Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

New York is a study of impossible odds. Eight million souls, moving through a labyrinth of streets, each on a trajectory dictated by a thousand tiny, instinctive choices. A coffee shop selected on a whim, a momentary glance, a subway car missed by a fraction of a second. For two specific paths to cross is happenstance. For them to collide at a moment of shared vulnerability—a moment that changes everything—feels like the deliberate hand of fate. It’s as if the universe, bored with random chaos, decides to nudge two pieces into place just to see what kind of beautiful, terrible gravity they might create.

II.

Helena Eagan had mastered the art of being looked at.

Tonight, it was from across the university’s grand ballroom—a cavernous space filled with the polite chatter of academics and the far less polite clinking of donors’ heavy jewelry. She held a flute of champagne she had no intention of drinking, the glass a cool, solid shield in her hand. Her smile was a carefully constructed thing, a mask of pleasant interest she had learned to wear before she’d even learned algebra. It was the smile required of the keynote speaker, the corporate messiah, the Eagan heiress. It betrayed none of the crushing boredom she actually felt.

Every person in the room was an angle to be considered: a department head angling for a new research grant, a society columnist angling for a quote, a rival CEO angling for a sign of weakness. Her life was a fortress, and every conversation was a siege.

She needed air.

Spotting a set of glass doors partly obscured by a gigantic floral arrangement, she began her escape. With a soft, apologetic murmur to the dean’s husband, she navigated the maze of bodies, the back of her silk dress whispering against her skin with every step. The noise of the ballroom faded with a satisfying click as the door closed behind her.

She was on a stone terrace, and the cool November air was a welcome shock against her heated skin. The distant, muted symphony of city traffic was a far more honest sound than the strained pleasantries inside. For a moment, she was blessedly alone.

Almost.

At the far end of the terrace, leaning against the balustrade with his back to her, stood a man. He wasn't looking at the glittering skyline. He was looking down into the dark, manicured gardens below.

(A lone figure perfectly still in the chaotic heart of the city, seemingly unaware that he was about to become part of someone else’s universe.)

She let out a soft, involuntary sigh, a whisper of sound immediately swallowed by the city's vastness. It was enough.

The man flinched—not a large movement, but the subtle straightening of a spine that thought it was unobserved. He turned, and Helena found herself looking at a man who was utterly out of place. It wasn't just the suit, which was a perfectly serviceable dark wool but lacked the bespoke, razor-sharp tailoring of the men inside.

It was his face.

He looked tired, a deep, settled weariness in his eyes that no amount of polite party conversation could ever touch. He wasn't assessing her, wasn't sizing her up. He just looked at her with a mild, apologetic surprise.

It was so unusual, it was disarming.

"Oh," he said, his voice a low baritone. "Sorry. I didn't realize anyone else had the same idea."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry," Helena replied, the words automatic. "I didn't mean to intrude." She gestured vaguely with her champagne flute. "It’s a bit… much in there."

A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "That’s one word for it." He turned back to the balustrade, and for a moment, they simply stood in a shared, silent truce—two strangers enjoying a brief armistice from the social battle raging inside. The quiet between them was comfortable, a stark contrast to the strained silence she usually endured with people who wanted something from her.

He spoke again, his voice so low it was almost swept away by a sudden gust of wind that rustled through the city's concrete canyons. “They say the landscape architect based these gardens on—"

"I'm sorry?" Helena took a half-step closer, instinctively leaning in to hear him over the wind and the swell of music from the ballroom. "I didn't catch that."

As she moved, the pointed heel of her shoe—an instrument of torture designed by a sadist in Milan—caught on an uneven flagstone. She pitched forward, a clumsy, graceless movement she was certain had never been photographed. Her free hand shot out, landing on the sturdy wool of his forearm to steady herself.

It was a moment that lasted no longer than a heartbeat. A fleeting, functional touch. An accidental proximity. She leaned in to hear him, his face turned towards hers, her hand on his arm to keep from falling.

(From the ballroom, through the clean, insulated glass, the image was perfect. A stolen, intimate moment between two people framed by the glittering New York skyline. The camera click was silent. The flash, if there was one, was just another sparkle in a city full of them.)

Helena regained her balance instantly, pulling her hand back. "Sorry," she murmured again, a faint flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. "These shoes."

"It's alright," he said, seemingly unfazed. He didn't elaborate on the gardens. The moment had passed.

She gave a polite, practiced nod and retreated to the opposite end of the terrace, finally alone. The man returned his gaze to the darkness below.

(The brief, meaningless interaction was already forgotten—two ships passing in the night. Neither of them had any idea that their collision had been captured, about to be broadcast to the entire world.)

III.

The marble of the balustrade was cool and solid beneath Helena’s palms—a grounding sensation in a life that often felt untethered from reality. She breathed in deeply, the city air a complex cocktail of scents: the sharp, green perfume of the manicured hedges below; the faint, distant smell of street food; the clean, mineral tang of impending rain. It was real. It was beautifully, chaotically real—a world away from the curated, recycled air of the ballroom.

Her mind replayed the brief encounter, not out of any romantic interest, but with the detached curiosity of a biologist examining a new species. The man hadn't looked at her the way others did. There was no flicker of recognition, no subtle shift in posture that signaled an agenda, no avarice. His eyes, she recalled, were a gentle brown, and they held a profound weariness that felt ancient and strangely familiar. He hadn't wanted anything. In her world, not wanting something was the most suspicious behavior of all.

She felt a strange, phantom sensation on her forearm where his hand had landed to steady herself. The rough, honest texture of the wool. It was nothing like the silks and cashmeres of the men inside—men whose fabrics were as smooth and impenetrable as their personalities. This man felt… real. Human.

The thought was dismissed as quickly as it came. It was a flight of fancy, a symptom of being trapped in this gilded cage for too long. He was just a professor, likely worn down by academic politics and grading papers, escaping the noise just as she was. An insignificant variable in a night of carefully managed equations.

The glass door opened again, and this time, it was Drummond, the head of her security detail. His suit was impeccable, but his presence was one of strong, formidable gravity. He was a human fortress, and his appearance on the terrace signaled that her moment of peace was over.

“Ms. Eagan,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “They’re preparing for the closing remarks. They’ll be looking for you.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice smooth, betraying none of her reluctance. The mask slid back into place as she turned from the skyline. Her spine straightened, and the muscles in her face settled into the soft, photogenic smile. Helena the person receded, leaving only Helena Eagan, the brand.

Re-entering the ballroom was like plunging back into warm, stagnant water. The air was thick with perfume and ambition. The low roar of a hundred conversations washed over her, a meaningless symphony of self-interest. She saw it all with a new, sharp clarity now: the dean, laughing too loudly at a donor’s bad joke; a rival’s wife, her eyes flicking over Helena’s dress with a look of acid jealousy; the young, hungry reporters near the back, their gazes like vultures, waiting for their new headline, waiting for a kill.

The rest of the evening passed in a series of practiced maneuvers. She delivered a flawless, charmingly self-deprecating comment about Lumon’s latest philanthropic initiative. She shook hands, her grip firm but not aggressive. She accepted compliments with a practiced humility that made people feel they had discovered her graciousness all on their own. She was a phantom, moving through the crowd, leaving behind the impression of substance while feeling utterly hollow.

Later, she watched the city streak past from the back of the 1968 Lincoln Continental. The heavy, rear-hinged door had swung closed with the solid, vault-like finality she knew so well. She'd always felt a dark irony in their morbid nickname. Suicide doors. A fitting name, she thought, for something that didn’t open out to the world, but rather sealed you away from it. With a soft thud, the vibrant, chaotic pulse of life became a silent film beyond the thick glass. She was left alone in the hollow quiet of the car, a ghost in her own expensive, rolling tomb. Her phone buzzed on the seat beside her, a message from Natalie, her publicist, with the glowing early notes from the society columns. “A vision in silk deep emerald, Helena Eagan captivated attendees…”

It was all meaningless.

White noise.

For a fleeting second, she thought again of the man on the terrace, a quiet island in a sea of noise, looking down at the gardens as if they held some secret answer. It was a strange, unbidden thought, a tiny, smooth stone in the palm of her memory. She couldn’t fathom what secrets a university garden could hold.

She arrived at her penthouse, a vast expanse of glass and minimalist furniture that looked less like a home and more like a modern art gallery where the exhibits were never touched. Her heels echoed on the marble floors, the sound dying quickly in the cool, still air that was scrubbed clean of the city's life. Every surface was polished to a merciless gleam, from the glass tables to the unforgiving white leather of the sofas. It was a space designed to be admired, not lived in; the perfect architecture for a hollow life. A home was supposed to accumulate the comfortable clutter of existence, but this place seemed to repel it. Staring out at the panoramic view of a world she couldn't feel, she felt like just another exhibit on display: curated, silent, and entirely for show.

