPad. “If the ground here isn’t stable enough for the proposed primary mine shaft, we’ll need to redraw the entire model.”

The morning passed in a blur of measurements, drone footage, and field notes. By noon, the sun blazed overhead and he was dusty, tired, with his head pounding with the start of dehydration when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He squinted through the glare of the sun at the screen and smiled faintly.

Gladys.

He stepped aside toward a patch of shade, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey little sis. Isn’t it past your bedtime over there in London? What’s the emergency?”

Her laugh carried through the line. “No emergency. Just checking you’re alive. Mom says you’re out in the desert ‘trampling the wilderness like some pioneer.’”

“I’m working,” Larry said dryly. “And for the record, the wilderness is fighting back.”

“Well, you sound more awful than usual,” Gladys teased. “Late night?”

“Just a bit,” he admitted. “I had to go through the previous survey maps and report again. Big day today if we’re going to pull this one out the bag after all.”

“Well we both know you’re an overachiever and wouldn’t be there if you didn’t think you could manage it where others couldn’t,” she continued, amusement in her voice.

“As Dad says, I built my fortune on what other people have told me is impossible. I won't stop now”  Larry retorted doing his best gruff impression of his Father’s voice.

Gladys went off in peels of laughter before collecting herself. “So, Marian text me before Hector and I went out to dinner tonight. She mentioned she had a fight with one of her aunts and ran off to Peggy’s. I just wanted to make sure you knew and weren’t out there oblivious in the desert.”

Larry’s smile faded slightly as he kicked the dust at his feet. “Yeah, she told me. We talked till almost midnight. She’s fine, Peggy and Will are looking after her until Mrs Van Rhijn has blown off her steam.”

“Good,” Gladys said softly. “She sounded upset. I didn’t want to pry on what caused it over text, but I could tell it really shook her, which is so unusual so it must be something specific...”

Larry rubbed the back of his neck. “It did. I hate being this far away when she’s having a rough time.” He answered finally, side-stepping Gladys’s probe.

“You can’t be everywhere at once, Larry. And you’re out there working.”

He went to answer his sister but a huge yawn overtook all his muffled words.

“Did you actually sleep at all?”

“Not really.”

“Of course not,” Gladys muttered. “The restless Russell curse. You and Dad both. And Mom! No idea how Marian puts up with you.” Gladys added, her tone dripping with amusement, “By the way, Mom also said the press have practically married you two off already. Something about you now being known as Larian. Honestly, who even comes up with these names? At least here in the UK, Hector is just referred to by his name, the Duke of Buckingham.”

Larry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t start. I saw the latest article before sunrise. They’ve apparently decided we’re the nation’s next great love story.”

“It could be worse,” Gladys teased. “At least it’s not another headline about your hair or shopping habits.”

“Speaking of shopping,” he said with a smirk, “I promised Marian I’d get her a present. Something to make up for ditching her for that Astor party tonight. Any ideas?”

“Ah, so you’re ignoring your girlfriend and running yourself into the ground. A very Russell combination.” Gladys said, ribbing her brother. “You could start by actually resting,” she began, “But if you must, get her something thoughtful. Marian’s not impressed by glitz but she does live for her painting. Get her something connected to that.”

Larry paused, his eyes narrowing against the sun. “Painting…” he repeated, his tone thoughtful. “That’s… actually not a bad idea.”

“Oh dear,” Gladys stated. “I know that voice. You’re plotting.”

“Just inspired,” he insisted, grinning. “Tell Mom I’m alive and living on fast food.”

“Will do,” she said, amused. “And Larry, don’t overthink it. Just get her something that shows you pay attention.”

“I always do,” he murmured, then ended the call.

For a moment, he stood there, the phone still in his hand, the dry wind tugging at his sleeves. Then an idea began to form. Something bold, something them. He pulled up his phone contacts and scrolled until he found the name he wanted.

“Hey, Peter,” he said when the call connected. “It’s Russell. I need your help. You’re still my best realtor in Manhattan, right?”

A pause, then a laugh on the other end.

“Good,” Larry said, smiling to himself as he looked out over the rugged hills. “Then find me something special in the city, in Chelsea. A space with light, north-facing if possible. Somewhere you could imagine someone painting for hours.”

He listened, nodded and smiled faintly to himself. “No, not an investment. This one’s personal.” This triggered a few final questions. “No budget Peter, but I need it this week. Signed and sealed.” He ended the call, pocketed his phone, and turned back toward the ridge where his team waited. The heat shimmered across the horizon, but for the first time all day, he felt awake, alive even.

Whatever he was building out here in Arizona was important. But what waited for him in New York? That was the future he was really building toward.

Chapter Text

Morning light pooled over the kitchen counter, soft and gold through Gramercy Park’s narrow windows. The apartment smelled faintly of cherries, the kind of scent that lingered in places after nice candles had been burnt. Peggy stood at the stove, wearing one of William’s sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up and her curls pulled into a loose bun. She flipped pancakes with practiced ease, the sizzle of batter meeting heat creating a comforting, homely sound.

Marian sat nearby curled on a barstool, still wearing the borrowed lounge pants that hung awkwardly above her ankles. Her phone glowed in her hand as she scrolled aimlessly, casting a pale light on her tired face.

A push notification lit the screen.

Carrie Astor dazzled at last night’s party. The Russell family was notably absent. Not even the internet’s favourite couple ‘Larian’ made an appearance. Agne Van Rhijn was seen attending solo before leaving with close friend Lina Astor.

Marian groaned, her fingers tightening around the phone. “Oh, seriously...”

Peggy glanced over her shoulder, spatula in hand. “What now?”

“They’ve decided we’re a brand,” Marian said flatly, holding up her phone. “Apparently, Larry and I are the internet’s favourite couple.”

 “Larian”? Peggy laughed, flipping another pancake. “That’s terrible. I kind of love it.”

Marian pressed her palm to her face, as if trying to block out the world or at least the headlines that had turned her life into a hashtag. “They write about us like we’re fictional characters.”

Peggy smirked. “Well, to be fair, you two are remarkably good-looking, he’s the son of a billionaire and you’re the daughter of a war hero…and your…arrangement” she winked. “As a journalist, I have to say you make good copy. Let me know when you’re ready to do a tell all interview.”

Marian rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Can we please not talk about that. Just, remind me to never read the gossip pages again.”

William appeared from the bedroom, scrubs draped over one arm as he buttoned his shirt one-handed. His hair was damp from a quick shower, and he looked at Marian with a brotherly smile. “Morning, Marian. You look more human than last night.”

“I’m alive thanks to your fiancée’s cocoa therapy,” Marian replied dryly.

Peggy plated the pancakes with a flourish. “Miracle cure, proven by science.”

Will demolished his pancakes as the two ladies ate at a more reasonable pace, before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He kissed Peggy’s cheek affectionately. “I’ll be back by dinner. Be nice to your guest. Don’t drag her into wedding chores before noon.”

Peggy shooed him towards the door. “No promises Dr. Kirkland.”

When the door closed, Marian took a long breath. “I should really go home today.”

Peggy sat opposite her, studying her face as she finished eating. “You’re sure?”

“I can’t hide forever,” Marian said, tracing the rim of her coffee mug with her fingers. “Agnes and I…we said things. She’ll never apologise, but if I don’t go back, it’ll just fester.”

Peggy nodded slowly. “You’re probably right. Just remember she loves you, even when she sounds like she doesn’t.”

Marian smiled faintly. “That sounds familiar.”

Peggy reached across the kitchen counter and squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine. Go fix it. And text me the second you’re through the door.”

Marian stood, pulling her bag from the sofa. “Thank you. For letting me invade your weekend.”

“You’re family,” Peggy said simply. “Now, go and work your Marian magic.”

The brownstone on East 61st Street loomed with its usual quiet grandeur, its polished brass and tight-drawn curtains whispering of old money and older grudges. Ada opened the door before Marian could knock.

“Marian! Oh, thank heavens. Agnes hasn’t spoken to me or Oscar since Friday, an ominous silence.”

Marian winced. “Is she in?”

“In the sitting room,” Ada whispered. “Be careful, she’s slightly hungover and has written three stern letters already today… and bitten Mrs Baeur’s head off over a fruit salad.”

“Then she’s in fine form.” Marian stepped inside, her shoes clicking softly on the parquet floor.

The air smelled of the familiar scent of polish and bergamot. Agnes sat at her antique desk, pen moving in deliberate strokes. Her posture was regal, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t look up.

“So,” Agnes said, her voice even, “you’ve decided to return.” It wasn’t a question.

“I have.” Marian replied, matching Agnes’s tone.

“I presume you’ve come to inform me you’ve recovered from your… fit of independence.”

Marian’s chin lifted. “I came because this is my home. Leaving without a word was wrong. But I don’t regret speaking my mind.”

A brow arched, a dangerous sign. “Stubbornness runs in this family. Your father had it in abundance.”

“And you admired him for it,” Marian said softly.

Agnes’s pen stilled as she finally looked at her niece. Her eyes were sharp but not unkind. “Admired him, yes. But he mistook defiance for principle too often. I’d hate to see you do the same.”

“And I’d hate to see myself too frightened to speak.”

For a moment the silence stretched between then, taut and brittle. Then Agnes sighed, just enough to break the tension. “You sound exactly like Henry.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You always do.” Agnes noted as she stood and crossed the room to the cabinet, retrieving a tall velvet case. “Since you’re back, something practical. The Met Gala. I know you are determined to attend with the Russells…”

Marian blinked, surprised by the shift in topic.

“…and that the theme this year is ‘The Gilded Age.’ No doubt an acknowledgement of all the New York Heritage Society has achieved under my direction recently.”

Agnes set the box on the table and unclasped it, before carefully lifting the creaking lid. Inside, diamonds, pearls and delicate floral metalwork winked from on top of the faded silk cushion.

“The Livingston Tiara,” she said simply. “Your great-great-great-grandmother sat on the founding board of that museum, here, in this house. Of course this tiara pre-dates that, but it’s only fitting a Livingston should attend their little pageant properly adorned. And you are a Livingston, through our side of the family of course.”

Marian stared. “You can’t mean-”

“I do. There are few occasions left for wearing such things, and I’m certainly not about to parade amongst influencers and actresses in their borrowed jewels, just for the sake of it. So perhaps it is right that you are going and for you to wear it. We can quite hold our own against the Russells of this world.”

“After everything I said?”

“Luckily for you, it is not refined to let a quarrel erase a century of tradition,” Agnes said crisply. Then, quieter: “You are your father’s daughter but more than that, you are my niece. I may not always approve, but I understand.”

Marian’s throat tightened. “That’s as close to peace as we’ll ever get.”

“Far more than Henry ever managed.”

They shared a wry smile. Marian brushed her fingers over the velvet. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a priceless heirloom. Try not to drop it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Ada, hovering with a tea tray, beamed. “Oh, Agnes, how marvellous! Everyone will be green with envy when Marian wears it to the Met.”

“And so they should be,” Agnes declared, already returning to her desk. "There are not many old New York families left who haven't had to sell the family jewels."

“Thank you,” Marian said quietly.

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t embarrass us. And have it cleaned; it’s been in that box since the Reagan administration.”

“Yes, Aunt Agnes.”

“And, Marian,” Agnes added, without looking up as she sat back down, “do try not to run away again. It’s not a Bronte novel.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Marian promised, a smile playing on her lips.

The house quietened as the day progressed, the rain tapping faintly against the windowpanes like a soft metronome. Marian stood at the easel by one of the windows of her bedroom, a brush in hand, working colour into the canvas. Her room was a blend of old elegance and personal touches; books stacked on the windowsill, a faded armchair draped with a cosy blanket by the old fireplace, and the scent of tea lingering in the air.

The painting was of a woman in profile, half shadowed by light. Painting steadied her. It always had. The strokes were methodical, her fingers smudged with ochre and pigment.

A knock sounded softly at her door. Ada peeked in, holding a teacup. “I thought you could use this.”

Marian smiled. “You always know.”

Ada stepped inside, setting the cup beside the easel. “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home,” Marian said honestly.

Ada studied the unfinished painting. “Is that… Agnes?”

Marian laughed. “Maybe, subconsciously.”

They stood side by side for a moment considering the painting, the silence companionable.

“You know,” Ada said gently, “she loves you very strongly, in her own impossible way. She just has a terrible habit of expressing it as judgment.”

Marian smiled faintly. “That sounds familiar.”

Ada chuckled, touching her arm. “You really are your father’s daughter sometimes.”

Before Marian could answer, a knock came from the hallway. Jack appeared, looking a bit flustered, still with a wrench in his hand. “Marian, there’s someone at the door for you.”

“At this hour on a Sunday?” Ada frowned.

Marian went to ask who it was, but Jack had already disappeared back downstairs to whatever he was working on in the kitchen.

She and Ada exchanged a puzzled glance and followed the stately wooden staircase down. The lamps were dim in the entryway, casting soft golden light over the parquet floor. Ada reached the door first and opened it.

A rush of crisp evening air swept in and there, framed in the glow from the hallway light, stood Larry.

He looked both exhausted and burning with something Marian couldn’t quite name, sun-tanned from the Arizona desert, stubbled jaw, hair ruffled and boots still dusted from the site. The same jacket Larry had worn in Morenci clung to his shoulders and his eyes searched for Marian instantly.

“Lawrence,” Ada said in surprise. “You’ve come straight from the airport?”

Larry managed a wry smile. “Yeah, landed not long ago. I came here first to see Marian.”

Marian had frozen halfway down the stairs. Her heart thudded, unsure whether to race or rest.

“Larry…” she breathed.

He turned and looked up, eyes locking with hers immediately. “Hey, Brook.” A smile crept across his features.

“You’re back?”

“Told you I would be.”

She descended the rest of the stairs almost before she realized she was moving. “You look awful,” she said, breathless, a grin tugging at her mouth.

“Guess I’ll cancel that GQ cover shoot then.” he deadpanned, his dark eyes twinkling.

Then, Marian was in his arms. The hug was instinctive, fierce, utterly un-calculated. No cameras, no rehearsed warmth. Just relief. She buried her face in the crook of his neck where her senses were flooded with the scent of dust and the jet fuel that lingered on him. His shirt, still clinging to traces of his cologne, warmed the skin of her cheek.

When she looked up, he was smiling. “Hey,” he murmured, voice rough as he stroked her hair affectionately.

“Hey,” she whispered back.

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, then leaned down and kissed her, quick, unthinking. It wasn’t planned, not like the practiced red carpet kisses they’d faked for the cameras. When he bent his head, she met him halfway. It was soft, brief, but real.

Ada’s startled gasp echoed faintly from the hallway behind them.

Marian drew back, cheeks flushed, “We have an audience.”

Larry’s self-satisfied grin was immediate. “Worth it.” He kissed her again, slower this time, until Ada cleared her throat diplomatically.

“Well,” Ada said with gentle humour, “Perhaps you might continue this reunion across the street before my sister appears and conducts an inquisition.”

Marian groaned. “Aunt Ada!”

Ada chuckled. “Consider it preventative diplomacy. I suggest you give her one night of peace after your ceasefire today, before Lawrence’s… presence complicates breakfast in the morning?”

Larry chuckled. “That’s fair.”

He still hadn’t let go of Marian’s handy. “I need to check in with my Dad anyway, he’s waiting. It’s good news from Morenci. Better than good, actually.”

Ada smiled, genuinely impressed. “Then congratulations. Take Marian with you, if you must. She looks like she’s been worrying for both of you.”

Marian’s mouth curved. “I have not.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “You have. Go. Take a few things with you. We’ll warm Agnes up to the idea of Lawrence’s sleepovers another day.”

Marian laughed softly. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m practical,” Ada corrected. “Now, off with you before Agnes comes down for her tea.”

Larry gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Marian squeezed his hand once, then let go. “Give me five minutes to pack a few bits.”

Larry squeezed her hand once before letting go with a smirk. “I’ll head over. You take your time… and if you happen to find my Harvard sweatshirt in your drawer, I won’t say no.”

As she disappeared up the stairs, Ada turned to Larry with that serene, knowing smile of hers. “You look rather pleased with yourself, Mr Russell.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

Ada tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him. “You always were.”

She paused, her eyes softening with memory. “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve stood in this hallway over the years. Always arriving just when she needed you. Sometimes with scraped knuckles, sometimes with flowers, once with a broken nose and a story I still don’t believe.”

Larry laughed, sheepish. “That was a long time ago.”

She closed the door partway, leaving him on the stoop under the drizzle before he made a run for it across the street towards his house. Inside, Marian was already packing an overnight bag, pulse racing, replaying every second of that kiss in her mind.

She moved around her room in a daze, folding things that didn’t need folding, her hands acting on habit while her thoughts drifted. For years, Larry had simply been there; a fixture as constant as the skyline outside her window, someone she could rely on without ever needing to ask. Their friendship had been the safest part of her life, easy and familiar, unspoken and unshakable. She’d known her own feelings for some time now, had tried to fold them neatly away like the clothes she was packing, hidden behind friendship, then habit, then arrangement rules. But the way Larry had looked at her just now, with that mix of exhaustion and unmistakable warmth, made something inside her shift. It wasn’t the first time he’d come back to her, but it felt different, like he’d finally seen her, not just as the girl who’d always been there, but as the woman standing before him.

She brushed a hand through her hair, still catching her reflection in the mirror, cheeks flushed, lips tingling from the memory of his kiss. There had been no hesitation in him, no question. Just certainty. As she slipped her sketchbook into the bag, she realised she didn’t just miss him when he was gone; she ached for him. And for the first time, she allowed herself to believe that what she’d felt growing quietly between them hadn’t been hers alone. That maybe, impossibly, he had been falling too.

By the time she returned downstairs, Ada was back in the sitting room, humming softly to the music playing on the Alexa speaker as she got her knitting needles out.

Ada looked up from her knitting as Marian reappeared in the doorway, coat over her arm and eyes bright with something she couldn’t quite disguise.

“Off so soon?” Ada teased, though her smile was knowing.

Marian hesitated by the hall mirror, smoothing her hair and adjusting the collar of her coat. “He’s waiting,” she said softly, watching her own reflection as if half expecting to see the change she felt inside.

Ada nodded, her needles pausing mid-stitch. “Then don’t keep him waiting too long, dear. Life has a habit of slipping past when we tell ourselves there’s plenty of time.”

Marian smiled faintly at the mirror. “You sound like Aunt Agnes.”

Ada chuckled under her breath. “Oh, heaven forbid. She’d tell you to mind your propsects. I’m telling you to mind your heart.”

The clicking of the needles stilled entirely. Ada looked down at them, her expression softening with memory. “Luke and I thought we had all the years in the world,” she said, her voice low but steady. “And yet they vanished in a blink. Don’t waste the time you’re given, Marian. When love finds you, let it in. The rest has a way of sorting itself out.”

Marian turned then, eyes bright with feeling, and crossed the room to press a kiss to her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Ada smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening with warmth. “Go on, my dear,” she said as Marian slipped out into the night. Then, softer, to the empty room, “It’s about time the two of you stopped orbiting and finally found your place.” 

The Russell house was quiet when Larry came in, the kind of hush that only existed in very large homes and very late hours. The marble floors gleamed under soft recessed lighting, and the air smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive air scent diffusers, cooler than the desert Larry had just left behind.

His boots left faint prints of red Arizona dust on the marble floor; he didn’t bother taking them off. He should’ve showered on the jet, but he’d dozed off thirty minutes in to the flight, so there was still grit in his hair and fatigue in every muscle.

Church appeared, as if materialising from the silence itself.
“Welcome home, sir. Your father’s in his study.”

Larry smiled, his voice low. “Of course he is.”

He crossed the vast hall, pushing open the tall double doors. The study glowed warm with the light from the fireplace dancing against the dark panelling and bookshelves. The tall windows looked out towards Central Park, where the skyline glittered like a circuit board.

George Russell sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a half-finished tumbler of whisky left abandoned beside a stack of reports. He looked up, brows lifting.

“Well, you look like you wrestled the desert and lost.”

Larry laughed hoarsely. “You should see the other guy Dad, the desert looks worse.”

“Let me guess, you didn’t wait for Monday’s debrief.”

“I didn’t see the point.” Larry dropped a folder of maps onto the desk, copper dust smudges marking the edges. “We struck new, clean veins. The Morenci land’s loaded. Grade’s higher than expected. There’s enough copper to last a century if we manage it right.”

George stared for. Moment, thinking, then a slow grin broke through the fatigue around his eyes. “A century. My God, Larry.” He stood, striding around the desk. “Do you realize what that means? With everything turning electric; cars, grids, phones, every damn thing…this puts us ahead for decades.”

Larry exhaled, the first true breath since the fieldwork began. “I know. But we’ll pay fair prices. I don’t want a fight with the locals. No shady land deals, no bad press. We do this clean.”

George’s approval was immediate and unspoken, a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, a proud father’s nod. “You’re learning faster than I did.”

Larry smirked. “I’ll take that as the highest possible compliment.”

“It is. Sit down before you fall over.”

He obeyed, dropping into the chair opposite. The adrenaline had carried him this far, but the exhaustion was starting to win.

“Drink?” George asked, already pouring.

Larry shook his head. “If I have one, I’ll be unconscious before I finish it.”

George chuckled and took the sip himself. “So, what’s next?”

Larry hesitated just long enough for his father to notice.

“You’ve got that look Lawrence,” George said, setting the glass down. “The one that means you’ve done something expensive.”

Larry rubbed his stubbled jaw with a casual smile, feigning innocence. “Define…expensive.”

George narrowed his eyes. “How bad is it?” he asked whilst taking another sip.

“I may have bought a building.”

“May have?”

“Definitely did.” He clarified, mischief written across his face.

George set down his glass with a thud. “You bought a whole building from the field in Arizona? Without seeing it?”

Larry grinned as he reclined in the chair. “I had photos.”

“Where?”

“Chelsea, off 7^th Avenue. Eight floors. Exposed brick, north-facing windows, perfect light.”

“Tell me this isn’t for some new Russell Consolidated project.”

Larry’s grin tilted, softer now. “Not exactly.”

George studied him for a beat, then huffed out a laugh. “Ah. So it’s that kind of investment.”

Larry said nothing, which said everything.

“Marian?”

He nodded once.

George leaned back, a look of half amusement, half incredulous. “You bought your girlfriend an eight story building?”

Larry grimaced. “For Marian, Dad. Not just a girlfriend!” He almost winced at how fiercely the words came out, but they hung there, true all the same. Marian had been part of his life for over a decade. His closest friend, his compass when everything else tilted off balance. He’d told himself it was enough, that what they had didn’t need to change. But somewhere along the way since they started this pretend relationship arrangement, friendship had blurred into something he couldn’t name without giving too much away. He thought of her smile, the quiet steadiness in her eyes, the way she made every space feel lighter just by being in it. This wasn’t about extravagance or proving anything. It was about wanting her to have something worthy of her, something lasting.

Maybe, if he was honest with himself, it was also about wanting to be the one who gave it to her.

“I’m not judging,” George said, smiling. “I just want to make sure I heard correctly. You bought a piece of prime real estate in Manhattan for a woman you claimed you’re taking it slow with.”

“Well…” Larry shifted, clearly pleased with himself. “I promised to get her a gift as I had to bail on plans this weekend to go to Arizona. I wanted Marian to have a proper studio. Something spacious, with good light, quiet enough to work in. Peter found the perfect unit across the ground and first floor, but the owners were impossible. Refused to negotiate, pulled the listing.” He gave a helpless shrug, feigning innocence. “So, I bought the building from over them.”

George blinked. “You bought the entire building because the sellers were being difficult during the weekend? Instead of waiting until Monday to look for another unit.”

Larry rubbed a hand through his hair, grinning. “Problem solved. Now Marian can paint wherever she wants. She’s an artist. She needs space to work, teach, to show her stuff. It’s not like buying her a yacht. This actually makes sense.”

“Only to a Russell.”

“That’s what Mom would say.”

George pointed a finger at him, still chuckling. “You’re your mother’s son…and mine. You fall hard, and you solve it with real estate.”

Larry groaned dramatically. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me right now. I’ve been awake since three a.m.”

George was still grinning, eyes twinkling. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or concerned.”

“Both,” Larry said. “Probably both.”

George raised his glass. “I’ll give you this, you really do take after me. Vision, recklessness, and a dash of sentiment. Dangerous mix.”

Larry leaned back, exhaustion catching up but a glint of humour in his eyes. “Maybe. But if it gives her something of her own, I’ll take the risk. You say that like it’s a bad thing Dad!”

“Oh, it is,” George said dryly, raising his glass

The library settled into a brief, companionable quiet, until the faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hall. Marian stepped into the study doorway, the city’s reflection flickering behind her. She wore a soft wool coat over a cream blouse, her overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed from jogging across the street, her eyes bright with something unspoken.

The sight of her made Larry’s smirk soften into something almost boyish.

George rose at once, smiling warmly. “Marian. Welcome.” He leaned forward and greeted her with a polite kiss on the cheek. “You’ve been missed around here. I’ve already eaten but you two can get Borden to rustle something up.”

Marian smiled, cheeks faintly pink. “That’s very kind of you, Mr Russell.”

From his chair, Larry couldn’t resist a low, teasing murmur. “Told you I’d make Morenci worth your while, didn’t I?”

George glanced between them, amused but unsuspecting. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

Larry only grinned wider, lazy, charming, and just a touch irreverent. He jumped out his chair and stepped closer to Marian and rested a hand lightly on Marian’s back causing her to feel a flicker of warmth ripple through her, a quiet tingle that spread like a secret.

As George reached the doorway, “Thanks, Dad,” he called after him. “You can leave my cheque for Morenci on the dining table. I accept stock shares and paid-for vacations too.”

George gave a short laugh without looking back. “Dream on, Lawrence.”

Larry smirked, glancing down at Marian. “Worth a try.”

Chapter Text

The first light of morning stretched across the Manhattan skyline, soft gold spilling through the almost floor-to-ceiling windows of Larry’s bedroom. The city was still, its usual roar only a hum beneath the glass. Somewhere over on 5^th Avenue, delivery vans murmured through the streets and horns echoed off the river.

The bedroom was a study in quiet ultra-luxury. The tall windows framed the city like a living mural, and the pale linen curtains billowed gently in the early breeze. A low-slung leather armchair sat in the corner beside a stack of unread scientific and architectural journals, and the scent of bergamot and cedar lingered in the air, a trace of Larry’s cologne. The sheets were rumpled, Marian’s silhouette half-buried in them, her hair a blonde halo against the pillow.

Marian stirred when he moved, one arm sliding instinctively across the sheets as if to anchor him. Larry turned back, smiling faintly at the sight of her hair fanned over the pillow, his oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her cheek.

“Go back to sleep.” he whispered.

Her voice was rough with sleep. “You’re really leaving before sunrise?”

He chuckled quietly. “Big morning. Try not to let the markets crash before I get back.”

Marian groaned softly and buried her face in the pillow. “You’ll do great. Just…lay off the espressos and eat some real food this time.”

Larry smiled faintly, watching her through the morning haze. The faintest ray of dawn had found its way across the sheets, touching the curve of her should, the hem of his T-shirt slipping down her back. Paint still clung faintly to her fingertips from the day before. She was half-asleep and unguarded, the world’s noise still far away. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, simply taking her in, she looked utterly at ease, surrounded by the small, human disarray of their morning. The sight tugged at something deep in him, a quiet awe and a warmth he hadn’t expected but was starting to recognise. He realised how much he liked this, the simplicity of it: sunlight, soft sheets, her beside him, the world held at bay.

He wanted to stay, just a moment longer, but the city was already calling him to chase it.

“Breakfast is for people who don’t have a billion-dollar copper seam,” he teased from the door to his closet, reaching for his tie.

She half smiled into the pillow, her words muffled. “You’re seriously insufferable.”

Larry laughed under his breath, that quiet, low sound she had always secretly liked, and bent once more brushing another kiss over her temple. His fingers lingered as he stroked her hair back from her face, the strands catching faintly against his calloused thumb and for a heartbeat, he wanted to crawl back under the covers beside her.

“I’ll text you after the announcement.” he murmured, his voice softer now, more promise than routine.

She mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow that sounded suspiciously like you’d better.

He smiled as he straightened, the sight of her half-buried in his bedsheets imprinting itself in his mind, the kind of image that would follow him all day. Then he was gone, jacket over one arm, the scent of his cologne lingering in the still air. The soft click of the door faded into the morning quiet, leaving only sunlight, the echo of his laughter, and the ghost of warmth where he’d stood.

The black SUV cut smoothly through the early-morning traffic. The city outside was washed in pale light, glass towers rising like clean edges against the misted river. Inside, the air was thick with quiet focus. The interior of the SUV was sleek and sound-proofed, the kind of vehicle designed for silent power. The leather seats were cool beneath them, and the dashboard glowed with soft amber light. Outside, the city blurred past, steel and glass, mist and motion.

George Russell sat beside his son, reading from a leather folder. His silver cufflinks embossed B+G caught the light each time he turned a page. Larry sat, scrolling through briefing notes on his iPad, jaw tight but steady. Outside, the city unspooled like a map in motion; blocks and bridges, early light flashing off the Hudson. Larry caught his reflection in the tinted glass: the practiced composure of a Russell, but beneath it, the flicker of the boy who still couldn’t quite believe any of this was real.

For a long while, neither spoke. The city rolled by, a blur of steel and movement.

Finally, George broke the silence. “You realize what this means.”

Larry didn’t look up. “I think so.”

“It’s not just another acquisition. It’s a century-long resource. The world runs on copper … circuits, grids, vehicles. You’ve given this company a hundred-year future.”

Larry exhaled slowly, watching the skyline out the car window. “It’s still strange. I was just trying to prove the data was wrong.”

George closed the folder, studying him. “That’s exactly what I used to say when I was your age. We built this company on foresight, not luck. You’ve reminded me of that.”

Larry allowed himself a half smile. “You’re proud, then.”

George adjusted his cufflinks again, his habitual gesture when emotions pressed too close. “Let’s just say I don’t waste my time on pride unless it’s earned.”

The SUV turned down Broadway towards the Financial District, sleek black glass reflecting in its sides. Once outside the Russell Consolidated Trust Building, they saw commuters craning to glimpse the Russell building already ringed with media trucks. Larry glanced at his father, a flicker of nerves crossing his face.

George noticed. “You’ve done harder things than talk to a room of executives.”

“Not when half of them are hoping I fail spectacularly.”

“Then surprise them.” George’s tone carried amusement, not reproach. “It’s what I’ve always done.”

Larry nodded, closing his tablet. “Let’s do this.”

The Russell Consolidated headquarters occupied forty floors of glass and brass in a building twice as high. The top-floor boardroom was a cathedral of commerce, chrome fixtures gleamed under the LED lighting, and the long glass table stretched like a runway of decisions. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an uninterrupted view of Manhattan, the skyline sharp and glittering. A panorama of power and precision.

Executives filled the room: divisional directors from mining, energy, manufacturing, transport, and finance; in-house legal counsel; the PR director; and a handful of long-serving advisers who had known George since the days of railroads and real estate. The hum of low voices died the instant George and Larry entered.

George walked to the head of the table without looking at anyone directly, confidence radiating from every deliberate movement. Larry followed, sliding into a seat further down. He could feel eyes on him, curiosity, calculation, the faintest envy. The air hummed faintly with tension and caffeine. Polished watches gleamed under the harsh office lights, pens clicked against notepads, the faint buzz of ambition and scepticism mingling like static. Larry rested his hands on the table, the glass cool against his palms, forcing himself to breathe evenly as his father began to speak.

“Good morning,” George began, his voice even, deep, trained for rooms like this. “Let’s get to it.”

He placed his folder on the table and clicked a remote. The lights dimmed slightly; a projection illuminated the far wall; satellite maps of Arizona, geological overlays, veins of copper rendered in glowing red.

“For the past six months, our teams have conducted extensive surveys of the Morenci Basin as part of the initial fact find for construction plans in the area,” he said, pacing slowly. “Early estimates suggested exhausted reserves of low grade material. However, revised data as of yesterday confirms otherwise.”

He clicked again. New slides appeared: graphs, cross-sections, valuation columns.

“The proven reserves now stand at an estimated one hundred and seventy-eight billion dollars’ worth of high grade copper. One of the largest modern discoveries on record.”

A low murmur rippled through the boardroom. George let it settle before continuing.

“Enough copper in fact, for the next century. Projected net profit across the life of the mine: eighty to one hundred billion. Discounted to present value, we’re adding approximately fifty billion dollars to our consolidated asset base as of today.”

Silence.

Then, as the numbers sank in, a round of restrained applause began at the far end of the table, spreading like a cautious wave. George held up a hand, stilling them. “You can thank my son for that.”

All heads turned toward Larry.

“Lawrence led the on-site review,” George continued. “When others dismissed the land as over-mined, he pushed the team to reassess. He believed there was more beneath the surface and he was right.”

Larry felt heat rise under the collar of his shirt. “I had good data,” he said, in a voice stronger than he felt.

George gave a rare half-smile. “And better instincts.”

He turned back to the room. “This company was built on foresight, and my son just proved it still runs in the family.”

Applause again, louder this time. Some of the older executives clapped with genuine approval; others, more cautiously, exchanged glances, they knew this was more than a discovery. It was succession in motion. When the room finally quieted, George gestured for Larry to speak.

Larry stood, palms briefly pressed to the polished table. “This wasn’t luck,” he began, voice calm but carrying. “It was a team effort; geologists, engineers, analysts. I just asked the questions that kept us looking when it was easier to walk away. What we found out there isn’t just copper. It’s time. Time for this company to keep building, keep innovating. I’m proud of that.”

He sat, and the room erupted again in applause.

George waited until the sound ebbed, then lifted a second folder. “There’s one more matter.”

The board stilled.

“Effective immediately,” he said, “Lawrence Russell will hold a five-percent equity stake in Russell Consolidated, valued today at roughly forty billion dollars.”

The air left the room. Someone exhaled sharply; someone else muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

George went on without missing a beat. “Additionally, he will retain twenty percent ownership of the Morenci subsidiary, currently valued at ten billion.” He paused, letting the figures land. “Let me be clear. This is not inheritance. It is earned ownership.”

The applause that followed was slower, steadier, but laced with awe. Larry could only shake his head slightly, stunned. He’d known his father planned to make an announcement, not this. The acclamation blurred around him. Larry barely registered the movement of mouths, the shuffle of suits, the flash of congratulatory smiles. For all the numbers and headlines, what he felt was something quieter; the slow, dawning weight of responsibility. His father had handed him not just a reward, but a legacy and with it? His trust.

When the meeting adjourned, executives swarmed forward to shake his hand, congratulate him, offer the usual platitudes about “vision” and “next era leadership.” He accepted each politely, though his mind barely registered the words.

Beyond the boardroom glass, the city stretched out in sharp relief, alive, gleaming, waiting.

George’s private office was quieter, darker. The blinds were half drawn against the morning glare, the air faintly scented with leather and old paper.

Larry stood at the window, the view dizzying even now, a sweep of midtown towers and the glint of the East River. Behind him, his father poured coffee into two heavy mugs.

“You’ve given this company another century,” George said simply.

Larry turned, accepting the cup. “And you’ve given me five percent of it. Are you sure that’s not reckless?”

George leaned back against the desk. “Reckless would be keeping it all. This was earned, and everyone in that room knows it.” He sipped his coffee, eyes steady. “I meant what I said out there.”

Larry studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”

George’s mouth twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.” They shared a quiet laugh, brief, but real.

After a moment, George’s expression softened. “You’ve changed, Larry. The last few months…they’ve done you good. Marian’s had more than just a hand in that, I think.”

Larry looked down at his coffee. “Maybe she just reminds me what the rest of this is for.”

His father’s eyes glimmered with something between amusement and pride. “Your mother said as much when she called first thing. She’s still in Paris, by the way. Sent a message: Proud of you both. Don’t let the headlines go to your head.”

Larry chuckled. “That sounds like her.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Larry’s assistant stepped in, holding a sealed envelope. “Mr. Russell, the Chelsea purchase documents you requested.” Larry took them and signed them quickly before handing them back.

George arched an eyebrow. “You’re buying property today? You just added nearly fifty billion to your name, and you’re already spending it?”

Larry took the envelope, smirking. “I told you, I got Marian a gift.”

George shook his head. “At least you can afford it now.”

“I could afford it yesterday,” Larry replied dryly.

The older man chuckled, returning to his seat. “Just like your mother, generous to a fault.”

Larry tucked the envelope under his arm, but his expression had softened. “She deserves it,” he said quietly.

“Then it’s money well spent.” The two men stood side by side at the window, the skyline spreading beneath them like a kingdom. Below, camera flashes burst along the street as the first journalists gathered outside the building.

George nodded toward the city. “Now you’ll learn what power feels like.”

Larry exhaled slowly. “Feels… heavy.”

“Good,” George said. “It should.”

The light had shifted by then, flooding the office in a blaze of orange that caught in the edges of the chrome fixtures and turned the glass table into a mirror of the sky. Larry watched the reflection in the window; his father beside him, the city beyond and wondered when exactly the boy who sketched skylines in his college notebooks had become the man standing in their center.

They stood there in silence, father and son; one at the height of his empire, the other just beginning his. The morning sun burned through the clouds, flooding the room with light.

By midday, the story had spread across every screen in the world.

The New York Times: Russell Consolidated Adds $178B in Long-Term Assets — Heir Gains $5B & Long Term Estimated $50B Stake.
Financial Daily: The Discovery of the Century: Copper Find Rewrites Global Markets.
Bloomberg: Wall Street Hails Russell Legacy — New Generation, Same Vision.

Stock tickers flashed red and green across the bottom of every financial channel. Commodity markets surged. Analysts on CNBC argued whether the find would shift energy policy in North America. In London, a commentator called it “the twenty-first-century equivalent of striking gold.”

Politicians issued statements within hours, praising the “stability and innovation” of the Russell dynasty. Investors in Tokyo and Frankfurt began buying copper futures at record highs.

Inside Russell Consolidated’s press suite, screens flickered with headlines, graphs, and live feeds. The hum of servers and the quiet clatter of keyboards filled the room. The PR director stood like a conductor at the center of it all, her eyes darting between monitors as the world reacted in real time.. “Congratulations, Mr. Russell,” she said as Larry passed. “You’ve officially broken the internet. For the right reasons this time.”

