Franz had been in his office since morning.

The desk was covered in documents — quarterly reports, contract amendments, approval forms that needed his signature before filming started. He’d been working through them methodically, the way he did everything, but the pile refused to shrink. Every time he finished one stack, another appeared. Finn had brought the last batch at four-thirty with an apologetic look and a reminder that the car was coming at seven.

He had two hours.

The window behind him showed the city at early evening, the sky softening from blue to gold. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up. His tie was loosened. He’d been reading the same paragraph about insurance liability for three minutes.

He hadn’t absorbed a word.

A knock on the doorframe pulled his attention.

Arianne stood in the doorway. She was dressed for dinner — a dark dress, simple lines, her hair down around her shoulders. Her coat was draped over one arm. Her handbag hung from the other. She looked at him, then at the desk, then back at him.

"You’re still working."

"I’m almost done."

She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. Set her handbag on the edge of his desk and picked up one of the documents. Her eyes moved down the page.

"Do you need help sorting these?"

"What takes the longest is reading them one by one." He ran a hand through his hair. "I can’t just sign. I have to understand what I’m signing."

She nodded. Set the document down. Picked up another. "The notes I pinned to the complex reports — were they helpful?"

"Immensely." He meant it.

Over the past months, she’d developed a system. Colored tabs for urgency. Handwritten summaries clipped to the front of dense financial documents. Translation of corporate jargon into plain language. She’d done it without being asked, starting the first time she’d found him still at his desk at nine o’clock, drowning in paperwork he’d been trained to understand but not to love.

"You made this possible. I would have drowned without them."

"Not many can interpret those reports easily. That’s why I wrote the notes."

"I know." He reached out. His fingers closed around her wrist. "Come here."

He pulled her gently, and she stumbled — caught off guard — and then she was on his lap, her hip against the armrest, her hand bracing against his shoulder.

"Franz." She glanced toward the door. "Someone might see us."

He wrapped his arms around her waist. Kept her in place. "Let them see. We’re married. What’s wrong with a husband holding his wife?" His voice was low, warm, the voice of someone who’d spent time hiding and was tired of it. "It’s not a secret affair. Everyone in this building knows who you are."

"They know I’m the interim CEO. That’s different from —"

"From this?"

He kissed her.

It started gentle. A question. Then her hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and the question became an answer, and the answer became something deeper. His hand moved from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her closer. His other hand slipped under the hem of her blouse, his palm warm against the bare skin of her spine.

Her breath caught.

She pulled back from the kiss. Her fingers were still wrapped around his wrist. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were darker than before.

"Finish your work." Her voice was steady, but her pulse was visible in her throat. "This can wait."

He held her gaze. His hand was still under her blouse. Then he exhaled. Nodded. "You’re right."

"I know."

He withdrew his hand. Picked up his pen. She didn’t leave his lap.

Instead, she reached for the nearest stack of documents. Began sorting them — high priority on the left, low priority on the right, the system she’d developed over months of watching him work. She handed him the first one without comment.

He read it. Signed. Reached for the next.

A smile crossed his lips. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She was still here, her weight warm against his thighs, her hands moving through papers with the same efficiency she brought to everything. She’d stopped the kiss. She hadn’t stopped this.

They worked like that for the next forty minutes. By the time the last document was signed, the sky outside the window had deepened to indigo. The car would arrive in twenty minutes.

"Done," he said.

"Good." She slid off his lap. Retrieved her handbag. "The car’s downstairs. We should go."

He stood. Rolled down his sleeves. Buttoned his cuffs. Reached for his jacket. She watched him without comment, the way she watched everything. When he was finished, she turned toward the door.

The restaurant was private. A single table in a small room with warm lighting and walls the color of cream. No other diners. No waitstaff hovering. Just the two of them and the quiet clink of silver on porcelain.

Franz ate with appetite. He’d worked through lunch and his body was demanding compensation. Steak, rare. Potatoes roasted with rosemary. A glass of red wine that he’d barely touched because he wanted to remember everything about tonight.

Arianne ate lightly. Her plate was more vegetables than meat. She’d ordered fish, and she ate it in small, precise bites.

"You’re not hungry," he said.