The silence here was different from the silence on the terrace. It wasn’t peaceful. It was unwelcoming, empty, the sound of a life so well-protected it had nothing left inside. As she stepped out of her shoes, she was entirely alone, blissfully unaware that across the silent, sleeping city, on a million glowing screens, she was not alone at all.

The photograph was beginning its journey, a single spark leaping from server to server, about to ignite a fire she couldn't possibly imagine.

IV.

The sun, when it came, was an unwelcome intruder.

It sliced through the grimy window of Mark’s bedroom, illuminating the peeling paint on the opposite wall. His head throbbed in a dull, familiar rhythm—a hangover not from celebration, but from the nightly ritual of pouring whiskey over the jagged edges of his grief until they were smooth enough to sleep on. He lived in this shitty apartment precisely because it was anonymous, a place with no memories. He’d lasted less than a month in the house he’d shared with Gemma before fleeing, unable to stand the oppressive weight of her absence in every room.

His apartment was a place of voluntary exile. The real life—the one with Gemma—was packed away in labeled boxes in the dry, quiet dark of Devon’s basement. That life survived here only in carefully curated fragments: a few of her books scattered amongst the history texts in his small bookcase, a single photograph of them at their wedding, tucked away on his dresser as if it were too bright to look at directly. On his nightstand sat a heavy, dog-eared copy of The Brothers Karamazov, her favorite book. The only thing he kept close.

He showered in a bathroom with questionable water pressure, the routine a mindless comfort. He made coffee, the motions automatic. His phone buzzed on the cluttered counter—a text from Devon:

Today, 7:05 AM

Devon

Hope the fundraiser wasn't too painful, milady. Ricken wants to know if you bled any knowledge onto the rich people. Love you!

He stared at the words, a small, genuine smile briefly touching his lips before vanishing. Devon—the reluctant curator of his abandoned life. He typed back a practiced lie:

Mark

It was fine, milord. Tell Ricken that rich people don’t care about what I can teach. Love you too.

There was no mention of the woman on the terrace, the brief, strange moment of connection. It was an anomaly, already forgotten, irrelevant to the rigid schedule that governed his existence: classes, students, his sister’s family, the bottle. A different kind of performance.

He pulled on a slightly rumpled shirt and the same tweed jacket he wore most days. He was a tenured History professor. His job was to live in the past—to make sense of its patterns. The present was just a messy, chaotic epilogue he had to endure.

He grabbed his worn leather briefcase, the silence of his apartment pressing in on him. As he stepped out the front door into the bright, indifferent morning, he was entirely alone and blissfully unaware that—

(Across the sprawling, waking city, on a million glowing screens, he was not alone at all. The photograph was already a wildfire—set off by a moment too quick to stop, about to burn down the quiet, careful ruins of the life Mark was running away from.)

V.

Helena’s mornings start at precisely 6:00 AM.

There was no jarring alarm, only a silent, pre-programmed command that caused the blackout shades in her house to retract, slowly revealing a sky the color of bruised plums over the waking city. The silence in her home remained absolute, a manufactured peace that stood in stark contrast to the low, rumbling life of the streets fifty stories below.

She moved through the first hour of her day with the precision of a surgeon. A workout in her private gym, surrounded by state-of-the-art equipment that still had the new-car smell. A shower in a bathroom that resembled a marble cave, the water temperature calibrated to a perfect 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit. A cup of single-origin coffee, brewed by a machine that cost more than a car—its taste as clean and complex and lonely as her life.

She was checking the pre-market reports from the Asian stock exchanges when the first tremor hit.

It wasn't a sound. It was a vibration.

Her phone, set to silent on the cold marble countertop, began to vibrate with a frantic, insistent rhythm. A second phone—the one reserved for her inner circle—joined the chorus.

It was Natalie, and she knew to only use this line for emergencies.

Helena answered, her voice betraying nothing. “Natalie.”

“Don’t look at social media,” Natalie said, her voice a clipped, rapid-fire burst of pure adrenaline. “Don’t look at the news sites. Don’t answer any texts from anyone but me. Are you listening?”

A familiar, bone-deep weariness settled over Helena.

It was always something. A misquoted earnings call, a fabricated rumor about a hostile takeover, a paparazzi shot of her looking tired.

It was the cost of doing business—the tax on her existence.

“I’m listening,” Helena said, her eyes scanning the stock tickers on her screen. “What fresh hell is it this morning?”

“A photo,” Natalie said. “From the university fundraiser last night.”

Helena’s mind flickered back to the terrace. The cool air. The tired-looking man with the sad eyes. The clumsy, fleeting moment when she’d stumbled. It was the only moment that she’d been practically alone the entire night. And even though what happened was such a brief, ordinary thing, she couldn’t help but wonder if someone inside had been watching her every move. She was already used to that. “And?”

“And it looks like the beginning of a goddamn romance novel,” Natalie hissed. “The lighting, the angle... Helena, it looks like you’re lost in some deep, intimate moment with a stranger. It’s romantic. It’s scandalous. It’s a problem.”

“Send it to me,” Helena commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

A second later, a secure file appeared on her screen. She clicked it open. The image was high-resolution, clearly taken with a professional lens from inside the ballroom.

Natalie was right.

It was a masterpiece of accidental storytelling. The way the city lights framed them, the soft focus, her hand on his arm, his face turned towards hers, her expression—a perfect storm of concentration and proximity that could easily be mistaken for adoration.

He was a complete stranger, a man whose name she didn’t know, and yet, in this photograph, he looked like he was her entire world.

Her phone began to buzz again, this time with alerts from news outlets she subscribed to:

US WEEKLY: Inside Helena Eagan's New, Low-Key Romance.

VANITY FAIR: The Lumon Heiress and The Professor: A Secret Romance?

The glass walls of her penthouse—once a symbol of her dominion over the city—suddenly felt like the sides of a fishbowl. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was the airless vacuum of total exposure. The one tiny, unscripted moment of her night—a moment of simple human clumsiness—had been captured, packaged, and was now being sold to the world.

She stared at the face of the man in the picture—no longer just a tired stranger, but a variable she hadn’t accounted for. A complication that had just become the center of her universe.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan sends social media into a frenzy after being spotted with a mystery man. 📸

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

Sharing this photo of Helena because it’s already everywhere, but just a reminder to be considerate: the way it was likely taken and is now being circulated feels incredibly intrusive. Please don’t spread rumors. Let’s just send her our support.

Vulture (@vulture)

The internet's new favorite couple appears to be a biotech billionaire and a history professor. On the public's endless fascination with the power-imbalance romance.

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

A candid photo of Helena Eagan with an unidentified man at a university event has sparked intense media speculation online. A representative for Ms. Eagan has not yet commented on the viral image.

Chapter Text

VI.

The day began to unravel at precisely 9:17 AM, during a lecture on the psychological toll of trench warfare in World War I.

For Mark, the lecture hall was a sanctuary. It was the one place where the ghosts were quiet, where his grief was supplanted by the grand, impersonal sweep of history.

But today, something was wrong. The usual lethargy of his 9 AM class was gone, replaced by a strange, humming attentiveness. They weren't looking at the sepia-toned photographs of the trenches at Passchendaele; they were looking at him. He would turn to write a name on the whiteboard—Sassoon—and a ripple of snickers would follow, quickly suppressed.

A deep, prickling paranoia began to crawl up his spine. He subtly checked his fly. He glanced at his shirt for a coffee stain. Nothing. Yet the feeling of being the butt of a joke he didn't understand grew with every passing minute. His focus—normally sharp and unwavering—began to fray. He stumbled over a date, misattributed a line from a war poem, and felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. The students’ strange, knowing smiles felt like tiny daggers. He had never felt so exposed, so utterly out of command in his classroom. He dismissed them five minutes early, the words catching in his throat.

As the last student filed out, some casting pitying glances back at him, he saw Dylan leaning against the doorframe of the lecture hall. Dylan, his fellow history professor, was a decade younger, infinitely more sarcastic, and possessed a fluency in internet culture that Mark found both mystifying and exhausting.

“Morning,” Dylan said, his tone unnervingly gentle. “Looks like a tough crowd.”

“Something’s wrong,” Mark muttered, shoving papers into his briefcase with unsteady hands. “They were laughing at me.”

Dylan winced. “Yeah. About that.”

He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Mark, buddy, have you, uh… have you looked at your phone today? Or the news? Or… anything?”

“I don’t have the time,” Mark said, his irritation growing. “Dylan, if this is some meme…”

“It’s not a meme.” Dylan held up his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen with the reluctance of a man about to detonate a small bomb. “Look, just… you need to see this.”

He turned the phone around. The screen was filled with a high-resolution photograph. For a disorienting second, Mark didn’t even recognize the man in the picture. This man looked… involved. Intent. His face was close to a woman’s, her hand resting on his arm with a casual intimacy that felt alien. The woman was beautiful—luminous even in the digital glow—framed by the lights of the city.

Then the image resolved in his mind. The rumpled suit jacket was his own. The face, etched with a familiar weariness, was his. And the woman… she was the woman from the terrace.