Larry only nodded, ignoring the dig, slipping his phone into his pocket. He’d already seen the trending tags: #CopperKing, #NextRussellEra, and, inevitably, #Larian, photos of him and Marian from last month’s gala circulating again, rebranded by the press as the power couple of the year.

He muttered under his breath, “Great.”

George overheard as they stepped into the elevator. “You’ll get used to it. The noise never stops. You just learn when to listen.”

Larry smiled faintly. “You ever regret teaching me this?”

George glanced sideways. “Every day. And not for a second.”

They stepped out into the main lobby, cameras already waiting beyond the glass. The SUV idled at the curb, tinted windows gleaming. Larry adjusted his cufflinks, a mirror of his father’s gesture earlier, and for the first time, George noticed and smiled.

“Just don’t let them see you tired,” George said quietly. “You represent more than yourself now.”

“I know,” Larry said, and meant it.

Outside, the noise hit them, a wall of voices, questions, flashing bulbs. But Larry didn’t flinch. He and George walked forward together, a united front, old power and new, toward the waiting car, toward the world that was already rewriting itself around them.

As the SUV pulled away from the Russell building, George adjusted his cufflinks and glanced out the window. “Drop me at J.P. Morgan,” he said to the driver. “They’re expecting me.”

Larry nodded, leaning back against the seat, the tension of the morning finally beginning to ebb.

George turned to him, a small, rare smile. “You’ve done well, son.”

Larry met his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Now go home. You’ve earned some sleep, and I suspect someone’s waiting to hear how it all went.”

Larry laughed softly, resting his head back against the seat as the car merged into the current of Manhattan traffic. His phone vibrated again, messages from Bertha, from investors, from Marian. He didn’t open them yet. For the first time in days, he let the city move around him and the noise fade to a distant hum.

The car ride back uptown was mercifully quiet after his father has been deposited at the J.P Morgan building. Larry had loosened his tie halfway through the journey, exhaustion tugging at his shoulders. The adrenaline that had fueled him through the morning was ebbing fast, replaced by something quieter, disbelief, maybe.

George no doubt, had already been swept into a second wave of interviews, the PR team whisking him off toward a CNBC segment and a Wall Street Journal feature. Larry, for once, was glad he had refused.

“I’ll take the afternoon,” he’d said to the team. “Let them print whatever quotes they want.”

Now, leaning against the tinted glass, he scrolled through his phone. Dozens of missed calls, hundreds of messages, and three words from Marian:

Proud of you. You earned every bit of it. 

He read it twice, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but said nothing back yet. Just smiled faintly.

Outside, the light had shifted, early afternoon sun gleaming off mirrored buildings. When the car turned onto Fifth Avenue, traffic slowed, reporters clustered outside the Russell townhouse. The Russell's security team cleared a path with practiced ease.

Marian had returned home and had just finished wiping down one of the marble counters whilst nattering with Mrs Baeur. The kitchen smelled of lemon polish and coffee; Ada sat nearby, flipping through a magazine. She paused on a page featuring a Parisian garden, her eyes softening. Marian knew Ada had once dreamed of living abroad, but had reconciled herself to an annual vacation after Marian’s arrival in New York as an orphan. Duty had a way of anchoring people. Meanwhile, Bridget hummed along to the radio as she dusted the shelves. A vase of fading tulips sat near the window. Marian wore a soft pale pink, chiffon blouse and jeans, her hair pulled into a claw clip that had begun to unravel, when her phone pinged again.

“Listen to this,” Marian said, reading from her screen.

‘Russell Consolidated Adds $50B in Current Assets — Heir Gains $5B Overnight.’

'Heir to Empire: Larry Russell Becomes World’s Richest Person Under 30.'

Ada looked up, eyes wide behind her glasses. “My word. That’s… astronomical.”

Bridget stopped mid-polish. “That’s your Larry, isn’t it?" she said in her soft Irish lilt, "He’s on every TV channel.”

Marian laughed softly, trying to sound casual. “Yes, that’s… him.”

Ada chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, he’s rich now.”

Marian’s phone glowed against her palm, the endless scroll of headlines and photographs all variations of the same story: Larry Russell, the Copper King. The words felt too large, too distant from the man who still stole her paintbrushes to stir his coffee whenever he dropped by her work, with bagels.

“He wasn’t exactly scraping by before,” Marian said, smiling. Her phone buzzed again, a message from Peggy, complete with three fire emojis.

Peggy: All anyone’s talking about here is your billionaire fake boyfriend. You’re “dating” a Wall Street myth. Should I start drafting the profile piece?
Marian: Peg, you can’t keep calling him that. You promised to keep it a secret!
Peggy: Then tell him how you feel and make it official. You know you want that.

She did. More than she should.

Peggy had always been the bold one. And now a budding journalist with a knack for finding the truth, even when it hurt. Her texts were half advice, half dare and Marian knew she meant every word.

The doorbell rang.

Bridget went to answer it, but a voice beat her to it; warm, low, unmistakable. “Afternoon, Bridget.”

Marian froze, heart hammering. Ada looked up, startled.

At the threshold stood Larry still in his suit. He looked a little undone; tie loosened, hair ruffled, the city still clinging to him like static. Behind the fatigue, there was a gleam in his eyes that made Marian’s pulse stutter, a mixture of triumph and something softer, something just for her.

“Larry?” Marian breathed, stepping out from the hallway.

“Hi,” he said simply, smiling as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Ada blinked, recovering her composure. “Goodness, Lawrence, you look as though you’ve flown halfway across the world. Are you alright?”

“Close enough, I did yesterday” Larry said with a grin. “Mind if I steal your niece Mrs Forte?”

“Please do,” Ada said, amusement flickering in her eyes. “But perhaps not for too long, Agnes might faint if you wander around in her hallway last thing at night.”

Marian flushed. “I was just going to say that. Maybe I’ll come over to yours instead?”

Larry nodded. “Whatever works. I have something to show you. A gift.”

“Something to-…Larry, what did you do?!”

Ada smothered a smile. “Go on then. Before Agnes hears the commotion and decides she’s hosting a summit.”

Marian shot her a look but dashed upstairs anyway, heart racing as she  grabbed a sweater she’d snatched from the back of Larry’s chair the week before and the leather overnight bag she seemed to be using more and more recently. When she returned, he was waiting by the door, hands still in his pockets, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.

“You ready?”

“I think so,” she said as she bent down to tie her Converse shoes up.

He held the front door for her, sunlight catching the glint of his cufflinks.

They crossed the East 61st Street traffic together, the New York air crisp around them, city noise softening as they slipped into the waiting town car. Larry’s driver opened the door, the same black SUV that had carried him to his triumph that morning.

“Where are we going?” Marian asked as the car pulled away.

“You’ll see,” Larry said. “Eyes forward. No Googling.”

“Larry-”

He reached over, covering her phone screen with his hand. “Nope. You’re under embargo.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth curved. “You really do like your surprises.”

“No, I like keeping my promises.” he said triumphantly.

Something in his tone made her look away, her stomach tightening.

The car turned down West 25th Street and slowed beside a stretch of late-morning sunlight and glass. Marian squinted out the window, confused. The neighborhood was beautiful in a lived-in, artistic way. Lofts converted from old warehouses, little galleries tucked between cafés.

Larry was already out of the car by the time her door opened. His security kept discreet distance near the curb, watching out for any sign of the crowd that always seemed to form wherever a Russell appeared.

“Close your eyes,” he said, grinning like a boy with a secret.

“Larry, it’s two in the afternoon, not my birthday.”

“Doesn’t matter. Humor me.”

She sighed but obeyed, letting him take her hand. His fingers were warm against her palm, calloused from the Arizona trip. He led her a few steps forward until the sunlight softened. She could feel his pulse faintly where their hands met, steady, grounding. The street smelled faintly of roasted coffee and sunshine on warm concrete; somewhere, a gallery owner unlocked their door after lunch. The ordinary rhythm of New York went on, unaware that, for her, everything was about to tilt.

“Okay,” he said. “Open them.”

The building stood like a quiet promise, pale limestone with black-framed windows, its façade catching the afternoon light in soft glints. The street was quiet, lined with galleries and cafés, the kind of place where creativity felt at home. Marian blinked at the tall structure before her, stretching eight stories high. The building itself rose with quiet elegance and looked new but carried the charm of old New York in its cornices and detailing. Her heart kicked.

“Larry… this building?”

Larry watched her expression change; the disbelief, the way her eyes widened, how she pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady herself. For a man used to figures and forecasts, this, her wonder, was the only return that mattered. He’d imagined this moment the whole flight home, rehearsed explanations that now felt absurd. Seeing her speechless was worth every reckless dollar.

“The bottom two floors.” He dropped a small ring of keys into her open hand, the metal warm from his pocket. “You said you needed more space to paint. I promised I’d get you a present for bailing on you at the weekend.”

Her mouth fell open. “You bought me a gallery?”

“Technically, a building,” he said, almost sheepishly. “The condos above belong to people with more money than taste. You don’t have to worry about them. But this part…” he gestured toward the ground-floor windows, “…has the right light. North-facing. Quiet street. You’ll be able to work here without being harassed by my Mom’s PR people, nosey colleagues or your aunts.”

Marian just stared. Then she laughed, loud, incredulous, joyous  and before he could react, she leapt at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

“Are you insane?” she cried, kissing his cheek. “Larry! A whole building?”

Larry caught her easily, steadying them both as her momentum nearly tipped him backward. For a second he just held her there, her hair brushing his jaw, her laughter warm against his skin. Something inside him twisted, that strange, weightless rush that felt like butterflies settling and scattering all at once. He held her tighter without meaning to, flooded with the simple enjoyment of her reaction, the sudden realisation that he wanted to be the reason for that sound again and again. He’d planned to surprise her properly, a quiet dinner, a key in a Tiffany box, maybe even flowers but none of that could have matched this. The warmth of her laughter against his skin stripped away the careful control he’d kept between them for years, the thin, invisible line that had kept them safely in the realm of friendship. For once, there was no boardroom, no press, no plan. Just her.

When she finally stepped back, his smile lingered even as his voice stayed measured. “You like it?”

“Like it? I can’t even process it! You really did this?”

He nodded. “Signed everything today. You’re officially a gallery owner, Miss Brook.”

She turned toward the building again, wide-eyed. “Show me.”

They stepped inside. The first floor opened into a vast, raw-edged studio space — sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, dust motes catching in the air. The walls were white brick, the floors pale oak. In one corner, a wrought-iron staircase curved upward to a mezzanine with glass balustrades.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed.

Her voice echoed softly through the cavernous, open room. The light moved with her, shifting across the floorboards as though following her steps. In that instant, she saw it all: canvases lining the walls, laughter, the smell of paint and turpentine, the life she’d almost stopped believing she could have.

Larry watched her move through the space, his expression more tender than he meant it to be. Her excitement filled the air like a current; she touched the edges of the windows, looked up at the skylight, already planning.

“There’s a kitchenette through there,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove. “And storage rooms at the back. Upstairs could be the art studio proper with an office, or whatever you want. I figured you’d have ideas.”

She spun to face him, cheeks flushed. “You bought this without ever stepping inside?”

He shrugged. “I trust my realtor. And my instincts.”

Marian laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Their eyes met, the kind of glance that lingered a fraction too long. He moved closer, brushing against her arm as they turned toward the staircase.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “There’s more.”

Upstairs, The second floor opened into an extension at the back with a lofted space with cathedral-like beams and tall windows that framed the skyline like a painting. Dust motes danced in the sunlight, and the silence was bubbling with possibility. The walls were bare, waiting for color, Their footsteps echoed softly against the bare floor, each one a quiet punctuation in the stillness.

Marian paused by one of the windows, her gaze sweeping the city beyond. “Larry, this is… I don’t even have words.”

He leaned on the railing beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “Then don’t. Just enjoy it.” He said with his signature charming grin.

She smiled up at Larry as he stood up to his full height, and something shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Charged with a tension that had been building for years if either of them were honest. They both seemed to realize how close they were standing, how little space remained between them.

Her hand brushed his as she turned, and his breath caught audibly. The air seemed to thicken between them, sunlight grazing the surfaces like gilded gold. For years, they had existed within the same orbit, always close enough to touch, always stopping short. Now, with the city quiet beyond the solid limestone walls and the scent of paint and dust around them, there was nothing left to stop the inevitable.

She looked up, startled by the nearness, by the quiet, by the way his gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there before climbing back to meet her eyes. His pupils darkened, his jaw tightened and in that moment, the years of barriers reinforced by the lines of friendship cracked.

For one suspended moment, neither of them moved. The air between them hummed with everything unspoken. Eleven years of friendship, the staged affection that had never felt staged, every almost-touch that hadn’t quite happened until now.

Marian took a small step forward, her heart thudding.

Larry’s restraint crumbled first. The part of him trained to calculate risk and consequence went silent. All that remained was the simple, electric pull towards her, familiar and terrifying in equal measure. He reached for her with both hands, fingers threading into her hair, as he cradled her face and kissed her.

It wasn’t cautious. It was sudden and certain, a collision of longing, memory and everything they’d been pretending not to feel. For a heartbeat the city outside disappeared. All that existed was the low sound of their breathing and the sharp, sweet rush of something that had been waiting too long as their lips moved against each other’s.

Her lips met his with a jolt of heat, not hesitation. The contact was immediate, unfiltered, like striking a match in the dark. Marian’s breath hitched, not from surprise, but from the sheer intensity of it. Her hands gripped the lapels of his suit blazer, not to steady herself, but to pull him closer, to anchor them both in the moment.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, it was alive. His mouth moved against hers with urgency, not desperation, but something close. Larry's hand pressed into the small of her back, guiding her into him, into the kiss, into everything they hadn’t dared say aloud. The air around them felt charged, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Marian gasped softly, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly, as the world narrowing to the warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his hand at her back as he held her close. Without stopping the kiss, Larry backed her towards the wall. They stumbled a few steps until her back felt the cool brick through her blouse and he anchored her there, one hand braced beside her head, the other at her waist, fingers curling into the fabric like he couldn’t bear to let go.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t because they wanted to. It was because they had to breathe. Marian’s chest rose and fell against his. Her cheeks were flushed; his curls were a mess where her fingers had been. He could still taste her breath, faintly sweet, his pulse hammering like it hadn’t since that night they had at university years ago. Every rule he’d made for himself about keeping things safe, about her, lay in ruins…and he didn’t care.

“Larry…” she whispered, voice trembling with laughter and disbelief.

He leaned his forehead down against hers, still catching his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, the words hit somewhere deep, dangerous.

Before she could answer, he swooped down and kissed her again. It was rougher this time, impatient. She looped her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to meet him halfway. For a second, it felt like the world tilted. Her lips parted beneath his, tentative at first, then sure. Her breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t surprise, it was surrender. She pressed closer, her fingers sliding into the collar of his shirt that was unbuttoned, palms flattening against his chest as if trying to memorize the shape of him. The kiss deepened, slower now, more deliberate, and the world around them blurred into sensation: the heat of his mouth, the steady grip of his hand on her hip, the quiet urgency in the way he held her, as if letting go wasn’t an option. the pressure of his hand on her hip, the way he held her like he’d been waiting years to do it right.

She arched toward him instinctively, and he responded by lifting her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her harder against the wall. The kiss deepened again. His hands gripped her thighs, steady and sure, holding her to him as if afraid she might vanish. Marian’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, her breath catching as his placed kisses along her jaw, like he was trying to learn her all over again, one kiss at a time.

The brick wall was cool against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat between them. Her blouse bunched slightly under his hands, and she could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles flexed beneath her palms. Their bodies fit together with startling ease, like gravity had been waiting for this moment to pull them into place.

Their breathing grew ragged, lips parting and meeting again, slower now, deliberate, hungrier. His lips moved against hers with a kind of reverence, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, savouring the moment. Marian responded in kind, her fingers slipping into his curls, tugging gently, drawing him closer until there was no space left between them.

She tilted her head, and he followed, adjusting instinctively, their mouths meeting again and again, soft, then urgent, then soft again. It was messy and imperfect and utterly real. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she could feel his heart pounding against her chest, matching hers beat for beat. He groaned softly against her mouth, the sound low and unguarded. His hand brushed across the side of her jeans to the hem of her blouse, fingertips grazing her ribs, sending a shiver through her.

Then, with a low, reluctant groan, Larry pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers as he let her feet drop back to the ground, his palm still flat against the wall beside her head, as if anchoring himself.

“We should stop,” he said hoarsely though he made no move to let her go.

Marian nodded but didn’t move. “You first.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was shaky. “That’s not helping.”

She laughed, and it steadied him more than stopping ever could. Larry had never known a sound could pull him back to earth so easily. God, he thought, I’m in trouble.

“Wasn’t trying to.” She quipped.

That made him laugh again, low, breathless and finally, finally, he stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair like he needed the distance to think straight. His other hand lingered at her waist for a beat longer before falling away.

Neither spoke at first. The air still crackling with the aftershock, part relief and something far more…thrilling. Marian felt as though the ground beneath her had shifted, and maybe it had.

Their breathing filled the silence, uneven and shaky.

When Larry finally did look at her again, her smile was small but irrepressible; giddy, dizzy, glowing in a way she couldn’t hide. Her expression was so radiant, so real, it made his heart stutter and for a terrifying second, he wondered if maybe she wasn’t pretending anymore…

…And if he was the only one still trying to.

“What?” he asked, still half-smiling himself with a smug grin.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Just wondering exactly how long you’ve been holding that in.”

Larry laughed, low and unrepentant. “Long enough to make it a terrible idea.”

She blushed, swatting at his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“Very true Brook,” he said, straightening his shirt. “Come on. We should get out of here before we’re caught on someone’s phone. My Mom’s PR team would have a coronary.”

Marian tilted her head, teasing. “You’d rather face Aunt Agnes than your Mom’s publicists?”

“Easily,” he said, already taking her hand. “Your aunt just breathes fire. They tweet.”

She laughed, that same unguarded sound, Larry thought, that had made him buy her a building in the first place. If this really was still pretend, she was a better actress than he’d ever given her credit for.

Outside, the afternoon light slanted golden between the buildings. Larry held the door open for her, waiting as Marian locked it behind them.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. The city’s glow reflected in his eyes, warm and restless. She could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing, steady and close.

Finally, she looked away, whispering, “You’re really not going to tell me what the building cost, are you?”

He grinned. “You can’t afford to know.”

She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.” He teased as he opened the car door for her, her fingers lingered in his for a beat longer than necessary as she slipped into the SUV.

“In what way?”

“You always say that right before you forgive me for doing something outrageous.”

She laughed again, helpless. “Maybe I do.”

“See?” he said, satisfied. “We’re both consistent at least.” Larry turned to the window, hiding his grin. The city streamed past in blue and grey streaks, but all he could think of was the way she’d looked up at him in that light, flushed, breathless, real. The press could write whatever they liked. For once, he didn’t feel like the story was theirs to tell.

As the car pulled away, she looked back once at the building, her building, glowing in the light. And then, because the silence was too heavy, she whispered, “So, Mr. Russell. What’s next on your world-domination schedule?”

Larry smiled lazily, stretching his legs out in front of him. The idea came to him suddenly, unplanned, a flicker of longing for something still and ordinary. The headlines, the handshakes, even the applause that morning already felt a lifetime away. What he wanted now was quiet. A few days where the world stopped spinning so fast, where it was just him, his favourite human and the sea. He wanted to see her paint again, to remember what life had felt like before all of this began to matter so much.

“A vacation, apparently.” He answered with that familiar, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. It had been a thought that caught him off guard, but it had settled nicely in his chest with a kind of peace he hadn’t felt in years.

“Excuse me?”

“Tomorrow,” Larry suggested, his hand resting casually on her knee, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of her jeans, “we can drive up to Newport if you want, like we used to. Just a few days whilst you’re off work. You can paint; I’ll avoid my Mom’s emails. No press. No noise.”

Marian looked up at him, still smiling. “You’re sure? Even after all the drama with Agnes?”

“All the more reason. I could use some quiet.”

She chuckled softly, watching his fingers still on her knee before he withdrew them to reach for her hand instead. Their fingers brushed, hesitated, then laced together naturally.

“And you’re choosing quiet with me instead of the copper mine’s new billionaire partners?”

He grinned. “They don’t make hot chocolate like you do.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing full well his parents had staff that did all that. “You’re honestly so ridiculous.”

“And yet…” he murmured, squeezing her hand where it rested on the seat between them, a grin tugging at his mouth, “…you’re still here.” The words came out quieter than he meant, more truth than teasing.

The city rolled by in a blur of gold and shadow, the hum of traffic mingling with the low thrum of possibility. Marian rested her head briefly against the window, watching the reflection of Larry’s profile beside her. For all the noise and headlines and copper and chaos, this; the quiet, the laughter, the warmth of his hand, felt like the truest thing of all.

Marian didn’t answer, but for the first time since the argument with Agnes, everything felt simple: his hand in hers, laughter still hanging in the air, and the possibility that maybe pretending had brought them somewhere real after all.

Chapter Text

Mornings on East 61^st Street always felt like theatre rehearsal when the whole family was present: everyone playing their parts, everyone talking at once. Marian stood in the foyer, trying to zip her suitcase whilst Ada and Mrs Baeur hovered around organising a travel hamper of snacks and Agnes presided from the armchair like a Supreme Court justice in pearls and Chanel.

“So,” Agnes began, “the Russell boy gave you a building.”

“It’s a workspace,” Marian said quickly. “For the gallery and studio-”

Agnes interrupted with a scoff. “Mm…and so was Versailles. I don’t particularly care for the Russells or their ostentatious new money ways, but I will say this. A man does not gift a woman prime Manhattan real estate unless he’s serious.”.

Oscar, slouched on the sofa with an iced matcha latte, didn’t just enjoy going toe-to-toe with his mother. He thrived upon it.  “Times change, Mom. The modern love language is asset transfer.”

“In my day, a man showed affection with roses or diamonds, not commercial real estate.” Agnes continued dryly, snapping shut the copy of the The New Yorker on her lap. “Although, if diamonds had come with land deeds, I’d have skipped three husbands and retired on the Amalfi Coast.”

“Mom, that almost sounded like approval” Oscar poked as he and Marian looked at each other, both stifling a laugh.

“Spare me your cynicism, Oscar,” she said. “You and John have been cohabiting like it’s a lifestyle brand long enough to qualify for a tax deduction.”

“Engaged in civic partnership,” he corrected, deadpan. “John prefers that phrasing. Makes it sound like we’re a bipartisan initiative.”

Ada, re-folding one of Marian’s sweaters neatly, offered a milder addition to the family debate, “Ignore them, I think it’s wonderful, Marian. You’ve been so happy latterly and have worked so hard… and have so much potential! Now you’ll have a place that’s yours.”

“Thank you,” Marian said softly, touching her aunt’s arm affectionately.

Agnes sighed dramatically, plonking the magazine on to the side table next to her for dramatic effect. “Oh, it’s hers for now. Until the next press cycle decides she’s a cautionary tale.”

“Agnes…” Ada warned her sister moderately.

But Marian only laughed softly. “I’m fairly sure I’m already a cautionary tale.”

Oscar leaned forward, eyes alight with gossip. “Let’s not pretend this isn’t serious. A building is symbolic, tangible. It’s modern chivalry, one step short of a prenup.”

“Exactly,” Agnes said, seizing the point. “Flashy, young men like Lawrence usually express devotion with jewellery, not zoning permits. A building means permanence.”

Marian blinked. “You are… approving?”

“I said it’s a sign he’s serious,” Agnes replied, waving her hand to emphasise her point, “not that I approve of him. The Russells have all the subtlety of a brass band. Their fortune practically jingles when they walk.”

Ada stifled a smile as she walked back in to the living room and took a seat in her usual chair. “They’ve always been very kind to Marian, Agnes.”

“Yes, yes, and next they’ll buy out the Met to hang her watercolours,” Agnes muttered.

Oscar laughed. “Don’t give them ideas.”

He turned to Marian, eyes bright with mischief. “Honestly, I’m impressed. You managed to make one of America’s most eligible bachelors fall for you and fund your artistic empire. Teach me your ways.”

“Start with empathy,” she said dryly.

Agnes folded her arms. “If empathy were profitable, half of Wall Street would be destitute.”

Before Marian could reply from the hallway, the doorbell rang. As she was closest, she went to answer it, rather than waiting for Jack or Mrs Bauer as Agnes preferred. A moment later, Larry Russell stepped into the hall carrying two coffees and a Hèrmes weekend bag slung over his shoulder.

“Morning neighbours,” he said easily, taking in the scene. “Did I interrupt a family tribunal?”

Three simultaneous replies:
“We were just chatting.”
“We were discussing you.”
“We were psychoanalyzing your gift economy.”

Larry smiled warily. “Should I ask for a transcript?”

Agnes gave him her most polite predator’s smile. “Young man, you know I sometimes find your family’s way of doing things questionable but… I find your intentions increasingly… acceptable.”

“High praise,” Larry said as one eyebrow quirked upwards. “I’ll try to live up to it.”

Oscar set down his drink. “So, when exactly did I get demoted from road trip companion? Remember those Newport weekends junior year? I was the life of the party.”

“You were the party,” Larry said, grinning. “But Marian’s complains less…”

Ada laughed. Even Agnes’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t encourage him,” Agnes said. “Confidence is the only currency his family doesn’t need more of.”

“Thank you,” Marian said softly, touched.

Behind her, Larry watched the exchange, the fondness in his smile edged with something quieter, more private. When Marian turned, their eyes met, a flicker of memory flashing between them. The gallery. The warmth of her skin against his palm. That moment had haunted him all night, replaying in fragments every time he closed his eyes.

After that first kiss months ago, he’d told himself it was curiosity, nostalgia, even convenience. But when she smiled at him now, he felt the same pull, the same unsteady heartbeat that had made him kiss her in the first place.

He cleared his throat, forcing casualness. “You ready?” he asked, sliding his arm around her ready to steer her out the door.

“Almost.” She turned to Ada, who straightened her scarf for her and whispered, “Go, enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” Marian murmured.

Agnes stood up with a sigh. “I suppose once you are home again, you will grace us with your presence for a few days straight.”

Marian hugged Agnes warmly. “We’ll only be gone a couple of days.” She knew it was Agnes’s way of saying she missed having her around the house, and if Marian were truthful, she had been staying more and more at the Russell’s.

Ada smiled. “Take your time.”

Oscar followed them to the door, still teasing. “Text me from Newport. If you find any antique furniture in the stores there, send photos.”

Larry shot back, “Will do. I know how you love a shapely leg.” With that, he lifted the handle of Marian’s suitcase, slung his bag on the top of it and wheeled them towards the front door.

Oscar laughed heartily. “Touchè!”

They stepped out into the cool, New York morning with the streets already alive with hustle and bustle. The Range Rover waited at the curb, glossy and discreet, with the security SUV idling behind.

Marian glanced back at the townhouse window where Ada’s hand fluttered a wave, Agnes’s silhouette hovered behind the curtain, and Oscar raised his phone snapping a quick photo.

“They still like me,” Larry declared smoothly as he held the car door open for Marian to get in.

“They tolerate you,” she replied, teasing him.

“Story of my life.”

She chuckled, slid into the passenger seat, and he closed the door gently behind her.

The Range Rover idled at the curb as the security SUV eased into formation behind them. Larry adjusted his sunglasses, pretending not to notice the way Marian checked her messages one last time before tucking her phone away.

The city unfolded around them in layers of steel and noise. Taxis cut across lanes, steam curled up from the grates, and the early sunlight flashed against glass towers as though bidding them farewell. Larry drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily against the gearshift, his profile caught in the reflection of the windshield in front of Marian, familiar, unhurried, almost domestic.

They’d travelled this route more times than they could remember. Weekend escapes, summer retreats, post-finals breathers. But today was not like those trips. Today, the easy comfort of “best friends” no longer fit what they’d become.

Larry glanced over, catching her watching him. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling. “You look relaxed.”

“I’m not in a boardroom. Give me time.”

“You could try enjoying the peace before you ruin it with emails.”

He shot her a sideways grin across the centre console of the car. “You’re starting to sound like Gladys.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Marian turned the music on, scrolling through his playlist. “Playlist privileges?” she asked after screwing her nose up at his taste in songs.

“Granted,” Larry nodded. “but the minute Calum Scott’s version of Dancing On My Own, or any other of your depressive breakup music comes on. I’m using veto rights.” he continued, unable to keep the smile from creeping across his face as he quickly looked at her before focusing on the road.

She started to scroll through the music on her phone. “It’s sophisticated and emotional.”

“It’s an abomination.” He laughed. “Go on then Mar, choose something.”

She chose Fleetwood Mac, warm, familiar, impossible not to hum along to. The opening chords filled the car, and they both relaxed into the rhythm of it.

By the time they hit the highway, Manhattan was already dissolving in the rearview mirror behind them. The skyline receded, replaced by bridges and marshland, then stretches of Connecticut green. Marian rolled the window down a little, letting the wind tangle her hair as Larry tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. The smell of salt began to thread the air long before they reached the ocean.

Her phone buzzed.

Peggy: How’s the grand romantic exile scoring so far?

Marian: It’s not an exile. He’s just driving too perfectly as usual. Cool as a cucumber. Like a man auditioning for a car commercial.

Peggy: Translation… you’re staring at him again.

Marian: Maybe. 

Peggy: Uh-huh. And you’re pretending that isn’t making things worse?

Marian: Worse? We’re fine. It’s... harmonious.

Peggy: Peaceful is another word for not talking about it. You can’t both stay in limbo forever, you know. What happens at your one year end date?

Marian: He’s focused on the road. I’m focused on... not ruminating over it all.

Peggy: Try focusing on honesty instead. Just tell him how you feel, Marian. He’s one of your closest friends and won’t judge you. Before this pretend relationship turns into permanent confusion and hurt for you both.

Marian exhaled slowly, her thumb hovering over the screen as if the message might change if she waited long enough. A quiet ache settled in her chest again. Uncertainty maybe, or the weight of everything left unsaid. Then, with a breath that felt like surrender she locked the phone screen.

Larry noticed, catching the flicker of Marian’s phone. “Peggy sending performance notes again?”

“She wants me to rate your driving.” Marian smoothed over with a half-laugh, eyes staying purposefully on the passing green scenery.

“Out of…?”

“Ten. You’re currently at nine. Points deducted for smugness.”

“Smugness comes as standard,” he countered, smirking as he adjusted his sunglasses with theatrical flair. “It’s part of the package…charm, jawline, and a complete lack of humility. Or so I’ve been told.”

She burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that made her snort halfway through and bury her face in her hand. Chin propped, she watched the blur of trees and sunlight roll past, wondering how one man could be so smug and still so stupidly charming. 

It was infuriating and secretly her favourite thing about him.

The miles slipped by unnoticed, the car humming steadily along Route 95 as the trees thickened and thinned in rhythm with the road. They’d already passed New Haven, the signs flickering past like quiet markers of time, but Larry barely registered them as his focus was elsewhere. The rhythm of the tires against asphalt, the hum of the wind, the occasional sound of her laugh, all of it blurred into the same steady pulse that had followed him since yesterday.

They’d kissed before, plenty of times now. At first, it had become part of the act, the rules, then part of the routine. A brush of lips before dinner, a lingering touch when no one was watching. It was affectionate, familiar, almost domestic. But yesterday at the new gallery building had been something else entirely. That kiss hadn’t been playful, public or practising. It hadn’t been safe. It had been raw, charged, and had been dangerously close to becoming something… more. Something neither of them could laugh off or fold neatly back into friendship.

Every time Larry peeked over at her in the passenger seat, the memory replayed. The hush of the empty gallery, her back against the wall, the faint tremor in her breath just before she’d pulled him closer. No pretence, no performance. Just them.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening for a second. Larry could still feel the warmth of her fingers curling in to his shirt, the way she’d melted against him and the sound she’d made when he kissed her neck before reason caught up.

A low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

Marian turned, brow arched. “What’s funny?”

Larry’s hand slipped slightly on the wheel. “Nothing! Well, not nothing.” He could feel the heat rising at the back of his neck, that telltale flush he hoped the sunlight might disguise. “Just… remembered when Peggy and Will walked in on one of our, er, practice sessions.”

“Oh God.” She groaned, covering her face. “I’d finally managed to block that out.”

“I haven’t,” he said, smirking. “You threw me to the side like I was a cursed Ancient Egyptian relic.”

“It was a reflex!”

“It was effective. I never knew you were so strong.”

They both laughed, the memory easing the tension. But as the sound faded, so did his composure.

Larry had convinced himself that night at the Van Rhijn house that it was curiosity, a bit of fun to sell the illusion. Who wouldn’t want to kiss someone like Marian Brook? Of course he’d thought about it over the years. But what had been growing between them didn’t feel like pretending. It felt like breathing. Like he’d been waiting for it without realising it.

And now he was overthinking every single second.

What if she was just comfortable with him? What if all the stolen touches and shared mornings and easy affection were just her way of keeping the peace. Casual, convenient, temporary? The thought knotted something tight in his chest. He glanced over at her again. She’d leaned her head against the window, sunlight playing through her hair. The sight was so painfully familiar it felt like nostalgia for something still happening.

He loved her. 

Larry knew that now. Not in the old, easy way he always had. Protective, admiring, fond but in the way that rearranged everything. The kind that made it impossible to imagine an after.

And yet, he said nothing.

Marian stirred slightly, catching his piercing gaze. “What now?” she asked, giggling.

“Just wondering how many Fleetwood Mac songs you’re planning to subject me to.”

“Until you admit you love them.”

“I like them,” he said, “in moderation. Like you.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “You’d miss me after ten minutes.”

“Probably,” Larry admitted.

“Probably?”

He quickly looked sideways at her, lips curving. “Definitely.”

Her pleased expression lingered, as if satisfied with his response, then she changed the music playlist before turning back to the view outside. The ocean glimmered faintly in the distance, the air softening with salt. Larry exhaled slowly, easing his grip on the wheel. Maybe he’d kept quiet long enough. Either way, he couldn’t stop the thought that had haunted him for weeks. That she was it for him, and always had been.

After a few miles, the conversation quieted into companionable silence. The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the 2000’s-2010’s hits drifting between them. Marian let her slip eyes closed for a moment, the rhythm of the road pulling her back to remember every trip before this one, when she’d been careful not to imagine more than friendship. She remembered late-night gas station stops, sharing Twizzlers and arguing over playlists. She remembered him once fixing her flat tyre at 2 a.m during a visit to her in England, swearing softly under his breath whilst she held a phone flashlight and laughed until her sides hurt.

Marian’s eyes opened and drifted towards Larry again as she remembered how he’d always looked at her. Steadily, kindly, like there was no version of her he couldn’t handle.

Now, that steadiness felt dangerous.

Larry caught her watching again when she opened her eyes. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit Brook.”

She shook her head in mock exasperation. “About Newport. The first time we went, you tried to impress me with surfing lessons.”

He groaned. “And nearly broke my neck.”

“I was genuinely worried,” she teased. “But you looked very heroic flailing in the waves.” Her head snapped towards him in realisation. “Wait! You didn’t deny that you were trying to impress me!”

He glanced at her with a wink as he changed gear, before wiggling his eyebrows. “So you thought I looked heroic?”

“I thought you looked like someone trying too hard.”

“Same thing.”

Marian laughed, and for a while the car filled with easy warmth again.

By the time they crossed into Rhode Island, the light had softened into that strange coastal gold that seemed to bleach the world clean. The ocean appeared closer now as a gleam between dunes, then widened into full view, blue and endless, speckled with sunlight.

Larry slowed as they approached the towering iron gates and private drive. The gates swung open and the hedges parted as they drove past to reveal the Russell’s mansion: an expanse of Victorian stone and glass that managed to be both grand and lived-in. The gardens and sea stretched beyond it, restless and glittering.

He pulled the car to a stop beside the front ateps and turned off the engine whilst the security vehicle pulled up behind them. “Home sweet home.”

Marian looked out at the wide lawns rolling down toward the cliffs. “I always forget how beautiful it is.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.” She responded with a warm look in his direction. Larry stepped out and handed the key to one of the staff, then came around the Range Rover to open her door before she could protest, his hand extended in mock ceremony.

“Chivalry?” she teased.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “You’ll ruin my carefully cultivated image.”

She rolled her eyes as she took his hand and stepped out, the breeze catching her hair. The salt air felt electric on her skin, the sky so wide it made her dizzy. For a moment she just breathed.

As they walked inside, the air was cooler, carrying traces of lemon polish and lilies. The echo of their footsteps filled the cavernous hall. Portraits of long-gone figures stared down in stiff judgment, though someone, probably Bertha, had updated the frames with glossy modern lighting. Larry politely declined any offers of coffee or a late lunch from the staff that greeted them.

Upstairs, the afternoon light poured through the tall windows of his suite, soft and honeyed. Larry tossed his jacket on a chair and pulled his sweater up over his head before glancing at Marian standing in the doorway, suddenly shy.

He dropped his keys onto the nightstand and collapsed onto the bed face-first with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his spine.

“God, that drive,” he mumbled into the duvet. “Remind me to just requisition a helicopter next time.”

Marian laughed softly from the doorway, wheeled suitcase still in hand. “You say that every trip.”

“Well I mean it every time.” He rolled onto his back, stretching like a cat, arms spread wide across the crisp white sheets. “I think I’ve aged three years somewhere near Stamford.” The sight of him, clothes rumpled, rolled sleeves, the easy sprawl of someone finally at ease, sent a small current through her. It had always been like this, she thought: he filled a room not just with presence, but with warmth.

Larry watched her still lingering in the doorway. “You going to stand there all day?”

“I- I wasn’t sure if I should unpack in… my usual room…down the hall?” she explained carefully.

He tilted his head, studying her. The light from the window caught the edges of her hair, a soft halo against the dark wood behind her. “Why?”

“It just feels…” She trailed off. “We haven’t exactly-”

That made Larry sit up, leaning on his elbows, a slow smile curving along his mouth. “You’ve been invading my space for months now. I’ve learned to like it.”

Marian tried for a frown and failed. “Like it?” she queried with a smile twitching across her lips.

He shrugged. “Fine, love it. Don’t be silly, come here.” He instructed, gesturing out with his arm. The way he said come here undid her more than it should have. She hesitated only a moment longer before walking toward the bed. As soon as she was close enough, he reached out, hooked an arm around her waist, and yanked her down beside him.

She landed with a small thud and a surprised laugh. “Larry Russell!”