"I’m eating."

"You’re picking."

"I’m savoring."

He smiled. Cut another piece of steak. "We need to talk about arrangements. For when filming starts."

She set her fork down. "Aunt Estella will handle the twins. Pickups, drop-offs, school runs. She’s already planned the routes."

"School resumes the same week."

"Yes. Kyle is enrolled at the same school now. Julian and I spoke about it. We can trade pickups. He takes all three one day, Aunt Estella the next." She paused. "Julian is oddly excited about it. He said something about carpool karaoke."

"That’s a terrifying image."

"I told him the twins can’t sing."

"Neither can Julian. That won’t stop him."

Arianne almost smiled. "Kyle will love it."

Franz reached for his wine. "Will the production force you to leave for a remote location again?"

"Later in the schedule." He set the glass down. "Another city. I might be gone for a month. The schedule isn’t final yet — Daryll is still negotiating the dates. He’s trying to compress the remote shoot as much as possible."

"A month is a long time."

"I know." He met her eyes. "I’ll call every night. Video if the signal holds."

"You don’t have to promise that."

"I’m promising anyway."

She didn’t argue. Instead she said, "There’s something else. The production secured permission to film one of the episodes at a hospital under the Rochefort Group. It’s in the city. So at least for that week, you’ll be close."

"I know. Monica told me this morning." He paused. "You approved the permit."

"Last month. I thought it would be a good surprise."

"It is." He reached across the table. His hand covered hers. "Thank you."

After dinner, they stood outside the restaurant, waiting for the car.

The season was full spring, but the night was cold. The wind cut through the street, rattling the newly budded branches of the trees lining the curb. Arianne pulled her coat tighter. Her dress was elegant but thin, designed for a heated dining room, not a spring night that still carried winter’s edge.

Franz noticed. He unwound the scarf from around his neck — a dark wool, simple, the one he’d grabbed from the closet that morning without thinking — and wrapped it around hers. The fabric was still warm from his skin. He looped it once, twice, tucking the end against her collarbone.

She didn’t say no. She let him do it.

His hands lingered at her collar. Then he took her hand in his. His fingers interlaced with hers, and he held on.

Before, they would have avoided this. Before, they would have waited inside until the car arrived, or stood apart on the curb, or kept their hands in their pockets and their distance measured. Before, the public owned their relationship and they managed it accordingly. The careful angles. The strategic distances.

Now he didn’t care. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

If someone saw them, let them see. If someone took a picture, let them. She was his wife. He was her husband. He would hold her hand on a public street because he wanted to, because the night was cold and her fingers were warm and he was tired of hiding.

The car pulled up to the curb. He opened the door for her. She slid inside, the scarf still wrapped around her neck, and he followed her in. The door closed. The city lights slid past the windows.

"The hotel," he said to the driver. "The Rochefort property on Calloway."

The car pulled away.

Arianne looked at him. "Calloway is where I put Angelika."

"She checked out this morning. Gio handled the flight." He paused. "The presidential suite is ours tonight."

"Did you plan that?"

"I planned everything." His thumb moved across her knuckles. "You gave me a dinner. I’m giving you the rest of the night. No twins. No reports. No interruptions."

"That’s ambitious."

"I’m an ambitious man."

She turned her head toward the window. But her hand stayed in his. The scarf stayed around her neck. The city moved past them, dark and glittering, and inside the car, the silence was comfortable. Full of things that didn’t need saying.

Tomorrow, he would leave for filming. Tomorrow, the schedule would claim him — early calls, late shoots, the rhythm of a production that would consume his days. Tomorrow, she would return to board meetings and the quiet work of running a company while her husband was away.

Tonight, they had each other.

The car turned onto Calloway. The hotel rose ahead of them, its windows warm with light. Franz lifted her hand to his mouth. Pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"Happy anniversary," he said.

"It’s been almost two weeks since our anniversary."

"We’re celebrating late."

"That’s very practical of us."

"We’re practical people." He kissed her hand again. "Except when we’re not."

She didn’t pull her hand away. The car stopped. The hotel doors opened. They stepped out into the cold spring night, his scarf around her neck, her hand in his, and walked inside.