“What is this?” he whispered, the blood draining from his face.

“That,” Dylan said softly, “is the front page of US Weekly. And Jezebel. And about a thousand other sites. It was taken last night.” He scrolled, and a headline appeared below the image: WHO IS HELENA EAGAN’S MYSTERY MAN?

The whispers in the classroom. The suppressed laughter. The pitying looks. It all clicked into place—not as a joke, but as a public execution. The quiet, anonymous world he had so carefully constructed around his grief had just been breached, its walls smashed to rubble by a single, silent photograph.

+

The world had compressed to the four-inch screen of Dylan’s phone. The murmur of the hallway, the distant slam of a locker, the bell shrieking for the next class—it all faded into a dull, distant roar. All that was real was the picture: a man who looked like him but felt like a stranger, caught in a moment of fabricated intimacy with a woman who might as well have been from another planet.

“Mark?” Dylan’s voice cut through the fog. “Mark, breathe.”

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped. He looked up from the phone, and the hallway rushed back in with dizzying speed. A group of students scurried past, their eyes flicking toward him before they quickly looked away, whispering behind their hands. He could have handled open laughter; laughter was simple.

This was different. This was the sudden, suffocating weight of scrutiny. It was the feeling of his carefully constructed anonymity being stripped away, leaving him raw and exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway.

Every whisper felt like a judgment, every glance a violation.

“My office,” Dylan said, his hand firmly on Mark’s elbow, steering him through the sea of suddenly invasive faces. “Now.”

Mark moved on autopilot, his briefcase banging against his leg. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes on his back. He, who had built a life around the quiet invisibility of the past, had become a spectacle. Dylan shut the office door behind them, the sudden quiet almost as jarring as the noise had been.

“What do I do?” Mark asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. He sank into the visitor’s chair, the worn leather groaning.

“I don’t know,” Dylan admitted, pacing in front of his crowded bookshelves. “I’ve never seen anything like this. This isn’t university gossip, Mark. This is… global.”

As if on cue, Mark’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket—a low, insistent vibration that felt like a warning. His stomach dropped.

He didn’t move at first. He was scared—not of the sound, but of what might be waiting for him on the screen. After seeing the photo, he knew what this moment was. The fallout had begun.
With a hand that shook despite his best efforts, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. Dylan, hovering nearby, fell quiet as Mark tapped the screen.

A single unread email waited there, its subject line stark and formal:

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Request for Immediate In-Person Meeting

Dear Mr. Scout,
I hope this message finds you well.

On behalf of Ms. Helena Eagan and Lumon Industries, I am contacting you regarding an urgent and sensitive matter requiring your immediate attention. We are requesting your presence at a private meeting this afternoon at 3:00 PM at the offices of Cobel & Milchick LLP, located at 601 Lexington Avenue, 26th floor.

Please confirm receipt of this message or your availability at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Natalie Kalen
Senior Publicist to Ms. Helena Eagan
Lumon Industries

His blood ran cold. Dylan stopped pacing and leaned in to read over his shoulder. The email was polite, corporate, and utterly terrifying. It requested his presence at a meeting that afternoon at the downtown offices of a law firm whose name alone was synonymous with immense power. It was a summon, not an invitation.

“You’re not going,” Dylan said immediately. “No way. You need to contact a lawyer.”

“And say what?” Mark asked, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That a woman accidentally stumbled onto me on a terrace? This is her world, Dylan, not mine. They’re just telling me what time my public execution is scheduled for.”

“God,” Dylan exhaled, shaking his head. “You really do have a penchant for the dramatics.”

VII.

The law office was a cathedral of quiet, intimidating wealth. The silence was the first thing Mark noticed; it was absolute, a heavy, expensive blanket that smothered the sounds of the city below. The air was cool and smelled of nothing at all, which was somehow more unnerving than the scent of money and paper. He felt like a dusty historical artifact someone had mistakenly left in a pristine, minimalist future, a smudge of imperfection in a world of clean lines. He was led by a silent assistant down a hallway that seemed to stretch into infinity, the walls adorned with abstract art that looked cold and angry. The conference room was at the end of the hall, a glass box with a panoramic view of a city that now felt alien to him. And inside, they were waiting.

She was already there.

Helena Eagan sat at the head of a massive black glass table. She wasn’t the CEO yet, but she held the room with an heir’s practiced authority. To her right sat a sharp-looking woman with a tablet, her expression impatient. To her left, a black man in a suit so exquisitely tailored it likely cost more than Mark’s monthly salary.

And then there was Helena herself.

It was an objective, inconvenient fact, like gravity or the passage of time: she was strikingly beautiful. It wasn’t a soft or inviting beauty; it was architectural, a series of sharp, perfect lines. Her copper hair was pulled back in an elegant knot, not a single strand out of place. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse and black trousers—office clothes, but the kind that announced their expense in the perfect drape of the fabric. Her posture was a masterclass in composure, but it was her face that held him captive for a half-second too long.

Mark was struck by her beauty, but this close, he could see the faint, almost invisible shadows under her eyes, the only hint that she was a real person and not a PR-shaped product. This was not the woman from the terrace. This was the leader-in-waiting, and the faint memory of her stumbling seemed like a trick of his mind.

She acknowledged him with a curt, almost imperceptible nod.

The publicist began, her voice crisp and efficient, laying out the situation with depersonalized clarity—the photo's reach, the demographic engagement, the market speculation. She spoke of Mark's life as "the variable" and the public's reaction as "market volatility."

Then, the lawyer spoke, his voice smooth and cool. “Mr. Scout,” he began, steepling his fingers. “Ms. Eagan and Lumon Industries are prepared to compensate you for the gross invasion of your privacy and the disruption this incident has caused.” He slid a single sheet of heavyweight paper across the vast, polished expanse of the table. “We are prepared to offer you a sum of five million dollars.”

Mark stared at the number, followed by a dizzying string of zeros. It was an amount of money that should knock the wind out of a person, a once-in-a-lifetime offer that could rewrite his entire existence—he thought of everything he could do with it: pay off his shitty apartment, give his sister everything she needed to raise Eleanor with the kind of comfort they hadn’t had, fund entire departments at the university.

He could disappear with that kind of money.

Start fresh. Start over.

But then he looked up.

The lawyer’s expression was poised, practiced. The publicist already had her hands folded in anticipation, like working through the script she probably had on that tablet was the best part of the day.

And Helena hadn’t flinched at all. Her gaze was cool, clinical, as if this was just another item she would later check off her to-do list.

And then the next line came.

“In exchange,” the lawyer continued, his voice unwavering, “for your full cooperation in a short-term public relations strategy designed to mitigate the damage.”

The publicist took over again, her tone brisk and polished. “You ‘date’ for two months. Three public appearances, one short interview. Then you split amicably. The story dies, everyone moves on.”

Mark’s gaze drifted from the lawyer’s unblinking stare, past the publicist’s expectant face and perfectly curated confidence, and finally landed back on Helena. Her expression hadn’t changed. Still the same detachment, that analytical curiosity, as if he were a particularly stubborn problem she was waiting for her team to solve.

And something twisted, low and cold, in his gut.

Because of course Lumon thought his life could be bought. Of course they’d assumed he’d play along for a price. They didn’t see him as a person—just a narrative glitch to be corrected.

“Do you think this is the first time Lumon’s offered someone a pile of money to shut up and fall in line?” he asked quietly.

No one answered. And Mark didn’t expect them to.

And then the lawyer, casually, almost as an afterthought, dropped the bomb.

“We understand you’re a widower, Mr. Scout. Your late wife, Gemma—we know of her tragic passing. I think it’s egregious how the media is picking apart this personal matter. Lumon deeply regrets any intrusion of your deserved privacy at this difficult time.”

Mark’s blood ran cold. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything but the roar in his ears.

They knew. They said her name. They were even willing to exploit that.

That’s what did it.

His grief—still fresh in his marrow, still waking him in the middle of the night, still making him drown himself in countless bottles of whiskey—was now just another tab in their press dossier. Another weakness of his they could manipulate.

They weren’t asking him; they were informing him. They were putting a price tag on the normalcy of his boring, carefully constructed private life and calling it a generosity.

The rage that had been simmering in him all day became a clear, sharp point.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet but shaking with fury. He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Absolutely not. You can’t buy me. My life is not for sale.”

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the check, the strategy, and the three of them sitting in stunned, immaculate silence.

VIII.

He didn’t remember driving back to his apartment. The city must have moved past his car windows, the sun must have been in the sky, but he saw none of it. His entire world had been compressed into the uninviting, white conference room, the strange expression on Helena Eagan’s face, and the impossible string of zeros on that single sheet of paper.

The next forty-eight hours were a descent into a new kind of hell. His quiet, anonymous apartment building became a besieged fortress. A half-dozen paparazzi were camped out on the sidewalk, their long lenses like sniper rifles aimed at his windows. He couldn’t go for groceries without a flashbulb exploding in his face. His university email account crashed from the sheer volume of messages. The university’s administration, in a panic, had officially placed him on indefinite leave. His life, the one he had so carefully curated to be small and manageable, had been annihilated. He was a prisoner, and the whiskey wasn't helping anymore.