“Testing the springs,” he said innocently. “Architectural assessment.”

“Scientific method requires a control group.” she deadpanned, playing along.

“Hmm.” Larry grinned, eyes dancing with mischief. “Fine, we’ll run more tests.”

“Don’t you dare!”

But he already had, rolling halfway toward her, hands finding her ribs, laughter overlapping with hers as he tickled her until the air between them shifted. Laughter thinning into quiet, then silence. The room seemed to hold its breath. Larry’s smile faltered, not from doubt but recognition. She could see the question in his eyes as they darkened before he even moved.

“Come here…” he murmured again. His voice held a flicker of doubt, like he was asking for more than closeness, like he needed her to choose him but wasn’t sure she would.

This time, when she did, it was her instigation.

Marian’s eyes fluttered shut as she leant towards him. Her heart thudded against her ribs, louder than the waves outside. The kiss tasted of salt air and adrenaline; of all the words they hadn’t yet found the courage to say. It deepened quickly, his hand sliding to the small of her back, hers curling into his shirt. Years of familiarity made it effortless; years of restraint made it electric.

She felt the shift when he pressed closer, his breath catching as her hand moved to his hair, holding him to her. He exhaled against her mouth, the sound low and rough, before kissing her harder, like something inside him had finally given up pretending.

For Larry, the thought flickered, please don’t stop, and surprised him with its rawness. He’d kissed plenty of women before, but none had ever felt like this: a risk wrapped in trust.

Marian’s mind blurred. His warmth, the scrape of his stubble against her cheek, the dizzy rhythm of wanting and disbelief. She wasn’t sure who reached first, but buttons came undone; hands explored and the air changed, thicker now, heavy with promise and anticipation.

And then just as suddenly, she stopped.

“Larry, wait-” Marian whispered, pressing a hand to his exposed chest.

Larry froze immediately, concern replacing heat. “Too fast?” he managed to get out, as he pulled back. His priority being Marian’s comfort despite the fact his heart was racing a sprint and beating loud enough to thump in his ears.

“No!” She shook her head, breathless. “Just-” Marian sat up slightly causing the sheets around them to rustle, trying to steady her voice as she gestured between them. “We haven’t really… talked about what this is now.”

He pushed onto one elbow, tucking a strand behind her ear. A solemn look of understanding etched across Larry’s features as he knuckles grazed her cheek and she felt the question in that tiny touch. “You’re right,” he sighed quietly. “We haven’t.”

That steady honesty, the way he never hid behind charm when it mattered was what she both loved and feared about him. It stripped the air bare. Part of her wanted to hear him say he loved her; the way she knew she loved him. The other part wanted to stay right here in the half-light, where wanting still felt safe.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time,” Larry admitted. “But every time I’m near you..” he cracked a smile as if remembering something, “…I forget what I’m supposed to say.”

Marian’s lips curved despite the seriousness of it. “That sounds like avoidance.”

He huffed a laugh. “Maybe. Or self-preservation.”

“Larry…”

He looked at her then, his eyes searching the depths of her blue ones, and something uncertain flickered beneath the humour. The silence stretched, weighted. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before and his dark eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“You don’t… regret what happened between us at your new gallery yesterday? Do you?” he questioned, voice scarcely above a whisper.

For a second, the question hung between them, heavier than she expected. Larry tried to sound casual, but she knew him almost as well as she knew herself and could see the truth in his worried eyes, the faint tightness at the corner of his mouth, the bob of his throat as he swallowed and the way his palm rubbed once, nervously, against his knee. Marian saw it, he was bracing for her to say yes.

Her answer came before the thought fully formed. “No!” she cried, emphatically, almost too quickly. “Not even for a second. Never.” The effect on him was immediate. Larry’s face brightened and his shoulders relaxed down, the tension leaving him like a breath he’d been holding since Manhattan.

“Good,” he breathed, half a laugh escaping with it. “Because I’ve been overthinking it since we left the city.” Relief turned to something else as he leaned back on the bed. A dawning, quiet understanding. If she didn’t regret it, then she’d felt it too.

She turned and gave him a small, wry smile as the blonde waves of her hair flopped down like a screen. “You? Overthinking?”

“I contain multitudes.” Larry caught her hand gently, tracing slow circles against her skin. “Rules, boundaries… I’ve never been great at them.”

“You really are terrible at them.” she confided. “Probably why you’re so good at your job.”

“True,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement as his usual humour and bravado bounced back. “But rules were made to be broken Miss Brook.”

That earned him a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes as she angled her head towards him. “You’re so impossible.”

Larry’s smile faltered just slightly. “And you’re worth every bit of it.” For a moment, neither spoke. Then, Larry cupped her face, palm warm against her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw as if memorising it.

“Marian… what happens next,” he murmured, voice low, “is whatever you want to happen.” The words landed like a promise. Marian leaned into his hand, eyes flickering shut briefly as she savoured the touch.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It can be, I promise.” he assured her as his nose grazed hers, “I know we have a lot to talk about.” Larry paused, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, voice softening. “But while we’re here… can we just be us again? Just Larry and Marian, no pretending, no performance, no overthinking. Just… us.” 

He waited for Marian to nod before he kissed her again, softer this time, unhurried, as if the first one had been the question and this was the answer.

Her fingers slid up to his shoulder; he moved closer, not to push but to stay. When they broke apart, both were breathing unevenly, the world narrowing to heartbeats and the faint hush of the sea through the open window. Marian’s pulse still thrummed. Her lips tingled; her mind didn’t quite believe her body. Larry’s forehead rested against hers, and for a moment they just breathed, the kind of quiet that came from long familiarity, not uncertainty.

Larry opened his eyes, blinked and smiled. “You know,” he said, voice roughened by laughter he hadn’t quite found yet, “if that was supposed to be me making a move subtly, I think I deserve a medal.”

She let out a shaky laugh, shaking her head. “A medal? For ambushing me the minute I walked in the room?”

“For persistence,” he said solemnly. “And form. Excellent form.”

She nudged him with her elbow where they reclined next to each other across the bed. “You’re absurd.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“I say it like it’s a diagnosis.”

That was it, they both broke into laughter, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably, dissolving the tension. It was ridiculous and necessary; it was them. Larry laughed until he fell back flat against the bed, hand over his face, shoulders shaking.

When he finally caught his breath, he looked over at her, still smiling. “I’ve missed this.”

“What?”

“Us. Laughing like idiots.”

She smiled too. “We never really stopped. Not really.”

Larry reached out and caught her hand, tugging her upright. “Come on,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. “Before I say something else you’ll quote back at me later.”

“Too late,” Marian teased, brushing her clothes smooth. “That’s already in the archive.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Let’s see what the chef’s made for us. If it’s lobster, I’m pretending to be sophisticated, but if it’s spaghetti, I’m stealing yours.”

“You’ll end up helping yourself to mine either way.”

“True,” he said, slinging an arm loosely around her shoulders as they walked toward the door. “But now it’s practically romantic.”

Marian rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Practically?”

“You’ll see,” he said mysteriously, pressing a kiss to her hair. He would tell her how he felt at the Met Gala, he decided. It had to be right, somewhere special, a grand gesture. But for now, he would let these few days in Newport be theirs.

As they stepped into the hallway, the last light of the afternoon poured across the floorboards, catching their shadows side by side. For a fleeting second, Marian thought of how easily they moved together now. The way all the laughter, confusion, and heat seemed to blend into something that felt like home.

The morning sun poured into the east-facing rooms of the Russell’s Newport estate, gilding the pale walls and catching on the ornate brass fittings that framed the tall windows. The air smelled faintly of salt and roses from the garden below. Somewhere outside, the waves broke against the rocks with a rhythmic hush.

Larry sat at a long oak table in the library near the open window, bare feet propped on the cushioned bench, a half-buttoned white shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. His hair, still damp from a quick shower post-run, curled over his forehead as he studied the screen of his laptop. The smooth grain of the oak table was cool beneath Larry’s forearms, grounding him as he worked. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on his nose, his working look, the one that made him seem both infuriatingly serious and irresistibly nerdy.

The faint trace of lemon polish and old paper mingling with the salt breeze drifting in through the open window hit Marian as she appeared in the doorway with her sketchbook under her arm. Her long legs framed by the pale brown shorts she was wearing along with one of Larry’s large white T-shirts.. “You’ve been up since dawn again,” she stated, her voice warm with teasing. “I thought this was supposed to be a mini vacation, not a scenic extension of your office.”

He looked up, grinning. “It is work. But not the sort that pays the bills.” His linen shirt hung open enough to show the smattering of hair on his chest and the faint line of muscle beneath; sunlight caught in the damp curls at his nape. She looked away before he could notice how long her eyes lingered.

She walked closer, one eyebrow arched. “Ah, then it’s the dangerous kind.”

“The kind worth losing sleep over.” Larry spun the laptop around with a flourish. “I’m designing something for you.”

Marian blinked in complete surprise. “For me?”

The screen showed a digital sketch of the two bottom floors of the Chelsea building. But Larry had transformed it: the old, dusty space was filled with light; new floor plans, walls knocked through, skylights added at the back, office upstairs with sofa, wide tables for paints and easels, walk-in storage cupboards neatly labeled. It was a painter’s dream.

Marian’s breath caught. “You’re turning it into a gallery and a studio.”

“And workshop,” Larry said, leaning back. “For you to teach, if you want to. I’ve already spoken to the contractor in town this morning. They can do the main stripping back whilst we’re here. Won’t take long. Then it’s up to you how you want to do the reno.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, as if touching the image might make it real. “Larry… you didn’t have to-” He reached out and caught her fingers, the touch was light, almost testing. She could have pulled back, but didn’t.

“I wanted to,” Larry uttered simply, “If you’re going to have a space that inspires you, it deserves the best architect I know.” He gave a small, deliberate tug and pulled her gently down into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. Marian let out a surprised squeal, bracing herself against his shoulder as she settled. “And, well… that’s me.”

The sincerity in his tone softened her entirely. For all his charm and bravado, he had that streak of quiet thoughtfulness she’d once tried to deny existed.

“You think of everything,” she murmured.

He smiled, glancing sideways at her. “Only the things that matter.” He replied as he loosened his hold on Marian, so she could slide on to the bench next to him to sit.

There was a comfortable silence. Marian flipped open her sketchbook, idly drawing one of the carved finials from the mantelpiece. Larry’s hand was still resting on her knee, his thumb tracing idle, absent circles that made her pencil falter. as he adjusted the laptop screen. She felt that familiar flutter, an awareness that hadn’t faded even now that they were together nearly every day.

Outside, a gardener’s shears clicked rhythmically. Inside, they worked side by side, the clink of cups and the rustle of paper filling the quiet. Every so often, she felt him glance her way, and though she didn’t look up, she smiled because she could feel it, that steady current running between them, as constant and impossible to ignore as the sea beyond the window.

Much later that morning, when Marian was lounging in the garden, Larry came down the steps having changed in to a Ralph Lauren fleece and shorts, wearing a mischievous grin. His laptop was nowhere in sight.

“No calls,” he declared, waving his phone like a white flag. “No designs, no emails, no meetings. Just us.”

Marian raised an amused eyebrow from where she stood near the boathouse, hat in hand. “You’ll never survive it.”

He tipped an imaginary cap. “Watch me.” Then, as if the words had been waiting on his tongue, he added, a little too quickly, “Actually, I thought we could take the sailboat out, just the two of us. I got the staff to do a picnic lunch.” Larry hesitated, eyes darting briefly toward the water before finding hers again. “A sort of… date, if you don’t mind calling it that.” He stumbled over his words slightly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

Marian blinked, her amusement softening into something warmer. “A date?” the word sounding both strange and lovely in her mouth. “With… you?”

“Yeah. I mean, unless that’s weird.” he blurted, already wincing. “Because if it’s weird then don’t-“

“No!”  she interrupted quickly, cheeks warming. “It’s not weird. You just sound like you’re asking me to prom.”

Larry huffed out a laugh as he stuck his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically nervous. “Pretty sure I already did that.”

“You did,” she said, teasing gently as the memory of his senior prom rescue warmed her.

“Don’t make me regret asking Brook,” he warned, though the grin gave him away.

“You won’t,” she said softly.

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” she said, laughing as she leaned up on her tip toes to kiss his cheek.

Relief flickered across Larry’s face, a small, genuine smile that made him look younger, almost shy.

Twenty minutes later they were skimming out across the water in the beautiful long sailboat moored just off the Russell pier. The sea breeze racing down the tall sails caught Marian’s hair and tugged strands loose from her braid; she laughed, pressing her cap down. Larry adjusted the sail with practiced ease, eyes narrowed against the light. The coarse rope rasped against Larry’s palms as he adjusted the sail, the texture familiar from years of practice.

“Ahoy!” he shouted suddenly, grabbing an old captain’s hat from the bench and ramming it onto his head at a rakish angle. “All hands on deck!”

Marian burst out laughing, fumbling for her phone. “Hold still you look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome, you mean.”

“Ridiculous,” she insisted, but she filmed him anyway, his mock-serious expression breaking into a grin as he steered into the wind. She took another clip, zooming in on the sunlight flashing off the water and Larry’s broad shoulders as he worked the ropes. Sea spray clung to their skin, carrying the briny tang of ocean air and sun-warmed wood.

They took a string of selfie videos, both squinting into the light, cheeks flushed. “Say something nautical,” Marian prompted.

Larry leaned close, voice mock-deep. “Aye aye, Miss Brook.” he said, then paused, eyes lingering on hers a moment longer than necessary. “Time to walk the plank!”

She rolled her eyes, laughing so hard she nearly dropped the phone.

When she posted a few snippets to her private Instagram page later, she added no captions, just the sound of gulls and waves and their laughter carried by the wind. As the sails snapped and the spray hit her skin, she thought, this feels like a real date. Not borrowed hours or to show other people, but something open and wholesome.

Larry, standing behind her at the helm, caught her expression and smiled. “You’re thinking about something.”

“Just… how happy I am,” she admitted.

He reached around her to rest his hands on the boat’s wheel. “Here, let me show you how to hold it when the wind changes.”

His body pressed lightly against hers from behind, breath warm at her ear as he guided her hands over the worn wood. The movement was instructional at first, then slower, the closeness almost unbearable in its gentleness. Marian’s pulse quivered. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the heat of him through the thin material of her T-shirt.

“Like that,” he encouraged. “See? Smooth. You’re a natural.”

She turned her head slightly and for a suspended heartbeat their eyes met, hers wide and questioning, his full of something unspoken and unmistakable.

Larry drew back just enough to look at the horizon. “You remember that storm off the coast of Ibiza on my Dad’s yacht?” he said lightly. “You swore we’d capsize.”

“I still say we nearly did.”

“We didn’t,” he said with a grin. “You and Oscar just like drama.”

“Maybe,” she teased. “Or maybe I just like being rescued.”

He laughed quietly, but inside he felt that familiar ache, the awareness of how right it felt to have her this close. The scent of her hair fluttering by his face, the sound of her laugh carried over the wind. It all settled and rooted itself somewhere in him he couldn’t name.

They sailed until the light mellowed and the water turned the deep blue color of old glass. When they finally headed back toward shore, Marian sat beside him on the bow, barefoot and happy, the wind curling through her fingers.

For a long time neither spoke. The world felt wide and safe and perfectly still.

By late afternoon, the sky had brightened to a clean, endless blue, the light off the water shimmering against the terrace windows. Now back on dry land, Marian had set up her easel overlooking the gardens, her hair pinned loosely beneath a straw hat as she painted the distant curve of the cliffs. The breeze carried the soft salt smell of the ocean and the hum of bees from the hydrangeas below.

Her phone, propped beside her on the little table, chimed. Peggy’s face appeared on the screen: glowing, framed by the familiar backdrop of the Van Rhijn study, where piles of papers and a teacup were competing for desk space.

“Marian!” Peggy greeted. “I was starting to think you’d been abducted by your seaside muse.”

Marian laughed, lowering her brush. “Never. How are you surviving the wedding countdown?”

Peggy groaned through the screen and leaned back in her chair. “Barely. I’ve had four different people ask if I’ve chosen my something blue. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. And Will’s Mom has now decided the flowers should be white and ivory, as though there’s a difference.”

“Sounds like bridal bliss,” Marian teased, smiling at the screen. “One month to go isn’t it?”

“Four weeks and three days,” Peggy replied with mock solemnity. “But who’s counting? Everything’s on schedule, apparently. Except me. I still have no idea how to walk in heels.”

“You’ll be radiant,” Marian assured her. “And I can’t wait to see you in the dress.”

Peggy waved a hand. “Enough about me. How’s Newport? Still obscenely perfect?”

Marian smiled and glanced around at the glittering water, the sun starting to set on the stone balustrade, the sound of gulls circling overhead. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted. “It is. Larry’s been working on architectural plans for me. He wants to turn part of the Chelsea building into a studio and workshop.”

Peggy’s brows lifted, impressed on her friend’s behalf. “Well, he’s always been very thoughtful. To everyone.”

Marian’s paintbrush hesitated mid-air. “Yes,” she said softly. “He has.”

Peggy narrowed her eyes, catching on to the shift. “Alright, out with it. What aren’t you saying?”

Marian hesitated, twirling the paintbrush between her fingers anxiously. “We finally talked. Yesterday. About… everything. Well…sort of.”

Peggy straightened instantly, the journalist in her awakened. “Talked talked?”

Marian nodded, setting her palette aside. “Yesterday. We almost-” She stopped herself, cheeks colouring. “After we arrived, well, we almost slept together…”

Peggy paused as she processed the information, then leaned forward, delighted. “Oh, now that’s new information.”

“But I stopped it,” the words tumbling out once Marian started. “because you were right. We needed to talk, about the stupid arrangement, about us. And then…he asked if I regretted what happened at the gallery. You know, when we, well, made out and got a little…carried away.”

“And?”

“I told him I didn’t! Not for a second and the look on his face, Peg, he just… exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.”

Peggy blinked, then grinned like she’d been waiting all year for this scoop. “That’s practically a confession.”

“Larry didn’t run,” Marian went on softly. “He said whatever happens next is whatever I want. No jokes, no deflection, just that.” She smiled faintly. “And then this morning he asked me on properly. Sailing, with a picnic. He even called it a date.”

Peggy let out a small delighted sound. “Larry Russell, doing things properly. Be still my heart. Was he nervous?”

Marian couldn’t help laughing. “Completely. He tripped over the words. I teased him and it was perfect, Peg. It felt… easy. Not pretending for anyone, not performing. Just us.”

Peggy gave a mock-sigh before her expression turned positively wicked. “You’re killing me. Fine, I’ll ask the real question. Is he a good kisser?” she wiggled her eyebrow conspiratorially.

Marian nearly dropped her brush. “Peggy!” she sputtered.

“Oh, don’t you Peggy me,” she said, laughing. “I’m an engaged woman so must live vicariously through you! I deserve details.”

Marian covered her face with her hand, cheeks warm. “Let’s just say he’s…very good.”

“Mm-hmm,” Peggy teased, clearly satisfied. “Very good? As in ‘ruin your lipstick and your life plan’ good?”

Marian dropped her hand, laughing. “Possibly both. Which is part of the problem.” Causing Peggy to lean back away from her phone screen with a smug little hum.

“So now what? The fake-dating clause still in effect?”

Marian shook her head. “That’s the thing. We haven’t decided. There’s still so much more to discuss when we get home and can get space in our separate homes if we need to. But for the first time it feels like we’re not pretending anymore.”

Peggy’s expression softened into something wise and kind, “Because you’re not… and when you do talk through everything, you’ll both finally stop pretending you’re waiting for permission.”

They talked for a while longer about the wedding, the final fittings of the bridesmaids’ dresses, the honeymoon plans, and whether Marian might be free to help set up for the rehearsal dinner. Peggy promised to send photos before the final fittings and scolded her to stop painting long enough to enjoy her “not-so-pretend relationship.”

“Where’s Larry now then?” Peggy asked, surprised she had so much of Marian’s undivided attention.

“He’s inside. His Mom called so I came out here to paint. We’re meeting up with one of her friends tomorrow, Mamie Fish.”

When the call ended, Marian left the phone propped against her paints, the screen darkening slowly as the sea breeze moved across it. For a moment she just sat, staring out at the horizon. Then she dipped her brush back into the cobalt blue and began to paint again, slow, steady strokes that curved with the water. She wasn’t sure if it was the light or the memory of Larry’s smile, but suddenly everything she touched felt warmer, clearer, alive.

The next day they drove into town near noon, the air smelling faintly of salt, grass, and daffodils. Newport shimmered in spring sunlight—the kind that made even the shopfront awnings look freshly pressed.

Mrs. Mamie Fish was waiting for them outside the exclusive restaurant on Bellevue Avenue, dressed in a sweeping coral caftan and enough jewellery to be seen from the harbor. She greeted them like royalty returning from exile.

“My dear,” she cried, kissing Marian’s cheek and looping her arm through Larry’s with theatrical affection. “Newport hasn’t been this excited since someone mistook Enid Winterton’s straw hat for a birdcage. And look at you two, positively glowing. Marian, you must tell me how your aunts are. Agnes still terrifying everyone, I hope?”

Marian laughed. “Terrifying and thriving. Ada’s busy with her volunteering work.”

Mrs. Fish threw her head back in delight. “Ah, the Van Rhijns! A tonic for the dull-minded. Come along, I’ve secured the best table. Shaded, yet visible enough to remind the world we still exist.”

The restaurant terrace overlooked the ocean, linen umbrellas flaring white against the blue. Waiters in crisp shirts floated past with trays of iced lemonade and lobster salad. The air hummed with polite laughter and the muted clink of cutlery.

Larry, jacketless and relaxed for once, poured Marian a glass of lemonade, his sleeve brushing hers. “See? Sunshine, gossip, no blueprints in sight,” he said. “You’re finally getting a real vacation.”

Marian smiled, tilting her glass toward him. “You say that as if you didn’t sneak your laptop into the car.”

He gave a mock gasp. “Allegations. Baseless.”

Mrs. Fish, catching only the laughter, fanned herself with delight. “Oh, to be young and charming again! When Agnes and I were your age, lunch with someone that handsome would’ve started a minor scandal by dessert.”

Marian laughed politely, but she felt a blush creep up anyway. The sunlight, the breeze, Larry’s easy grin, it was all deceptively peaceful.

Lunch unfolded in the pleasant rhythm of gossip and laughter. Mrs. Fish regaled them with tales of social skirmishes. Someone’s disastrous floral arrangements, another’s catering flop. Larry played along gamely, offering dry asides that made Marian nearly spit out her drink more than once.

“Do stop making her laugh, Lawrence,” Mrs. Fish scolded lightly, tapping his hand with her fan. “You’ll ruin my reputation as the most entertaining person at the table.”

“I think your hat already secured that,” Larry replied, earning another delighted shriek from both women.

The lemonade sparkled in the light. A distant gull called. Somewhere nearby, a piano played the opening bars of “Fly Me to the Moon.” Everything felt golden, easy, until the sound of clicks came like rain on glass.

Larry’s expression changed in an instant. “Don’t look,” he said quietly, already reaching for his phone.

Marian turned despite him. Across the street, three photographers stood behind the hedge, long lenses angled straight at them. She recognised one from a New York event.

Mrs. Fish gasped, delighted. “How thrilling! I haven’t been ambushed since the Bush visit! And that’s the older Bush!”

“Not thrilling,” Larry muttered. “Predictable.” He paid the bill in crisp notes, politely bidding Mrs Fish farewell and ushered Marian toward the car.

By the time they reached the gates of the Russell estate, his phone was vibrating nonstop. He answered once, then twice, voice clipped. When they stepped inside, the usually serene entryway was in motion. Two staff members hurried past with tablets and phones in hand, voices low and urgent. Someone from PR had clearly called ahead.

As Larry and Marian approached the sitting room, another one of the house staff slipped out, muttering something about “the news cycle” before freezing at the sight of them and making a beeline for the kitchens.

Larry said nothing. He simply pushed open the door, letting it close firmly behind them to muffle the sounds of activity outside.

The sudden quiet was deafening.

Marian saw the news already spreading across her notifications:

Page Six: IT COUPLE ENERGY: LARRY AND MARIAN RUSSELL MAKE MARRIAGE RUMORS LOOK FASHIONABLE.

PopBuzz: RUSSELL ROMANCE BLOOMS BY THE SEA!

BuzzGilded: NEWPORT LOVENEST? INSIDE THE HEIR’S HIDDEN GETAWAY.

People: EXCLUSIVE: LARRY RUSSELL AND MARIAN BROOK COZY UP OVER LUNCH IN NEWPORT — CAMERAS CATCH EVERY SMILE.

She dropped the phone as if it burned, putting together the pieces along with the way Larry’s phone had been inundated. “Your Mom did this, didn’t she?”

Larry’s jaw tightened. “Her team. Probably one of the PR interns who thinks clickbait equals positive reach.”

He was already dialling. “Mom. Tell me you didn’t-”

Whatever Bertha said on the other end made him close his eyes, one hand braced on the wall. “You’re using us as collateral. Again! ”

Marian slipped away, not wanting to hear the rest. She went out to the veranda, the air sharp with sea salt and humiliation. Her phone buzzed again, Ada.

Don’t let the noise decide for you. Noise fades. Love doesn’t.

Marian stared at the message until her vision blurred.

Inside, Larry was pacing, voice low and furious. “No, Dad, I understand completely, but then  you should understand why I was angry with them turning up and ambushing us! Damage control, yes. I’ll handle it…there will be no statement, it’s an invasion of privacy. Tell Mom to leave the PR to me when it comes to Marian and I now.”

He ended the call, shoulders sagging. When he looked up and saw her standing there, his anger broke into something softer, remorse, exhaustion.

“Marian, I’m so sorry,” he said. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I did,” she answered quietly, slipping her hand in to Larry’s. “Just not like this.” Her words and reminder of their original arrangement stung Larry, probably more than it should. Yet he knew that wasn’t what Marian was trying to do. Originally they’d laughed at the photo opportunities in New York and played it up for the cameras but Newport was meant to be a trip away from everything, to explore what was between them, properly, outside of the routine they’d built back home in recent months. 

Larry squeezed her hand in reassurance as his mind whirled through it all. Maybe he shouldn’t be so angry with his mother, she thought the relationship was real from the outset just like everyone else and he and Marian had always been willing participants in the PR machine, until now. He sighed. His mother wouldn’t have known why this trip was important, or why Larry now wanted to close the flood doors and that’s his fault for weaving a web of lies.

They stood for a moment, the silence between the heavier than any argument. Beyond the windows, the sea kept rolling, endless and indifferent.

The evening came in gold and silver, the last of the light stretching long over the terrace. The air turned cooler, the sea breeze carrying the scent of pine and salt. The large fire pit had been lit on the terrace, its flames flickering softly against the stone walls. Smoke from the fire pit curled into the air, mingling with the faint scent of pine and the mineral sharpness of the sea.

Larry and Marian sat close together on the wide rattan sofa, wrapped in a shared blanket. A bottle of wine rested between them. Marian had kicked off her shoes; Larry’s hair was wind-ruffled from their time on the sea earlier. The wool blanket was scratchy against Marian’s bare legs, but the shared warmth made her lean in closer.

The day’s noise still lingered. In their phones, in their heads, in the uneasy silence that had followed Bertha’s call. The gossip columns had spun them into something unreal: clips of Larry’s anger with the paparazzi as they left the restaurant for the car earlier had overtaken the scoop of them out for lunch with a well known socialite. Larry’s mother had denied leaking the story herself, of course, but neither of them believed her. His communication  team had tripled down instead, feeding carefully written soundbites to every outlet that asked. By dinner, the world had a version of them that Larry and Marian felt in control of.

Now, under the fading light, that performance finally fell away. The staff had retreated for the night, the house gone still. The only light came from the fire and the distant flash of a lighthouse over the bay. Larry poured the wine, handed her a glass, and managed a faint, rueful smile.

“Damage control complete,” he said quietly. “Apparently I’m the protective boyfriend of the year now.”

Marian gave a soft laugh, the sound low and weary. “They make it sound like we were choreographed.”

“They’d prefer it that way,” he said. “No rough edges. Just two people who somehow always know the right light for a photograph.”

She tilted her head, watching him as the firelight flickered across his features set in a straight line. “You’re still angry.”

He shook his head. “Not angry. Just… tired of being edited.”

Marian reached for his hand beneath the blanket. “Then let’s not be. Let’s leave that way of doing things in the past.”

For a while, they simply sat, the fire snapping, the wind tugging at her hair, their silence more honest than anything that had been written about them. Slowly, the tension began to unspool as the good wine relaxed their limbs and the topic changed to more pleasant directions.

“I can’t believe you still won’t tell me what you’re wearing to the Met Gala,” Larry said, swirling his glass lazily.

Marian smiled into the firelight. “Some mystery is good for you.”

“Not when it keeps me awake at night,” he said with mock despair. “Just a hint? Color, shape, anything?”

“No,” she said firmly, though her eyes sparkled. “But you may see the Livingston tiara if you behave.”

Larry feigned awe dramatically. “The Livingston tiara? The actual one?”

“The very one,” Marian said, ignoring his silliness, reaching for her phone. “Agnes wore it to one of her weddings. I found a picture.”

She scrolled through her camera roll and held up a digitized image; a sepia photograph of a much younger Agnes, regal and poised in a satin gown, the tiara gleaming above her blonde curls.

Larry leaned in, his shoulder brushing Marian’s. The warmth of him made her shiver despite the fire.

“I never realized how much you two look alike,” he said softly.

Marian laughed, a little embarrassed. “Don’t say that too loudly; she’d faint dead away. But she was quite the model, wasn’t she?”

He studied the photograph. “Which husband was this, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Marian said with mock seriousness. “Number three, I think. Certainly not Oscar’s father, Arnold Van Rhijn.” she continued with a grimace.

Larry laughed so hard he nearly spilled his wine. “Only in your family could that sentence sound so normal.”

Before she could protest, he lifted his phone and snapped a picture of the image.

“Larry!” she exclaimed. “You’re not actually-”

“Relax, Brook.” He grinned wickedly. “It’s funny how alike you look. I’m only showing Gladys.”

Marian narrowed her eyes, half suspicious, half amused. “You’d better not be making memes again. Either of you.”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes!” she decreed promptly.

He threw his head back and laughed again, the sound easy and bright, before setting the phone aside for the evening. The firelight painted his face in shifting shades of gold. For a long moment, they just watched the flames, listening to the soft hiss and crackle whilst they sipped red wine.

Then Larry reached for her hand. “You know,” he said quietly, “I like you best like this, when you’re not worrying about everyone else’s opinion.”

Her eyes met his, steady but glowing. “And I like you best when you’re not pretending you don’t care.”

A smile curved the edges of Larry’s mouth, tender and teasing at once. He leaned in and their lips met, a slow, lingering kiss that deepened naturally, without thought or hesitation. His hand rose to her jaw, tracing the edge of her cheek with his thumb.

Marian shifted closer to gain more leverage for the kiss, the blanket sliding around both of them. The fire’s warmth mingled with his. When she drew back, just enough to look at him, he was smiling. Eyes soft, the reflection of the flames dancing in them.

“Are you planning to behave now?” she whispered.

“Not remotely,” he murmured against her lips as his arm came around her drawing her to him. Larry’s head inched towards her, and kissed her again.

They stayed that way, curled together, the waves murmuring beyond the garden, the world reduced to the sound of their breathing and the fire’s slow rhythm.

Somewhere in the distance, a lighthouse beam swept across the sea, a pale stripe against the darkening sky. Marian rested her head against Larry’s shoulder, eyes half closed, feeling perfectly still and perfectly certain that whatever awaited them in New York; the Met Gala, the headlines, the endless noise could wait just a little longer.

For now, there was only this. The quiet between them, the warmth of the fire, and the gentle rhythm of the sea beyond.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since their return from Newport. Three days since that half-finished conversation that had ended not with an answer but with a look. Monday had come quickly, bringing the usual New York rhythm: delivery trucks groaning down Fifth Avenue, phones ringing in offices, the low hum of the city starting its week. The countdown to the Met Gala had officially begun, two days until the cameras, the outfits and the careful choreography his mother called society. Marian was back at work for the first time since the trip, juggling her art teaching, work at the gallery in the West Village whilst throwing herself into her gallery renovation as though focus could steady what the heart hadn’t yet named. Larry, meanwhile, had buried himself in Russell Consolidated spreadsheets and Morenci investor calls, though every third thought still circled back to her. To the way she’d said, We haven’t really… talked about what this is now.. They were home now, but the conversation hadn’t happened yet. It hovered between them, patient and unspoken, waiting for the right hour. For now, there was still work to do.

Larry’s home office at Russell House looked pristine and immaculate, and so did he, from the waist up at least. The camera view of a man who had mastered composure. A crisp white shirt, cufflinks catching the pale afternoon sun; a navy tie knotted with architectural precision. It was the kind of upper-half polish that said Russell heir apparent, that made board members relax and investment bankers stop interrupting.

Below the desk, however, the illusion fell apart.
Soft grey jersey shorts. Bare feet.

The unofficial billionaire look à la Larry Russell: polished enough for a video meeting, relaxed enough to survive one.

The room itself had been designed to impress without saying a word. A long wall of bookshelves climbed to a coffered ceiling, spines marching in quiet order: engineering histories, monographs on bridges and terminals, a row of first editions Gladys had gifted him over the years as if prose could be ballast. Opposite, a stretch of glass threw Fifth Avenue into the room, yellow cabs gliding like schools of fish, the spring trees along the park just beginning to fuzz with green.

On the far wall hung two framed originals of the Brooklyn Bridge blueprints, the paper yellowed but precise, lines sharp as if still wet with ambition. They had been a gift from his father, but the meaning was his alone. It was a book he’d once read about Emily Roebling, the woman who oversaw the bridge’s construction when her husband fell ill, that had first pushed him toward architecture after Harvard. Her quiet authority, her refusal to let circumstance decide genius, that was what had driven him to study again, to build in his own name. An antique, wooden 19^th century drafting table stood nearby, half-draped with a linen cover, as though his younger self might wander in at any moment with a pencil behind his ear and a set of unbuildable dreams.

His coffee had been cold for hours and he hadn’t had chance to ask Mrs Bruce to send some up. The digital clock in the corner of his computer monitor read 12:47p.m, but the day had long ago slipped into that elastic zone where time felt like a rumor. He’d been talking to Tokyo at dawn, London at breakfast, LA at something that looked like lunch on paper.

Another email pinged.

Subject: Geneva - Clay Making the Rounds
Confirmed: Richard Clay telling investors Russell Consolidated over-leveraged; “Russell name losing discipline.” Claims coming from Heller Capital and Levantine Partners.

Larry stared at it for a beat, then muttered, “Of course he is,” to no one in particular.

The former employee hadn’t just left in disgrace after the Morenci debacle that nearly cost his father billions of dollars, he’d declared holy war on his way out. In Clay’s imagination, a man who had mismanaged a project was now a whistleblower; spreadsheets rewritten in hindsight to turn incompetence into prophecy. In the real world, he was moving through capital cities feeding adjectives to anyone who’d buy him champagne.

Another ping, this one from George Russell with everyone else dropped from the email trail.

Subject: Geneva
Heller say Clay’s still talking. Remind them who we are. Your call.

Larry’s mouth ticked. That was George’s version of trust, a concise order masquerading as permission.

He cracked his knuckles, typed:

Subject: Re: Geneva

On it. Handling Geneva group. Drafting euro statement with Comms Team.
-L

Send.

He leaned back, took his glasses off and rubbed a hand through his unruly hair. The tie stayed perfect; everything below the desk looked like the opposite of empire management. He caught his reflection in the window, shirt immaculate, expression tired, calves bare, then smirked at himself.

“CEO on top,” he murmured, “yoga retreat below.”

The next ping was from Legal: updates on Morenci, clean copies of ignored warnings sent to Clay, every memo timestamped and initialed, the kind of documentary neatness that made judges purr.

He replied with a quick, decisive list:

Need notarized chronology of internal memos.
Prep SEC letter for potential defamation claim. Don’t send yet.
Let Clay feel the envelope exist.
-LR

Two minutes later, Julia from Legal:

Got it. You really are your father’s son sometimes!

Larry smiled faintly, having known Julia since he was a child. “God help me,” he said, and reached for his cold coffee and grimaced at the bitterness.

A sound filtered up through the thick of the house, not a knock, exactly, but a change in air pressure. The old stone and new glass of Russell House had a way of announcing arrivals. Downstairs, the marble would be receiving a small army. Trunks with stickers, the hiss-click of rolling wheels, André’s clipped French slicing the hubbub into compliance. He heard a bubble of laughter, high, distinct, triumphant.

He set the mug down. “Of course,” he said. “Mom returns from Paris today.”

The door burst open before he could stand.

“Lawrence!” Bertha swept in, sunlight and Guerlain perfume following her. Her mid-length Dior shirt dress caught the light as if it were conducting it; sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara she didn’t need. “You’ve been hiding in here all day. I was told the staff barely dare knock.”

Larry rose, half laughing. “Welcome home, Mom. How was work across the pond?” he greeted as he bent down to kiss her cheek.

“Exhausting,” she said cheerfully, patting his arm as she swept past him to peek out at the park. “But gratifying. We’re on track for the new skincare range to drop before the summer. Gladys is going from success to success, the Duke still adores her, and everyone in London seems to believe there will be an engagement before long.”

She turned back toward him, scanning the office as if expecting to find another member of the dynasty hiding behind the armchair. “Where’s your father? Don’t tell me he’s still in that office.”

“He left before sunrise,” Larry said, reaching for his coffee before thinking better of it. “He’s meeting the lawyers for the space venture, again. Stayed past midnight last night.”

Bertha’s mouth pinched in irritation, though her voice stayed smooth. “Of course he did. That man would turn his own reflection into a board meeting if he could.”

Larry smiled faintly. “It’s his love language for his family Mom...”

She opened her mouth to respond but froze, noticing his appearance for the first time.

“Are you,” she asked, voice sharpening to a needle, “wearing sweat shorts?”

Larry looked down. “Technically, yes.”

“With a tie.”

“Global domination’s casual Fridays.”

“It’s Monday, Larry.”

“Time zones,” he offered up smoothly with a smirk.

She sighed like a critic. “You look like a man who abandoned propriety halfway through a newscast.”

“Then at least I’ve got the top half right.”

Bertha pressed her fingertips to her temple, the gesture of a woman who loved civilization and had to mother it single-handedly. “Paris and London raised my hopes,” she murmured. “New York insists on lowering them again.”

Before she could warm to the subject of sartorial governance, Larry’s laptop pinged. He lifted a hand.

“Hold that thought, Mom. My emails are on fire.”

He scanned the screen. Geneva again. Another investor email forwarded by his PA, this one bordering on panic:

Clay claims Russell Consolidated over-leveraged and under-hedged. Rumors spreading in Zurich. Confirmation?

Bertha’s expression cooled, pleasure smoothed into hard steel. “Richard Clay again?”

“He’s taken his hurt feelings on tour,” Larry said, opening a reply. “Telling anyone who’ll buy him dinner that Dad’s lost control and the company’s doomed.”

“Disgusting,” she said sharply as she approached Larry’s desk and looked at the screen. “What are we doing about it?”

“Stitching his mouth shut with numbers.”

He typed while he spoke:

Leverage ratios post-Morenci are below pre-incident levels.
Refinancing secured. Governance restructured.
Russell Consolidated remains privately held and unleveraged beyond strategic projects.
-LR

“Mm,” Bertha said, watching his fingers fly. “That tone… very George.”

“I know.”

“You sound like a man defending a throne.” She pointed out as she tried to tidy his hair in a motherly, reassuring gesture.

“I’d rather be building one Mom,” he said. “This is all firefighting and reactive, not proactive.”

“Then build the story,” she replied lightly, as if ordering flowers. “Before anyone else writes it for you.” He stopped typing and looked at her properly for the first time since she’d entered. She was radiant, Paris couture and maternal pride blended with cunning but her gaze, when it settled, softened. Curiosity tucked under the arch.

“You’ve changed,” she said, head tilting as she examined her son. “Less flippant. More… grounded.”

“I’ve had practice recently.” He scoffed.

“Or perhaps a certain someone’s tamed you.”

Larry’s smile curved. “If you’re referring to the woman currently bossing around decorators in the Chelsea place I bought her… she’s taming someone, I’ll give you that… Possibly me... Partially tamed. Selectively.”

Bertha’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, so I was right. Gladys said it first, she saw that photograph of you and Marian at that charity gala and said, ‘They look so in love.’”

He busied himself with tidying the pens on his desk, ignoring the heat climbing his collar. “Gladys has always had an imagination.” He grumbled as he rolled his eyes.

“Darling,” Bertha said, silk turning to scalpel, “you can hide it from the press, but not from your mother. It’s serious, isn’t it?”

He hesitated, then took the path that wasn’t quite an admission and wasn’t a lie. “Let’s just say,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t be risking our friendship if it weren’t.”

Her mouth twitched, satisfaction disguised as neutrality. “Then I’ll expect you both to work the room at The Met together. The camera loves symmetry.” Larry opened his mouth and remembered, belatedly, the other fire he’d been tending all week.

“Since we’re on the subject of cameras,” he said, resting his palms on the desk, “there’s something else.”

“Hmm?”

“Newport.” He said, fixing her with a stern look.

“What about it?” she asked, too innocent by half.

“The lunch. Mamie Fish. The paparazzi materialized in just the right spot like they had a seating chart. You tipped them.”

Bertha did not blink. “Lawrence, private lunches don’t rebuild reputations. Public ones do.”

“It wasn’t your reputation on the table, or mine if that’s what you’re inferring.” Larry stated, and the softness left his voice. “It was Marian’s. She didn’t sign up to be ambushed because it fits your calendar.” His posture remained firm as he held his mother’s gaze, unwavering.

A small silence opened. Downstairs, a door thudded; a burst of French rose and fell like birds.

Bertha considered him. “You’re protective.”

“I’m respectful. There’s a difference.”

“And yet,” she said, palms opening in a reasonable little ballet, “this is the life you both occupy now. Marian has been in our orbit more than long enough to know how it works.” She gestured dismissively at the room around them. “The world looks. Better they look and see something beautiful.”

“Then let them look when we decide,” he said finally. “Not, when you’ve arranged the lighting.”

“Very poetic,” she said dryly, arching an eyebrow. Then, softer, “If you don’t want it to be a strategy, stop living it like one sweetheart.”

Before Larry could answer, the office door clicked and André slid in on soft soles, dark dress, darker clipboard. “Madam, your luggage is in your dressing room. Monsieur Demarçay confirms fittings for you, this evening.”

“Perfect,” Bertha said, already pivoting. “Tell him I’ll be ready. And send someone to bring Lawrence some proper trousers.” She added with a sweeping arm in Larry’s direction.

André nodded once and vanished like smoke.

“One more thing,” Bertha said, pausing in the doorway. “Don’t let that man Clay live rent-free in your head. People who’ve built nothing always talk the loudest.”

Larry smiled faintly as he swivelled in his chair. “You and Dad should start a motivational firm.”

“Your father motivates through fear. I motivate through style. Both work.” She crossed back just long enough to kiss his cheek. “Wear the black Prada tuxedo for the Met. It makes you look decisive.”

“I thought the goal was charming.”

“For you, those are the same thing.” She was halfway into the hall when she added, without looking back, “And, Lawrence, if you truly love her, I was serious, stop treating what’s between you like a strategy.”

The door closed softly behind her.

For a moment, the office was nothing but the faint hum of Fifth Avenue and the slow breath of the HVAC. Larry sat there, fingers resting on the desk, feeling the shape of the word love Bertha had dropped like a coin into still water. The rings it made reached places in his heart that still felt tender and fresh.

He turned and returned to the monitors in front of him. The inbox looked steadier. Legal had sent the notarized memos; Investor Relations had formatted his one-pager; PR had slotted his quote into a draft for The Ledger.

We’ve had one principle for thirty years: build what lasts, fix what doesn’t.
Morenci didn’t meet our standard. We changed course and came out stronger.
- Larry Russell, President, Russell Consolidated Development

Send.

Another ping: his Dad. Three sentences that meant more than any speech.

Good soundbite. Don’t let Clay live in your head. Proud of you.

Larry exhaled, grinning at the screen despite himself. Two parents, same advice. They were definitely on the phone talking about him.

He checked the clock once again. Time to go and get ready if he wanted to be at the JP Morgan offices across town in an hour. With that, he pushed away from the desk and wandered back down to his bedroom on the second floor. As he walked, he reached for his phone from his pocked and, without thinking too hard about whether it was too much, typed:

Larry: First day back! Hope it’s gone well. If not, call me for a sandwich or a rescue. Could potentially lock down a couple of blocks in an emergency if you need it.

He hesitated, then added a second line:

Larry: Proud of you. Of the gallery. Of everything.

He hit send as he reached his bedroom door, before he could edit the tenderness out of it.

For a minute Larry just sat there on the edge of hid bed, phone in his palm. The city moving beyond the glass, the house shifting around him.

Downstairs, Russell House was performing its own choreography. The foyer, larger than most apartments, was a geography of marble and movement: luggage stacked by the Steinway, flowers arriving like declarations, Church conferring with two of the senior staff over the evening’s dinner service. Through the gilded double doors to the dining room, one of junior staff adjusted the height of candlesticks because Bertha liked the flame to peer just over eye level, not shout. In the long gallery, a conservator dusted the gilt frame around a painting, George’s latest acquisition, a landscape with a road that led nowhere in particular and made you want to follow it anyway.

Mrs Bruce moved through it all like a general: a correction here, a confirmation there, stitching the day into the shape Bertha liked. Borden, the chef, sent up a question about the menu for day after tomorrow’s pre-Met Gala breakfast. Steel-cut oats for discipline or platters of fresh fruit and croissants for optics? The florist called to say the peonies were being difficult, as if flowers could be wilful. The chauffeur and security teams checked routes. If it rained, the Russell car would need to approach the Met from the north to avoid puddles. Nothing in Bertha’s world was ever left to chance; chance had to be cajoled.

Upstairs again, in the quieter air of his walk-in closet, Larry’s phone buzzed against the counter top.

Marian: You’re absurd. Also thank you. I’m fine. First day back is what it is. I tried not to look too excited when I left for the Chelsea building.

Marian: Haven’t told them yet that the guy I’m dating is legally insane and buys real estate as gifts.You’re still getting socks for Christmas you know.

Larry smiled so broadly it surprised him. He finished getting changed, then nipped to grab his laptop from the desk he left it on.

Larry: You near the gallery?

Marian: Crossing the street now. Meeting Ada there. She’s going to help with some of the reno + launch costs.

A beat, then another message, a video selfie of her showing the building then turning the camera round to her grinning face. Her blonde hair whipping around in the breeze,

Larry: Just send me the bill.

Marian: Nope. How’s the empire?

He thought of Geneva, of Clay, of George’s laconic pride, of Bertha telling him to stop acting like strategy. He thought of Marian with paint on her fingers, standing in a room he’d bought because he couldn’t think of a better way to say I see you.

Larry: Clay tried a European farewell tour. I shut the door.

Marian: Of course you did.

A long moment passed, the kind that in person would have been filled by the sound of her breathing next to him, the way she fiddled with her hair when she was thinking. Larry was just walking downstairs when another message arrived:

Marian: See you at mine after work?

Larry: Wouldn’t miss it.

He watched the typing dots appear, vanish, reappear, then settle into a small heart. A second photo arrived, the gallery’s new skylight washed in afternoon gold, beams crossing like cathedral ribs.

Larry double tapped the photo to like it before tucking his phone in his suit blazer pocket.

Down the hall, Bertha laughed at something Mrs Bruce said. The sound carried, bright and certain, and for once it didn’t set his teeth on edge. The house felt alive again, curtain call before a premiere. Tomorrow would be a calm before the storm of flashbulbs the following day, and the barrage of questions. Not to mention the carefully choreographed illusion the world adored.

Outside, the light had shifted; the park wore a warmer edge, and the long shadow of the house across Sixty-First Street fell like a sundial. He could see the brownstone window across the street where Marian would be, later, writing an email, brushing a curl behind her ear as she frowned at a sentence, lifting her face when she remembered something that needed noting down.

This afternoon however, there was still work to do. One more investor to call, one more rumor to cut off at the knees and then over to the Van Rhijn House where Marian would be waiting, the only constant he’d never had to perform for.

He straightened in his seat, reopened his phone, and smiled at the screen’s reflection as he changed the background photo to a windswept selfie he and Marian had taken on the boat in Newport last week. An email notification pinged and he pressed it to start typing, there were a couple of things he needed to finalise if he wanted to make the night of the Met Gala special for Marian.

Time to build what lasted.

The clang of metal echoed through the high-ceilinged space of the new gallery building in Chelsea, New York as Marian hurried in, breathless and a little flushed from the cold. The air smelled faintly of plaster dust and strong coffee, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows to catch the suspended flecks.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” she said quickly, dodging a stack of paint tins as she shrugged out of her work blazer. “The West Village Gallery ran over. I swear, the subway was conspiring against me too!”

Ada looked up from the middle of the half-demolished gallery, standing primly amid the chaos in her yellow jumper and long floral skirt. “No need to apologize dear,” she said warmly. “Jack has been keeping me entertained. He’s ever so efficient, you know. He seems to know everything about beams, load-bearing walls, and…” she gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, “whatever that is.”

Jack, clipboard in hand, grinned. “Just ductwork, Mrs. Forte.”

“Well, it looks impressive,” Ada said, unbothered by the sawdust floating around her. “I must say, I had no idea this is where you’ve been rushing off to lately, Marian. I was beginning to think you’d joined a secret club.”

Marian smiled, tugging the claw clip loose from behind her hair and pushing a curl out of her eyes. “Not secret, you knew Larry had bought the building. I just didn’t want to make a thing of it until it was taking shape and I had a proper plan.”

“That much I gathered,” Ada replied, surveying the stripped brick and open wiring. “Though it does have a certain charm. Industrial romance, perhaps.”

Jack motioned for them to follow. “Come on, let me show you what’s changed since last week. Mr Russell’s contractors opened up the back wing, took out the dividing wall and installed the skylights you wanted, Marian.”

He led them past scaffolding and stacks of timber toward the far end of the building, where the light shifted from industrial to almost ethereal. The new glass panels stretched across the rear ceiling, flooding the space with pale, clean daylight. Dust motes shimmered in the beam like tiny fragments of gold.

Marian stopped, awed despite herself. “It’s perfect,” she murmured. “Exactly what I imagined.”

Ada clasped her hands, gazing upward. “Oh, my dear… it feels like a chapel.”

Smiling, Marian pulled her phone from her pocket and snapped a photo — the light spilling over raw brick, the unfinished floor gleaming faintly. A moment later she sent it to Larry who replied quickly with a like of the photo.

She tucked her phone away again before Ada could notice the small, private smile still lingering on her lips.

Jack glanced up from his notes. “Marian’s been very hands-on. She’s planning to paint the front rooms herself once we finish the wiring.”

Ada blinked. “Paint? Yourself?”

Marian nodded, stepping over a coiled extension cable as she moved boxes about. “It feels right to do it myself. If I’m going to show other people’s art here one day, I should know every inch of the space. Plus, after everything Larry’s done to make this happen, I wanted to contribute something more than ideas…”

Ada’s eyes softened. “It’s a lovely thought. Though I imagine he’d say you’ve already contributed more than enough, just by being you.”

Marian laughed lightly, a flush of colour rising to her cheeks. “He’d say it’s an investment. That the building had potential, and I was the best use for it.”

Ada tilted her head, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Mm. That sounds like something he’d say. Not quite what he means.”

Marian hesitated, brushing a fleck of plaster off her sleeve nervously. “You think so?”

“My dear, I’ve known Lawrence Russell since he was nineteen,” Ada said gently. “He’s never been subtle about his feelings for you… just terribly careful I’d say. Buying you this… that’s not business. That’s him trying to tell you something the only way he knows how. Love made tangible.”

Marian’s breath caught, the weight of Ada’s words hanging in the dust and light between them. “We haven’t said anything like that yet,” she admitted quietly. “The L word, I mean.”

Ada reached out, squeezing her hand. “Then you will. When it feels right. He’s a man who builds before he speaks and you’re the only thing he’s ever built for love.”

Marian smiled faintly, her throat tightening. “You make it sound inevitable.”

Ada’s expression softened to something almost maternal. “With you two, my dear, it always has been. Be patient.”

As Ada turned away to admire the plasterwork near the front doors, Marian let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It struck her how easy it was to speak openly like this, no pretence, no half-truths, no pretending that she and Larry were anything less than what they were now. For so long, every conversation about him had required performance, the careful dance of a secret arrangement without being able to ask for advice.

She ran her fingers lightly over the edge of the newly sanded window frame, smiling to herself. Ada didn’t know it, but she was right. They had talked about feelings, sort of, back in Newport, when the sea wind had tangled her hair and Larry’s voice had gone soft in the quiet moments between them. It hadn’t been a formal declaration, nothing like a promise or a confession. But since that afternoon, they had silently settled in to a new routine and not spent a single evening or night apart, even if the boundaries remained firmly in place.

If not for that simple, undeniable fact, Marian might have convinced herself she’d imagined it all, the tenderness, the way he looked at her, the way his hand always found hers even in sleep. But it was real. All of it. Even without the words…it had to be.

Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips.

Larry: Brook. Tell Jack not to let you near a ladder. I like you paint-splattered, not concussed.

Marian rolled her eyes, trying to hide her grin. “Speak of the devil,” she said, waving her phone at her aunt before tucking it back into her pocket until it vibrated again.

Larry: Seriously though. Stay off ladders. If you fall, I will wheel you into the Met Gala. I’m not walking that red carpet alone.
Marian: You’d love the attention. We’d go viral for performance art.
Larry: You think I won’t? I’d attach LED lights and racing stripes. Make it a full production.
Marian: Then I’m wearing a racing helmet so nobody can see me.
Larry: Perfect. Matching accessories, very us.

Ada chuckled, her expression full of quiet triumph. “And there he is. As I said, my dear, inevitable.”

Marian smiled faintly, guilt threading through the warmth in her chest. “We’ve always been close,” she said carefully. “He understands me better than anyone.”

Ada nodded, oblivious to Marian’s inner conflict. “You two have walked a long road to find each other. It’s a comfort to see it end this way, so beautifully.”

And just like that, the conversation veered back towards pretences. Marian didn’t trust herself to respond or look Ada in the eye, so she turned toward the open space where sunlight poured in from the skylight. Newport had been progress for her and Larry, but Marian still felt the twinge of dishonesty when it came to Ada, who was so trusting and so full of faith in them. “The contractors took down the dividing walls last week,” she said, changing the subject. “It already feels twice as big.”

Jack came forward, handing her a tablet with the latest renderings. “We’ll have the lighting grid installed by Friday. After that, you can start painting.”

“Perfect,” Marian said as she stood by the window, scanning the digital plans. Larry’s neat lines and annotations still visible in the corner. His handwriting made her smile despite herself.

Ada followed her gaze. “Larry did those drawings, didn’t he?”

“Yeh,” Marian admitted. “He put the plans together whilst we were in Newport. He said the building should have as much light as possible , I think he was glad to dust of his architectural skills if I’m honest.”

“Quite right,” Ada said approvingly. Then, softer: “And what about you, Marian? Are you sure you want to give up teaching altogether? You’ve always loved it.”

Marian hesitated, setting the iPad down. “I do love it. But lately…” She trailed off, searching for words. “Since the press stories about Larry and me began, it’s become hard to stand in front of a classroom without feeling watched. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more since we got back from Newport. The parents whisper, the girls giggle, the staff… they treat me differently. It’s as if my personal life has become a public project.”

Ada frowned sympathetically. “That’s cruel of them. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I know,” Marian said softly. “But it feels like that part of my life might be… over now. Truth be told, I’m starting to feel spread too thin between the school and the West Village gallery. Maybe this is what comes next?” She gestured around the room, the bare beams, the half-assembled lighting rigs, the sunlight cutting through dust. “Something new.”

Ada looked around too, trying to see the building site from Marian’s perspective and after a moment, nodded. “Then it’s exactly where you belong. It suits you, creative, ambitious, and just a little bit fearless.”

Marian smiled, her throat tightening. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Ada squeezed her hand. “Then consider it a fact, not a compliment. And tomorrow, you can celebrate properly. I hear from Peggy that Bertha has planned an entrance at the Met Gala that would make the gods jealous.”

Marian groaned softly. “Don’t remind me. Her second assistant sent me a three-page schedule last night, down to what minute we’re supposed to get out of the car.”

Ada laughed. “You’ll be splendid. And Larry will adore seeing you in the Versace gown.”

Marian smiled faintly, a mix of anticipation and nerves fluttering in her chest. “He hasn’t seen it yet.”

Before Ada could respond, Marian’s phone pinged again, this time with an Instagram notification.

@thelarryrussell tagged you in his story.

Curious and vaguely apprehensive, Marian took a sip from her water bottle and opened the link, dreading another curated piece of PR content.

Much to her surprise, it was a photo of Daft Punk, the helmeted French music duo, standing side by side under a disco light. Across the top, Larry had scrawled in white text:

Met Gala ready. @marianbrook and me.

Marian snorted a laugh out, nearly spitting her drink out, covering the top of her face with one hand as she grumbled, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Ada wandered closer, curious. “What’s he done now?”

Marian turned the screen toward her. Ada blinked once as she took her glasses off, then laughed. An honest, delighted sound.

“Marian,” she said between chuckles, “if that isn’t love in the digital age, I don’t know what is.”

Marian sighed, though she couldn’t stop smiling. “He’s such a… doofus.”

Ada rolled her eyes, utterly serene. “And you adore him for it.”

Marian looked down at the glowing screen, at the ridiculous sparkling helmets, the caption, and the man who somehow made her laugh even from across town and exhaled softly. “Yes,” she admitted. “I do.”

The Van Rhijn kitchen always seemed to exist in its own time zone, one unbothered by the rush and spectacle of the city outside. The scent of cinnamon and yeast hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint warmth of baking bread and the sound of Mrs. Bauer’s wooden spoon clattering gently against a mixing bowl.

Agnes and Ada had already gone out. Marian sat at the marble-topped island beside Peggy, sleeves rolled up, tea steaming between them. Jack occupied the old wooden farmhouse table near the window overlooking the small back garden, surrounded by an improvised workshop of wires, screws, and notepads. Across the room, Bridget was tidying her cleaning cloths into a neat pile, ready to head home.

“Mrs. Bauer, that smells heavenly,” Marian said, taking a deep breath. “What is it this time?”

“Cinnamon raisin loaf,” the older woman replied proudly. “For breakfast tomorrow.”

Peggy grinned. “It does smell divine. I should’ve hired you for my wedding catering!”

Mrs. Bauer chuckled and returned to kneading dough.

At the island, Peggy swirled her tea, unable to stop smiling. “I can’t believe it’s only a few weeks until the wedding,” she said dreamily. “My Mom has managed to wrangle every florist in Brooklyn into submission. I think she’s determined to outdo Bertha Russell.”

Marian laughed softly and reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “That’s an impossible task.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Bertha has been planning the Met Gala with Anna Wintour like it’s Versailles reborn.”

“Then maybe my wedding can be the republic after the revolution,” Peggy said, eyes sparkling. Causing them both to laugh.

Over at the table, Jack sighed heavily over a stack of printed forms. “Meanwhile, I’m fighting my own battle, with the patent office. This is like trying to explain an idea to the government with crayons. And I’m not a man of words.”

Marian leaned around in her chair. “Still the clock invention?”

Jack nodded. “The self-charging alarm, yeah. I’ve got the mechanism working, but the forms might actually kill me before the prototype does.”

Marian smiled encouragingly. “Larry will know exactly who to speak to. He has lawyers for everything…ideas, trademarks, you name it. Ask him when he gets here.”

At that, Bridget, who’d been quietly folding dish towels and packing away her steam cleaner, looked up. “Mr. Russell’s coming here?” she asked eagerly.

“Hopefully on his way now, you should stay for dinner! Take a seat next to Jack and get a drink.”

Bridget nodded, a hint of pink bloomed across her cheeks as she looked at Jack.

Jack, oblivious, fiddled with a coil of copper wire. Peggy caught the moment and smirked over her teacup.

“Are you eating down here or in the dining room Marian?” Mrs Bauer asked as she chopped the cooked chicken for the Caesar Salad.

“Oh here I think, if you don’t mind. Less hassle.”

“Well,” Peggy said with faux innocence, “isn’t this turning into quite the gathering?”

Before anyone could reply, the front door upstairs clicked open. Voices carried down the hallway. Deep, warm, familiar. A moment later, Larry appeared on the stairs leading in to the kitchen, jacket slung over his arm, tie loosened, a picture of effortless but handsome exhaustion. Beside him was Will, equally rumpled and grinning.

“Look who I found wandering the streets of Manhattan,” Larry announced with light-hearted flourish.

Will raised his hands at Marian in defeat. “He means I was walking home like a normal person until your boyfriend pulled over and kidnapped me.”

Mrs. Bauer turned, delighted. “Mr. Russell! Coffee?”

Larry draped his blazer over the back of an empty barstool and shook his head. “If I drink any more caffeine, I’ll start oscillating. I’m good, thank you.”

“Impossible. You run on caffeine.” Marian rose from her stool, smile softening. He crossed to her automatically, one hand finding the small of her back as he bent to kiss her cheek. The gesture was gentle, unthinking and would have looked perfectly normal to anyone who didn’t know the secret truth of them.

“Long day?” she asked quietly.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his smile easing into something private before he let her go.

Marian poured him tea anyway.

Peggy watched them, head tilted knowingly. “You two are nauseatingly domestic.”

Larry grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”

Marian rolled her eyes, though the faint blush in her cheeks gave her away.

Will, pulling off his coat, added, “You sound like my parents. But less terrifying.” He headed toward the sink where Bridget was trying to tidy up. “Here, let me help with that.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!” she began, but he waved her off.

“You’ve worked all day. Sit, please. Let me at least pretend to be useful.” Will offered graciously causing Peggy to watch with a pleased expression as she sipped her tea.

Bridget smiled shyly and obeyed. Across the table, Jack’s hands stilled on his wires. Peggy caught the flicker of surprise on his face and raised a brow, barely suppressing a grin.

“So,” Peggy said brightly, “Forty-eight hours until the Met Gala. You must be excited, Marian.”

Marian sighed. “Excited might be the wrong word. Nervous? Maybe. Bertha’s second assistant sent me a colour-coded schedule last night, complete with hair times and approved nail polish shades.”

“That does sound horrifying,” Peggy laughed.

“It is,” Larry leaned against the counter by Marian, tea in hand. “It’s organized, at least.”

“You would say that!” Peggy smirked. “Anyway, you’ll look like a renaissance painting, Marian.”

Larry didn’t miss a beat. “She already does.”

Marian blushed, eyes darting down. “You’re impossible.”

“So are most great love stories.” Will added as he walked over, having finished the washing up.

Peggy elbowed him, but it was too late. Marian shot them both a warning look that said not another word.

To cover the awkwardness, she stood. “I’ll just grab some more cookies from the pantry,” she said lightly.

“I’ll help,” Larry offered, setting his mug down.

Peggy smirked into her tea again as the two disappeared down the corridor to the small pantry by Mrs Baeur’s office.

Inside, the air was cooler, quieter. Jars lined the shelves in neat rows, catching the low amber light. Larry closed the door softly behind them.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this all day,” he said under his breath, before she could speak.

“Doing what?”

“This.”

Larry leaned in, kissing her before she had time to tease him. It was slow, steady, full of everything they hadn’t found a way to say outside these four walls. Marian’s back pressed lightly against the shelves of cereal, sugar and preserves. Her hands found Larry’s shirt collar, tugging him closer, causing him to smile against her lips.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing faster than they should.

“That was… unexpected,” she whispered.

“Necessary,” he countered, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “How was your gallery?”

“Better now that Ada’s on board,” she conceded, voice still uneven. “Especially now that you’re not insisting on paying for everything.”

“I’m a generous investor.” He grinned as one hand came to rest on Marian’s hips as he stepped closer, the other resting against the shelves by her head.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He smiled against her forehead. “You like that about me.”

She laughed softly, resting her hands affectionately against his chest. “I do.”

They lingered a beat longer, then she straightened her skirt and nodded toward the door. “Come on before Peggy and Will start a betting pool.”

When they re-entered the kitchen, the noise seemed to resume mid-laughter. Mrs. Bauer was plating bread, Will was sat with his arm around Peggy, and Bridget had somehow ended up perched beside Jack, watching him tinker with the invention.

“Why don’t you show Larry now,” Marian said to Jack as she picked up the last of her cup of tea to finish it.

“Show me what?” Larry asked.

Jack held up the small device. A compact, chrome-trimmed object with a rotating mechanism inside. “A self-charging alarm clock. Converts temperature ambience into energy. No batteries needed.”

Larry’s brows lifted, impressed. “That’s brilliant.” He declared as he walked over to inspect it more closely. “Anyone looking to invest yet?”

Jack hesitated. “Not really. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He explained, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Or what a good deal would look like.”

Larry smirked, putting his hands in his pockets. “Now that, I might be able to assist on. Email me any workings you have and come by Russell House next week. We’ll talk patents and partnerships.”

Jack blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Larry assured, as he walked back over to Marian. “It deserves backing, there’s some unique underlying technology there.”

Bridget smiled at Jack, her eyes bright. “Told you it was clever!”

Jack’s grin softened. “Guess I’ll take your word for it.”

Mrs. Bauer clapped her hands then, reclaiming the room with domestic authority. “All right, enough talk. Dinner or it will burn. Mr. Russell, plates, please seeming as you are on your feet already.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Larry said easily, moving to help.

He carried plates to the kitchen island without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, passing the salt to Peggy as though he’d been doing it his whole life. The sight made Marian’s chest tighten in a quiet, inexplicable way.

“You know,” Peggy said, watching them, “I never thought I’d see you eating in the Van Rhijn kitchen.”

Larry laughed, glancing around the familiar room. “You’d be surprised. I’ve eaten down here plenty of times, usually when Mrs. Bauer was trying to sober me up before sending me home across the street after a night out.”

Mrs. Bauer huffed fondly without looking up from the stove. “And you still talk too much when you’re tired, Mr. Russell.”

He grinned. “See? Some things never change.”

Marian set down the glasses, shaking her head. “You just like her bread.”

“That too,” he said easily, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

As everyone settled the lasagna and Caesar salad, the sound of clinking cutlery, laughter, and the faint tick of the kitchen clock, it struck Larry how different this world was from the grandeur at home across the street. Yes there was still a cook and staff but here, conversation flowed without calculation. No headlines, no flashbulbs, just the comforting weight of belonging.

Across the kitchen island, Marian caught his eye, her look soft and full of things unspoken.

For the first time that day, he felt still.

After dinner, as twilight pressed against the windows, Peggy and Will gathered their things to leave, laughing quietly as Mrs. Bauer handed them a loaf to take home.

Jack lingered, packing up his prototype. “Bridget,” he said awkwardly, “if you’re not in a hurry… maybe hang around for a bit?”

Her eyes widened slightly, then warmed. “I’d like that.”

Larry, stacking plates beside the sink, grinned. “Excellent. More the merrier.”

Mrs. Bauer arched a brow. “You are not a guest here, Mr. Russell. You help.”

He laughed. “Understood.”

Marian stood beside him, handing him forks and napkins. Their shoulders brushed, easy and familiar.

“Not the worst way to end a Monday,” she murmured.

Larry glanced down at her, voice low. “Best part of mine.”

Across the kitchen, Peggy caught the look they shared and nudged Will. “Told you,” she whispered.

Will smiled and whispered. “Yeah. Real or not, that’s love.”

The warmth lingered as candles flickered on the table and the city outside softened into evening. For now, the world beyond Fifth Avenue could wait.

The Van Rhijn brownstone had fallen into that comfortable hush that came after a busy evening. The laughter and chatter from dinner had ebbed away, leaving only the muffled sounds of the city beyond the windows and the faint ticking of the old clock in the hall. Somewhere below, Jack and Bridget’s voices drifted up from the kitchen, low, companionable, punctuated by the clink of crockery as they tidied together. Mrs. Bauer had long since retreated to her room, where the faint scent of turpentine always lingered like a signature.

Downstairs, the sitting room had been reclaimed by a gentler energy. The room was split in half by grand mahogany arch, with the large corner sofa in the main part of the room closest to the front windows and fireplace. The other part of the room leading to the double doors to the dining room had a piano, small sofa and a pretty, antique circular table, which was half-covered in Marian’s world, open catalogues from Sotheby’s and Christie’s, a neat scatter of handwritten notes and her laptop glowing softly amid the chaos. Her shoes were abandoned by the chair, her hair loosely pinned by a claw clip, curls slipping free as she leaned over a list of art dealers and artists she’d been corresponding with.

Across the room, Larry sat sprawled on the old, tufted sofa beneath the tall mirror with his legs over the arm, sleeves rolled, tie discarded on the backrest. He’d commandeered one of Agnes’s side tables for his iPad and a tumbler of water. The schematic for Jack’s invention glowed on the screen, cross-sections and measurements that he was annotating with his stylus, one leg draped lazily over the armrest.

For a while, neither spoke. The only sounds were Marian’s pen scratching softly and Larry’s occasional tap of the screen. She liked the rhythm of it, the easy quiet of two people sharing space without needing to fill it. It felt dangerously close to what a real life together might sound like.

Larry caught himself thinking much the same. The room smelled faintly of paper and polish, and somewhere behind it all was the scent of her Dior perfume, threaded into the air like a secret. He could get used to this, the quiet domesticity that used to bore him when it was someone else’s, now something he’d protect with both hands.

After a while, he shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers against the side of the iPad, then absently ran a hand through his hair. A sigh followed, quiet but unmistakably dramatic, the universal signal of a man allergic to stillness. He leaned back, balancing the iPad on his knee, then sat forward again as if sitting still too long physically offended him.

“Are you still working?” Marian asked at last, glancing up without lifting her head.

“You’re one to talk,” he replied playfully, not looking away from the diagram he was working on.

She smiled faintly. “I’m writing an email to Sotheby’s, not reprogramming time.”

Larry leaned his head back, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth as he looked over at her. “Time’s relative.”

“So is patience,” she mused, typing another line before adding dryly, “and yours definitely has an expiry date.”

He chuckled under his breath, set the iPad aside, and stood, stretching. “Come here,” he said quietly, walking over to where she sat.

Marian tilted her head back as he leaned over her chair, one hand braced on the table beside her, the other resting lightly on the back of her chair. His sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbow, the fine cotton stretched over the curve of his biceps. She couldn’t help but notice the way the light from her laptop screen caught the lines of muscle in his forearms, the faint trace of veins shifting just beneath his skin as he tensed to balance his weight. There was an easy strength in him, not the kind that demanded notice, but the kind that made her breath catch all the same.

He smelled faintly of soap, paper, and something warmer, a quiet trace of his cologne she knew far too well by now.

“Let me see,” he said, nodding toward her laptop.

“It’s just sale contract correspondence,” she murmured. “You’ll be bored.”

“I read legal memos for fun. I’ll risk it.”

Larry bent to look at the screen, his shoulder brushing hers, his tone softening. “You’ve been at this all day. You should rest.”

“You sound like Ada.”

“And she’s usually right.” He noted as his eyes flicked over the email draft, scanning faster than she expected. “Hmm. You’re underselling yourself,” he said after a moment. “You can ask for a higher commission, fifteen percent minimum if you’re curating as well. Twenty if you’re hosting shows or exhibitions which you will deduct as advertising and promotion on their behalf. It’s standard in most industries. They’ll thank you later when the sales report looks better.”

Marian blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and amusement. “You do realise you’re terrifying when you talk like that?”

“Efficient,” he corrected mildly. “Terrifying is my father.”

Marian smiled without looking up as she re-typed the email and hit send. “You’re unusually agreeable tonight.”

“Don’t tell everyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

She giggled quietly. The kind of small, effortless sound that always undid him.

Larry brushed a stray curl behind her ear, then pressed a light kiss to her hairline. Marian closed her eyes briefly, leaning back against him as she enjoyed the touch.

For a long moment, neither spoke. It was easy, that was the most dangerous part.

“Tomorrow’s going to be chaos,” she said at last. “The day after will be even more chaos for the Met Gala. The cameras. I already feel like a headline waiting to happen.”

He smiled faintly, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Then let them look. They won’t see what really matters.”

Marian turned slightly to face him. “And what’s that?”

Larry hesitated, a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “You and me, finding a way to make this make sense.”

Something in his tone, unguarded, quiet, but certain struck through her like a pulse. It wasn’t a grand confession, but it was something, the first time he’d spoken of them as if it were a real thing that needed tending, not just a fragile arrangement carried home from Newport.
Her heart lifted before she could stop it. He wanted to talk. He wanted this. The uncertainty that had trailed her since the trip began to loosen, replaced by a steady warmth that spread through her chest.

Their eyes met, the air between them taut with something unspoken and inevitable. Marian’s hand found his wrist, her thumb tracing slow circles against his skin.

Before either could say more, the sound of the front door unlocking broke the spell.

“Agnes,” Marian whispered, straightening quickly.

Larry stepped back just as Ada’s gentle voice floated down the hall. “Marian? Are you still up?”

“In here, Aunt Ada!”

Ada appeared first, removing her silk scarf, cheeks pink from the evening’s fun. Behind her, Agnes followed with her coat draped elegantly over one arm, expression neutral but not unfriendly.

“Well,” Agnes said, pausing in the doorway. “If it isn’t young Mr. Russell. You’ve been scarce around here lately.”

Larry smiled easily as he stood up to his full height. “Trying to stay out of trouble, Mrs. Van Rhijn.”

“Impossible,” she said, but her tone held a faint note of amusement. “I suppose you’ve been busy since your big promotion.”

“Something like that,” he replied.

Ada, who was already beaming, stepped forward. “We saw Mrs. Oelrichs at dinner. She said everyone’s talking about your mother’s Met Gala plans. Apparently there will be crystal chandeliers shipped over from France suspended over every table.”

“That sounds like her.”

Agnes gave a faint sigh. “I suppose you’re all ready for this spectacle,” she said, folding her hands. “The Met Gala, of all things. It’s excessive, but at least it still means something as a proper society event.”

Marian smiled faintly. “Everything’s arranged, Aunt. Larry’s mom has seen to it.”

“Good,” Agnes said. “And you’ll wear the tiara properly, I trust? It hasn’t been out since my days on the cover of Vogue!”

“I promise, Aunt.”

Agnes gave a small nod of approval. “At least one Van Rhijn will look respectable among all that glitter. Lina Astor and that daughter of hers are attending and I’m told they’re determined to be photographed. Try not to stand behind them if you want to avoid press coverage.”

Larry bit back a grin, while Ada gave her sister an indulgent look. “Agnes, that almost sounded thoughtful.”

“I’m tired,” Agnes said briskly at her sister, which only made Ada laugh softly. “Goodnight, all of you.” She disappeared up the stairs, her footsteps soft on the carpet.

Ada lingered a moment longer, giving Larry a fond smile. “It’s nice to see you here, Lawrence. It always feels… settled, when you are.”

“That’s very kind, Mrs. Forte,” he said, and meant it.

With a smile, she followed her sister upstairs, leaving the two of them alone again in the lamplight.

Larry turned back to Marian. “I think your aunt likes me.”

“She always has,” Marian said, amused. “Even when she pretends not to.”

He stepped closer again, the silence returning easily between them. “So,” he murmured, glancing at her laptop, “emails done?”

“For now.”

“Then come here.” He instructed softly, his voice full of feeling.

Larry reached for her hand, pulling her gently up from the chair. Marian hesitated just long enough to glance toward the ceiling, no footsteps, no creaking floors, before letting him draw her close in to his arms.

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the kind of quiet that felt earned, not stolen, not hidden, just theirs. Larry could feel the faint tremor of her breath against his chest, the rise and fall syncing with his own until he wasn’t sure which was which anymore. Every time he held her, the noise in his mind, the emails, the headlines, the noise of Fifth Avenue seemed to fall away.

When he kissed her, it was softer than before, the kind of kiss that said more than either of them was ready to. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and for a second, the rest of the world, the gala, the cameras, the pretence, disappeared.

Then Marian pulled back, her smile small but sure as she searched his face. “You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked quietly, her breath still unsteady.

Larry’s grin softened as he brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Do I look like a man in a hurry?” In truth, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt less inclined to move. The thought of crossing the street, of stepping back into that cavernous, perfect house without her, felt suddenly absurd.