It was Devon who finally breached the walls.

He ignored her first three calls, but then she just appeared at his door, her knocking persistent and firm. When he finally opened it, he found her and his niece, Eleanor, strapped to her chest in a soft gray carrier.

Mark had always loved kids. For a long time, he and Gemma had tried—really tried—to start a family. But after a few miscarriages, the strain began to show. It wore them down, chipped at the soft parts of their marriage until they went quiet. Eventually, Mark tucked the dream away.

Now, with Gemma gone, he didn’t know if it would’ve been better or worse if they’d had a child. It seemed like too heavy a burden to place on a kid—to grow up with a dead parent and the other barely scraping by as a functional adult.

Still, he adored his niece. And the sudden, vibrant presence of a baby in his tomb-like apartment felt like a category error—like life itself had wandered into the wrong place.

Devon’s face was a mask of worry. She pushed past him without a word, her gaze sweeping over the dark, stale room—the drawn blinds, the empty pizza box, the half-empty whiskey bottle standing sentinel on the coffee table.

“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, her voice thick with a sorrow that mirrored his own. Eleanor gurgled softly, her tiny fist grabbing a strand of her mother’s hair.

“I’m fine,” he lied, the words feeling flimsy and absurd.

“No, you’re not,” she said, her tone shifting from worried to firm. She turned to face him. “You look like hell. And hiding in here, drinking yourself into oblivion, is not a solution.”

“I did the right thing,” he insisted, his voice raw. The familiar walls of his self-pity began to rise. “I told them to take their soulless deal and shove it. Five million isn’t worth it. My life is not for sale!”

Devon froze. “Five million?”

Mark ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “Yeah. Five million. For two months of pretending to date Helena Eagan, and giving them a neat little ending to their PR nightmare.”

She let out a low whistle, stunned. “Jesus, Mark.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, like that kind of money would change my mind. I won’t let them uproot my life with their blood money.”

“What life, Mark?” she shot back, her voice sharp with a sister’s brutal honesty. “The one you spend in this dark apartment? The one where you push away everyone who loves you? That life?”

“The life I have left!” he yelled, the sound echoing in the small, sad space. “The one where I get to decide how I remember my wife. My grief, Devon—that’s all I have of her that’s truly mine. It is a private, sacred thing. And they wanted to put a price tag on it. They wanted to take the truest thing in my life and turn it into a lie, a public performance with her.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Helena’s name. “A woman like that, and a man like me? It’s a joke. It’s a mockery of what Gemma and I had. Our life was real. It was quiet. They want me to build a circus on top of her grave.”

He sank onto the sofa, the anger deflating into a familiar, hollow ache. The low self-esteem that had been his constant companion since the accident whispered its poison. They’re paying you to be a clown because that’s all you are. A sad, dusty academic they can dress up for a few weeks.

Devon’s expression softened. She shifted Eleanor on her chest, her hand stroking the baby’s fine, soft hair. “A legacy isn’t just a memory, Mark,” she said gently. “It’s something that lives on. Something that means something. Hiding in here isn't protecting Gemma's memory. It’s just… hiding.”

Mark stared at Eleanor for a long moment, and then back down at his hands. “It’s blood money,” he said finally. “That’s all it is.”

“Then don’t let it be yours,” she countered, her voice gaining strength. “Don’t touch a penny of it. Think about Gemma. She spent her entire career fighting for funding, watching her program get cut, worrying about her students. The entire Humanities department is always on the chopping block.”

The words began to dismantle the walls he had built. He saw it, a terrifying, brilliant light cutting through the gloom.

Devon pressed on, seeing the flicker of change in his eyes. “Mark… think about what that money could do. You wouldn’t just be saving a program for a year. You could endow the History and Literature departments. Permanently. You could create scholarships, fund research… in her name.” She let the last words hang in the air, a perfect, gleaming lure. “The Gemma Scout Memorial grant.”

The air left his lungs. It was a dizzying, sickening flash—a way to alchemize this ugly, public nightmare into something beautiful and permanent. A way to make Gemma’s memory a living, breathing force for good, etched into the very stones of the university she had loved.

It would require him to lie to the entire world, to perform a hollow pantomime of a relationship with a woman he didn’t know, with a woman who was a product of a world he despised. It would require him to commercialize the most private parts of his soul. All to create a beautiful, lasting truth in his wife’s honor.

He looked at his sister, and then down at his tiny niece, her eyes blinking up at him, so full of a future he had refused to consider.

It was an impossible choice.

But one he knew he had to make.

+

The silence in the room was dense, broken only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the baby asleep on Devon’s chest. Mark’s gaze drifted from his niece—a tiny, perfect symbol of a future he had felt no claim to—to the single, framed photograph of Gemma on his bookshelf. It was from a trip they’d taken to the coast years ago, her laughter caught in a sun-drenched moment, her eyes full of a life that had been so cruelly cut short.

His grief had always been a quiet, solitary monument. A cold, heavy thing he kept locked inside. Trading it for a public performance felt like a desecration. But Devon’s words had reframed the equation. What was the point of a monument if it was buried in the dark, where no one could see it?

Gemma hadn't been a monument. She had been a force—vibrant, passionate, always fighting for the words and ideas she believed in. A legacy wasn’t a memory you guarded; it was a fire you kept burning.

He looked at his sister, her face etched with a desperate, loving plea. He was choosing to walk into the fire. But he could decide what came out of the ashes.

His hand, steady now, reached for his phone on the coffee table. He thought of looking up Helena’s personal contact, and then scoffed. Of course this info wouldn’t be public. She couldn’t be reached by normal people like him. He searched the email Natalie sent him the other day. He hit ‘reply’. His thumbs moved over the screen, his voice in the message flat, resigned, and colder than he thought possible.

“To Ms. Kalen,” he dictated into the phone’s voice-to-text feature. “Regarding the offer from Ms. Eagan. I am prepared to cooperate with your proposed strategy. However, I have my own terms. I will not be accepting any personal compensation. Not a cent. The five million dollars will be donated, in its entirety, to Ganz University as a perpetual endowment. It will be used to fund both the History and the Literature departments, and it will be publicly named ‘The Gemma Scout Memorial Grant.’ A contract will need to be drawn up to that effect, which my lawyer will review. These terms are not negotiable. Please let me know when your legal team is prepared to proceed.”

He hit send before he could lose his nerve.

The act felt both like a surrender and a declaration of war.

IX.

The second meeting was somehow even more dull than the first. This time, Mark wasn't alone. He had a lawyer—a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Lorne whom Dylan had recommended—who now sat on his left, her presence a small, solid comfort. By his right, sat Dean Irving Bailiff, a man whose tweed jacket and kind eyes were better suited for faculty mixers than high-stakes PR damage control. He kept clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the whole debacle, his gaze darting between Mark, Helena and the document in the center of the table as if it were a live grenade. Lorne, by contrast, was perfectly still, her calm focus a silent counterpoint to the dean’s obvious nervousness. Between the three of them, she was the only one who seemed to belong there.

Lumon’s team had drafted the contract, and it was all there, exactly as he had demanded: the money, the endowment, Gemma’s name, enshrined in cold, legal language.

Helena was there again, dressed in a grey pantsuit that was the color of a storm cloud. She remained silent throughout most of the proceedings, a composed, still point in the orbit of her legal team.

Finally, it was time.

The lawyer slid the document in front of Mark. He picked up the heavy, expensive pen, its weight absurd in his hand. He signed his name—Mark Scout—the familiar loops of his signature looking foreign and frail on the page. It was the act of signing away his privacy, his quiet life. He pushed the document back across the vast, polished black glass table toward her.

As she reached for it, their eyes met for the first time that day. And in that same instant, her fingers brushed against his.

It was nothing—a fleeting, accidental contact. But a jolt, sharp and absolute as static electricity, shot up his arm. 

He saw her own eyes widen in surprise, her breath catching in a sharp, involuntary inhale as she pulled her hand back as if burned. But beneath her shock, in the fraction of a second before her composed mask fell back into place, he saw past the unreadable, analytical gaze and caught a flicker of something else—not pity, but a deep, unnerving weariness that mirrored his own.

The touch was gone in a second, but the memory of it wasn't. It was the same unexpected charge he’d felt when her hand had landed on his arm on the terrace—a startling intrusion of life into the quiet tomb he inhabited.

The lawyers, oblivious, droned on about execution copies and timelines.

But the atmosphere between Mark and Helena had fundamentally changed. The sterile room was now charged with a new, unspoken tension.

When the contracts were finalized and the lawyers had exchanged stiff, professional handshakes, they filed out, leaving Mark and Helena alone. The silence that fell was immense, heavy with the weight of what they had just done—and what had just passed between them.

She spoke first, her voice low and even. But he thought he could detect a new, careful distance in it. “The grant. That was… unexpected.”

Mark finally looked at her again, forcing the mask of the detached professor back into place, using it as a shield against the memory of that touch. “My wife was a professor of Russian Lit,” he said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth—a necessary wall he was building between them. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

A different flicker of something crossed her features now—something he couldn't name. “I see,” she said, her voice softer than before.

The door opened again, and Natalie, the publicist, stepped back in, her expression all business. She held a tablet, oblivious to the charged atmosphere she had just pierced.

“Mark, Helena,” she said, her use of their first names a jarring, forced intimacy. “Glad we’re all on the same page. Your first public appearance is scheduled for this Saturday. A guided private tour of the MoMA, something to hint that Mark is trying to let Helena into his life by taking her to his favorite museum.” Mark opened his mouth to argue, but Natalie shushed him. “It doesn’t matter if it’s not the truth, Mr. Scout. We’re not worried about that.” She gave him a big, plastic smile, and continued, “Followed by a dinner date at your restaurant of choice, Ms. Eagan. A car will be at your apartment at 5:00 PM, Mark. A full schedule and briefing notes will be sent to you both within the hour.”

The lie had started.

There was no going back.

They were no longer two strangers; they were a story, a strategy, a carefully scheduled lie. 

And now, terrifyingly, a secret.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

EXCLUSIVE: It's official! A source confirms to Us Weekly that Lumon heiress Helena Eagan is dating history professor Mark Scout. "She's happier and more relaxed than she's been in years," says an insider.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

OMG THE RUMORS ARE REAL! US Weekly confirmed Helena and Professor Mark Scout are officially together! I knew it! Wishing them all the happiness in the world, she deserves it! 😭❤️

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan is officially dating professor Mark Scout, sources have confirmed.

Vulture (@vulture)

So the mysterious History professor and the biotech heiress are officially an item. And so begins the public's next great obsession with a romance that feels ripped from a screenplay. We investigate the "Normal Guy" trope.

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

After days of silence, sources confirm Lumon heiress Helena Eagan is in a relationship with Mark Scout. The confirmation appears to be a strategic move to control the narrative following last week's media frenzy.

Chapter Text

X.


An hour after the photo had turned her world upside down, Helena was a queen under siege in her castle.

Her penthouse—normally filled with haunting silence, high above the city’s chaos—had become a war room. Except that this time she wasn’t the general. She was the subject. The crisis. The brand that needed salvaging.

Meanwhile, Natalie paced the marble floor, voice low and tense on the phone, talking to the board for what felt like hours.

“They’re furious,” Natalie said at last, after she ended the call. She turned to Helena, her expression grim. “The attention is messy, and your father called me twice this morning. He wants this ‘unseemly situation’ squashed. Cleanly and quickly.”

Helena didn’t flinch. Not even at the mention of her father.

A senior Lumon legal counsel sat hunched at her dining table, laptop open, drafting statements that perfectly blended apology and spin, but Helena barely acknowledged him. Her focus had narrowed to the cool blue glow of her encrypted phone. Her fingers hovered over the keys, motionless.

She didn’t like being quiet. Quiet meant that someone else was speaking for her. Deciding for her. And today, they were all deciding about her.

She was used to directing the strategy—not being pacified with platitudes by executives that still saw her just as the founder’s daughter.

“Okay,” Natalie said, taking a deep breath as her tone shifted from frantic to coldly analytical. “The variable in all of this is the man, Professor Mark Scout.” She paused, meeting Helena’s gaze. “So the question is, what do we do about him? And after spending the last hour digging into every corner of his life, I have an answer. We don’t run from him. We lean into him. He’s not our problem, Helena. He’s our solution.”

Helena looked skeptical.

“He’s a tenured History professor. Specializes in World War I. No social media presence. Lives in a cheap apartment.” Natalie paused, letting the details land before delivering the final blow. “His wife, Gemma Scout, also a professor, died two years ago. Tragic car accident.”

Of course.

Helena could already see it—the spin. The earnest tragedy. The perfect prop.

She knew Natalie had thought about it already. This was exactly why Helena hired her, and why they worked so well together. Natalie was always thinking of thousands of variables and solutions to problems that didn’t even exist yet. The fact that she didn’t even see this coming made the situation even more stressful.

As if on cue, Natalie continues, “He’s perfect.” She smiled with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “A grieving widower. An academic. He’s sympathetic. He’s real. And a story with him will not just contain the fallout—it will rewrite it. Spin the narrative in our favor. You’ll stop being the cold heiress playing at science and become a woman in the middle of a normal, human moment. It makes you… likable.”

She said the word as if it were a rare, breakable object. As if Helena had never held it before.

Natalie leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Helena, this is the opportunity to finally kill that ‘stone-cold bitch’ reputation the media has saddled you with for years.”

Helena didn’t respond right away.

Because the audacity of it burned. To use a man’s grief as a PR pivot. To thread her redemption arc through the carcass of someone else’s love story.

It was grotesque. It was brilliant.

It was the kind of clean, fast solution her father and the board would demand.

And it was working. Already she could feel the room tilting, the machine humming back into motion.

The board would approve. The press would follow.

Natalie was right—she always was.

It was simple. Fast. Clean.

Helena felt nausea gather at the back of her throat. But she swallowed it, hard.

“Find him,” she said, the words like ice cracked across a lake.

+

After Natalie left to initiate contact, Helena stayed behind and did her own digging. It was one thing to hear the clinical data points from her publicist—it was another to see them for herself.

She wanted to see him.

She searched. No social media, as Natalie had stated. Just one blurry faculty photo—tired, kind eyes, a rumpled collar that looked soft from too many wash cycles.

And then—there she was.

Gemma.

There was a short, three-paragraph obituary from two years ago, published in the university’s alumni newsletter, complete with a smiling picture of her. Helena stared at the image longer than she meant to. Natalie had called him a “perfect asset”. But looking at the vibrant, happy face of the dead woman, Helena felt, for the first time in a very long while, a pang of something like shame.

Not for herself.

For the ease with which she could have gone through with it.

The neat, manageable corporate problem had just become profoundly personal. The variable had a ghost.

And now, Helena was contractually obligated to haunt him.

XI.


That afternoon, she was in the conference room when he walked in.

And everything changed.

He didn’t belong here—and not in the charming, friendly way. He was raw around the edges. His tweed jacket clashed violently with the room’s black leather and glass. The wariness in his eyes wasn't confusion. It was fury.

He knows.

Helena could tell instantly. He knew exactly what this was. Knew how much it cost to set up a meeting like this. Knew that someone somewhere had decided his life—his grief—had public relations value.

She watched him like a chess player studying an unexpected opponent. There was something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he refused the water offered to him. He wasn’t bracing himself for a negotiation. He was preparing to walk away.

As Natalie and the lawyer laid out the terms of their deal, Helena continued to watch him. She saw his jaw tighten at the phrase “narrative containment.” She saw the flicker of disbelief in his eyes when the five-million-dollar figure was said aloud.

And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her, that he would refuse.

People in her world had a price.

But this man wasn’t from her world. He wasn’t going to play the part.

So when he stood up—his chair scraping a declaration of war against the silent, polished floor—she wasn’t stunned.

She was, in a strange way, relieved.

His “no” was absolute.

His final, searing look was not one of a man angling for a better deal. It was the look of a man whose soul had been offered for sale—and who had found the offer laughably cheap. His look was cutting, contemptuous, and didn’t just judge the plan. It judged her, too.

He left them in empty silence, and for the first time in years, Helena Eagan didn’t know what to say.

XII.

When the news came two days later, Helena couldn’t even hide her shock. She was mid–video call with the board when Milchick, her lawyer, rang through. She muted the mic. “He refused personal compensation,” Milchick said, his voice laced with disbelief. “All of it—the full five million—is to be donated to the university to create a perpetual endowment for the History and Literature departments. He’s demanding it be named ‘The Gemma Scout Memorial grant.’” Helena blinked.

“All of it?” she repeated.

“Yes. Non-negotiable.”

She sat in stunned silence. He had taken their ugly little script and rewritten it. Had forged a shield out of their weapon. He wasn’t just refusing to play the game—he was flipping the whole damn board.

And what was worse: it would work—his sincerity made him bulletproof. The truth of the deal, if it ever came out, was unimpeachable on his side—an authentic, ethical act of a devoted husband.

They would canonize him for it.

She, on the other hand, would be the villain: the cold-hearted heiress who tried to bribe a grieving man. Helena stared at her keyboard, the keys blurred slightly in her vision. She felt the weight of it land somewhere deep and shameful. She’d tried to turn his grief into a headline—and he’d turned it into a legacy.

Professor Mark Scout had teeth.

For the first time in days, Helena felt something spark in her chest.

Not revulsion. Not guilt.

Respect.

“Draw up the contracts,” she said quietly. Then unmuted her mic and went back to work.

XIII.