She smiled then, a small, certain smile that reached her eyes. “Good. Stay.”

His hand lingered against her skin, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Wasn’t going to ask Brook.”

Marian’s breath caught, her smile deepening. “I know.” She laughed quietly, leaning into him once more. “Help me tidy this up then, before Mrs. Bauer finds out we’ve been using this room as an office.”

Larry smiled, gathering their papers and closing her laptop, his movements unhurried, familiar. Together they set the room back to order, the quiet scrape of chairs, the soft click of switches and when the last light was off, Larry reached for her hand again.

They climbed the stairs side by side, their fingers intertwined, the soft rhythm of their footsteps the only sound in the sleeping brownstone.

Upstairs, the city’s hum faded to a heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The day of the Met Gala had finally arrived. The early afternoon air of Manhattan buzzed with anticipation as Marian stepped into the grand Russell townhouse, clutching her overnight bag. The usual calm of Russell House was replaced by the gentle chaos of high fashion preparation. Makeup artists hovered over Bertha, adjusting eye shadow and lipstick with meticulous care, while hair stylists fussed with curls and pins. Stylists flitted around with racks of gowns, shimmering fabrics brushing against polished marble floors.

Bertha, radiant and enjoying the attentions of the glam team, waved Marian over with her usual flair. “Marian darling, come here! You must see how perfectly your dress coordinates with the theme. And don’t even think about changing your mind, I know it’s a bit more low cut then we originally trialled but this gown is just magnificent.”

Marian’s fingers tightened around her bag as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror compared to all the elegant people in the room, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious in her lounge pants and one of Larry’s old, oversized zip up hoody. Her fingers toyed nervously with the straps on her bag before Bertha gestured to one of the staff to relieve her of it and take it upstairs. The yellow-gold silk gown by Versace shimmered under the studio level lighting rig set up in the room, a fitted bodice with draped fabric cascading into a bustle that swished gracefully with every movement before flowing in to a long train. It was a nod to the Gilded Age of New York, a perfect blend of historical elegance and contemporary haute couture.

Bertha’s Head Assistant, a chic French woman called André, clicked away with a bulky camera, capturing candid moments for social media and other content. Marian felt a twinge of embarrassment as the lens swung toward her as a makeup artist cleansed her face, but Bertha laughed, brushing it off. “Do not be shy, darling. These are memories. Later, you’ll see how stunning you look.”

Gladys was still in London, but Marian’s phone buzzed repeatedly with encouraging messages.

Gladys: “Good luck tonight! You’ll look incredible! Don’t let that brother of mine outshine you. 😉”

Marian smiled at the message, typing a quick thanks before setting the phone down. Another ping brought a selfie from Bertha, grinning in her towel robe and face mask, holding a champagne glass. Marian chuckled softly, feeling the warmth of family attention even amid the swirl of activity.

A couple of hours later, a soft knock at the dressing room door made Marian start. Larry’s familiar voice called, “Mind if I come in?”

Marian stepped aside as he entered, offering her a quick, breathless smile. “Hey,” she said softly, her heart fluttering unexpectedly.

Larry paused in the doorway, momentarily forgetting why he’d come. She was still in her robe, her blonde hair half pinned on top of her head, a few soft tendrils brushing the curve of her neck. God, he thought, she doesn’t even have to try. He forced himself to move, to speak, to do something other than stare. He leaned down to peck her cheek, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with his cologne, jasmine and cedar, the combination so familiar it made his chest tighten.

He held out a wide, velvet box. “I have something for you. Consider it a… pre-Gala gift.”

“It’s not a helmet is it?” Marian asked jokingly, causing Larry to grin.

“Sadly no. Go on, open it.” Larry encouraged, trying to sound casual even as his pulse thudded beneath his collar.

Marian’s eyes widened as she cracked the box open to reveal a matching Cartier diamond set: a necklace, earrings, and bracelet, sparkling brilliantly under the room’s soft lighting. Larry watched her reaction, half proud, half nervous. He wanted her to love it, to feel special.

Bertha clapped her hands, practically bouncing on her heels. “Oh, simply divine! Marian, you must wear these tonight. Just look at them!”

Marian’s fingers traced the delicate floral patterns of the diamonds, before she slowly realised something almost magical: the design echoed the floral motifs of the Livingston Tiara, the Brook family heirloom soon to be perched atop her head. “How did you…?” she asked as her eyes snapped up to Larry’s, her voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.

“Ada Forte is a surprisingly excellent accomplice.” Larry winked, teasing. “And I took a photo of that old wedding photo of Agnes you showed me in Newport remember.” He gestured for her to turn around. “Come on, let me help.”

Marian laughed softly, obeying and lifting her hair so he could clasp the necklace “Well, thank you… both of you.” Larry stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint rise and fall of her breathing, the warmth radiating off her skin. His fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, tracing lightly along her collarbone before fastening the clasp.

Larry purposely trailed his fingers across her collar bone and neck, delighting in the soft feel of her skin and the way her breath caught. Her carefully clasped the necklace together at the back and adjusted how it sat slightly before kissing the side of her head and resting his hands on her shoulders, giving a brief squeeze.

Focus, he warned himself, but it was hopeless. The moment stretched, delicate and charged. Her skin was soft beneath his fingertips, and when her breath hitched, the sound sent something primal skittering through him.

He adjusted the chain, fingertips lingering a fraction too long, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of her head, a habit now, but one that always felt new. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, giving a brief squeeze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured and meant it in every possible way.

Marian’s hand flew to her neck to feel the coolness of the diamonds against the warmth of her skin, still tingling from his touch. She turned slightly, just enough that he could see the faint flush blooming across her cheeks. He wanted to touch her again, just to feel that reaction, to know she felt the same pull, but his Mom swept in before he could move.

Bertha came over and fussed with the placement of the earrings with the staff and wardrobe assistants, muttering approvingly, while Marian finally let herself sink into the plush chair, taking in the jewellery and the tiara the hairdresser was now angling on top of her hair. She felt… regal.

The marble hallway of the Russell townhouse was a symphony of motion. Staff moved like clockwork, heels clicking, garment bags whispering, phones buzzing as drivers confirmed routes and security updates. Mrs. Bruce stood near the entrance giving final instructions to staff.

At the foot of the grand staircase, George stood calm and collected, a glass of bourbon in hand. Larry, beside him, was all restless energy, straightening his cufflinks for the third time, running a hand through his hair, pretending not to glance toward the landing every few seconds.

He’d been to hundreds of extravagant parties and galas before, and not one had ever mattered like this.

The front doors opened. A wave of cool air and refinement swept in with the Van Rhijns. Agnes, regal in a Chanel two-piece, led the way with her usual command; Ada followed, soft and fluttery in blue chiffon; Oscar in navy velvet looked like he’d stepped straight out of Vogue; and his partner John, effortlessly charming, offered Bertha’s butler a grateful smile as they entered.

“Well,” Agnes declared, gaze sweeping the gilded ceiling, “I see Mrs. Russell hasn’t embraced minimalism.”

George chuckled. “My wife would call it atmosphere.”

Ada smiled warmly and crossed the marble floor to hug Larry in greeting, the kind of easy, familiar embrace that came from knowing someone since they were young. “We wanted to see you and Marian off properly,” she said fondly as she stepped back, patting his arm. “You know how Agnes is about grand entrances.”

“I am not about grand entrances,” Agnes retorted crisply. “I simply appreciate craftsmanship particularly in fashion.”

Ada chuckled, eyes soft with memory. “All this excitement reminds me of when you took Marian to her senior prom. You looked just as nervous then, although slightly less polished.”

George gave a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth curving. “I remember that. You borrowed one of my cars and brought it back covered in glitter.” He gave Larry a wry look. “How exactly did that happen?”

Larry groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t tell you that.”

George arched an eyebrow, amused. “Probably for the best.”

Oscar laughed under his breath. “Definitely for the best.” Causing John to give him a curious look.

“You don’t want to know Dad,” Larry said quickly, grinning despite himself. The easy laughter filled the grand hall, a comfortable rhythm of family and familiarity, until the sound of heels on marble drew every head upward.

Marian met his gaze as she reached the last few steps, her smile small but knowing. Larry moved forward instinctively, offering his arm to help her down. When her hand slid into his, the connection sent a spark straight through him, familiar and new all at once.

“Is it too much? You’re staring,” she whispered, blushing when she reached the marble floor, though her tone was teasing.

“What? No! Can you blame me?” he murmured back. His hand lingered at her waist as he bent to kiss her softly on her lips. The kind of kiss that silenced the room for a fraction of a second. George turned to his wife with a gleam of satisfaction, their son’s public affection clearly meeting his approval. Even Agnes, for once, looked disarmed.

“You’re breathtaking, truly,” Larry said quietly against Marian’s temple, meaning every syllable.

She smiled up at him, voice barely above a breath. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Russell.”

The flash of a camera cut through the moment as Oscar, grinning, raised his phone. “Oh, don’t mind me. You’ll thank me later when you want something to frame.”

“Stay right there,” Bertha’s assistant André added quickly, gesturing. “Mr Lawrence, one with your family if you please.”

Marian went to step away but Bertha put a hand on her arm, asking her to stay put as she joined them on one side, George on the other. Larry lifted his phone quickly first and took a selfie, something about the mix of tiara and laughter and old New York grandeur felt timeless. Andre then snapped the more formal full length shots against the backdrop of the imposing marble fireplace.

Then Ada caught Larry’s sleeve. “Ah, ah. Your turn. Marian, next to Larry.” He didn’t hesitate, slipping an arm easily around Marian’s waist as they stood together. The photographer in Ada called for one more, then another, until she was satisfied. Marian laughed and moved to the center of the marble floor, her gown catching the light as Agnes, Ada, Oscar, and John joined her, admiring her outfit. Agnes stood perfectly poised, one gloved hand resting on her cane; Oscar, naturally, made a face just as lifted her camera.

“Oscar,” Agnes said crisply, without even glancing his way. “Do try not to look like you’re about to be arrested.”

John chuckled, adjusting Oscar’s tie with mock affection as André snapped the shot. The tiara and diamond necklace caught the chandelier’s light, scattering it in tiny stars across the marble.

“Magnifique.” André said approvingly, lowering the camera.

Marian turned, cheeks flushed with warmth. “Larry, come on, get in here!”

Larry hesitated for only a second, before stepping in to the midst of the Van Rhijn/Brook clan, slipping an arm around Marian’s waist as André raised the camera again. “All right, everyone, very big smiles,” André called, grinning. “And Mr. Oscar, let’s keep it dignified this time, non?”

Oscar sighed dramatically but obeyed, earning another death star from his mother, Agnes. The shutter clicked twice, capturing something more than glamour: laughter, warmth, and the effortless intimacy of family. As André lowered the camera, Marian and Larry exchanged a glance, hers soft and amused, his openly adoring. The tiara glinted above her blonde hair like a halo, her smile unguarded and real, and Larry felt something shift deep in his chest. How had he ever seen her as just his friend?

The staff bustled around them again, preparing coats and final details, but for Larry, the world had narrowed to the woman beside him  and the quiet certainty that tonight, he was going to tell her everything. Bertha swooped in, satisfied. “Now, if the photo shoot is over, perhaps we can go? Lawrence, darling, this is your moment. Don’t let the photographers wait.” Causing Larry to turn to Marian and roll his eyes, where nobody else could see.

As everyone began to move toward the door, Larry held back and took Marian’s hand. “You ready Brook?”

“Ready,” she said softly after a pause.

Outside, the flashes were already starting, the crowd pressing against the barricades. The Van Rhijns and Russells gathered for one last wave before the Russells and Marian into their cars.

The drive to the Met Gala was electric, the city glittering beyond the tinted windows, the glow of the skyline reflected in Marian’s diamonds. New York at night always felt alive, but tonight, the hum of it seemed to match the beat of her heart. Larry sat beside her in the back of the Russell town car, one arm draped casually along the seat, his other hand linked with hers. His parents in the car in front. Outside, traffic lights flickered against polished black paint; inside, the soft jazz from the radio mixed with the faint rustle of Marian’s gown as she shifted.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, voice low, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Marian looked over, eyebrow raised. “Yes. Should I be?”

“Only if you plan to outshine everyone there,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her with undisguised affection. “Which, by the way, you will.”

She gave him a mock look of warning. “Flattery won’t spare you from dancing.”

Larry leaned closer in the back of the car, grin lazy and familiar. “Who said I wanted to be spared?”

The car slowed before the museum steps, where the crush of photographers and the swell of music signalled their arrival. Larry squeezed her hand once more, steady and sure, before stepping out first, then turning back to offer his hand. Marian saw Bertha and George in the glass-walled tent at the entrance to the red carpet, waiting for them. The very picture of power and poise. Bertha glittered in emerald green, her gown sculpted to perfection, chin high as the flashbulbs erupted. George, ever the quiet balance to her brilliance, stood beside her with an easy, composed confidence, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back as they began their slow, regal ascent up the carpeted stairs.

Flashbulbs exploded like blinding fireworks. The noise, the shouting, Larry, over here! Marian, this way! All of it blurred into white light and sound. But when she took his hand and stepped down beside him, it fell away. Larry’s hand slid to her waist, anchoring her as the cameras screamed for attention. They stood together beneath the museum’s grand arches, framed by gold, marble, and light, a thousand shouting voices and yet, somehow, it felt intimate, a secret shared in plain sight.

“Don’t trip,” Larry whispered in her ear with a grin, pressing her hand gently to lighten the mood. “I don’t want to end up as a meme because you pulled me over too.”

Marian laughed, tilting her head towards him as one of Bertha’s assistants darted forward to adjust her gown, letting the bustle and train flow just right for the photographers. “I’ll try not to ruin it for you.” She teased as she reached up to straighten his lapel.

They paused for photos. Marian smiled politely, eyes scanning the crowd further up the red carpet for familiar faces. A few New York socialites she knew waved, murmuring greetings as the reporters called out questions, “Marian, who are you wearing? Larry! A few words?” But everything else; the lights, the noise, the gleam of sequins and silk blurred at the edges. Larry’s hand stayed firm at her waist, grounding her.

And then, halfway up the famous red-carpet stairs, a strand of her train caught on the step behind her and twisted. Without hesitation, Larry crouched to fix it himself. Tuxedo immaculate, expression focused, utterly unbothered by the hundreds of cameras trained on him. The photographers and red carpet reporters roared with delight, shutters clattering like thunder. Larry rose, and with an irreverent grin, stepped back to her side and swept an arm toward her with mock grandeur, as if presenting her to the entire world to photograph.

The crowd went wild; laughter, cheers, a chorus of voices shouting their names. Marian flushed, her laugh bright and unrestrained. or a fleeting moment, she took him in. Taller than most of the men around them, shoulders broad beneath the sharp lines of his formal white tie tailcoat, his dark curls tamed only in theory, already threatening rebellion. The light caught along his jaw, clean and strong, and she felt a sudden, dizzy flicker of awareness. He looked every inch the man the world wanted him to be and somehow entirely her Larry at the same time. Her pulse tripped unexpectedly, heat rising beneath her collar as she tried to steady her breath. It was ridiculous, the effect he could still have on her after all this time, a single look and the world seemed to narrow to him.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said under her breath.

“Maybe,” Larry murmured, leaning close, his voice brushing against her ear, “but you’re exquisite. Someone has to make sure they notice.” He was acutely aware that his own heartbeat stuttered under the blinding lights; he told himself it was the noise, the crowd, the cameras, but it wasn’t. It was her, the one thing in the chaos that still managed to undo him completely.

Bertha glanced back from higher on the stairs, half exasperated, half proud, and George chuckled beside her. The four of them moved slowly up toward the museum’s entrance, the Russell family glittering beneath the flash of lights, a tableau of old power, new charm, and undeniable presence.

Marian glanced sideways at Larry, who still hadn’t let go of her hand. The cameras kept shouting, the crowd kept roaring, but in that instant, all she could feel was his fingers tightening around hers. Steady, certain, hers.

“Ready to survive the night?” he murmured, leaning close so only she could hear.

“As long as you keep me from doing anything ridiculous,” she replied, the tension in her chest easing slightly.

Inside, the museum shimmered like the inside of a jewel box. Gold light spilled across marble floors, refracting through crystal chandeliers and the clink of champagne flutes. The air thrummed with the polite chaos of fame. Camera flashes, laughter, a string quartet drifting from somewhere near the exhibition entrance. The Fashion of the Gilded Age display wound through the galleries like a dream: original Worth gowns, embroidered fans, corseted silhouettes beside modern couture reinterpretations.

Marian walked beside Larry, her arm looped through his, the Versace gown glinting like molten sunlight with each step, the bustle and train trailing in quiet command. Her aunt’s diamond tiara caught every flash, throwing tiny constellations across the marble. Every time his arm shifted against hers, she felt the soft friction of his sleeve brushing her bare skin, and her stomach gave a small, traitorous flutter.

Bertha had already introduced them to half the room. A whirlwind of designers, actors, editors, old friends of the museum. “Marian, darling, this is the curator of the exhibition… and over there, the director of Vogue Paris…oh, and Donatella would like to see you both later.”

A familiar voice drew Marian’s attention. Lina Astor stood nearby in deep sapphire dress, neck draped in jewelled chokers, her daughter Carrie beside her in soft rose chiffon. The sight made Marian’s smile brighten. “Carrie!” she said warmly, touching her arm. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has! You’ve been so busy!” Carrie said, her eyes lighting up. “The charity events, the teaching, the travel, I can hardly keep track. And you look so radiant tonight, Marian. That has to be Versace, isn’t it?”

Marian laughed. “Guilty.”

Larry stepped forward with his easy charm, his winding it’s way around Marian’s waist in a gesture that felt both casual and protective.. “Lina, Carrie, it’s good to see you both.”

Lina smiled graciously. “Lawrence, how lovely. Your mother and the committee have outdone themselves this year.”

“I can’t take any credit,” Larry replied lightly. “I mostly just try to keep up.”

Carrie laughed, glancing between them, her smile turning conspiratorial. “Well, you seem to be keeping up very nicely. I’m so glad the two of you finally got together. I intend to take full credit for calling this years ago.”

Marian’s laugh came a beat too quickly, the kind meant to smooth over a moment that suddenly felt too intimate. Larry chuckled as well, rubbing a thumb along the rim of his champagne glass to mask the faint flicker of nerves. Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat and the air seemed to tighten, warm and uncertain. They both knew it wasn’t quite true, not yet. But beneath the polite laughter and camera flashes, something in that glance felt like acknowledgment. A quiet yes to something neither of them had said aloud. Her breath caught; something sharp and tender lodged in her chest. The air between them seemed to thrum, warm and uncertain, as if everyone else in the room had fallen away for a moment too long.

Then Marian looked away first, smiling back at Carrie with practiced ease. Larry did the same, though the corner of his mouth lingered in something softer than amusement.

Behind them, a sudden burst of applause and camera flashes rippled through the crowd as a famous K-pop group swept into the hall, all gleaming leather and synchronised confidence, trailed by photographers and their entourage. The energy of the room seemed to lift with them, a glittering wave of admiration that rolled across the marble.

Larry leaned closer to Marian, his voice just above the music. “See? I told you there’d be someone to outshine us eventually.”

She smiled, glancing up at him. “Keep trying, Russell.”

Bertha, ever alert to social optics, looked back over her shoulder, clearly pleased by the tableau of her son and Marian surrounded by the Astors and the press of modern royalty. When Donatella finally appeared, she clasped Marian’s hands with delight. “You are perfection, bella. That gown, we made it for the light, but you are lighting up the room. Perfection.”

Marian smiled. “I think the gown does all the work.”

Larry added easily, “I tried it on earlier. It didn’t suit me.” Laughter rippled around them before Bertha was swept away again, radiant and unstoppable. Left momentarily alone, he leaned in close to Marian’s ear. “One drink before your next introduction?”

She arched a brow mischievously, her eyes slowly reaching his. “You’re suggesting we hide from your mother?”

“I’m suggesting we… hydrate. Strategically.” He whispered in her ear, drawing her in to his scheme.

Marian chuckled, unable to help herself. “You do realise every time we sneak off at one of these things, we end up slightly drunk and in trouble.”

“That’s half the fun,” he teased, eyes glinting with memory.

They slipped toward the exhibition hall, Larry slying grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. The crowd thinned amongst the glass cases, replaced by the whisper of silk gowns under spotlights. The air felt cooler here, but it did nothing to calm the heat curling beneath her skin. Each accidental brush of his hand against hers sent a spark through her veins, the same charged energy that had always existed between them, just harder to ignore tonight. Marian stopped before a display of ornate 1880s fans in mother-of-pearl. “Imagine carrying something this delicate through a New York summer,” she said.

“Imagine you carrying one,” Larry replied, bumping her shoulder with his. “You’d use it as a weapon.”

She laughed, shaking her head as he sauntered past her. “Against who?!”

“Whoever interrupted your evening.” He said, trying to keep a straight face.

“You, then.” Marian quipped, rolling her eyes.

Larry lifted his phone. “Smile Brook, before you accuse me again.”

“Fine,” Marian said, stepping beside the display. She placed her hands on her hips, head tilted to the side in mock confidence, the sweep of her gold gown catching the light as she grinned at him. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” he said, laughing as he snapped the photo.

“Your turn.” She reached for the phone, but Larry struck an exaggerated pose first, chin lifted, one hand extended like a fashion model mid-stride. Marian burst out laughing and caught it just in time.

“Another,” she said, still smiling.

“Only if you join me this time.” Larry stepped closer, looping an arm around her ]and pulling her in just as she angled the camera. The flash went off once, twice. The third time Marian pressed a quick but fond kiss to Larry’s cheek, his laughter caught perfectly in the frame. For a second, neither of them moved. Marian could feel the warmth of his skin where her lips had touched. Larry’s breath caught at the intimacy, his grin faltering into something quieter, his eyes searching hers before he cleared his throat and looked down. They reviewed the photos, both leaning toward the screen, shoulders brushing.

“The first one is pure blackmail material,” Marian said, grinning. “But that one,” she tapped the image of her kissing his cheek “Send me that one.”

Larry winked, tucking the phone back into his pocket. “Already did.”

A couple of celebrities stopped them to say hello, a pop star in silver sequins, a director Larry knew from LA, a tech billionaire trying to charm his way to information. Everyone seemed to know them, or want to. Marian handled it with her usual grace, poised yet amused by the surreal glamour of it all.

“I’ve been dragged to events by Agnes since I was seventeen, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” she murmured when they finally had a moment alone.

“Same, not really,” Larry said. “You just learn to pretend the cameras aren’t there.”

“Does that work?”

He met her eyes, voice quiet. “Right now it does.”

Dinner was announced, and they followed the procession back into the Great Hall. The tables glowed beneath towering orchids and candlelight. Marian sat between Larry and George; Bertha across from them beside Anna Wintour and Donatella. The first course arrived, lobster with champagne foam followed by soft chatter and the rustle of silk. Beneath the linen-draped table, Larry’s hand found Marian’s and held it. His thumb brushed over her knuckles once, slow and sure.

She didn’t look down, only smiled faintly, keeping her voice steady as she answered a question from Anna about the exhibition’s historical accuracy and the history of the family tiara she wore. Larry listened half-heartedly to George’s exchange with a senator, his attention anchored to the warmth of her hand beneath the tablecloth. Between courses, they shared quiet jokes about the theatrics of the desserts presented in dry ice, the orchestra’s dramatic flourishes, the way Bertha managed to command conversation at both ends of the table at once.

“You realise,” Marian whispered, “if I eat another morsel, this corset will stage a revolt.”

Larry chuckled. “It’s structurally sound. I checked the blueprints earlier.”

“I hate you,” she murmured through her smile as she sipped on her glass of wine.

He leaned closer, voice low as his arm snaked across the back of her chair. “You love me, at least a little.”

She shot him a look. Playful, warning, but not denying it.

As dessert was cleared and the waiters poured coffee, Bertha turned to speak with Anna and Donatella, and George rose to greet a politician at the next table. The room buzzed with that late-evening energy, soft, golden, a little blurred by champagne. Larry was halfway through another quip when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Lawrence Russell,” came the smooth voice of a man in tailored navy. “Finally I catch you. I’ve been wanting to talk about the European EV expansion project.”

The CEO of one of the world’s largest car companies.

Larry straightened, smile returning automatically. “Of course, I’d be delighted.” He glanced back at Marian, the apology clear in his eyes and the line of his eyebrows.

“I’ll survive,” she mouthed, amusement flickering. He hesitated just long enough for his fingers to brush across her shoulder as he withdrew his arm, a fleeting, silent touch before he rose to shake the man’s hand.

As Larry stepped away into the crowd, Marian watched him go, a smile still lingering on her lips. The orchestra swelled, laughter sparkled like glass around her, and yet she felt the quiet pull of something waiting, something she couldn’t quite name, but would soon understand.

The night shimmered on as if New York itself had dressed for the occasion. The orange glow of the city night sky spilled through the Met’s vast windows, gold and honeyed, brushing over marble and silk and crystal. The orchestra played something soft and lilting, the kind of music that made people lean closer just to be heard.

Larry had been sat next to his father, half listening to a conversation droning on about railroad rejuvenation funding injections when he saw her. Marian.

Across the great hall, she stood beneath one of the archways next to his Mom, Lina Astor, the editor of British Vogue and a couple of other people he didn’t recognise. The gold thread of her gown twinkling in the candlelight; her hair, twisted into plaits and curls on top of her head, with her aunt’s tiara that gleamed as she turned her head to laugh at something the editor said. It was that laugh. Low, unguarded, achingly familiar, that struck him hardest. Eleven years, and it still undid him every time.

The noise of the room dulled. He saw nothing but her, the curve of her smile, the grace in the way she tilted her chin, the kindness in her eyes even when she tried to look unimpressed by society’s glitter.

And just like that, he realised he couldn’t remember the last time his life had made sense without her in it.

When he’d bought her that building on a whim, he’d told her it was an investment in art, that every budding artist needed a patron. But the truth had been simpler and far more dangerous: he wanted her to have something that was hers, a place no one could take away and he wanted to be the one to make that dream come true for her. Her gallery, her dream. He hadn’t needed thanks. The look on her face when she first stepped inside had been enough. That afternoon had ended in a corner of the gallery’s half-finished second floor, a kiss that had shaken them both, too real to disguise as a performance. And even before that, since his return to New York after the Susan Blaine scandal, the line between friends and…something else, had only blurred further, lazy mornings tangled in sunlight, laughter over coffee, bagels at the office, the unspoken ease that had become the quiet centre of his world.

And still, they’d never really talked.

Until tonight, hopefully.

He had planned this for weeks: the setting, the words, the courage. The Temple of Dendur, old stone, still water, something enduring. It felt like the only place that could hold everything he wanted to say. The arrangements had been easy once his mind was set — a private wing, the candles, the Dom Perignon champagne; making sure the vintage was the year he and Marian had met. Money, after all, was the least complicated part.

When their eyes met across the crowd, she gave him a familiar look that said get me out of here. He smiled and came to her rescue without hesitation, cutting a path through the throng with easy confidence, his steps relaxed though his pulse wasn’t.

“Another round of introductions?” he murmured when he reached her, slipping a hand to rest on the small of her back.

“I might start pretending I don’t speak English,” she whispered back causing him to chuckle, the sound almost lost to the live music.

“You look like you could use an escape,” he said quietly in her ear as he leant down.

“That obvious?”

“To me? Always.” He straightened up and offered her his arm. “Come on. I know a better exhibit.”

They slipped away unnoticed, their footsteps echoing down the quiet marble corridor until the music faded into a distant hum, leaving the brightness and chatter behind. Larry nodded as he passed a security guard, then unhooked a velvet rope barrier, letting her through and then closing it again behind them. The air grew cooler, quieter. Ahead, the Temple of Dendur rose in golden stillness beneath the great glass ceiling. Candlelight danced across the ancient stone, reflected in the pool at its base where their two blurred silhouettes shimmered side by side. The city glittered beyond the glass, Manhattan vast, eternal, and yet somehow small beneath the spell of the night.

Marian turned in a slow circle, taking in the sea of candles and the table at the centre set with her favourite champagne on ice. “You planned this,” she said. Her self-control wavered. No one had ever done something like this for her, not for the sake of spectacle, but sincerity. It struck her then just how deeply Larry knew her, and how much that terrified and comforted her all at once.

“I did,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“Because we never finished our conversation in Newport.” His voice was calm and deep, but he could feel his heartbeat hard against his collar. “You said we’d never really talked about what we are. And you were right. So… here we are.”

Her expression softened, cautious but open, a hint of hope blooming behind her composure. “And …what do you want to say, Larry?” Marian could feel her pulse in her throat, the old ache of wanting him and fearing what it might mean, rising to the surface. Part of her wanted to look away, to protect herself from whatever was coming next. But she didn't.

Larry drew a breath to steady himself. “That I meant what I said then. Whatever happens next, it’s your choice and you’ll always have me regardless. But you deserve to know what I want- that is, I need to finish what I should’ve said then.”

He stepped closer, the faint scent of her perfume rising between them, the air charged with something fragile and electric, familiar even. “I want everything with you, Marian. Not just the act we’ve been putting on. Not just the parts we let the world see. I want the real thing, the mornings and the arguments, the laughter, the silence, the work, the years. You. All of it.”

She blinked, breath hitching. “Larry…” she breathed as her stomach did somersaults.

He reached for her hand, tracing his thumb over her knuckles. “You’ve been my best friend for over eleven years. My whole adult life. You were the person I told everything to. The one constant when the world kept shifting. And somewhere along the way, friendship turned into something I didn’t have the courage to name.” he gave a faint, rueful smile suddenly feeling self-conscious. “When we started this ridiculous arrangement, the one we thought would keep the world at bay, I should’ve known from the first practice kiss that I was already lost. I kept trying to laugh it off, to convince myself, because it terrified me.”

He paused, seeing the flicker of that memory in her eyes too, the nervous humour, the spark neither of them had dared to name. Candlelight rippled across her face, catching the softness of her mouth, the vulnerability she couldn’t hide in her blue eyes. “I’ve spent months pretending this arrangement was clever…” he said, his voice dropping to a low, unguarded confession. “…that we were just saving each other.”

He took a slow breath, bringing both of her hands between his, the warmth between them rising like a tide as his eyes remained steady on hers.

“You, from every man who didn’t deserve you, and me, from the press, from my family’s disappointment and the mess I made of my own reputation.”

Marian’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes searched his, as if trying to read the truth before he said it. He reached out, brushing a curl from her cheek, his fingers trembling just slightly before returning to her hands.

“But the months slipped by,” he continued, softer now, “ and I found myself in the middle of it before I knew it had even begun. I told myself I was protecting you. That if I kept idiots like Tom Raikes away, I’d be doing something good.”

He hesitated, the silence stretching between them like a held breath.

“Ultimately, the truth was simpler and far more selfish,” His voice dropped, rough with feeling, “I just didn’t want another man near you. I didn’t want anyone else to even try to deserve you. Because deep down, I wanted it to be me.”

He looked at her then, fully, as if laying everything bare. Her lips parted, but he went on, steady now, every word falling like truth finally given permission to breathe.

His voice grew quieter, more certain.

“I love you, Marian.”

The words came out quiet, almost reverent. Then stronger, “I am so in love with you. Not in the familiar, easy way I used to love you, not the comfortable kind you can carry around without noticing. I’m in it. Entirely. I think I always was, but it’s been there waiting for me to realise and catch up.”

Marian's lips parted in a silent 'O', but he went on, steady now, every word falling like truth finally given permission to breathe. The words came easier now, steady and certain. “The truth is, my favourite part of every day is you, waking up beside you, hearing you laugh, stealing my clothes, knowing you’re there. I want to spend every day for the rest of my life making you happy. I want to love you, build a life with you, grow old with you and…” He hesitated, eyes sparkling as his signature grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “…I want to make love to you too. Not as a performance, not as a convenience, but because I love you. Because I want you, in every way, and I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her breath caught; her hands trembled slightly in his larger ones. A part of her still couldn’t believe he was saying it, the words she had dreamed of, now real and spoken aloud. Every syllable seemed to wrap around her like warmth, steadying the rush of tears that threatened to fall. The golden light flickered between them, reflections dancing across her face. He took another step closer, his voice almost a whisper as his hands slipped to rest on her hips. “That’s what I want. But that future is only what happens if you want it too.” For a long, delicate moment, the silence held, broken only by the ripple of water and the faint echo of a waltz from somewhere far behind them.

Then Marian exhaled, tears glinting in her eyes though her smile was steady. “You idiot,” she whispered, half laughing.

“Accurate.” Larry acknowledged with a crooked grin, relief flooding through him at her usual teasing.

She shook her head, still smiling, and reached up to touch his face, fingertips brushing the stubble starting to appear along his jaw. “How could you think I don’t want that? You truly believe I’d have gone along with your hair-brained scheme, argue with my family, and… ruin every other man in New York for me if I didn’t love you?”

His heart stuttered, his voice rough with emotion. “Say it again.” Larry wanted to memorise this, the way Marian looked at him now, open and unguarded, her expression full of something that felt like forever.

“I love you.” Marian said simply, the words certain, heavy with years. “I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve known how to say it or understand it.” The confession unfurled between them like something ancient and inevitable and momentarily, Marian thought she might cry from the sheer relief of finally saying aloud what had lived in her every glance and hesitation for so long.

The air seemed to still around them.

Larry felt his throat tighten, tears pricking unexpectedly. It hit him all at once. He swallowed hard, eyes burning as the weight of her words sank in. He hadn’t realised until now how long he’d been holding his breath, or how much it meant to finally stop. He drew her in, one hand sliding around her waist, the other cradling the back of her neck. Their lips brushed for half a heartbeat, the kind of pause that felt like a question and an answer at once, then the distance vanished.

The kiss that followed wasn’t careful this time; it was everything unspoken. Fierce, reverent, alive. Her fingers curled into his lapel, clutching as if to steady herself; his thumb traced the line of her spine, the faint tremor beneath her corset betraying the rush of heat in her veins. His mouth moved against hers with the certainty of something long overdue. Tender at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if every year apart had been gathering toward this one breathless moment.

The temple glowed behind them like a witness, the flickering light of the candles spilling over them. Gold and infinite.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, smiling as their faces rested together. The warmth of his skin against hers grounding and electric all at once. Marian’s chest rose and fell in the corseted gown, her breath uneven.

Larry let out a breath that trembled slightly, half a laugh breaking through. “Marian, I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. You’ve been standing in front of me all this time, loving me anyway, and I was too busy being an idiot, like you said.”

Her throat tightened. “You didn’t keep me waiting,” she whispered. “You were just catching up.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, relief and affection flooding through him.

“Story of my life,” he grumbled, his eyes dancing with enjoyment.

“Well,” Marian teased, reaching up to adjust his white bow tie, “you should be used to it by now. I’ve been winning since the first time you tried to beat me at chess.

“Not anymore,” Larry said, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “This time, I’m staying right here Brook.”

His hand slid up to cradle her cheek again, his thumb tracing the edge of her smile as though memorising her. She leaned into the touch, eyes closing for a moment, a gesture of trust, of home.

Then he kissed her again.

There was nothing gentle about it this time. The years of restraint, of pretending, of skirting the edges of something undeniable, all came undone in an instant. Larry's mouth found hers with hungry certainty, a low sound escaping him as he drew her in, one hand sliding into the back of her hair, the other anchoring her against him. Marian gasped against his lips, the sound half-surprise, half-surrender, her arms snaking up around his neck to hold on to him as if to keep the world from tilting away.

The kiss deepened, fierce and unrestrained, a collision of every unspoken word and every stolen glance that had led them here. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips, his heartbeat hammering against hers, their breath tangling as they moved together in perfect, desperate rhythm. Larry's arms tightened around her, drawing her against him until the world shrank to the warmth between them, to the faint echo of music that seemed to sway with them in the distance. For a moment there was nothing but the press of his hands, the warmth of her body against him, the shared ache of finally having what neither had dared to reach for.

When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, breath mingling, noses brushing, their foreheads resting together as if neither quite trusted the air between them. The room around them blurred, music faint and distant, but the space between their hearts still thrummed with everything that had just changed.

“So,” Marian murmured, voice still unsteady as she searched his eyes, “we’ve finally talked.”

Larry laughed quietly, forehead against hers. “We have.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, brushing a kiss to her temple, “I keep my promise.” They stood together in the hush of the temple, their reflections rippling in the pool, two figures caught between history and tomorrow. Somewhere in the distance, the music changed, and for the first time in years, Larry felt completely at peace. “Whatever you want happens next.”

She hesitated just long enough to let him see the truth in her gaze, then rose on her toes and kissed him again. Slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt. When she pulled back, her breath trembled against his cheek.

“I want you to take me home,” she whispered.

Larry stilled, eyes locked on hers. He saw it then, not just the love he’d known for years, but something new shimmering beneath it. Desire. Need. The same yearning that had haunted every almost between them.

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing the side of her neck. “Marian…”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Please.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Then he nodded, a slow, unspoken vow in the motion, and took her hand.

They didn’t tell anyone they were leaving, not his parents, not the Astors, not the press team still managing the gala chaos. One moment they were standing beneath the Temple of Dendur lights, the next they were gone, disappearing into the current of the night as if the city itself had conspired to clear a path.

Outside, the Met steps were still alive with flashes and noise, the last wave of photographers calling names into the warm night air. Barricades lined the sidewalks, fans pressed close for a final glimpse of the night’s royalty. The second they appeared, the lights found them again en masse, the diamonds and gold of her gown catching the flashes like fire, Larry’s hand steady at her back as security ushered them through the screaming crowd towards the waiting SUV.

The car door closed behind them with a soft, blessed thud. The noise outside dissolved into silence, replaced by the hum of the city beyond the tinted glass. Marian exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her as the adrenaline bled into something quieter. Larry reached for her hand, their fingers lacing together in the dark as the car pulled away from the Met.

“Finally, a little privacy,” He uttered before diving across the back of the car and capturing her mouth in a kiss that was all heat and promise. A kiss she met without hesitation, her fingers already curling into his jacket.

By the time they reached Russell House, the city had softened into its late-night rhythm. The staff were waiting as the SUV rolled to a stop, poised and discreet, as if anticipating what the evening had already promised. The front doors opened before they reached them, warm light spilling across the stone steps. Church gave a single nod, understanding in his eyes, and turned away as they entered.

Inside, the house was hushed as Bertha and George had not yet returned. Only the faint echo of their footsteps and the rustle of her gown broke the stillness. At the base of the stairs, Larry turned to her, a quiet laugh escaping him, part disbelief, part awe. Then, without a word, he swept her into his arms. Marian gasped softly, her gold gown trailing behind them like liquid light as he carried her upward, step by deliberate step.

When they reached his room, he set her down gently, keeping her in his arms as he pulled his formal black tailcoat off one arm at a time.

Larry’s hand was still warm at her back when she finally stepped away, half laughing, half dizzy. “You’re terribly overdressed for what I have planned Miss Brook,” he murmured, glancing at the shimmer of her gown.

Marian arched a brow. “Whose fault is that? You insisted on the biggest night in the New York calendar.”

“Technically, I insisted on a romantic confession.”

“And you thought a couture gown with a built-in corset would help with the romance?” Marian teased as she attempted to unclasp her stiletto heels whilst balanced on one leg.

“That was Versace, not me.” Larry fired back as he quickly knelt down to help Marian with the straps of her shoes.

She laughed, the sound light as she turned toward the mirror. “Isn’t there usually a couple of wardrobe assistants around for this, I’m sewed in.” she said, fingers brushing the delicate seams of her gown.

“Not tonight. No interruptions allowed.” He came up behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror’s reflection before his hands rose, careful and slow, to the intricate fastenings down her back. “May I?” She nodded, her breath catching as his fingertips grazed her skin. He worked gently, deliberately, each touch drawing a shiver.

“Architects are good with small details,” he murmured as he placed a gentle kiss below her ear, a smile in his voice.

“I can see that,” she said as she swallowed. Trying, and failing, to sound nonchalant despite her heart beating a marathon in her chest.

“There,” he said softly as the gown loosened, his voice suddenly rougher. “All structural elements accounted for.”

“Is that what you tell every woman you undress?” she teased, holding the front of her dress up with her palm, as she glanced back at him.

“Only the ones immune to all my best lines.”

That earned him another laugh, though it faltered when his hand lingered at the small of her back. The air between them thickened again, the playfulness edged with something heavier, sweeter.

Marian reached up, fingers brushing the diamonds in her hair. “At least help me take this off before it drop-”

But she didn’t finish the sentence. Larry swooped her up suddenly, strong arms circling her under her knees and around her back as she gasped and laughed in surprise.

“Larry!”

“Leave the tiara on,” he stated thickly, grin bright against the dim light. “It suits you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Accurate,” he said playing along with their usual back and forth, shifting her slightly in his arms. “Also, a man fulfilling a lifelong dream of rescuing a princess from a ball.”

“Rescuing?” she said between laughter. “It was my idea to leave!”

“Semantics.” Larry kissed her forehead, his smile softening. “You looked happier than I’ve ever seen you at a big party like that though.”

“I- I was,” she admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, voice dropping. “Then I did something right tonight.”

Marian’s laughter faded into a gentler kind of silence. She traced the edge of his collar with her fingertips before pulling his white bow tie off. “You’re still holding me.”

“Not planning to stop,” Larry said, and his smile turned tender.

She tilted her head, eyes bright with amusement and something warmer. “Then carry on, Mr. Russell.”

And he did, across the room, through the flicker of firelight, the tiara still glinting like a constellation as their laughter mingled with the quiet of the hour.

He carried her toward the bed, laughter still caught between them. The diamonds in her hair glimmered with every step, scattering light across his shirt, her skin, the walls.

“Larry,” she whispered, half a laugh, half a sigh as she unbuttoned his shirt.

“Hmm?”

“You’re still wearing your socks.”

He looked down, grinning. “What? Oh. Easily corrected.” Marian’s laughter softened as he set her down on the huge bed, his hands lingering at her waist as he joined her. The teasing fell away, replaced by something quieter, years of wanting, trust, and knowing.

He brushed his thumb along her cheek, eyes meeting hers. “You’re sure?”

She nodded once, the movement barely more than breath.

That was all it took.

Larry bent to kiss her, and the room seemed to lean with them. When Marian whispered his name, it wasn’t a question anymore, it was an answer.

The LED spotlights dimmed on their timer; the TV turned itself off. Beyond the windows, New York slept, and inside the quiet room, the night held nothing but warmth and the sound of two hearts finally together as one.

The morning sunlight spilled across the room like something curious and new. It caught on the edge of the fireplace, the scattered trail of clothes across the rug, the faint glimmer of Marian’s borrowed tiara resting crookedly on the dressing table. The fire had burned down to ash, but its warmth lingered along with the unmistakable scent of cedar, silk, and him.

Marian woke slowly, her body deliciously heavy, her mind still caught somewhere between dream and memory but thankfully hangover free. She could feel Larry before she saw him,  the weight of his arm across her waist, the steady warmth of his skin as he curled around her. His breath brushed the back of her neck in an even rhythm, and her heart gave a small, giddy lurch.

She lay there for a moment, just feeling it: the stillness, the ease. For years, she had imagined what this would feel like, not the grand gestures, but this quiet. Waking up next to him without a single doubt left between them.

When she finally turned to face him, the sight almost undid her. Larry Russell, her best friend, her partner in every possible misadventure was fast asleep, hair rumpled, mouth faintly curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

Her cheeks warmed as the memories returned, the way he’d kissed her last night, reverent and certain, the sound of his laugh between kisses, the gentleness in his hands as their bodies fit together perfectly. Everything about it had felt both inevitable and brand new. She could still feel the echo of it in her skin, in the way her limbs refused to move, as if her body was reluctant to let go of the night. It had been more than she’d imagined. Deeper, quieter, and somehow more consuming.

Larry stirred, eyes blinking open to find her watching him. His voice was rough with sleep. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” she whispered, smiling.

He reached up groggily, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she said, trying for composure and failing.

He grinned, that lopsided, boyish grin that always undid her. “Fair. I did enough staring last night to even the score.” With a teasing look, he reached for the bed sheet tucked under Marian’s arms to peek under it cheekily.

Her blush deepened as she swotted his hands away, though the smile never left her lips. “Larry Russell!”

Larry’s grin lingered, but then his eyes softened. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, fingers tracing lazy circles on her arm. “Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“You just did.” She teased.

He gave a quiet laugh, then caught her gaze again. “Was it… good? For you… last night, I mean.”

Marian stared at him, momentarily startled, then smiled, slow, knowing. “Which time?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Larry froze, then laughed, low and delighted, his whole expression breaking into a grin. “I stand corrected. Marian Brook is not the shy one in this relationship.”

Marian’s blush rose fast and vivid, spreading to the tips of her ears. “You know perfectly well,” she muttered, attempting to hide her face in the pillow.

“Oh, I know,” Larry teased, his voice a husky mix of pride and affection. “But hearing you say it might be my new favourite thing.”

“Larry Russell!” she said into the pillow, her words muffled but her laughter unmistakable.

He leaned in, lips brushing the edge of her hair. “That’s a yes, then,” he murmured.

Her answer came soft but certain. “That’s a very emphatic yes.”

Larry smiled against her temple, feeling something in his chest unclench, a warmth so deep it nearly ached. “Good,” he said simply. “Then I can die a happy man.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, swatting his shoulder without lifting her head. Marian turned toward him then, her expression soft but curious. “And what about you?” she asked quietly. “Did you…?”

Larry blinked, surprised for a moment, then his grin turned boyish. “Marian, if you’d told nineteen-year-old me that someday this would ever happen, he’d have thought he was dreaming.”

She laughed, the sound bright against the morning quiet. “That’s not a real answer Mr Russell!”

Larry brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Then here’s the real one,” he murmured as he leaned in, kissing her gently, his voice soft against her lips. “It was perfect. You were perfect. You are.”

Her cheeks flushed again, but this time she didn’t hide. “Good,” she whispered, smiling. “Then we’re even.” Marian chuckled quietly and rested her head against his chest as he wrapped his arm around her in response. For a few moments they simply breathed together, the silence rich with everything that didn’t need to be spoken. When she spoke again, her voice was clearer, thoughtful. “This morning feels… different. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeh, it does,” Larry observed in agreement, looking at the ornate ceiling. “Everything before was weighed down by that stupid arrangement. This… this is…liberating.”

Marian lifted her head, propping her chin on her shoulder to meet his gaze. “I meant what I said Larry, I want this. Us. For real. No more games.”

Larry’s free hand slid into her hair, playing with it. His touch slow, certain. “Then this is it,” he confirmed. “For real. I promise.”

Marian’s heart swelled. She leaned forward again, kissing him tenderly, this time with certainty, not hesitation. Larry’s hand slid up her back, warm and sure against her skin, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened, playful, familiar, but threaded with something richer. When they broke apart, she rested her chin back on his shoulder.

“I can’t stop thinking about how complicated we made all this,” she murmured. “The fake smiles, the stories, the elaborate arrangement.”

“It wasn’t all fake,” Larry said, rubbing her arm reassuringly whilst pondering his next words. “We just… didn’t have the vocabulary yet.”

“That’s a generous rewrite. Larry, we’ve been lying to everyone.”

“I did say it was only a deal until the first amendment!” Larry said with mock solemnity as his feet tangled with Marian’s under the sheets. “So consider the arrangement... retroactively reclassified.”

“As what?”

He grinned. “A slow start. Pretending served its purpose,” he murmured, brushing his fingers under her chin to tip her head up. “It brought us here.”

“Yes, but-” she hesitated, breaking eye contact and tracing the line of his collarbone idly, her brows furrowed. “We lied to people, Larry. Our families. About being together when we weren’t.”

He lifted his head, eyes warm. “Correction,” he said. “We are together now. The lie sort of…fixed itself.”

She gave him a look that was half exasperation, half delight as she snuggled down under the covers. “You can’t just rewrite history because it’s convenient.”

“I can when it’s the truth now.” Larry countered with the pleased expression of a man who knew he’d won.

“You sound like my Aunt Agnes.”

“Please don’t ever say that to me when we’re in bed together again,” he sniggered, and kissed her again.

She laughed, the sound spilling easily between them. “Together sounds so final.”

“It is now.” He brushed his thumb along her jaw. “We’re not pretending anymore, Marian. And nobody found out. Now we’re together…they don’t need to. There’s no harm done. That’s the truth.”

Marian’s pulse jumped at the way he said it. So steady, so sure. She realised she liked hearing we’re together more than she expected. Perhaps Larry did have a point about it all coming right in the end too.

“About that…” she began, biting her lip. “I may have told Peggy about the whole fake dating…arrangement…thing.”

Larry groaned and dragged a pillow over his face. “Oh, God.”

“I was upset,” Marian exclaimed quickly. “And had no idea how you felt then, so was doubly upset about it all actually.”

“Mariaaan…”

“Peg promised she wouldn’t tell anyone!”

“Which means she told Will.” He peeked at her from underneath the pillow and saw her grimace at his comment, causing the penny to drop. “You told Will!”

“Possibly.” She chuckled, prising the pillow away from his face.

He dropped his hand and exhaled dramatically. “Of course. Perfect. Our romantic life is now breakfast entertainment for the Scott-Kirklands.”

Marian tried not to laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”

“I’m going to die of embarrassment,” he muttered. Then, half-laughing, “You realise this means Will probably made a spreadsheet tracking our fake relationship timeline to piece things together?”

“Then you’ll just have to tell them it’s all official now so spreadsheets no longer required,” she teased.

“I’ll let you handle that press release,” Larry said, sitting up and stretching. The early morning sunlight caught the lines of him, golden across his shoulders, trailing down to where the crisp, white bedsheet had slipped low on his hips. Marian’s brain promptly forgot every word of the English language.

Larry noticed, of course. He grinned, mid-stretch, with self-satisfaction. “You’re staring again Brook.”

“I’m just…admiring,” Marian shrugged simply, going along with his joke.

“Admire away,” he said, standing and padding towards the bathroom with the easy, unashamed confidence of a man comfortable in his own body. “But if you’re going to admire, do it properly. Some angles are more photogenic than others.”

She threw a cushion at him, laughing at his ridiculousness. “You’re lucky I like you.” Larry glanced back, catching her gaze and smirking. Marian’s eyes followed him, unashamed now. The muscles in his back shifted with each step, lean and defined, the kind of effortless definition that came from years of working out. His shoulders rolled as he walked, and the way his body moved, relaxed, certain, made something in her chest tighten. She’d seen him a thousand times, but never like this. Never with nothing between them but morning light and truth.

“Part of my charm,” Larry called over his shoulder, disappearing into the ensuite. “Oh, and you might want to update Peggy before she starts planning an intervention.”

“I’ll do that,” Marian said, still smiling. The sound of running water started up a moment later, and Marian lay back against the pillows, the sheets still warm where he’d been. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers hovering over the screen.

The diamonds from her tiara glinted faintly on the dressing table across the room. The sight made her smile again, last night’s magic lingering into the day.

She opened her messages and began to type, still smiling to herself.

Peggy: So… how was the Met?

Marian smiled, biting her lip before replying.

Marian: Beautiful. And eventful.

Peggy: Eventful how?
Marian: We talked. Properly this time.

Peggy: Define properly. Because last time you said that, you’d only managed a three-minute heart-to-heart before Larry distracted you with food.
Marian: This was different. Grand gesture, no pretending. Just… us.
Peggy: Oh my God. You finally told him.
Marian: He told me, actually.
Peggy: !!!!!!
Peggy: Told you as in  “declared his undying love” or “talked until someone’s jacket ended up on the floor”?

Marian’s blush deepened. She hesitated, then typed:

Marian: Both?

A pause. Larry’s humming drifted faintly from the en-suite, mingling with the sound of running water.

Then her phone buzzed and Peggy’s next messages arrived in quick succession.

Peggy: Oh. My. God.
Peggy: Where are you right now?

Marian stared at the screen, then sighed, smiling helplessly.

Marian: At the Russell house.
Peggy: Which part of the Russell house, exactly?
Marian: …His room.

Another pause. Then,

Peggy: Finally. Eleven years, one fake relationship, and a literal Met Gala later. I was beginning to think one of you needed divine intervention.

Marian: You sound like Will.
Peggy: Who says he’s owed twenty dollars. Apparently he bet on this outcome before Newport.

Marian: Tell him not to spend it yet.
Peggy: Oh, he’s already ordering breakfast to celebrate. So? Are you happy?

Marian smiled down at the phone, fingers pausing before she typed.

Marian: More than I can explain Peg.

Peggy: Then that’s all I needed to hear. But don’t think you’re escaping the debrief. Lunch this week. I want every detail.

Marian: You’d settle for half the detail. Trust me.
Peggy: True. But I’ll still ask for them all.

Marian laughed softly to herself and set the phone aside just as Larry reappeared, towel slung around his hips, hair damp and eyes still bright with the warmth of sleep. He caught her smile immediately.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

She shook her head, grinning. “Peggy. She says I owe her lunch.”

He smirked. “She can get in line.” With that, he flopped back down on the bed next to her.

Larry stretched out across the bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone. The screen glowed faintly in the morning light, full of unread messages from his PA and leadership team that he was half-heartedly pretending to care about. Between swipes, he paused, the photo of Marian kissing his cheek from the night before flashing across the screen and, without really thinking, he set it as his phone background. There would be enough paparazzi and press photographs from the event to keep the media happy, this photo was for them alone.

Marian shifted beside him, the sheet rustling softly as she brought her knees up. “You’re checking work emails already?”

“Mm” He didn’t look up. “Trying to. Our CFO has forwarded me the latest trial balances. There’s an error in the liabilities from earlier in the year that doesn’t add up.”

“Larry,” she interrupted, her voice warm with mock disbelief. “It’s early morning. You could at least pretend to rest.”

He smiled involuntarily as he thought of his retort, eyes still on the screen. “The golden boy of Wall Street doesn’t rest.”

“Well, neither does your ego clearly,” she teased, slipping out of bed. She reached for the nearest thing, his crumpled dress shirt from the night before and pulled it on. The lingering scent of his aftershave on the fabric invaded her senses. The shirt hung loose around her, the collar skimming her collarbones as the hem just grazed across the top of her thighs.

That got his attention. Larry lowered the phone slowly, eyes narrowing in amused admiration. “That’s not exactly office appropriate Miss Brook.” He teased, whilst appreciating her figure and sleep-mussed hair.

Marian buttoned a single button in the middle, ignoring him. “Good thing I’m not in the office today.”

He let out an amused groan under his breath. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said lightly, strolling towards the bathroom.

A moment later, the sound of running water filled the quiet room once again, steam beginning to curl through the open doorway. Larry leaned back against the headboard, his gaze lingering on the trail of their clothes scattered across the rug, her gold gown slung haphazardly over a chair. He smirked to himself, replaying the series of events from the night before in his mind that led to such a mess, before unlocking his phone and returning to the email app.

Marian’s voice floated out the bathroom through the mist. “You’re not still checking emails, are you?”

Larry grinned. “Caught me!” he called back thinking either Marian was psychic or he was getting predictable.

The door creaked open. Marian peered out, framed by the rising steam, hair damp, water droplets dripping off her bare shoulder, blue eyes glinting with mischief.

“Then stop working…” she told him, soft but deliberate. “…and come join me.”

His head shot up, mouth open, but before he could reply she tossed his shirt back into the room. It hit him square in the chest, still warm from her skin.

Larry’s smirk deepened. That low, easy confidence sparking behind his eyes as he enjoyed this new reality. Without a word, he sprung up before chucking his phone onto the bed, the screen going dark and was already halfway across the bedroom before the shirt even slid to the floor.

Marian’s laugh as he reached her echoed, the sound mixing with the hiss of water and the morning light spilling in around them. The bathroom door closed behind them, their laughter soft and certain as the city stirred awake beyond the glass.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled across Larry’s bedroom in long, amber stripes, catching on the gilt mirror and the folds of white linen, highlighting the edges of the furniture and catching in the faint dust motes that drifted through the still air. The city murmured faintly beyond the glass; cars, footsteps, the start of another New York day. Marian stood before the mirror, brushing out her long, blonde hair, the faded crimson of Larry’s old Harvard t-shirt hanging loose around her. The cotton was soft from years of washing, the neckline slightly frayed. It was far too big for her, the hem grazing her thighs. She smiled faintly at the sight. Half amused, half content. The t-shirt smelled of him, of cedar, aftershave and something unmistakably his.

Behind her, the door opened with a rush of cooler air and Larry sauntered in. He was flushed from his run, curls damp against his forehead, shirt damp with sweat clinging to his muscular shoulders. A glint of mischief lit his eyes as he peeled off his wet t-shirt, tossed it onto the chair and bent to untie his sneakers whilst watching her in the reflection with that half-crooked smile that belonged only to her.

“Good morning, my love,” Larry greeted, voice breathless and bright from exertion.

Marian glanced at him in the mirror, the softest smile curving her lips.

“You’re late.”

“For what!?” He demanded, grinning as he stood back up and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.

“For kissing me good morning.”

His eyes softened before he crossed the space in two strides, arms circling her waist from behind, his chin lowering to her shoulder. The scent of her perfume mixed with the faint trace of his cologne. His lips brushed just beneath her ear, lazy and affectionate.

“Better?” he murmured against her skin.

“Hmm, almost.” She turned her head, and their mouths met. Slow, lingering, unhurried, the kind of kiss that spoke of ease rather than urgency. His hands rested over her stomach, her fingers coming up to cover his. The world beyond the window blurred into quiet sound. Car wheels, distant laughter, nothing that mattered here. “We’re going to be late for breakfast,” Marian sighed when they parted, breath catching slightly.

“Then breakfast can wait,” Larry mumbled with a smile, stealing another kiss as his hand creeped to the edge of the t-shirt Marian wore.

“Nice try Russell.” She laughed softly, slipping from his arms, reaching for her makeup bag on the table. “You’ve been out already?”

“Five miles,” he said, still breathless. “Nearly beat the milk cart back…” He trailed off as he glanced down at the faded crimson cotton grazing her thighs. “You make it look better than I ever did.”

Marian smirked. “Strategic borrowing.”

He laughed, stepping closer. “That shirt’s been missing for eight years, Brook. I think we’ve moved past borrowed.”

“It’s comfortable,” she replied, smoothing the frayed neckline.

Larry leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Keep it. Consider it evidence of domestic harmony.” He turned toward the door, tossing her a wink. “Right, give me five minutes to shower before my Mom assumes I’ve collapsed in the park.”

Steam drifted from the adjoining bath as the water started. Marian knelt in front of the mirror, and started doing her makeup, still smiling to herself. Her phone buzzed on the floor beside the mirror, screen lighting up with fresh headlines:

Billionaire Larry Russell and Marian Brook Steal the Met Gala Spotlight. New York’s Favorite Love Story Shines Again

Marian Brook Revives Old New York Glamour in Custom Versace and Heirloom Tiara at the Met Gala, Hand-in-Hand with Reformed Playboy Larry Russell

Larian Leave the Met Gala Early - Fans Spot Romantic Smooch in the Backseat

Twitter: She played the long game and won. Respect the hustle. 💅
#FromTeacherToTiara #MarianMadeIt

Marian leaned over to peer at the screen but sighed as she read it and decided not to reach for it. She simply resumed applying the highlighter under her eyes, steady and unbothered.

By the time Larry re-emerged, clean-shaven, shirtless, towel looped around his waist, she was stood again, twisting her hair into a soft knot. He moved quickly, retrieving his suit from the walk-in closet, shirt unbuttoned, tie draped loose around his neck, talking animatedly about Jack’s invention and the meetings he was trying to line up as he pulled his trousers on.

Marian shook her head, amused, and pulled his old Harvard T-shirt off over her head with practiced ease, stepping into her dress. Larry paused mid-sentence, momentarily distracted. His words faltered as he watched her, the way the sunlight caught the curve of her breast, the soft sweep of her back as she clasped the bra together, the quiet confidence in her movements. There was something about seeing her like this, unguarded, graceful, utterly at home in his space that made his chest tighten. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was radiant in a way that felt personal, like he’d somehow won the lottery. The sight of her in his shirt, and now out of it, stirred something deeper than desire, a kind of awe, threaded with love.

Unaware of Larry’s train of thought, Marian pulled the dress up, twisting slightly to reach the back zipper before feeling his hands replace hers, gentle, sure. Larry zipped the gown slowly, fingertips brushing the soft skin along her spine before stopping at the nape of her neck. The movement was practical, but his touch lingered, reverent in its quiet familiarity, like he was memorizing her all over again.

“Love you,” he said simply, almost as if it surprised him to say it out loud, though it came as naturally as breathing.

Her breath caught, not because she hadn’t heard it before, but because of how easily it fit now, how right it sounded in the quiet morning air between them. She turned slightly, looking up at him over her shoulder with a soft smile.

“Love you too.”

Larry exhaled and returned to buttoning his blue pinstripe shirt. That quiet, contented smile tugging at his mouth as if the words had anchored him. Marian turned fully to face him, smoothing her dress down. “You’ll never tie that properly without help,” she said, nodding to his loose tie.

“That’s why I keep you around.”

She crossed to him, looping the silk of the tie carefully, her fingers brushing his collarbone as she worked. When she was done, she adjusted it just so, then pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “There. Presentable.”

He caught her hand before she could step away, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “You’re dangerously close to making me forget breakfast entirely.”

Marian blushed, laughing softly. “Come on, Russell. Before your Mom seriously sends a search party.”

“After you, Brook.” Larry laughed, opening the door for her, their fingers brushing as they stepped into the bright corridor together. The sound of distant voices and clinking china drifting up from downstairs, the new day waiting for them both.

The Russell townhouse was already wide awake by the time Marian and Larry came down the back staircase, the faint hum of staff and clatter of breakfast service filling the air. The scent of roasted coffee drifted from the kitchen, rich and comforting.

In the basement level of the Russells’ mansion, the professional kitchen hummed like a well-oiled machine, vast counters of marble and steel, copper pans suspended in neat rows, and the steady rhythm of breakfast service unfolding with military grace. Borden, the chef, was already in full command of his domain, issuing brisk instructions to the serving staff while arranging trays of pastries, fruit, and steaming carafes.

Marian stood at the end of the counter, one hand absently smoothing the sleeve of her dress. Larry reached around her for the coffee pot, his hand brushing the small of her back as he poured.

“Milk?”
“Just a little,” she said, smiling.

He handed her the cup, still warm, before pouring his own. “You know,” he said lightly, “there’s a chance I’ll need to be in LA for a pitch meeting on Thursday. Just one night.”

Marian arched a brow over the rim of her cup, looking at him dubiously. “You’re cutting it close to Peg’s wedding...”

“I’ll be back before the rehearsal dinner. Swear it.” Larry promised, as he leant with one arm on the counter, crossing his legs in front of him.

“You better be, or Peggy will have me looping arms with a cardboard cutout.”

“Tempting,” he responded, a grin appearing across his handsome features as he checked a notification on his phone, “but I wouldn’t miss the chance to walk you down the aisle. Cardboard Larry doesn’t stand a chance.”

She rolled her eyes, blushing, though the smile lingered. For a moment, it felt wonderfully ordinary, two people sharing coffee in a sunlit kitchen, their shoulders brushing as they talked about plans for the day.

From the corner, Borden cleared his throat in mock severity. “If you two are finished crowding my kitchen, breakfast is being served upstairs.”
Larry laughed, stealing one of the pastries as one of the staff walked by with the tray. “You heard the man, let’s vamos.”

They walked upstairs together, still laughing softly, the sound echoing faintly up the marble steps.

In the dining room, morning light poured across the long mahogany table. Newspapers, magazines and hand-outs from the PR Team lay scattered between silver coffee pots and vases of pale roses: The New York Times, The Post, Harper’s Bazaar, and glossy magazines already running online headlines:

New York Times: The Russell Dynasty: From Railways to Runways: America’s Multi Billion-Dollar Family Redefines Modern Power”

With George Russell ranked the world’s #2 richest man and Bertha Russell’s beauty empire crossing the billion-dollar mark, the family’s influence now spans boardrooms and ballrooms alike…

 

Wall Street Journal: George Russell Nears $200 Billion Net Worth as Son Larry Joins the Billionaire Ranks.

The Russell family cements its place among global titans, blending heritage, innovation, and ruthless precision…

Vogue.com: Money, Power, and Perfect Skin: The Russell Family Dominates Every List That Matters”

Page Six: Power Couple Alert: Larry Russell and Marian Brook Are the Met Gala’s Hottest Pairing

Buzzfeed: Marian Brook Just Won the Met Gala—And Larry Russell Knew It Before Anyone Else

Larry stopped behind Marian’s chair, glancing at one of the papers with mock horror.

“Apparently, we’re a power couple now. That sounds suspiciously like my Mom’s doing.”

Marian leaned over his shoulder to read the caption beneath their photo, the two of them mid-laugh, his hand on her waist, her golden gown gleaming like sunlight. “You look far too pleased with yourself,” she said, slipping an arm around him, resting her hand on his cool, cotton shirt against his torso.

“That’s because I was. I mean, look at us.”

She tried not to laugh, but failed. “Larry, we look like we rehearsed.”

“We did,” he teased, pouring her another cup of coffee. “…technically for eleven years.”

Bertha swept in then, triumphant, draped in a Prada dress suit even at breakfast.

“Ah, there you are! Vogue’s editor just rang, record donations in the last 36 hours! Record! And Marian, the gold gown, a triumph of modern craftsmanship. Donatella said she’s never seen that fabric move like that on anyone.”

Larry looked smug. “It did have a rather good model.”

Bertha ignored his comment as she kissed George good morning. “Now, if you keep looking at her that way when the cameras are on you Larry, we’ll have the papers eating out of our hands for months. They eat it up.”

George, behind his coffee cup, chuckled. “I believe that advice applies off-camera too, darling.”

Larry leaned toward Marian, whispering, “See? Dad won’t let things get out of hand.”

Marian smiled, though her heart beat a little faster as she caught sight of a couple of headlines farther down the table:

No Ring, No Problem. Marian’s Already Wearing the Perks

The Billionaire and the Brook: Is Marian’s ‘Modern Fairytale’ Too Perfect to Be Real?

Her laughter dimmed just slightly, though she covered it with a mouthful of fruit salad and yoghurt.

Bertha continued her chatter about guest lists and Vogue’s next event, oblivious to Marian’s quiet shift. Larry’s gaze flicked to her, he saw it instantly, the faint tightening around her eyes, the way her fingers curled around the handle of her spoon. He reached beneath the table, brushing his hand lightly against hers.

She didn’t look at him, but her thumb traced once along his knuckle, a silent reassurance.

“We’re fine,” she murmured under her breath.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just hate that you have to read it.”

Bertha, still in motion, turned toward the window. “Gladys says that she and Hector are definitely flying over for the Kirkland boy’s wedding next week. Imagine the photographs, George! All the Russells reunited. It’ll be great PR.”

George smiled behind his iPad. “If the Times doesn’t collapse under the weight of your headlines first.”

Marian laughed then, the tension easing as Larry’s fingers laced quietly with hers beneath the table. The conversation flowed, Bertha triumphant, George amused at his wife, Larry protective, and Marian caught somewhere between amusement and unease. Outside, New York glimmered, its golden morning matching the headlines that declared them perfect.

But as Marian glanced toward Larry, who was pretending to skim The Post but clearly watching her instead, she couldn’t help thinking that perfection came with a price, one she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to pay. She found herself wondering what Aunt Ada would say about all this, probably something quietly wise, with a touch of dry humor. Marian found herself looking forward to being home after work, curled up in the sitting room, hearing her aunt’s take on it all.

The West Village gallery looked smaller today, or maybe it was just the weight of attention that made the walls feel closer. Morning light filtered through the tall front windows, striping the polished wood floors, glinting off the frames of the latest exhibit: small landscapes and studies from emerging artists. Marian hung up her jacket, slipped her sneakers off in favour of her work pumps, and took a steadying breath.

She’d barely crossed to her desk before she heard her colleagues.

“She thinks she’s basically royalty now,” one voice murmured near the display wall.
“Imagine landing him, not bad for an orphaned army brat,” another whispered.
“I heard she’s practically living at the Russell mansion already.”
“She’s clearly using her contacts to boost sales. It’s not fair. What are we meant to do?”

The words weren’t cruelly said, but they carried the practiced, polished malice of envy dressed as gossip. Marian didn’t pause, just smiled faintly, that perfect society smile that revealed nothing and gave away less.

“Morning,” she said, evenly, as she passed them.

They smiled back, brittle and too bright. She reached her desk, lowering herself into the chair, letting the familiarity of the space ground her. She’d always loved the smell here, oil paint, varnish, paper. But this morning, it all felt slightly tainted.

Her phone buzzed. Her cousin.

Oscar: If you and Larry steal another front page, I’m sending an invoice for emotional damage.

She laughed quietly, her fingers flying across the screen.

Marian: You weren’t even at the gala! :)

Oscar: Exactly. I had to endure it from the sidelines like the masses. Mamie Fish said Marshall Wilson’s tux from Balenciaga looked like a horse harness up close.

Marian smiled.

Marian: She’s not wrong. Let’s catch up at home later this week?
Oscar: If you’re not too busy. Mom already warned me you’re impossible to reach now you’re famous.
Marian: Tell Agnes I’m still the same. Just busier, for once.

The exchange steadied her somehow, a thread back to her old life. She slipped the phone into her bag, forcing her focus to the stack of catalogue proofs on her desk. She kept her head down, focused on the work in front of her, offering only vague, polite answers whenever colleagues asked about the Met Gala. The buzz around her barely registered, she let it drift past like background noise, choosing precision and quiet over spectacle.

Eventually, Marian lost herself in the details, margins, captions and color corrections until the quiet around her began to stretch. By the time she reached the final page of the proofs, the gallery had thinned slightly, staff drifting toward their breaks in the back, the clock nudging closer to noon.

That’s when the door opened.

The soft chime of the bell barely rose above the hum of conversation, but it was enough.

Heads turned. Voices hushed.

Larry Russell stood framed in the doorway. Tall, handsome and sharply dressed in his navy suit and blue pinstriped shirt, the tie Marian had knotted neatly still in place. A quiet shadow of security hovered discreetly outside on the sidewalk. He held a paper bag in one hand, two coffee cups in a tray in the other, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he said.

“You did.” Marian blinked, startled but warmed. “Shouldn’t you be in a boardroom somewhere? Working?”

“Technically, I own the boardroom.”

He crossed to her, placing the food on her desk as her perched himself on the corner of it, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the lips. His easy charm faltered as a snatch of whispered conversation drifted over, something about how convenient it must be and what a performance they’d put on for the cameras.

The air tightened. Larry’s jaw set.

He turned, dark eyes sweeping over the small room. His tone was calm, too calm. Marian knew that tone, the quieter he got, the closer they were to trouble. Calm, for Larry, was never passive; it was precision and it meant someone was about to regret underestimating him.

“Do you usually talk so much when you’re meant to be working?” he challenged in the clipped, authoritative voice he saved for work.

The embarrassed silence that followed was almost tangible. No one met his piercing gaze.

“Larry-” Marian began softly, touching his wrist.

“I’m just curious,” he continued, his voice polite but edged as his eyes narrowed. “Or is this the new definition of productivity I don’t know about?”

Her hand tightened slightly on his sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He held his gaze challenging Marian’s colleagues before his eyes snapped to hers as he let out a sharp breath, then nodded. “Fine.”

They stepped outside, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft thud that felt like a full stop. The lunchtime sun was bright, glancing off the parked cars and the glass of nearby shopfronts. Larry handed her one of the coffees and cleared his throat.

“I brought sandwiches. Italian. Your favourite.”

She managed a faint smile, taking the cup from him. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” He hesitated, glancing back at the gallery windows. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone in there, Marian. The new gallery’s practically ready, just the paint touch-ups and the pieces to hang once you’ve sourced them. It’s yours. You should be running that, not hiding here with those Karens.”

Marian stopped mid-step, the breeze tugging lightly at her hair, teasing it out of it’s careful up-do. She looked at him, really looked, the protectiveness in his stance, the anger still simmering in his eyes, the belief so fierce it made her chest ache.

“You’re right,” she said quietly pushing the coffee cup back in to his hands.

Before he could speak, she turned on her heel and marched back toward the gallery door.

Larry blinked, half-startled, half-helplessly amused. “Marian…?”

She didn’t turn back. He watched through the glass as she strode across the gallery floor, straight to the gallery director’s office. Mr. Goldberg stood behind his desk, startled as she entered. Larry couldn’t hear the words, but her posture said everything, composed, unflinching, her chin high, her hands steady.

After a few tense minutes, the door opened. Marian stepped out, calm and deliberate. Every head in the gallery turned.

“No notice, Mr. Goldberg,” she said clearly enough for all to hear. “I’m leaving today. And I’ll be taking the Sotheby’s contract with me, they came through me, not you.” The silence that followed was absolute. She picked up her jacket from its hook, shoved her sneakers in her bag and walked to the door without another word.

Outside, Larry straightened, meeting her halfway as he handed the tray of coffee to his protection officer. “You didn’t even give notice!” he said, half shocked, half delighted.

“No,” Marian replied, slipping her hand into his. “I gave an exit that will probably land us in tomorrow’s headlines.”

He grinned, relief flooding into laughter. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Miss Brook.”

“You’re a permanent resident there.” she teased softly.

They walked down the packed street, the tension dissolving into the hum of the city. Larry lifted the paper bag with a wry smile.

“Come on,” he said. “You’ve just quit your job in spectacular fashion. The least I can do is buy you a proper lunch. Especially now we’ve nowhere to sit and eat the sandwiches. I want to hear all about your dress for tomorrow’s Guggenheim event.”

She laughed, leaning slightly into him to bump his shoulder as they turned the corner, sunlight spilling across the pavement.

For the first time in a long while, Marian felt something rare, not defined by anyone’s gaze, not constrained by expectation.

Free.

The afternoon sunshine flooded through the floor-to-ceiling glass of Larry Russell’s glass corner office, casting long reflections across the polished walnut desk. Thirty floors below, the city pulsed, taxis threading between granite façades, the Hudson glinting beyond. Inside, the air was cool and controlled, the hum of conversation precise, efficient.

Larry leaned back in his chair, dark suit blazer off, shirt sleeves rolled up. On the screen behind him, the words Russell Consolidated – Space Division: Phase One Expansion glowed in crisp serif font.

“…so the production site in Arizona will be ready within six months,” one of the engineers concluded, clicking to a final slide showing prototype renderings. “We’re on track to begin testing the composite housing for the reusable module.”

Larry nodded, eyes sharp, attention trained, though part of his mind was still elsewhere. Marian’s voice, her steady confidence as she’d faced down her boss, played over in fragments. The way she’d said ‘I gave an exit’ had hit him with something close to awe. She hadn’t needed his protection, and somehow that made him love her even more.

“Good,” he said finally, straightening. “Keep supply partners in check. If there’s even a hint of delay, I want to know before the next quarter review. That’s all for now, ladies, gentlemen.”

The room emptied in a smooth shuffle of suits and laptops, leaving only the faint echo of closing doors. Larry exhaled, pushing back from the desk and glancing at his phone.

A new message: 

Gladys: Hector says hello. We’ve booked for Peggy’s wedding next week. Tell Marian I can’t wait to see her new gallery!

Larry smiled faintly, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing back:

Larry: She’ll be thrilled, she’s missed you. And tell Hector not to pack the cravat that matches our curtains again lol.

A knock interrupted him. The door opened just enough for a young man to step in, brown hair tousled, hands clutching a folder so tight the pages bowed.

“Mr. Russell?” Jack asked, his voice a touch nervous.

“Jack! Come in,” Larry said warmly, rising to shake his hand as he waved a dismissal to his PA. “I’ve been looking forward to this one.”

Jack grinned sheepishly. “Thank you, sir. I, uh, really appreciate the meeting. Miss Brook mentioned-”

“Marian talks highly of you,” Larry cut in, gesturing for him to sit. “And your invention, the self-charging alarm clock, it’s clever. Sustainable, practical, and honestly overdue. The patent for the underlying technology looks airtight. You’ve done well.”

Jack’s shoulders loosened slightly. “I still can’t believe we’re here. My boss, Mrs. Van Rhijn, said I should start small maybe. But… well, here we are.”

Larry smiled. “Sometimes small starts end up in skyscrapers.” He opened the folder. “I made a few tweaks to your business plan. Cleaned up some of the projections and reached out to a few targeted investors, companies already way ahead in clean tech integration compared to us at Russell Consolidated. They’ve agreed to pitch meetings next month.”