This entire situation, Helena decided, was a monument to inefficiency. She sat at the head of the black glass table in the law firm’s conference room, a place that felt like a second home, and listened to the low murmur of Milchick discussing final clauses with Natalie. The meeting was a tedious but necessary step in a damage control plan she found both ghoulish and strategically brilliant.

Her father was satisfied, the board was placated, and all it required was the leveraging of one man’s tragedy.

A clean solution.

When the door opened, she looked up, her face a mask of neutral composure. He entered, and he hadn't come alone. She assessed his companions with a cool, practiced eye. The lawyer, a sharp woman named Lorne, was a professional; Helena knew how competent she was since Lumon tried to recruit her for their team of lawyers. The other man was Dean Irving Bailiff of Ganz University. She recognized him, of course—from the night of the fundraiser that had started this entire mess, and from the half-dozen similar conferences she had spoken at over the years. He always had the same earnest, slightly flustered energy. His presence here was no surprise. She knew he was here out of a sense of institutional obligation, a reluctant shepherd for the professor caught in a storm that was now lapping at the university's shores. He was a symbol, not a participant.

And then there was Mark Scout himself.

The variable.

He was a collection of interesting contradictions: his jacket was rumpled but his anger was sharp; she could see stamped on his face that he looked terrified but his posture was one of absolute defiance. He was, she noted again with an inconvenient flicker of objectivity, handsome in a way that was difficult to categorize. It was an observation with no strategic value, and she filed it away as such.

As lawyers began their final review of the contract, Helena’s mind drifted. This was the part she hated—the procedural dance, the time wasted on pleasantries. She thought instead of the Lumon quarterly projections, of the new R&D facility in Singapore, of a thousand other things more worthy of her attention than this messy, stupid problem.

Finally, the document was in front of him. She watched as he signed his name, the movement of the pen slow and deliberate. It was done. He pushed the contract across the polished black glass. She reached for it, a simple, thousand-times-practiced motion of acquisition, and their eyes met.

And in that same instant, her fingers brushed against his. The world stopped.

It was not a touch; it was a system error. A jolt of pure, uninvited static in the clean, cold code of her life, a breach in the fortress she had so carefully constructed.

Nothing touched Helena Eagan by accident.

Her life was a fortress of handlers and drivers and security details. This touch—warm, real, and utterly unexpected—was a breach. She inhaled sharply, pulling her hand back as if from a flame.

Her eyes, wide with her own momentary shock, immediately snapped to his, her brain already working to analyze his response, to categorize the data. But his reaction wasn't like hers. He flinched, but it was a deeper recoil, a ripple of memory, a shadow of profound pain. It was the look of a man not just startled by a touch, but ambushed by a ghost. And in that instant, she understood his reaction with horrifying clarity: Gemma Scout. Car accident. Hallowed ground.

This wasn’t just a jolt of static for him. It was the echo of a life he had lost. She hadn't just touched him; she had trespassed.

The lawyers, oblivious, droned on. When they finally filed out of the room, leaving the two of them alone, the silence was no longer immaculate. It was thick with the ghost she had just seen. She had to regain control, to get back to the script.

“The grant,” she said, her voice a low, even tool to reset the atmosphere. “That was… unexpected.”

Mark finally looked back at her, his own mask of the detached professor firmly back in place. “My wife was a professor of Russian Lit,” he said, the words a wall he was clearly putting back into place. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

His statement landed not as an explanation, but as a confirmation of the memory she had just witnessed on his face. For the first time, she felt a sliver of something that wasn’t annoyance or respect, but guilt. “I see,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

The door opened again, a welcome interruption. Natalie stepped back in, her expression all business, holding a tablet like a shield of her own. She was blissfully unaware of the charged atmosphere she had just pierced.

“Mark, Helena,” she said, the forced intimacy of their first names a jarring return to the lie. “Glad we’re all on the same page. Your first public appearance is scheduled for this Saturday. A guided private tour of the MoMA, something to hint that Mark is trying to let Helena into his life by taking her to his favorite museum.” Helena saw Mark open his mouth to argue, but Natalie held up a hand, shushing him. “It doesn’t matter if it’s not the truth, Mr. Scout. We’re not worried about that.” She gave him a big, plastic smile and continued, “Followed by a dinner date at your restaurant of choice, Ms. Eagan. A car will be at his apartment at 5:00 PM, Mark. A full schedule and briefing notes will be sent to you both within the hour.”

Helena listened to the familiar, efficient rhythm of Natalie’s planning, using it to recalibrate, to push down the memory of the electric shock that had just passed between her and the man across the table.

The plan was back in motion.

Control was reasserting itself.

But as she looked at Mark Scout one last time, she realized the variable was far more complex than she had anticipated. He had taken their cynical, corporate strategy and turned it into a public monument. He had met her family's immense power not with greed, but with a quiet, unshakeable integrity that had forced her into a corner.

This wasn't just a PR crisis to be managed anymore.

It was a game against a new and entirely unpredictable player, and she had absolutely no idea what his next move would be.

XIV.

On Saturday afternoon, she moved to her vast, walk-in closet, the task of choosing an outfit feeling monumental. The absurdity of it was staggering.

What was the appropriate outfit for a fake date with a grieving man whose tragedy you were now obligated to honor? What did you wear to a transaction that felt more like penance? The role was not in her repertoire.

The power suits felt like armor for a battle she had already, in some strange way, lost.

She reached for a mauve cotton crew-neck sweater and a pair of black corduroy pants, paired with black leather boots. Her hair was down, loose in perfectly curled waves, a contrast to the way she usually tied it up in a knot, not a strand out of place. It was an expensive, calculated performance of simplicity and vulnerability.

She saw her reflection in the mirror.

The ice queen redhead. The heir apparent. The woman who commanded boardrooms.

Today, she was playing the part of a woman with a heart. A woman in love.

And for the first time, Helena was not entirely sure she knew her lines.

XV.

The heavy, confident float of the 1968 Lincoln Continental usually made her feel untouchable, sealed away inside a moving fortress of steel and chrome. Today, however, it just made her feel trapped. The silence inside the car was suffocating, doing nothing to soothe the knot of anxiety in her stomach.

She had spent the morning on back-to-back video conferences with the board, reassuring them that the situation was being handled. She’d reviewed Natalie’s strategy documents, approving the locations, the talking points, the photographers. Her mantra was not one of prayer, but of pragmatism: Contain the variable. Control the narrative. Fix the problem.

This was not about feelings. This was damage control.

In her lap sat a slim leather-bound folder prepared by Natalie’s team. Briefing Notes: MoMA Appearance. It was less a script and more a battle plan for public perception. The first phase was the ‘Arrival’: a carefully timed entrance to guarantee a clean shot for the pre-selected paparazzi, a visual confirmation to fuel the narrative.

The second phase was the ‘Controlling the Narrative.’ A bullet point stated the official story to be leaked by a "source" to a friendly outlet: “Knowing MoMA is his favorite museum, Helena arranged a private, after-hours tour as a deeply personal and romantic gesture for him.”

The document didn’t list approved topics for inside the museum—the public not knowing what they talked about was precisely the point. The mystery would be far more powerful than any staged photo. Knowing Natalie and her capabilities, the folder in Helena's lap likely contained a novel's worth of biographical details about Mark Scout’s life. For this “date” in particular, however, it was stripped down to a single, strategic bullet point under the heading ‘Points of Connection.’

It read:

Mutual Interest: Appreciation of Abstract Expressionism.

It was a tool, Helena knew, designed for two purposes.

First, to give them a piece of supposedly common ground to stand on, a way to make the excruciating performance less stilted. Second, and more importantly, it was the seed of the story Natalie would later plant with the press.

It was a lie of a different sort—not a complete fabrication, but a forced, manufactured truth, all designed to sell the image of Helena Eagan as a thoughtful new lover.

The thought of a genuine connection being engineered from a bullet point felt both invasive and absurdly reductive.

And the idea that this man’s complex, raw grief could be papered over with a scripted conversation about Pollock was insulting, yes, but its primary flaw was that it was inefficient.

It wouldn’t work.

He wasn’t a man who followed a script. She’d already learned that.

But she’d signed the contract. So now she had to play her part.

The car stopped across the street from his address. It was a drab, pre-war brick building, with a heavy oak door where its neighbors had steel and intercoms. Its stone lintels were worn, its facade faded—a quiet, architectural refusal to keep pace with the modern world. She looked at the building and thought, with a strange sense of certainty, that it suited him.

Helena recalled the news footage from about a week ago, after the photo first went viral: this same sidewalk had been a chaotic swarm of paparazzi. But now, the street was quiet. Empty. It was as if, now that the relationship was a confirmed, managed story, the pack had decided it was absurd to wait outside such a shoddy place; the real story, they knew, would be wherever she was.

The driver, a man trained in discretion, simply waited. The plan was for Mark to come down. Her world did not get out of the car.