Jack blinked. “Like… Shark Tank?”

Larry smirked. “A bit. Except this time, we’re the sharks. You’ll have me there.”

Jack laughed, some of the tension breaking. “That sounds… terrifying.”

“It’s the fun part,” Larry said, his tone easy but assured. “They’re going to fight to back this. You’ve built something that actually helps people wake up on time, that’s practically a public service but it’s the self-charging technology they’ll want.”

Jack’s grin widened. “And, um, thank you again, for everything… Oh! By the way, I heard from the team at Marian’s… gallery. They said it’s nearly done.”

“Yeh?” Larry looked at him with keen interest.

“Well, almost. The paintwork’s drying and the lighting’s being installed.”

Larry nodded. “Marian deserves to walk into something perfect. Do you think we can pull out all the stops to finish it by the end of the month?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said, rising. “I’ll head straight there after this if you like.”

Larry clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. And Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re better than you think.”

Jack nodded, visibly moved, and left with renewed purpose.

The office fell quiet again. Larry turned toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him, ambition, noise, and the faint ache of wanting to be more than just George Russell’s son. He returned to his chair and leaned back once Jack left, the city gleaming through the glass like an extension of his own restless ambition. He thought of Marian, of quiet routines and non-stop text conversations, before everything had a title, a spotlight, or a schedule. He wanted that rhythm back, the version of them untouched by arrangement or attention. So, he reached for his phone, thumb hovering over Marian’s name before tapping it.

Larry: Dinner day after tomorrow? With Oscar and John, I owe Oscar a drink.
Marian: Love that idea! Promised Oscar earlier we’d catch up. Still on for a workout tonight?
Larry: I’m up for a workout with you every night Brook. Especially the kind that doesn’t require gym shoes. ;)

Marian: Every night? Bold. Hope your stamina matches your ego.

He chuckled to himself, but the grin lingered as his thoughts drifted to Marian in his bed, hair fanned across the pillow, her voice low and teasing in the dark. It was still new, still electric, and somehow more intimate than he’d ever imagined when they were just friends. Larry tucked his phone on the desk beside his water bottle just as his PA, a composed woman with a tablet in hand, appeared at the door.

“Mr. Russell? The architects for the Singapore tower are here.”

Larry straightened, buttoning his cuffs. “Send them in,” he said, then paused. “And could you reach out to Oscar Van Rhijn and John Adams? See if they’re free for dinner tomorrow night. John’s assistant should have calendar visibility. Somewhere that serves Thai food, good wine list, quiet enough to talk.”

“Of course, sir.”

As the architects filed in, unrolling blueprints across the table, Larry’s expression shifted seamlessly back to business. Yet beneath the polished composure, the smile lingered , faint, private, the kind that had everything to do with the woman who’d just quit her job and changed everything without needing him to lift a finger.

But even as he leaned over the plans, sleek glass towers rising into the clouds, a quiet smile lingered at the edge of his mouth.

Because somewhere across the city, Marian was building something of her own.

Since finding her day unexpectedly clear, Marian had spent the late afternoon at the Van Rhijn house, where the air still smelled faintly of beeswax polish and lavender sachets tucked between the curtains. The steady tick of the mantel clock filled the quiet between her aunts’ voices. Ada humming as she knitted, and Agnes perched upright in her favourite armchair, glasses low on her nose, her iPad glowing in her hands.

“Good heavens,” Agnes muttered, scrolling briskly. “The online headlines from The Met have yet to stop. Golden Couple of the Gala. The Billionaire and the Girl Next Door. Society’s New Modern Power Pair. It’s all rather nauseating, though at least they’ve finally acknowledged good breeding when they see it.”

Marian set her sketchpad down, trying not to smile as she pulled her legs up on to the sofa. “I suppose people have to write about something.”

Agnes sniffed. “Vogue mentioned the Livingston tiara twice and Cosmopolitan says it ‘symbolises the bridge between old New York and modern romance.’ I can’t say I disagree.”

Ada looked up from the scarf she was trying to knit, eyes bright. “You and Lawrence looked so happy before you all left for The Met, dear. I’ve never seen you smile like that.”

Marian’s cheeks warmed in remembrance. “It was… a wonderful evening.”

Ada chuckled, setting down her knitting. “And it looks like we are all in for a wonderful evening at the Guggenheim tomorrow. Just don’t let them auction you off at that art auction tomorrow, dear. I daresay the bids would be scandalous.”

Marian laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, Aunt Ada.”

Agnes looked over the rim of her glasses, unimpressed. “Really, Ada. Let’s not encourage nonsense.”

Ada only smiled, undeterred. “Nonsense or not, it would raise quite a sum. I doubt Lawrence Russell would let himself be outbid.”

Marian’s laughter lingered as her phone buzzed against the side table. Speak of the devil.

Larry: Forget the work out. Do you want to order chinese food at mine? Parents are going to Delmonicos. Come over early. I’ll behave. Probably.

She smiled faintly, thumbs moving before she could stop herself.

Marian: Define behave?

His reply came almost instantly.

Larry: You’ll find out. ;)

Ada’s soft voice interrupted. “Are you going out again tonight?”

“Yes, well no. Only across the street.” Marian said, slipping her phone away. “Larry wants to have dinner. We'll probably order takeout.”

Agnes made a dismissive sound. “You’re not joined at the hip, dear. Let him miss you once in a while.

Marian rose, reaching for her glass to return it to the kitchen. “I tried that.” She said dryly. “He bought a building, remember.”

Agnes’s eyes flicked up. “Just be sure he doesn’t buy another one.” Marian laughed, glancing toward the window where the Russell mansion glowed across the street. Tomorrow’s charity auction loomed in her mind, another evening of flashbulbs and champagne. But for now, dinner with Larry, Chinese takeout, sounded simpler, warmer. Real.

The next evening, the Guggenheim had dressed for benevolence. Gold light washed up the white spiral like champagne rising in a glass; the jazz trio tucked in the rotunda curved sound through marble like ribbon. Cool stone, brushed silk, the faint resin scent of fresh paint near the temporary walls. Then the crowd came into focus: designer dresses, sharp lapels, the hush and glitter particular to rooms where money tries to look charitable.

Larry’s hand settled at his favorite spot at the small of Marian’s back, as the cameras began to flash. They paused deliberately in front of sponsor backdrop, framed by the Guggenheim’s golden light and the soft swell of jazz from inside. Marian wore a powder pink dress by Jenny Packham that balanced sleek sophistication with intricate detail. The bodice shimmered with delicate crystal embroidery, forming a mesh-like effect that caught the light with every movement. Its high neckline and racer-style cut gave the look a modern edge, while the dress dropped to the floor in a smooth, uninterrupted column, minimalist and graceful. Larry, beside her in a tailored black tuxedo with a subtle satin lapel, stood like punctuation. Precise, composed, and unmistakably present. They posed, not for spectacle, but with quiet intent: a portrait of grace and solidarity. His touch was steady, anchoring her in the moment. She leaned into it, not for balance, but for certainty.

“I’m supposed to be thinking about charity,” Larry murmured in Marian’s ear, “but all I can think about is you in that dress.” the words a warm smile against her temple.

“Larry, behave.” she whispered back, almost sounding like she meant it. But not quite.

“That’s your fault Brook for being the kind of beautiful that makes me want to misbehave.” Larry said with his signature smirk as he steered her away from the media but not before her musical laugh drew another round of flashes from the photographers.

Just behind them, Agnes made her entrance with practiced ease, tall and statuesque in a rich burgundy satin blouse and trouser set by Maria McManus. Marian glanced behind and caught sight of Agnes posing, her smile widening with quiet amusement and affection as she saw how her aunt welcomed the attention, turning slightly to offer her best angle. Ada followed closely with Oscar, who was holding hands with John as always, both in sharply cut suits, Oscar’s with a playful magenta lining and matching pocket square. Their quiet confidence added warmth to the evening’s glamour, a subtle nod to the family’s enduring presence.

Bertha intercepted Larry and Marian at the base of the ramp like a general securing her troops. “Good, there you are.” she said briskly. “We’ve given the press their picture of happiness, now try not to ruin it before dessert. Andre says they will want a quote later,” she continued, turning to Larry as she waved her hands dismissively. “Something about ‘culture meeting compassion.’ Keep it short. No puns this time.”

George lifted his glass as greeting, the line of his mouth already amused. “You’ve been doing this long enough to know the press will twist it either way.”

Bertha’s smile sharpened as she nodded at her husband. “Which is why I’ll give them something impossible to twist.”

Marian bit back a smile. The rhythm of their banter always gratified her, like a well-rehearsed overture before the curtain rose. As they moved further in to the crowd, Larry got pulled aside to talk business. She found her cousin Aurora Fane without trying; it was a social law in New York that Aurora materialised when the moment required grace.

“Marian, darling” Aurora greeted warmly, brushing her cheeks with air kisses.  “The photography table’s in a state! Apparently ‘lighting sincerity’ is harder than lighting diamonds. I told them to look at your work if they want to see real sincerity.”

Marian laughed. “That’s generous of you.”

Aurora turned to her husband. “Charles, please say something encouraging before I start sounding too deep.”

Charles studied Marian for a moment, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Who even knows what lighting sincerity is! Don’t worry Marian.”

“There, see? Almost gracious, I think.” Aurora finished as Agnes and Ada caught up to them.

Agnes leaned in and put a hand on Marian’s arm, seeing her niece’s nerves. “Just stand still when the bidding starts. If you look nonchalant and unimpressed, it will make them nervous.”

Marian nodded, “I’m not sure that comforts me,”

“It shouldn’t,” Agnes replied. “It’s useful.” The room’s hum held a frequency that found the back of her throat.

A ripple, another wave. Mamie Fish burst in to the group like a spark struck in a room of tinder. “Tell the auctioneer if they hears anyone uses the word ‘evocative’ before bidding starts, be sure to charge them twenty percent more!” she told Marian, who nodded, trying to take all the advice graciously as her eyes scanned the crowd for Larry. She rose slightly onto her toes, peering over the sea of dramatic hairstyles and shoulders, hoping to catch sight of him, tall enough to stand out, even in a room this packed.

Across the sweeping, spiralling ramp of the Guggenheim, Lina Astor approached with Carrie, the museum’s liaison hovering two polite paces behind. Lina’s smile held admiration wrapped in appraisal. “Marian. The works you have donated are so distinguished, how good of you to support this worthy cause.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Astor,” Marian answered, correctly translating distinguished to somewhat interesting.

Carrie squeezed Marian’s hand. “I’m proud of you. And I intend to tell everyone I predicted this, particularly if I’m outbid.”

Through the shifting crowd, Larry emerged at her side, his presence quiet but grounding, and without a word, he laced his fingers through hers, the gesture loving and familiar. The museum director chimed a glass. The first ring of lots glowed under perfect light. Somewhere on a tiny platform, the auctioneer tested her gavel; the echo carried like a promise.

Marian found her label: Lot 14 - Portrait Study (charcoal & chalk). Marian Brook. Estimate 5-7. The neat serif looked almost separate from her, as if someone else had arrived at being her name first. She swallowed. The traitorous thought came: Is it enough? Am I enough?

Larry stepped closer and rested his hand on her shoulder as they read the label, “They’re about to see what I do,” he said under his breath. “Stand still. In five minutes this room belongs to you. I promise.”

She wanted to say something flippant, to break the heat in her cheeks. She didn’t. She stood still. The auction warmed itself with landscapes and bowls, politeness turned into pledges. Then:

“Lot Fourteen, portrait study by Marian Brook. Shall we begin at five?” When the auctioneer called, Marian’s heart stuttered. Her name sounded strange amplified, more public, less hers.

Larry’s thumb brushed her wrist, anchoring her.

“Five,” someone called. The first number clipped the air. Marian felt it in her ribs.

“Six.”

Marian realised she was holding her breath.

“Six-five.”
“Seven.”

She hadn’t realised her lungs were staging a protest until Larry’s knuckles nudged hers. She breathed.

“Seven-five.”
“Eight.”
“Eight-five.”

The Vanderbilts murmured something vague about edges that breathe. Aurora’s hand closed lightly on Marian’s forearm, a cool, soft tether.

“Ten,” a female called, decisive as a bell.

A prickle ran up Marian’s arms. Ada’s hand found her shoulder; Agnes’s chin lifted a noticeable quarter-inch.

“Ten-five.”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven-five.”

“Sold,” the gavel said, clean, satisfied. “To Mrs. Chamberlain.”

Applause lifted; Marian’s laugh shook out, unarranged and real. Agnes didn’t smile so much as sharpen less. “Of course she’d use this as an opportunity to show off,” she pronounced to their group, Lina Astor nodded.

The room softened, then focused again. Introductions layered themselves more naturally now, Bertha threading Marian through an endless queue of curators, Larry at her side, gallery directors offering the sort of approval that could make or undo a career without breaking a nail, Ada squeezing in a kindly, “Don’t faint,” that nearly undid Marian more than any number.

The next lots rose and fell. Marian’s name, when spoken by strangers, began to sound a fraction more like hers.

“Lot Twenty-Seven,” the auctioneer called. “Skyline At Night, ink on paper, via linoleum printing. Marian Brook. Estimate eight to ten.”

The air leaned forward. Numbers jumped more quickly, as if the room trusted itself now: eight, nine, ten, twelve. Then pause, like everyone waiting for permission.

“Thirteen,” said Mrs. Chamberlain again, and it was as if the room decided to believe her.
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen-five.”
“Fifteen.”
“Sold.”

Applause, warmer. Marian felt Larry’s palm between her shoulder blades, one slow press: There. See? The impulse to cry came and went like a small tide. Somewhere beyond the light, at the edge where rooms decide their next scene, a prickle of awareness crawled along her skin. She didn’t turn yet. She knew the shape it would have.

Rooms like this were his mother’s kingdom, Larry thought to himself. He could read the angles: where influence pooled, where curiosity sharpened, where envy simmered and called itself taste. It always amused him that Marian never really tried to play it. She didn’t need to. The work did the part people cast their faces for.

Larry watched her, the way she stood when the auctioneer said her name, taut, then taller. The way she didn’t search for his face but found it anyway. He’d told her the room would belong to her; he’d meant it. When the first bid came fast, he felt vindication like a current under his skin. He’d been prepared to raise his paddle if the silence stretched but it hadn’t. And the fact that it hadn’t thrilled him more than anything on Marian’s behalf.

“Ten,” a woman said. He glanced; of course it was Chamberlain, good eye, prolific collector, practical sentiment. He loved the moment Marian realised not that people wanted her work, but that they wanted to be seen wanting it. That always made her bite her lip and look like she’d discovered a trick she refused to use.

When the gavel fell, Larry wanted to shout. He settled for punching the air, then leaning in and saying, “That’s my girl,” because he knew the words would land where he wanted them to: right in the centre of that steel she called shyness.

He caught his father’s satisfied nod and his mother’s micro-relaxation, the way victory made her kinder to the concept of oxygen. He caught Aurora pretending not to clap in order to remain looking impartial and Mamie Fish clapping like a scandal. Agnes didn’t move except in the eyes, which was how you knew something mattered.

When Mrs. Chamberlain approached to compliment Marian, sincerity in every syllable, Larry found himself stepping back half a pace, not to remove himself, but to let the picture be correctly framed. Marian Brook and the Russells. Order mattered. He could happily live with second billing tonight. He preferred it, in fact. It was time the world saw Marian for how talented she was.

Mrs. Chamberlain took Marian’s hand. “Lunch,” she said, as if booking in an old friend. “We’ll talk about the next piece.”

Marian’s heart sprang. The next. Not the last. Not the only. “Yes,” she managed. “I’d like that.”

Carrie Astor slid in, delighted. “Congratulations, Marian.”

“Thank you,” Marian said, and meant it. Mamie pressed a flute of champagne into Marian’s hand before raising a toast. Larry had been watching her with that same proud, almost disbelieving smile since the gavel fell. As the crowd began to shift toward the next round of lots after the refreshment break, he touched her elbow lightly.

“Come with me for a second,” he murmured.

She blinked up at him, surprised, but followed as he steered her through the edge of the central, cavernous rotunda into a quiet side corridor lined with sculpture pedestals and velvet drapes that muted the noise. The air was cooler here, carrying only the echo of jazz from the main hall. Marian could hear her heels clicking on the floor and still feel her pulse racing, the adrenaline of hearing her name called publicly in a room full of people who finally, finally, respected it.

Larry turned to face her, his grin breaking wide as he held her hand. “Two pieces sold, both way above estimate…and the art critics pretending they discovered you tonight. I think that qualifies as a success Miss Brook.”

Marian laughed, the sound bright but disbelieving. She could still feel the echo of the auctioneer’s voice in her chest. “I still can’t quite believe it happened.”

He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. The small gesture steadied her. “Believe it. You earned every bit of this and whatever success folllows.”

Her eyes softened, though a teasing spark crept in. “You know,” She started as she took as step closer, picking a spec of glitter off his lapel. “The last time you dragged me off down a corridor at a formal event, we didn’t exactly make it back to the party.”

Larry’s grin turned slow and wicked. “Best night of my life.” He stated as he reached for her, his arms sliding around her waist with a quiet certainty that made her breath hitch. He pulled her gently against him, his touch warm and familiar, anchoring her in the moment. Marian’s heart gave a flutter at that, the memory of that night flashing through her mind, his heartfelt confession, the candles, the way he’d looked at her as if she was the only person in the world as he carried her upstairs.

“Mine too,” she admitted, warmth blooming in her chest, “but we’re not repeating that in a museum.”

“Shame,” Larry said playfully, leaning in just a little closer to her ear. “I was feeling nostalgic.”

Marian swatted his arm, though her smile betrayed her. His nearness had a gravity to it, that familiar pull she never seemed able, or willing, to resist these days.

“Seriously, Marian,” he said, voice quieter now, sincerity threading through the teasing, “I wish you could see what I see right now.”

Her heartbeat quickened as he held her; she felt the moment shift from playful to something fragile and real. “And what do you see?”

“The incredible woman everyone else finally sees too. The talented artist who just owned this room.” His words landed deep, dissolving the last trace of disbelief that had clung to her since the gavel fell.

Her throat tightened as she rolled her eyes to play it down. “You’re biased.”

“Completely,” he admitted, grinning. “But I’m also right.”

Larry leaned down, and she met him halfway, their lips brushing once, then again, gentle, unhurried, tasting faintly of champagne and relief. The world around them seemed to hush, the distant hum of voices fading into a soft blur. His hand skimmed up the back of her pink dress and came up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading lightly through her hair, anchoring her in the moment. Marian felt the warmth of his palm, the quiet strength in his touch, and let herself sink into it, the solidness of him, the quiet certainty that had always been there. Her hands found his lapels, clutching them lightly as the kiss deepened just slightly, still tender, still reverent. It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that said everything without needing words: I see you. I’m proud of you. I’m here.

Larry’s thoughts flickered briefly to the crowd just around the corner, the world waiting for them but he couldn’t make himself care. He wanted this: her smile against his, the way she fit perfectly into his arms

When they parted, her hand rested over his heart, feeling the steady thud beneath. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For believing in me before anyone else did.”

His answering smile was small and certain. “Always, Brook.”

They stood there for one last heartbeat, breathing the same air, the scent of lilies and paint and promise between them before the sound of a nearby door opening, voices spilling in, pulled them back toward the crowd. Larry brushed his thumb once more over her hand before letting it fall away, his smile softening. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We should get back before my mom assumes we’ve run away again.”

Marian laughed under her breath, still lightheaded with champagne and happiness as they turned toward the archway that led back into the rotunda. She could still feel the warmth of his hand at her waist, the faint imprint of the moment they’d stolen together. The music reached them again, velvet voices, laughter, crystal against crystal.

And then something in the air changed.

A shift, subtle but unmistakable. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck rose. Marian felt him before she saw him, the air pressure shifting, that unpleasant tingle of being remembered by someone you’d worked for a long time to forget.

Tom Raikes.

He stood near the edge of the rotunda, one hand in his pocket, the other swirling a bourbon. Next to him was Cissy Bingham, soon to be Cissy Raikes, her hand resting on her pregnant belly; her smile said she had evolved beyond most things. The years had polished him but not improved him; the charm was still varnish over something hollow, the same confident posture that had once seemed romantic and now looked simply practiced. His glass of bourbon caught the light; so did the smarmy smile that found her across the room.

Larry followed her line of sight. He felt her go still before he saw why. His hand, found the small of her back instinctively. “What is it sweetheart?” he asked softly. Marian’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes had locked onto a figure across the room, and a cold wave of recognition washed over her. Her stomach twisted.

“It’s Tom,” she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The name tasted like something rusted. “Over there.”

Larry’s jaw tightened; the muscle there flickered once as he turned to face her and dipped his head. “Do you want to leave?”

Marian shook her head impulsively, but Larry was already scanning the space around them. His eyes darted to the left, then right, searching for an alternate exit, a hallway, a door, anything. But the corridor narrowed behind them, and the only way out was straight ahead, right past Tom Raikes. He cursed under his breath.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. The sight of Tom, laughing, relaxed, as if the past hadn’t happened, made her skin crawl. Memories surged unbidden: the lies, the betrayal, the moment she discovered the truth. Her chest tightened. “No,” she said, though her voice trembled. “I just... wasn’t ready to see him. Not like this.”

Larry’s hand moved gently, reassuringly, at her back again. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Marian nodded, her gaze still fixed on Tom. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the room had shrunk around her. But she also felt Larry’s presence, steady, grounding and that gave her just enough strength to stay.

Raikes saw them and crossed the marble floor like he owned it, grin widening when he caught Larry’s aggravated expression.

“Marian,” he drawled. “It’s so lovely to see your artistic…efforts… appreciated.”

“We’re thrilled for the Relief Fund,” Larry said, careful and true, as he felt Marian subconsciously step closer to tuck herself in to his side.

Tom tilted his head. “We, is it? You do move quickly.”

“Tom,” Marian started evenly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Larry muttered under his breath as he scanned the area around them.

Raikes chuckled. “Relax. You don’t still think I’m the villain, do you?” He said, focusing his attention on Larry as he stepped closer, purposefully. “You were the one trailing after her, all loyalty and longing. The one who’d show up with that look, like he’d just die to take my place.”

Larry’s heart kicked once, hard. He’d imagined that accusation for years; hearing it aloud felt like a match struck too close to dry timber. “You’re drunk Raikes,” he countered, pulling himself up to his full height so he towered, refusing to show the other man how much his words hit their mark.

Raikes ignored him, all false delight. “You know, I was just saying to Cissy, after all the loved up Met Gala coverage you both got… It’s remarkable, how quickly you two went from being such good buddies…to the internet’s favorite couple. I suppose you were rehearsing longer than we knew, eh, Marian?”

Marian froze, then composed herself. “Larry and I have always been friends, Tom. Nothing more while you and I were-”
“Oh, come on,” he interrupted, eyes glittering. “I’m just saying… It’s funny, isn’t it? Knowing you ran to him whenever we argued. Shoulder to cry on, wasn’t it? Or was it something else?”

Larry’s jaw flexed. “That’s enough. You’ve said your piece. So. Walk. Away.” His voice punctuating every word as a warning.

Raikes took another sip, unbothered. “Jealousy’s an ugly thing, Russell. Then again, I can’t blame you, now you’ve finally got your turn. Marian always did have a way of…”

“Stop!” Marian cut in abruptly.

His eyes slid back to her, that old, oily confidence creeping in. Pupils wide from the alcohol as he carried on. “…of making a man forget himself. She always knew how to get what she wanted,” Raikes said, voice low and oily. Larry turned his face away in disgust but ended up seeing the horror in Marian’s features.  “All it ever took was a look. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Russell?” He paused and leaned in, voice dropping. “I always wondered what you two talked about after I left. Did she ever tell you how she-”

“Seriously. Stop, now.” Marian insisted sharply.

He didn’t. “-how she looked in bed when-”

Larry’s fist connected before the last word finished.

The blow cracked through the hush of the side corridor, loud enough to echo, quiet enough for the party round the corner to continue, oblivious. Raikes hit the cold, stone wall with a gasp, his bourbon glass shattering at his feet. The smell of liquor and copper filled the air. Larry had him by the collar before he could recover, forearm pinning him hard. Fury burned white behind his eyes; every muscle in his body wanted the fight.

“You ever speak about her like that again,” Larry growled through his teeth, breath tight, “and I’ll make sure you can’t speak at all.” His blood sang with the familiar, sick heat of fury, the same pulse that had once driven him, years ago, to take a hit outside Avant Gardner in Brooklyn on a night out in Marian’s defence and end up with a broken nose.

Raikes tried to sneer, but failed as he clutched his face. “Touchy, Russell. I must have hit a nerve. Guess you finally got what you wanted…took you long enough.”

Larry took a breath and tried to keep his father’s composure and his mother’s restraint as . He lasted three sentences.

Before he had chance to process the thought, he drew back his arm again-

And then Oscar and John appeared, catching his wrist mid-air, Oscar’s voice low but firm. “Easy, Larry. Not here.”

“Let me go,” Larry snapped, his dark curls flopping down in to his face as Marian stood glued to the spot, stunned.

“Not unless you want Marian and your right hook on all the front pages by morning.” John advised, ever calm in a crisis.

Raikes laughed, shaky but defiant. “That’s right. Run along, Russell. You’re still just the obedient lapdog, even when she lets you in her bed.”

Larry’s restraint shattered and he jerked free of Oscar and John just enough to grab Raikes by the shirt again, hauling him forward so their faces were inches apart. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper.

“You listen to me. You so much as look at her again, speak her name, breathe near her and I’ll finish what I started. You’ll never get another line of credit, never another invitation, never another inch of standing in this city. You’ll never practice law again in the state of New York. I’ll see to it personally.”

Raikes’s swallowed, color draining. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Larry released him with a shove hard enough to cause the shorter man to stumble. Raikes straightened his collar with trembling hands, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.

Marian stood perfectly still, heartbeat thundering but expression calm. The anger, the shame, the old humiliation, none of it she found to her surprise and relief, owned her anymore. In its place: a steadiness like heat in a kiln. Her knees wanted to give, but pride held her spine straight. When she spoke, her voice was level enough to slice marble.

“Thomas,” she said, and the single syllable made him blink. “You always confused attention with true affection. That was your first mistake.” The corridor felt like it tilted, as the blood thrummed in her ears.

“The second,” she went on, “was imagining I was something to be caught.” Her gaze met with Larry’s as she spoke, his eyes softening in unspoken love.

Raikes swallowed, eyes flicking.

“And the third,” Marian said, soft as a razor, “is not knowing when a room has tired of you.” Her words cut open the silence like a sliced hand and then closed. For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Larry’s breath came sharp, chest heaving. Raikes touched his lip, saw blood, and sneered without conviction before slinking away down the corridor.

Marian finally exhaled, the sound shaky but certain. Relief, anger, pride, all tangled. She wanted to shake Larry and kiss him in the same breath.

“Larry,” she whispered, touching his sleeve. Her attention drawn to his knuckles, which were already reddening. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked down, flexing his hand once, wincing as the pain caught up. “That oaf’s got a hard jaw,” he muttered. “Didn’t feel it until now.”

Oscar sighed, as he stepped back next to John, hands sliding into his pockets with weary amusement. “You’re getting predictable, Larry. Every few years someone disrespects Marian and you end up with an injury. It’s almost poetic, well, if poetry came with hospital bills.”

Larry huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “He had it coming though.”

Marian’s lips curved faintly in amusement as she took his injured hand, turning it over gently in her own. “You said that the night you got your nose broken,” she murmured, voice soft but teasing.

He looked up, smiling through the ache. “You still patched me up.” He met her eyes as they both chuckled at the same time, the memory flashing there, years ago, a dark street in Brooklyn after they’d been kicked out the nightclub, rain pounding down as she pressed a handkerchief to his face, trying to scold him through laughter.

“At least we aren’t hiding behind a dumpster in the rain this time.” She teased.

Larry’s grin turned crooked in his usual mischievous way. “Hmm, I’d do it again,”

Marian believed him. And that, more than the fight, more than the bruise forming across his knuckles, made her heart twist with love and exasperation in equal measure. Without thinking, she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, light, grateful, steadying. It tasted faintly of adrenaline and champagne and something she couldn’t quite name.

Oscar gave a long-suffering sigh. “You two are ridiculous. Now, shall we return before we miss all the fun?”

Marian nodded as she turned to her cousin. “Yes. No one can ever know about this.”

Larry flexed his sore hand, the ache a small price for the satisfaction of finally doing what he’d wanted to do for years. He looked at Marian and smiled, wiggling his eyebrows. “Not a word. Though if they ask why my knuckles look like this…”

“We’ll say you tripped,” Oscar supplied dryly, rolling his eyes at John, who was laughing.

“What? On Raikes?” Larry asked, half grinning.

Marian’s lips curved. “Exactly.”

They slipped back toward the rotunda, her fingers brushing his as they walked, the quiet spark of something fierce and familiar between them. Behind them, a trail of shattered glass glittered under the low light, the only witness to a fight long overdue.

The part of Larry that wanted to swing hadn’t quite sat down. It stalked along the edges of his ribs, impatient. But the better part, the one Marian called the man she loved, stood and watched her speak and thought: there you are. Not brave because she’d been humiliated, but brave because she refused to perform it again for anyone.

“Oh do try to stop looking so heroic, Larry.” Oscar muttered jovially at his shoulder, holding out his phone. “You guys are already trending again tonight.”

Larry blinked, the words pulling him back to the room. The screen glowed between them, an image from when they walked the red carpet entering the event earlier, Marian’s hand on his chest, his head bent toward her.

Golden Couple Reigns at the Guggenheim Gala: Marian Brook & Larry Russell’s Red Carpet Moment Breaks the Internet.

One of the comments read:

If we can’t have a love like this, we give up. #LarryAndMarianForever #GoldenCouple

 

He exhaled through his nose. “They make it sound like a movie trailer.”

John leaned in to look. “Well, you do have the jawline for a Hollywood career.”

Larry half-smiled, but his eyes stayed on the photo. Marian looked poised, calm, beautiful in pink, her hand resting over his heart as if it belonged there. He looked, he realised with a wry twist of his mouth, completely undone by her. The camera had caught something unguarded: his eyes soft, his body angled toward hers in unconscious gravity. The internet would see a perfect couple. Only he knew it wasn’t performance, not anymore, it was everything he couldn’t stop feeling, that just happened to be caught in a single frame.

Oscar plucked the phone back before Larry could overthink it. “You could at least pretend to enjoy being adored. Some of us have to buy our own followers.”

Larry huffed; it turned into a laugh despite him. The sound broke what was left of the evening’s tension in his chest. John squeezed Oscar’s elbow once, steady as always, an anchor to an anchor. This was why Larry loved them: they knew when to be walls, and when to be windows.

He slid out of his black dinner jacket and draped it over Marian’s shoulders without ceremony. If anyone read it as a gesture, fine. He meant it as temperature and promise.

“You all right?” he asked, low.

“Yes,” she said, and he believed her. He also saw the anxious twitch in her thumb. The one that showed, she’d nearly had enough for one evening. He threaded his fingers through hers; her pulse slowed against his palm.

They stood together as the auctioneer steered the room back to money for the final round. He watched Marian accept congratulations she had earned, watched Agnes give a verdict phrased as a threat to anyone who disagreed. He watched his parents turn the sudden interest into strategy together as they worked the room, his mother’s best magic trick.

When Mrs. Chamberlain approached to speak with Marian, sincerity in every syllable, Larry found himself stepping back half a pace, not to remove himself, but to let the picture be correctly framed by event photographers. Marian Brook and the Russells. Order mattered. He could live with second billing tonight. He found he preferred it, in fact.

The shape of the evening had changed thanks to Tom Raikes, but it hadn’t been ruined. Marian felt the odd relief of having passed through the worst of an imagined storm and discovering the city was still lit, the music still playing, the friends still exactly where they belonged.

Mrs. Chamberlain took her hand. “Lunch,” she said, as if catching up with an old friend. “We’ll talk about your next piece.”

Marian’s heart sprang. The next. Not the last. Not the only. “Yes,” she managed. “I’d like that.”

From the dais a booming voice echoed: “Sold.” The final gavel. Applause spread like a ripple.

“On behalf of the Artists’ Relief Fund,” the announcer finished, “thank you all. Special thanks to our sponsors, the Russells who will now say a few words.” He motioned to Bertha who swept up on to the small stage.

“Thank you Tony.” Bertha began smoothly, her smile perfectly poised. Before she gestured to everyone in the audience. “Tonight, your remarkable generosity has done more than fill a ledger, it has secured a legacy for the city of New York as we will be able to save priceless works from being sold and leaving these shores. Together, we’ve ensured that the artists who give this city its voice will continue to work, to dream, and to thrive. These grants will support those struggling to create in the face of rising costs, to preserve works that might otherwise be lost, and to build new spaces where the next generation will make New York not only the centre of commerce, but the heart of culture.” A pause, timed perfectly before she concluded, voice bright and certain. “New York has always belonged to those bold enough to create it. Tonight, you’ve proven that spirit still defines us.”

Applause swelled again, warmer this time, threaded with admiration.

The room loosened. People flowed to exits, to cars, to after-parties where nothing good ever stayed long. Larry inclined his head toward the doors; Marian nodded. They moved through farewell eddies, George’s quiet warmth, Oscar’s stage bow, John’s wink, Mamie’s promise to misbehave at Peggy’s upcoming rehearsal dinner if no one else would rise to the occasion.

Outside, night lay surprisingly cool against her cheeks. Fifth Avenue murmured; the park, dark and breathing, held all the secret sounds of trees at ease.

Larry’s jacket was warm where he had been, and she pulled it closer. He watched her with the kind of pride that came from knowing her story. His best friend, now his girlfriend, finally stepping into the light she deserved.

“You were perfect,” he said as they waited for security to clear the way to their car, not as praise but as fact.

“I was terrified,” she said, then added, because honesty had a way of multiplying in his presence, “for one breath. Then I remembered Oscar would break your wrist if you swung.”

Larry laughed, real and helpless, head tipping back. “He could try.”

His phone buzzed; he ignored it. Hers then buzzed inside his jacket. She fished it out: Peggy. Ceremony rehearsal 9 a.m. Don’t forget!

Marian smiled, showing him her phone screen. “Back to real life.”

“Real life,” Larry agreed as he read it. “Thai tomorrow with Oscar and John. Rehearsal dinner with Will, Peg, everyone. Harper’s pieces for your gallery on a jet. And you, with your name on a wall in brass.” He finished with a flourish of his hands, imagining the gallery door plaque.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her hand found his. He bent and kissed her, public, gentle, no performance. Somewhere a camera might have clicked. She didn’t care. When they parted, the city felt less like a stranger again.

“Ready?” he asked, opening the car door.

“Only if you’re buying dessert on the way home, Russell.”

The car pulled up outside the Van Rhijn townhouse just after midnight. The Met Gala lights of the Upper East Side had long faded, replaced by a hushed city glow. Across the street, the Russell mansion gleamed behind its iron gates, bright, gilded, alive, whilst Agnes Van Rhijn’s house stood dignified and still, its windows dark save for one small lamp in the front room.

Marian turned to Larry as the driver switched off the engine. “Home,” she said softly as she put her empty frozen yoghurt tub down on the car seat.
Larry looked across the street toward his family’s home, then back at her. His knuckles were swelling, the skin raw where he’d split it on Tom Raikes’s jaw. He flexed his fingers and grimaced.

“Can we stay here tonight?” he asked quietly.

Marian blinked, surprised. “Here?”

“Yeah. Your place, for a change.” He gave a wry smile. “I can’t deal with my mother’s questions right now.”

She smiled, that gentle soft expression that he’d fallen for long before she’d ever said she loved him. “Then come on.”

Inside, the townhouse was silent. The staff had gone home or gone to bed hours ago, leaving the echo of ticking clocks and the faint scent of lemon polish. Marian turned on the hall light, its golden glow soft against the dark wood panelling. They reached Marian’s room in silence, the city’s low hum drifting faintly through the tall windows. Marian, still wearing Larry’s suit jacket, turned on a single lamp, its light golden and soft against the pale yellow walls.

Larry stood by the window, framed against the silver wash of the skyline. He was undoing his shirt one button at a time, slower than usual, partly because of his bruised hand, partly because the adrenaline of the night was only now beginning to ebb. His jaw ached faintly from clenching it, but the pulse of satisfaction still beat beneath his ribs. He’d wanted to hit Raikes for years, ever since that smug, charming grin had fooled everyone, Marian included.

Now, with the proof of that punch darkening his knuckles, he finally felt he’d defended her properly. He exhaled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired, Mar.” he said quietly.

“That’s because you went a few rounds at a charity event,” Marian said, voice light but careful. She was taking off her earrings at the mirror, the lamplight threading through her hair in soft gold. He watched her reflection, the slow precision of her movements, the calm she’d regained for both of them.

She caught him looking and smiled faintly. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Can you blame me?” he said, his voice low and rich with affection.

She arched an eyebrow but didn’t look away, her pulse quickening under his gaze. Even after all these years, through friendship, heartbreak, and everything between, there were still moments when the simple act of him looking at her made her feel unsteady.

Larry walked up behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through his half-buttoned shirt. For a second neither moved. Then his hands found her hips, gentle but sure through the pink fabric. She relaxed instinctively against him. The mirror showed them both, his dark hair rumpled, her expression soft, two people still finding the edges of this new intimacy.

“Sit,” she said softly, turning and guiding him to the edge of the bed. He obeyed, wincing slightly as he lowered himself, his injured hand curling against his thigh.

Larry sat on the edge of the bed, flexing his hand carefully as she went to the bathroom to run a wash cloth under the cold water to chill it.

“Hold still,” she said gently, settling beside him again. He obeyed, watching her fold the small cloth, dripping water on her dress, and rest it over his bruised knuckles. Her hands were steady this time. “Better?” she asked, looking up in to his eyes.

“Better when you’re the one fixing it.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But I’m lucky.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze. The air between them felt charged again, not from the anger or adrenaline of earlier, but something quieter, deeper. She lifted the cold compress from his hand to turn it over. “Hold this steady.” Marian picked up her brush, standing behind him. When she began to run it through his hair, he closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. Each stroke seemed to draw the tension out of him. His mind, still replaying the moment Raikes had spoken her name with that sneer, began to settle.

“I could get used to this,” Larry murmured.

“I think you already have,” she teased, bending to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

He chuckled, the sound low and familiar. “You fuss more than Mrs Bruce.”

“And you love it,” she countered, smiling.

He opened one eye, smirking in her direction. “Maybe I do.”

When she set the brush down and relieved him of the soggy cloth, he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. The gesture made her breath hitch, it was nothing grand, but it carried the weight of a promise.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For tonight. For… everything.”

She touched his jaw, her thumb brushing the faint shadow of stubble there. “Always.”

They changed slowly, without hurry, both moving through the room in the quiet ease of routine. Marian folded his discarded shirt over the chair, the scent of his cologne lingering on her hands. He watched her tie her hair up in a messy bun with a scrunchie as he pulled on a soft grey T-shirt, thinking, not for the first time, that he still couldn’t quite believe she was really his.

When she turned to close the curtains, Larry eased back against the headboard, watching the lamplight trace the curve of her shoulders. When she faced him again, he lifted his good hand in silent invitation.

She crossed to him, climbing carefully onto the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, as she curled into his side. For a while they said nothing; the city outside whispered softly through the curtains. His arm lay heavy and protective around her waist, her hand resting lightly over the injured one.

“You were incredible tonight,” Marian said after a long silence.

Larry gave a rueful laugh as he scrolled on his phone. “You mean reckless.”

“I mean brave,” she corrected, smiling against his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do…all that.”

“Yes, I did,” he replied quietly. The memory of Raikes’s words flickered behind his eyes, sharp and ugly, and his jaw tightened again. “Nobody can speak about you like that and walk away in one piece.”

Marian tilted her head to study him, reading the storm still in his expression. “You can stop defending me now,” she said softly as she snuggled in to the bed. “I’m right here.”

That made him smile. He put his phone down on the bedside table and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his thumb lingering at her temple. “Right here,” he repeated, as if the words alone steadied him. They stayed like that, wrapped in the hush of the room, until the tension finally began to drain away. The swelling on his hand throbbed dully, but her warmth against his side dulled the ache.

After a minute, his tone lightened. “So,” Larry murmured, tilting his head toward her, “do heroes get rewards, or did I miss that memo?”

She lifted her head, eyes bright with amusement. “That depends on the kind of reward you’re expecting.”

“The kind that involves my very devoted girlfriend being generous,” he said, his grin edging toward boyish as he stretched.

Marian laughed, the sound soft and conspiratorial. “Then you’re in luck, Mr. Russell.”

She shifted, sliding up to kiss him, slow and lingering, her hand settling at the back of his head, fingers brushing through the unruly dark curls at his nape. His free arm came around her, careful of his injury but firm enough to pull her closer. The kiss deepened, lazy and tender, the sort that left them both smiling against each other’s mouths.

When she pulled back slightly, her breath mingled with his. He brushed his nose against hers, his voice rougher now, threaded with warmth. “That felt like a good start.”

Marian’s laugh came as a whisper against his mouth as she shifted again, this time swinging one leg over his lap until she was straddling him. Her hair slipped loose from its bun, tumbling over her shoulder. A strand brushed his cheek; he caught it between his fingers, tucking it gently behind her ear.

For a long moment they just looked at each other, the quiet between them charged and soft all at once. Larry looked up at her, eyes dark and steady, his thumb tracing small circles at her waist as if committing her to memory. “Remind me to get into fights more often.” he said, the smile tugging at his mouth as she giggled.

His good hand slid from her waist, to the small of her back, guiding her closer. She leaned in, their lips meeting again, slower this time, deeper, threaded with the ache of everything they’d held back through the night. The air between them shifted; his heartbeat rose under her palms, steady and certain. Larry exhaled a sound that was half relief, half wonder.

They broke apart just long enough for him to rest his forehead against hers,. “I love you, Marian.” He murmured, the words roughened with a levity that was uncharacteristic of him,

Marian’s reply came as a whisper against his lips. “I know.” She breathed. “I love you too, now stop talking.” The lamp clicked off, the room dimming to shadows and city light. His laugh, low, unguarded, melted into her soft sigh as they sank back against the pillows.

The last thing heard was his tender murmur against her hair, “Careful with my hand, Brook.”

And then the world went quiet.

Chapter Text

The air-conditioning in the Russell Consolidated L.A. office was set two degrees too cold, just enough to keep people sharp. From his office high over Bunker Hill, Larry could see the early morning haze pressed against the windows, the skyline already vibrating with the California heat. LED Billboards looping their messages, delivery drones tracing white dots across a smog-thick sky, the muted grind of a metropolis always half-finished. It wasn’t even core office hours yet, though you’d never know it; the office was already almost full and the day ran on caffeine and calendars here. He’d given the L.A. office two and a half hours, enough time for one meeting, one round of decisions, and a straight drive to Van Nuys Airport. If the jet wasn’t wheels-up by 11:15 a.m., he’d miss the only flight window that could put him in Newport in time for Peggy and Will’s Rehearsal Dinner. He hated mornings that ran on seconds instead of minutes but he’d already promised Marian he’d make the dinner, and he never broke promises to her, not the important ones. Not in all the years of their friendship and certainly not now they were together, not if he could help it.

Larry’s phone buzzed with a reminder about the RussellSpace call, and the throbbing ache behind his eyes reminded him he hadn’t really stopped moving in three days. To top it off, his coffee had gone cold. He didn’t notice until the scent turned bitter as he reached for it, eyes still on the screen. The subject line was simple, unblinking:

RUSSELLSPACE MEDIA LAUNCH EVENT – FINAL DATE CONFIRMATION

He clicked to open the thread. George’s latest sat near the top. Brisk, economical, unmistakable.

Event confirmed for December 14. Press and partners notified to hold the date. Expectation is full protype readiness for demo and five year roadmap shared. This is our hard stop. No extensions. Let’s deliver it flawlessly.

G.

Below it, the earlier back-and-forth, venues, tiered invitation lists, press embargo timing, insurance riders, staging schematics, a proposed run-of-show that felt like choreography for Dancing With The Stars rather than a rocket. Larry stared at the date a beat longer than he meant to. Roughly six months. The number slid into his chest and lodged there, not heavy so much as clarifying.

His fingers hovered, then settled into a rhythm. He typed:

Understood. We’ll deliver. LA resource breakdown by next Wednesday, supply-chain revisions by Friday. Need to reduce single-vendor exposure to offset risk of non-delivery. Will debrief in Newport over the weekend.

LR

Larry paused at will debrief in Newport, a flash of seaside lawns and white tent light cutting through the glass and city commotion in front of him, then hit send. The email’s whoosh noise was too quiet for the size of the commitment it carried. He checked the clock on his monitor, 7:55a.m. Pacific time. Three hours ahead, Marian would already be somewhere near the coast in Rhode Island, probably just arriving with Van Rhijns if they’d set off at dawn from East 61^st Street as planned. He imagined her closing the Van Rhijn front door behind her, the exact way she pulled the handle with one hand, firm, decisive, the click like punctuation more than sound before bouncing down the steps in her usual way.

A knock at the doorframe. “They’re ready for you,” his assistant said. “Ops, Engineering, Sourcing. London are on dial-in if you want them.”

“Thanks Maria.” He closed the laptop, rolled his tense shoulders, and slipped the suit jacket from the back of his chair without putting it on. The past couple of days had been all edges and his body was starting to feel like it was constructed from angles.

The conference room ran along the southern wall, glass on two sides and a view that made even seasoned executives pause on entry. He didn’t sit. He preferred the hum of standing, the quiet signal that things were moving.

“Welcome everyone. Let’s do it,” he said, and the table straightened collectively, a small choreography of laptops and notepads and attention.

Operations opened with a chart whose lines rose in pleasing, dangerous symmetry. “To hit a December demo,” the VP said, “we’ll need an immediate ramp up. Maybe an additional hundred engineers across structural, avionics, QA, plus a swelling of about two hundred support techs between now and October. We think-”

“Stop there,” Larry said, not unkind. He stepped closer to the screen. “Additional heads…or redeployed?”

The VP blinked. “Additional. Redeployment at that scale will, well, it could create drag on rail modernisation schedules in Hamburg and Singapore.”

“Show me the idle capacity,” he said. “Global. Hamburg after-hours teams. Singapore’s integration lab. São Paulo’s composites line, we sunsetted Line C last quarter; what would it take to spin it back up for six months?”

A project manager cleared her throat. “Housing allowances. Training harmonisation. Moving visas.”

“All cheaper than missing a launch,” he acknowledged, voice even. “I want a redeployment map on my desk by close of play Tuesday. Color-code by skill overlap if you can. If we need to create hybrid teams, do it. Pair a Hamburg lead with a São Paulo team if you have to, whatever compresses staff learning curves without sacrificing quality.”

Larry moved to the next slide full of energy, didn’t bother sitting. Supply chain inputs ticked across the screen like notes in a ledger, high-temp resins, heat-shield ceramics, precision bearings, avionics-grade wiring, rare earth magnets that made the global map look small and complicated which everyone talked through.

“And here,” he said, tapping a table cell, “I don’t like our exposure. Neither will our CEO.”

The Head of Sourcing leaned in. “Ceramics are currently locked with two strategic suppliers, both on guaranteed delivery schedules.”

“Which is lovely until one of them misses a month,” Larry pointed out. “Spread it. Bring in a third vendor. If we can’t find one, create one. Fund a line inside an existing partner’s facility and staff it with our people, licensing and oversight by us, profit share by them. I will not let an international demo hinge on one company’s kiln.”

A low ripple of pens on paper. Someone from finance sounded cautious. “Larry, that sort of exhaustive approach will dent margins. Possibly in a significant way.”

“For the next quarter? You’re right.” He let a smile touch the edge of his mouth. “But we’re not building for the quarter,” he continued. “We’re building for the century. Let’s act like it.”

Henderson and the rest of the London team dialled in midstream, faces chopped by time zones. They wanted assurance on the coupling tests; he gave it. They wanted reassurance on IP controls across borders; he outlined the permissions architecture, then looked to legal, who nodded. Somewhere between question and answer, between chart and decision, Larry felt it, how strangely satisfying it was to pull a thousand moving parts into alignment and feel the machine begin to accelerate in the right direction.

But satisfaction wasn’t the same as peace. In a quiet seam of conversation as projections were recalculated, he glanced at his Patek Phillipe watch. 8:37 a.m. in L.A. 11:37 on the East Coast. Marian should be there by now, in a whirl of bridesmaids and dress bags, coaxing Peggy to breathe between tasks.

“On supply chain,” Larry started, returning to the table. “I want projections for upscaled deliveries on every critical material. Daily, not weekly, from September on. If a truck gets a flat tire in Nevada, I want to hear the hiss before the rubber leaves the rim.”

“It’ll take manpower,” Sourcing said.

“Then redeploy,” he repeated. “Borrow from rail analytics. My team in New York can write the dashboards in a weekend; we’ll feed your inputs into it.”

Someone cracked a grin. “We’ll need pizza, Larry.”

He let himself laugh. “Send the bill to me, but I’m not paying for anything with pineapple on.”

It broke the tension the right amount, laughter rippling around the table. He let the room breathe, then closed the loop. “Okay. We’re aligned on three actions: redeploy instead of hire wherever possible; diversify the vendor portfolio; and instrument this entire thing so we can see every cog in the dark. This is a six-month sprint with no skid-out lane. Questions?”

There were a quite a few, requiring a detailed back and forth. They dealt with them. His calendar pulsed a red reminder: Car for Van Nuys.10:20 a.m. It blinked like a countdown, his warning to get this wrapped up and move on to the next meeting.

A few minutes later on the way out, the engineering lead murmured, half-admiring, half-wry, “You don’t sleep much, do you boss?”

Larry smiled. “Not this week.”

As he walked back to his office for a discussion with investors, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick one-liner to Marian.

Larry: Final meeting now, then straight to the airport. Hope drive to Newport was ok.

He’d just sat down in his desk chair when a response popped up.

Marian: Glad to hear it. Drive ok. The cardboard cutout doesn’t dance well, so do try to make it.

He smiled, the kind that tugged at one corner of his mouth. Even from across the country, she could still make him laugh and remind him who really ran the show.

Larry: LOL! Save me a glass of champagne and a chair near the exit, I’ll need both. Love you.

Marian: Make mine a bottle. Weddingmania has begun. Love you too.

Larry barely had time to breathe before the next meeting let alone chance to ask for another coffee, a quick but pointed discussion with an investor, legal seated at the table like a silent metronome. It didn’t last long. Larry was unequivocal: Russell Consolidated does not give anyone else majority shares in any project even if they were the market leader in Singapore.

After they left, he made brief farewells as he made a bee-line for the elevator. He watched the floor numbers blink down and saw what other people saw in the reflection of the mirrored wall, tired, yes; a little over-wired; tie a degree looser than when he arrived. The lobby had that particular LA smell of cooled stone and faint indoor eucalyptus. He stepped into the heat and the city pressed close.

The company car was already at the curb. He slid in, dropped his head back, and let the driver merge into traffic where cars stacked like dominoes frozen mid-fall. The car clock read 10:23a.m. Tight, but still enough, if the freeway behaved. Outside, brake lights stretched to a horizon of red beads. Someone on the sidewalk walked a greyhound in a tiny sweater despite the heat; someone else balanced a tray of iced coffees like a magician.

His phone buzzed. Financial Times push notification:

European Investors Still Wary After Russell Consolidated Allegations. Market Steadies Despite Shadow of Scandal

Larry’s eyebrows furrowed in confused. What scandal? Richard Clay’s name sat halfway down the article summary, bland as a paper cut and just as irritating. Larry opened the full piece and skimmed. No new accusations; just the after-image persistent in certain corners of the European press, a rumor’s inertia outlasting the rumor’s origin. No smoke without fire they implied. He felt the old, brief burn of anger. Clay had been a lesson in how quickly a professional betrayal could be engineered to look like a corporate truth. George had called it “the tax we pay for being visible.” Larry thought of it as noise he had to learn to conduct around.

Has he backed off, he wondered with unease, or is he just quieting to time a second strike?

The car inched forward. He closed the article and let it fall back to the lock screen where Marian’s face waited, not the polished Upper East Side event photos everyone knew, but an old snapshot from Oxford, on one of his visits when she was studying. Her hair was all soft ringlets, head thrown back in laughter as they sprawled on a picnic blanket under a sky too blue to belong to England in the autumn. The picture rearranged the geometry inside his chest every time he looked at it leaving a comforting warmth radiating.

Another vibration.

Gladys: Boarding now! Hector insists this counts as a “holiday,” which means he’s packed two tuxedos and nothing sensible. Ask Dad to save us seats tomorrow at the ceremony, seeming as you’re the King of Late Arrivals.

Larry snorted.

Larry: Tell your Duke I’ll believe he’s on vacation when he manages to leave his work phone in a drawer for twelve hours. Lol.

Gladys replied with a photograph. Hector asleep in the airplane already, hair falling across his eye mask.

Gladys:  See. He’s practicing

Gladys: Don’t be late today, please Larry, Marian will not forgive you if you stroll in mid-dinner.

Larry: I’d survive Marian. Will’s mother, on the other hand…

A row of laughing emojis, and then:

Gladys: See you by the sea bro.

The car skirted a cluster of food trucks, the kind whose handwritten menus looked more sincere than restaurant placards. He thought of Borden’s breakfasts in Newport, the way the kitchen there smelled at dawn, salt and butter and something like home boiled down and warmed up again. He was suddenly, achingly tired, longing for home. The kind of tired that comes not from a lack of sleep but from too much forward motion without a stop.

By late morning, Van Nuys Airport shimmered in dry heat. The tarmac rippled; even the hangar roofs looked liquid in the light. Private jets lined up like silver commas against the blue. The hush of private hangars, a softness to noise that made the world seem gentler than it was. The Russell jet waited under a clear blue sky just beginning to gather whisps of cloud. The pilot gave a thumbs-up through the glass. 10:55 a.m. Perfect. They’d have the tailwinds. A ground tech raised a hand; Larry returned the gesture with a ghost of a wave and climbed the stairs, his assistant giving directions on bags behind him.

Inside, the cabin light was softer, with the window blinds half pulled. He dropped his blazer onto the opposite seat, toed off his shoes, and loosened his tie until he could breathe like a human being again. The flight attendant asked about lunch; he shook his head. “Just water. And if I’m still asleep ten minutes before descending for landing, please wake me.”

He rubbed his palms against his tired eyes before leaning to the side to reach his phone in his trouser pocket.

Larry: Wheels up in fifteen. On my way Brook!

The status turned to sent and then the world went quiet. He set the phone on airplane mode after one last check.

Larry stretched out in the luxurious seat, the leather cool against the heat he’d been carrying around all day. The jets spooled up; there’s a particular low hum private planes have that feels less like engine and more like promise.

When the door to the cabin closed, the hum of the engines deepened into a steady lull and pulled them towards the runway. Before take off, Larry stepped inside in small onboard bedroom, stripped off the loosened tie, and tossed it onto the armchair before dropping face-first onto the bed with a groan that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. The sheets were cool, the air faintly perfumed with cedar and new leather. Somewhere beyond the walls, the jet began to climb, the angle pressing him briefly into the mattress.

He meant to close his eyes for a moment, to think through the projections, the resource charts, the map of cities that made up the next six months but instead all he saw was Marian. Her laugh in Newport sunlight, the tilt of her head when she teased him. That his life, however loud it got, had to make room for the quiet that happened when she put her head on his shoulder and the rest of it receded to a manageable hum. The noise of the world slipped away as his breathing evened, the jet humming softly beneath him like a heartbeat. Within minutes, he was asleep, tie abandoned, deadlines forgotten, flying east toward her.

Somewhere over the desert the tightness in his chest let go. He drifted, woke when the flight attendant laid a light blanket over him, mumbled thanks, drifted again. In the pocket stretches between sleep and waking he felt the plane bank and settle, a long curve drawn over the curve of the continent.

The Kirkland estate was the kind of place that didn’t need to try to be beautiful. It simply was. The gardens tumbled toward the cliffs like an afterthought of nature and money in perfect agreement. The late sun painted everything honey-gold: the white columns, the marble terrace, the glassware catching fire in the light. Beyond, the Atlantic breathed against the rocks, rhythmic and slow, as if it had seen every generation of Newport parties and grown amused by their repetition.

Marian arrived with Ada and Agnes just before seven. The Van Rhijns were staying with the Fanes, but the short drive had still required twenty minutes of discussion over shawls and seat assignments. Marian, in soft sage satin and pearl earrings, carried the quiet composure of someone determined that nothing, least of all nerves, would distract from Peggy’s night. Her chest felt too tight, too aware of the one seat at the table that remained empty: Larry’s.

“Not dreadful,” Agnes declared as they walked up the gravel path lined with lanterns. “I was expecting more nouveau excess in the house décor from Mrs Kirkland. At least they’ve let the house speak for itself.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ada said, eyes wide. “Oh look, Marian, you can see the ocean from here.”

Marian smiled indulgently. “I think that’s the point of a seafront cottage.”

Inside the gardens, the air smelled faintly of roses and salt. The string quartet was already playing, servers in white jackets moving between guests with glasses of champagne and oysters on ice. Newport society shimmered under the lights: friends of both the Scotts annd the Kirklands already in attendance, Lina and Carrie Astor chatting with Mrs. Kirkland, Mamie Fish laughing far too loudly near the buffet.

Peggy, radiant and slightly overwhelmed, hurried toward them, gown skimming the grass. “You’re here! Does everything look all right? Tell me it’s all right.”

“It’s perfect,” Marian said, taking her friend’s hands. “You’re perfect. And if something does go wrong, no one will notice. They’ll all be blinded by you.”

Peggy exhaled shakily and laughed. “God bless you. You’re the only one I’ll believe tonight.”

They embraced briefly. Then Peggy was whisked away again, her mother, the wedding planner, the photographer, and Marian was left standing at the edge of the terrace, scanning the drive. Every car that approached made her chest tighten, then settle. She hated how obvious her worry felt, as if anyone looking closely might see the outline of her heart leaning toward the drive. No Larry. Not yet. She reminded herself that his flight had been long, the time difference brutal. He’d make it. He always did.

Behind her, Agnes was making her presence known, holding court beside Lina and Ada whilst Carrie circulated around everyone.
“If this is the rehearsal,” Agnes said, glancing around, “I dread to think what the wedding will look like.”
Lina smiled. “Darling, that’s what staff are for.”
“I prefer fewer people,” Agnes said. “It improves the quality of conversation.”
Mamie Fish, overhearing, chimed in with a grin. “And deprives the papers of gossip. How cruel of you, Agnes.”

Marian half-listened, half-pretended to be calm. Her phone buzzed in her clutch, and her heart jumped.

Larry: Traffic on Ocean Ave. Be there in five. Don’t start without me.

She couldn’t stop the small grin that curved her lips. Her fingers flew across the screen.

Marian: Hurry! You’re missing free champagne and my rising panic.

 

 

At seven-thirty, as the guests began drifting from the cocktail lawn to the terrace for dinner, SUV headlights swept the drive. Marian turned. Her heart did something undignified and adolescent, leapt, tripped, smoothed out. There Larry was, stepping from a sleek black car, fresh evening suit immaculate, hair mussed in a way that betrayed both exhaustion and haste. Pushed back in an attempt that had already surrendered. The breeze caught the edge of his open collar. He looked devastating. And relieved.

A wave rolled through Larry, jet lag, adrenaline, and a sharp, embarrassing punch of joy. God, he’d missed her. More than he should have in just three days. He saw her at once. His grin, half apology, half joy, undid her completely.

Marian didn’t bother with decorum. She abandoned her conversation and wove through guests, “excuse me, pardon, sorry”, the silk hem of her dress whispering across the grass as she moved fast, laughter glancing off her shoulders. Larry moved too, long strides, and they met at the edge of the terrace where the slate flags felt warm beneath her heels. She went straight into his arms; he lifted her a fraction off the ground with a quiet laugh, kissing her quickly before she could even speak. He hadn’t realized how much he needed her until she was in his hands, warm, real, his grounding wire in a week of static. His jacket was cool under her palms; his breath smelled faintly of mint and the sterile chill of airplane air.

“I can’t believe you made it,” she breathed, laughing against his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t dare miss this,” Larry murmured back. “Cardboard cutout me is a very… tacit dinner companion.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Oscar said as he passed, champagne flute in hand that he pressed in to Larry’s grateful hand, “I’d say you’ve gone soft Russell. Just please don’t start quoting poetry.”

“Poetry? I’ll leave that to you…once you find some new material.” Larry shot back, smirking, without missing a beat.

John rolled his eyes fondly. “Gentlemen, you are in public.”

“Barely,” Oscar muttered, though he was smiling as he gave Larry a quick hug in welcome. “But you do look disgustingly handsome as usual, so I suppose we forgive you.”

“I’ll take that.” Larry chuckled, looping his fingers with Marian’s as she slipped her hand in to this. “Jet lag’s a fashion statement now.”

Marian pulled him towards the lavish dining table set up. “Come on, Russell. You’ve been on the move since Tuesday. You look ready to sleep standing.”

“Just elbow me if I fall asleep during the soup course.”

Dinner began as twilight fell, the long tables bathed in gold from the string lights overhead. Lanterns bobbed like captive stars above the terrace. The menu was printed on thick card stock, and the champagne flowed in rhythms as steady as the tide below.

Marian sat beside Larry, her hand finding his under the linen. The warmth of it steadied her. Across the table, Ada chatted earnestly with Peggy’s father while Agnes inspected her dessert fork like a critic reviewing art. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist in a slow, absent rhythm but it sent something bright through her, a quiet reminder that he was here, to enjoy the evening.

“To Peggy and Will,” Will’s father said during his toast, elegant and glowing. “May you always find each other in the noise.”

Then Will rose, looking both delighted and terrified. “Before we close, I’d like to ask someone to speak who’s technically not the best man, but who might be the best talker.” He smiled toward Larry, causing the table to chuckle. “Would you mind?”

Larry looked at Marian; she nodded once, softly encouraging. For a beat, he let himself anchor to her, the soft certainty in her eyes steadied the flutter of nerves he’d never admit to. He stood, the evening breeze catching his hair as he ran a hand through it. The crowd quieted.

“First,” he said, “Peggy once told me this dinner would be casual. That was a lie.” Laughter. Peggy covered her face and shrugged dramatically.

“Second, for context, when Marian and I joined Peggy and Will for our first double date, we were definitely not together. Which made it infinitely worse when Peggy and Will hit it off so well… and left, leaving us to finish the whole romantic Valentine’s Day mini golf course alone.”

Peggy groaned. Will grinned. The guests laughed warmly.

“But she was right. As Peggy usually is,” Larry continued, causing Peggy’s mother to laugh heartily. “And tonight, looking at the two of you, I can say what’s obvious to everyone here: you make each other better. Stronger. Braver. That’s the point of this whole love thing, isn’t it? The partnership.”

He raised his glass. “What we build says who we are. And you two, what you’re building, is something extraordinary. To Peggy and Will.”

“Peggy and Will,” everyone echoed. Glasses clinked. Marian’s chest ached with pride. He’d always been good with a room but tonight, something in his voice felt different. Softer. Certain. And she felt that certainty echo inside her as she saw her dear friend Peggy lean over to kiss her soon-to-be husband. Across from her, Agnes dabbed her eyes discreetly, correcting herself quickly in the hope nobody noticed.

“Well,” Agnes said to Marian briskly, clearing her throat, “that was almost eloquent.”

Ada sniffed into her napkin. “It was beautiful.”

“I said almost,” Agnes muttered, but there was unmistakable warmth beneath the dryness.

Cheese boards had only just been set down when a strange, insect-like buzz cut through the string quartet’s bright melody. Marian barely registered it at first, Newport always had gulls and wind but then a flash burst across the terrace.

Then another.

Then the unmistakable snap of branches at the garden edge.

A ripple went through the guests, tension tightening the air. Servers froze. Heads turned. A small drone hovered above the lawn, camera blinking with greedy precision. Beyond the hydrangeas, figures moved, the soft thud of heavy lenses, muffled curses, someone stepping on a fallen lantern hook.

Will’s mother gasped, outraged, slamming her napkin to the table. “This is private, for pity’s sake!”

Peggy was already on her feet, eyes blazing, wedding nerves forgotten, replaced by pure fury. “Absolutely not. Not this. Not tonight.” She stepped forward as if ready to march across the lawn herself. “Security, now! Get them off the property!”

Her voice cracked through the evening like a whip.

Security sprinted. One of Larry’s close protection officers shouted. The drone veered sharply and zipped back toward Ocean Ave. But the damage had been done: the hush, the upset, the stunned guests. Even Agnes was silent.

Marian’s stomach dropped. Her pulse stuttered with something sharp and cold.

It’s because of us. Because of me.

The shame was sudden and sharp, like someone knocking the breath from her lungs. She’d never wanted her life to spill into Peggy’s. Never wanted her happiness to cast shadows on someone else’s celebration. She felt it, the hot, guilty flush rising in her chest,right up until Larry’s hand slid round her and rubbed her back, firm, warm, anchoring. He felt her go rigid beside him, the way she always did when the world pressed too close, and the instinct to shield her rose fast and absolute.

“Don’t overthink.” he murmured, leaning close enough that only she could hear. “Any high profile wedding is always going to be a target.”

Her throat thickened at the quiet certainty in his voice.

The quartet resumed tentatively. Servers recovered, collecting fallen napkins, broken glass and calming the guests. Peggy allowed herself to be steered back by Will towards her mother, but anger still sparked in her eyes like flint.

Marian pulled free of Larry’s arm, breath tight, and crossed the terrace toward her. Mrs. Scott was at Peggy’s side, one arm protectively looped through hers, quietly telling her everything was under control.

“Peg,” Marian said softly, guilt climbing high in her chest. “Larry and I… we should probably leave. This is our fault. I’m so, so sorry.”

“What?” Peggy blinked, startled. “Marian, absolutely not. Don’t you dare say that!”

“It was the press,” Marian whispered. “They came because of-”

Peggy cut her off, fierce but warm, taking Marian’s hands in her own. “They came because my future mother-in-law is a Fortune 100 CEO. One of the first female CEO’s let a lone a black, female CEO, who once fired three executives before lunchtime. Trust me, people have been sniffing around this event for months. This is not on you.”

Mrs. Scott nodded firmly. “There was always going to be attention tonight. You two aren’t the cause, you’re just the shiniest thing in the room.”

“Peggy, I-”

“You’re not leaving.” Peggy squeezed her hands. “The only thing I want right now is for you to be here tomorrow morning. First thing. My veil is already threatening a breakdown, and I need you.” Her voice softened. “Ada and Agnes will be staying a while yet. Maybe go back to the Russells and chill out, okay? Larry looks exhausted.”

Marian exhaled and nodded, some of the tightness loosening. “Okay. I’ll be over first thing.” She hugged her friend tightly, “Sleep well.”

As she stepped back, Larry appeared at her shoulder and without a word, slid his jacket around her just as he had at the Guggenheim. He did it automatically, instinctively, her comfort having long been one of the essential rhythms of his life since he was a teenager. The gesture as well as the smell of his cologne wrapped around her like reassurance itself. Before leaving, Marian crossed to Ada and Agnes, touching Ada’s arm lightly. “We’re heading out,” she said with a weak smile, continuing to speak before Ada could object. “Stay and enjoy the evening, I’ll see you both in the morning.” Agnes looked to Larry and gave a curt nod; Ada squeezed her hand warmly.

The party slowly regained its glow behind them, lanterns swaying in the ocean breeze, but Marian let Larry guide her toward the driveway, the warmth of his jacket settling over her spine.

Tomorrow would be beautiful.

Tonight had revealed the cracks.

And that felt important.

The Russell mansion in Newport glowed warm against the dark, every window lit as if waiting for them. Marian felt her shoulders loosen the moment they stepped inside, cool air, polished marble, quiet hallways that smelled faintly of bergamot and sea salt. This place, despite being the size of a palace, always felt like a pause, a held breath between storms. The moment the door shut behind them, she felt something inside her unclench, as if the house itself was a pair of arms lowering around her, telling her she was safe now.

Bertha and George were waiting in the main sitting room, Bertha in a silk wrap the color of champagne, George in a polo shirt and linen shorts with a glass of scotch already poured. Larry felt a flicker of guilt that he’d dragged Marian through another night of unwanted attention but pushed the feeling down.

“Larry!” Bertha exclaimed as she jumped to her feet, her eyes warmed at the sight of them. “How was the Kirkland’s rehearsal dinner?”

Larry exchanged a look with Marian, brace yourself, before rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” he started, “we had… surprise guests.” She knew that look. A silent: ready? A wordless: I’ve got you if this gets complicated.

George frowned. “Who?”

“Paparazzi,” Larry muttered as he walked to the decanter and poured a glass of the amber liquid. “A drone. A few photographers. Security handled it.”

Bertha’s expression sharpened instantly. “How the heck did they get onto a Kirkland lawn?”

Marian spoke quickly, before blame could form. “It wasn’t anything to do with Peggy’s . And Mrs. Scott handled it perfectly. No one was hurt, just the cheese boards.”

“They weren’t press for the wedding,” Larry added taking a sip of his drink before offering it to Marian. “They were after us.”

Bertha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course. The Guggenheim fallout. Every half-wit with a camera thinks they can sell a shot of the new IT Couple.”

Marian winced at the phrase. The irony scraped at her. Once, the two of them had staged photos and smiled for cameras on purpose, that idiotic fake relationship scheme. And now the real thing was being hunted like prey. How backwards it all felt.

George noticed, and softened.

“It’ll settle,” he said gently as he stood. “If we make sure not to fan any further flames” he added with a pointed look at his wife. “Public interest always burns hottest before it burns out.”

Larry’s jaw tightened. “I wish Clay’s name would burn out with it.” Just the name stirred something instinctive and sharp in him, a warning bell he couldn’t quite silence.

George fixed his son with a confused but curious stare. “Richard Clay? Has he resurfaced?”

“No,” Larry said, frustrated. “That’s the problem. He’s quiet. Too quiet. I want to talk about it with you, after the wedding. Something feels… off.”

George nodded once, understanding the weight behind that. “Tomorrow. I’ll clear time.”

Bertha patted Marian’s arm, all business. “Gladys and Hector land in an hour, we’re waiting up. I’ll let Aurora know you’re here. Get some rest, you both look exhausted.”

Marian laughed. “We feel it.”

Larry felt the words land; they were true. All week he’d been forcing his body forward on momentum and caffeine, but now the crash crept up his spine. He kissed his mother’s cheek before taking Marian’s hand. “Night, Mom. Dad.”

They climbed the sweeping staircase together, golden light tracing the steps. Part of him sank into the simple domesticity of it, retreating upstairs with the woman he loved after a long day, something he hadn’t realised he’d ever crave this deeply, especially not with Marian. Upstairs, the bedroom suite felt calm, elegant, all pale blue linens and an enormous window overlooking the moonlit cliffs.

“You,” Larry said, turning to her with the authority of a man issuing a royal decree, “are getting in a bubble bath before you drop.”

She started to protest. “Larry, you’re the one who’s travelled all day.” His bossy tenderness made something warm flutter through her, a reminder that even exhausted, he still paid attention to her smallest needs whilst managing to be completely annoying at the same time.

“Nope,” he said, already moving to the bathroom. “I’m used to it and showered on the jet. You helped run a rehearsal dinner and a crisis. You deserve to relax.”

She smiled, letting the exhaustion melt into affection as she followed him, peeling off her shoes. Steam already curled from the tub; lavender-scented bubbles rose in soft peaks. Larry knelt beside it, testing the temperature with his wrist like he was checking a baby’s bath.

“Perfect,” he declared. He didn’t know why it mattered so much that he got it right, the water, the quiet, all of it, only that it did.

“You’re very proud of yourself,” Marian teased.

“I am,” he said. “I should get a medal. Or at least a kiss.”

She leaned down and kissed his cheek, warm and lingering. “You do get one.”

When she slipped into the tub, the hot water hugged her aches instantly. She exhaled a long, slow breath, sinking back until her hair floated like a dark halo.

Larry walked in to the bedroom to retrieve something before returning to sit on the bathroom floor beside her, legs stretched out, leaning against the bedroom doorframe like he’d done this a thousand times. He reached for the small black case beside him and pulled out a gaming controller.

Marian rolled her eyes and smiled. “You brought your Xbox? For a wedding? Seriously”

“Hey! It lives here,” he declared, turning it on with a satisfying beep. “This is my nostalgic childhood home. And I haven’t played Call of Duty in months. Let me live.” He untucked his shirt and undid a few buttons to get comfortable whilst waiting for his game to load.

She laughed, sliding deeper into the water as she glanced over at him shaking her head. “You look like a teenager.”

“Thanks babe,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “I try to maintain my youthful glow.”

“You look exhausted.”

“That too.”

Larry played, quietly, intently, occasionally swearing under his breath whilst Marian soaked, the soft sounds of waves outside the window blending with digital chimes and bursts of pixelated action. Every few minutes he glanced over to check on her, as if making sure she didn’t need anything. He didn’t comment on it, but seeing her finally unwind loosened something in him, the knot of worry he's carried since the drone appeared.

“Relaxed?” he asked, finally putting his controller down and coming to sit with his back propped against the bath, eyes soft.

“Mmm. Very.”

“Good. Peggy’s going to need you in the morning. You’re the only person who can talk her down without causing a scene.”

Marian smiled at him. “You’ve got me. And I’ve got Peggy?”

“Exactly Brook,” Larry said, gently nudging her foot hanging over the top of the tub. “Triangle of stability.”

She watched him for a long moment, phone in hand texting Jack, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie gone, hair mussed, sitting on a bathroom floor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not the grandeur. Not the mansion. Just him. Just this, the quiet ordinary miracle of being loved by him, the one man who a few months ago was firmly locked away in her mind as forever off limits.

“This,” she said quietly, “is what I love.”

He looked up, brow raised. “Me getting beaten by twelve-year-olds online?”

“No,” she said, laughing tenderly. “You being here. Even after the day you had.”

Larry’s expression softened in a way that made her heart tug.

“For you?” he said quietly. “Always. You know that.”

She leaned over the tub’s edge, water droplets falling onto his knee, and kissed him, slow, warm, grateful. He kissed her back, thumb brushing her jaw, phone emails forgotten for a moment.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” Larry smiled before continuing more seriously. “But you need to stop doing a Brook classic and overthinking things. It’s unnecessary stress.” She digested his words and nodded. He always seemed to know when her mind had slipped into old habits, fear, guilt, catastrophising and he always knew how to pull her back.

They stayed like that, Marian in warm water, Larry cross-legged on marble showing her funny TikTok videos, two people tucked into the quiet after a loud day until the bathwater cooled and Marian’s eyelids grew heavy.

“Come on,” he said gently, standing and stretching, before offering her his hand. “Let’s get you to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

She let him help her out, wrap her in a soft towel robe, kiss her damp forehead.

They stepped back into the bedroom just as the faint sound of voices drifted up from downstairs, Gladys’s bright trill of laughter, Hector’s deeper reply, the clatter of luggage being carried in. For a moment Marian and Larry both paused, listening with fondness; it was the sound of family arriving, the house filling in around them.

Soon, the footsteps faded, doors shut, and the mansion exhaled into quiet again, the soft creak of settling wood and the distant pulse of the ocean becoming the only sounds.

Larry slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked into the closet, both moving with the loose, heavy-footed weariness of people who had run on adrenaline too long. Marian pulled on cotton pyjamas, fresh and cool against her skin; Larry tugged on a T-shirt and soft navy lounge pants, stifling a yawn that made his eyes water.

When they finally crawled beneath the crisp Newport linens, cool sheets, warm comforter, feather pillows that felt like clouds, Marian curled instinctively toward him. Larry rested his hand on her hip, gentle, anchoring.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a marathon,” he murmured into her hair, yawning before planting a tired kiss against the top her head.

“I know,” she whispered back, already sinking into the mattress. “Which is why we should sleep. All the sleep.”

Larry chuckled softly as his eyes closed, thumb brushing the back of her hand. “Exactly, Brook.”

The house fell fully quiet then, Gladys and Hector settled down the hall, Bertha and George talking in low tones somewhere near the library. Outside, the sea kept its steady rhythm against the cliffs.

Inside, wrapped in fresh sheets and each other’s warmth, Larry and Marian let exhaustion take them, knowing tomorrow would be long, beautiful, messy, important.