He emerged a moment later, a study in earth tones and soft, durable textures. He wore the same tweed jacket, a garment that was less about fashion and more about the feeling of substance—the rough, comforting weight of the wool. He wore it over a simple, slightly rumpled white oxford shirt and dark denim trousers. His shoes were leather brogues, scuffed at the toes but clearly well-made and cared for. It was a style that had its own quiet elegance, a language spoken in durability and intellect rather than fleeting trends. But it was also armor. She could see that beneath it all, his shoulders were tense.

He got into the car, the scent of old books and faint, clean laundry filling the leather-scented interior. The vast backseat suddenly felt impossibly small.

She sat, composed and still, a star in her own cold orbit.

“Mr. Scout,” she said, her voice even, practiced. It was the first word of the performance.

“Miss Eagan,” he replied, his voice flat. He stared straight ahead, pointedly not looking at her.

The silence that followed was thick with the memory of their last few meetings for her—the shouted “No,” the scraped chair, the electrifying, accidental brush of their hands over a contract. That spark was a ghost in the car with them, like an unspoken secret ignored for the sake of appearances, and that made this entire enterprise feel infinitely more dangerous.

The moment they stepped out of the car onto the street, the world exploded. A barrage of flashes, a wall of sound as paparazzi shouted their names. Helena was a veteran of this kind of warfare, and she felt guilty about the onslaught when she felt Mark stiffening beside her. She instinctively moved even closer to him, placing a hand on the small of his back, her thumb tracing circles there. She leaned in, whispering something meaningless and benign about the museum entrance, a perfect imitation of a shared, private joke for the cameras.

She told herself that this was what Natalie would’ve instructed her to do, as it was a calculated gesture of intimacy, but her fingers burned where they touched the rough fabric of his jacket. She felt him flinch beneath her fingers, a barely perceptible tremor that made her drop her hand and lift it to her head, to pretend to put a stray curl behind her ear.

This performance was already costing her something.

Helena just didn’t know exactly what.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan and professor Mark Scout were spotted on a date night in NYC. The couple received a private, after-hours tour of the MoMA. Looks like our ice queen redhead isn’t so icy, after all.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

Helena arranged a PRIVATE after-hours tour of MoMA for her and Mark tonight! She wanted to do something special just for him! 🥺 My heart can't take it, she looks so happy. This is everything.

Vulture (@vulture)

The 'Grieving Professor & Biotech Heiress' narrative continues with its next meticulously crafted chapter: a private MoMA tour. The performance of intellectual, high-culture romance is a bold, if predictable, choice. We break down the semiotics.

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Helena Eagan's well-publicized date night with Mark Scout appears to be the next phase in a carefully managed public relations campaign. The move has correlated with a minor uptick in Lumon's social media sentiment scores and positive brand association.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

INSIDE SCOOP: It's getting serious!
A source tells us Helena Eagan treated new beau Mark Scout to a completely private tour of his favorite museum, MoMA, because she "wanted to do something that was meaningful to him."

Chapter Text

XV.

Helena’s driver arrived at precisely 5PM on Saturday.

The first thing Mark noticed was the silence. For the first time in weeks, his gritty, unimpressive street was just a street, not a media encampment. A wave of relief washed over him; the circus had finally moved on, and he no longer had to face the annoyed glances of his neighbors. Then he saw the car glide to a stop, a sleek, black battleship from another era, and the relief curdled into a grim irony. The trap was no longer here; it was waiting for him across town. He felt a hot flush of shame. He was an impostor, and his ride had just arrived.

He had spent the morning reminding himself why he was doing this. He’d stare at the bare walls of his apartment until the image of the university's underfunded library appeared in his mind. He would picture Gemma’s name, cast in bronze on a plaque: The Gemma Scout Memorial Grant.

This was not for him. This was for her.

The words were a prayer, a mantra, a shield against the profound sense of self-loathing that threatened to swallow him whole.

He walked down and got in the car. The heavy suicide door closed with a solid, definitive thud, sealing him inside. The interior smelled of old leather and a faint, clean, floral scent that he knew was her.

Helena sat on the opposite side of the vast backseat, staring straight ahead. She was wearing a cotton crew-neck sweater and black trousers. He didn’t understand anything about fashion, but he knew her outfit likely cost more than his monthly rent. Her hair was down, loose in curly waves, so different from the knot he had seen her use previously. Even still, she looked elegant, composed, and as distant as a star.

“Mr. Scout,” she said, her voice a low, even acknowledgement.

“Miss Eagan,” he replied, the name feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.

The silence that followed was excruciating. It was the silence of two strangers bound by a contract, about to put on the performance of their lives.

He thought of the briefing notes with so many bullet points on a list Natalie had emailed him about what to talk about on their date. Things like “TOPIC 2: SHARED INTEREST IN ABSTRACT EXPRESSIONISM.”

It was the most ridiculous, insulting thing he had ever read.

The idea that everything they were meant to share—every outing, every conversation, every moment—had to be approved by her publicist. Everything scripted, staged, fake.

It made his skin crawl.

But he’d signed the contract.

So now he had to play the part.

+

They arrived at the Museum of Modern Art at 5:30 PM. A discreet black SUV was already parked by a side entrance. As the car stopped, four photographers emerged from the vehicle, their cameras raised. It wasn't the chaotic scrum of a red carpet, but something more clinical and precise. A planned strike. Natalie’s work.

“Ready?” Helena asked, her voice low. It wasn’t a question of his comfort, but of his preparedness to perform.

Mark just gave a tight, jerky nod.

The car door opened, and the performance began.

His senses were assaulted by an explosion of light—camera flashes going off at once, a violent, percussive onslaught. He froze, a deer caught in the blinding headlights of his new, surreal life.

He felt a light but firm pressure on his lower back. It was Helena’s hand, guiding him, propelling him forward. The touch burned him, even through the fabric of his jacket, and he couldn’t fight the primal urge to flinch away. She moved her hand from his back and lifted to pull back a strand of her perfectly waved curls, and looked away. He forced his legs to move, walking beside her up the museum steps. He forced a strained, unnatural smile when Helena seemed to remember herself at the last minute, as she leaned in and said something inaudible to him, a perfect imitation of a shared, private joke for the cameras.

+

A museum tour guide greeted them at the door with a practiced, deferential smile, shaking Helena’s hand warmly before leading them inside. The photographers were dismissed with a subtle nod from Helena's security. The doors closed, but the feeling of being watched, of being an exhibit, did not fade. The performance was not for the public now; it was, somehow more terrifyingly, just for them.

They walked through the vast, empty galleries, the silence immense, their footsteps echoing softly on the polished floors. It felt less like a date and more like two mannequins haunting a mausoleum of culture. They exchanged strained observations in front of Warhols and Picassos, their dance of avoidance perfectly choreographed for an imagined audience.

It was in a quiet gallery on the fifth floor that he stopped, his carefully constructed composure faltering. He wasn't looking at an abstract splash of colour, but at something stark and achingly familiar. Edward Hopper’s House by the Railroad. A grand, ornate Victorian house, isolated and proud, its foundation forever cut off from the viewer by the stark, horizontal line of a railroad track.

He was so lost in the lonely melancholy of the painting that he didn’t realize Helena had come to stand beside him until she spoke. Her voice simply appeared beside him, a quiet counterpoint to the painted silence of the Hopper. It was a different voice than the one he knew—softer, stripped of any artifice.

"It's lonely, isn't it?" she asked. "It feels like it's from a different time, and the world just… built a faster way to get past it."

The words stunned him into silence.

He had been braced for a scripted comment about the artist's use of light, something from Natalie's briefing notes. He had not expected this. A simple, poignant truth. An observation so close to the bone of his own existence that it felt like she had reached directly into his chest. He had built a fortress around the idea of who she was: a creature of surfaces, of PR strategies, calculated appearances, and scheduled minutes.

But these words were not from that world.

They were from somewhere real, somewhere quiet.

The fact that she could so effortlessly name the deep, quiet ache of being stranded by time was a cognitive dissonance he couldn’t immediately process. It was a pleasant and terrifying surprise, like finding a wildflower growing in the most inhospitable of places.

This new, surprising thought made him turn and look at her, really look at her, for the first time.

He knew she was beautiful.

It was a simple, objective fact.

But up close, in the soft, diffused light of the gallery, seeing her gaze fixed on the painting with a shared, somber understanding, it was different.

The soft gallery light caught the fiery strands of her red hair and the elegant, weary line of her neck. He could see the faint, almost invisible freckles across the bridge of her nose, the complex shades of green and brown in her irises.

He was struck not by her poise, but by the sudden, disarming glimpse of the person underneath it.

And she was, he realized with a new and treacherous warmth, breathtaking.

It was in that moment of shared, quiet understanding that she broke their unspoken rules.

“Did you and your wife… did you ever talk about this one?”

The question blindsided him. It was a direct, unscripted intrusion into the very place he was trying to protect. He felt a surge of anger—how dare she bring Gemma into this sham?

But then Mark saw that her expression was one of genuine, uncertain curiosity as she studied the lonely painting. He knew that lying, or deflecting, would be its own kind of betrayal. And Gemma didn’t deserve that.

He turned his gaze back to the painting, unable to look at her as he spoke the truth.

“It was her favorite,” he said, the words a quiet admission, a painful crack in his armor. “She said it was the most honest portrait of America she’d ever seen. Proud, stubborn, a little haunted… and stranded by the future.”

He could feel her stillness beside him. She didn't offer empty condolences. She just stood there with him, two lonely people looking at a painting about loneliness, letting the weight of his words settle between them.

The moment felt fragile, real.

A soft, almost inaudible chime stemmed from the purse on her shoulder.

It was a quiet, digital sound, but in the silent gallery, it was as loud as a gunshot.

The spell shattered.

She flinched, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face as she subtly silenced the alarm on her phone. Helena let out a soft sigh and tucked it away as if it were a misbehaving child.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice regaining its composure, though a hint of weariness remained. “Natalie schedules my entire life in thirty-minute increments. That was our reminder.” She glanced at her watch, a slim, elegant piece of jewelry. “Our dinner reservation is at six-thirty. We should probably go.”

Mark tried but couldn't hide his disappointment.

The thing that shattered their peace was a pre-set reminder, a digital leash from her other life, the one of schedules and boardrooms, pulling her back. The moment was over, not by chance, but by appointment.

XVI.

The chime of her phone had shattered the moment in front of the Hopper painting, a cold, digital reminder of the world waiting for them. As a member of her security detail appeared to lead them from the museum, Mark was quiet, the echo of that shared, painful honesty still resounding in his mind. He watched Helena as they walked through a private breezeway connecting the museum to the adjacent skyscraper. She had reverted to her default state of composed, untouchable elegance, but he had seen the crack in the armor. He was surprised, but he knew it was there.

Their entrance to the restaurant, 53, was a cinematic journey downward. It was located underneath the David Geffen wing of the MoMA, and they descended into a subterranean space that felt like an art gallery in its own right, with moody lighting, raw concrete, and rich wood. As they were led to a prime, secluded booth in the cellar-level main dining room, Mark instinctively stepped ahead and pulled the heavy chair out for her.

She paused, looking at him with a flicker of genuine surprise before murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” and sinking into the seat.

Mark opened the menu, a single, heavyweight card. The descriptions were a study in elegant restraint, divided into sections like ‘Cold,’ ‘Hot,’ and ‘Wok,’ with each dish listed by its core ingredient. His eyes scanned the page, skipping over the Wagyu Filet and the Prime Strip Loin before landing on something under the ‘Wok’ section that sounded genuinely good: lobster rice in lotus leaf. He’d had lobster rice before on a few special occasions with Gemma, and the memory was a fond one. The decision was simple.

Helena ordered with a quiet, decisive fluency, choosing the Fluke Kinilaw, a light, clean dish that seemed to match her own precise elegance. The waiter departed with a silent nod, leaving them in the artfully dim light.

Mark let out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. “The faculty dining hall has a much more straightforward pricing structure,” he said, the dry joke a familiar shield.

A genuine smile touched her lips. “I can imagine.”

The silence that followed felt different—less a void and more a space waiting to be filled. “Thank you,” she said, her voice so low he had to lean forward slightly to hear her.

“For ordering a dish that likely costs more than my weekly groceries?”

“No,” she said, and her smile lingered. “For your honesty. Back at the museum.”

He considered that for a moment, swirling the water in his glass. “It’s a painting that demands honesty, I suppose.”

“Still,” she said. “It was a risk. For you to share that.”

“It’s all a risk, isn’t it?” he countered, feeling bolder than he had all day. “This whole… situation.” He gestured vaguely at the opulent room. “What did you think when Natalie first brought you the idea? When she showed you my picture?”

Helena looked down at her hands, her professional composure momentarily gone. “I thought it was a ghoulish, cynical, and strategically brilliant solution to a problem I didn’t create,” she said with startling frankness. “And I hated it. And I knew it was the only option my father and the board would accept.”

“Your father?” Mark asked, brows furrowed. “What does he have to do with this?”

Helena sighed. “It’s… complicated.”

Mark nodded, and for the first time, he saw past the anger and the insult of the deal. He saw the puppet strings. She wasn't the unfeeling monarch he had imagined; she was the prized asset of an empire, just as controlled by her father and the board as he was by this contract. There was more than weariness in her eyes; there was resignation. And if she could be this honest with him, he realized he owed her the same.

She looked up, her gaze direct. “What about you? After you walked out of that first meeting.”

“I was furious,” he admitted, the confession feeling like a weight lifting. “Then I went home and drank half a bottle of whiskey. Then I was just… lost. Until Devon, my sister, came up with the idea for the grant.”

“It was a better strategy than anything my team devised.”

“It wasn’t a strategy,” he said softly. “It was the only way I could make this feel like anything other than a betrayal.”

“A betrayal of her?”

He nodded, the admission painful. “Of the life we had. It was real. And quiet. And this…” he gestured again at the room, at the lie they were living, “this is the opposite.”

“I know,” she said. “My whole life feels like a script I was handed at birth. Every line, every scene, is already written. It's safe, but... there are no surprises. It's lonely.”

“Mine’s a script, too,” he admitted, the parallel clicking into place. “But it's just one page. The last page. And I just keep re-reading it, over and over again.”

Helena held his gaze for a moment, and then cleared her throat, abruptly changing topics. “What do you do in your spare time?” she asked. “When it’s not… this?”

The question was so normal, so simple. Mark had the sudden realization that maybe she thought he was a bit uncomfortable by how open they were being to each other. “I read. I prepare for lectures.” He shrugged.

“Are you going back to teaching? Now that the… dust has settled?” she asked.

“I told them not yet,” he admitted. “To be honest, I’m… aimless. Bored, most of the time. Without the routine to follow, the days are just empty spaces.”

“I understand that,” she said, and he looked at her, stunned by her sincerity. “My entire life is scheduled down to the minute, but I feel like that, too. Like I’m just moving through a series of appointments, none of which have anything to do with me.”

Mark studied her face in the warm, candlelit glow. “We’re a strange pair, aren’t we?” he mused. “One of us is trapped by the past, the other trapped by the future. One with no schedule, the other with nothing but.” He shook his head. “Opposites.”

“That seems to match,” she finished, her voice a near whisper.

Her words landed between them and the noisy, elegant restaurant simply fell away. The murmur of other diners, the clink of silverware, the distant city sounds—it all dissolved into a low, insignificant hum. They looked at each other across the table, and the world seemed to narrow to a hazy, knowing gaze. It was one of those rare, disorienting moments in life when you realize you’re seeing a person for the very first time, and the new, more complicated reality of them shatters the simple caricature you had constructed in your mind.

In that moment, he wasn't looking at the heiress or the variable in a PR strategy; he was looking at her. He saw the intelligence that had been hiding behind corporate talking points, the quiet pain that resided beneath the perfect composure, and a sincerity so unguarded it made his own chest ache in response. He saw her, and he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that she was seeing him, too—not the grieving professor, but the man hiding behind the past. The sincerity in her words hit him. She wasn't being clever; she was being genuine.

The conversation shifted then, to safer, lighter ground. They talked about movies, and he found himself admitting his love for Old Hollywood and noir films. She asked about musicals, and he confessed he’d always loved them but hadn’t had the energy to go to one since Gemma died.

For a few hours, surrounded by the quiet hum of immense wealth, he was enjoying himself and his company, which made him feel a bit wary. He thought that, for the media and everyone else in that restaurant, they looked like just two people on a date. A real date. The thought boggled his mind.

After dessert, they stepped out of the restaurant's subterranean warmth and onto the cool, bustling street. As they waited for her car, a comfortable quiet settled between them. Mark felt a new, unfamiliar confidence. He looked at her, at the way the streetlights caught the fire in her red hair, and he smiled. He leaned closer and placed his arm around her waist, pulling her slightly toward him.

“Ready?” he asked.

She looked up, surprised and a little breathless, and nodded.

(At that moment, a single, bright flash from across the street captured the image: his genuine smile, her startled, happy expression, his arm possessively around her.)

XVII.

The ride back to his apartment was different. The silence was charged, but not uncomfortable. It was the quiet of a dam having finally broken, the pent-up tension released, leaving a powerful, steady current in its place. Helena had her phone out, its screen casting a cool, blue light on her face in the darkness of the car. It was a familiar sight, the future CEO checking on her empire. But Mark noticed her thumb wasn't scrolling. She was staring at the screen but seeing something else entirely. He watched as her gaze lifted, drifting from the phone to the passing city lights, and then, tentatively, to him.

Their eyes met in the dark, and she didn't look away immediately. There was a quiet curiosity in her look, an echo of the real conversation they had just shared. A silent question. He held her gaze for a long moment before she finally glanced back down at her dark screen. A few seconds later, he caught her looking at him again.

The car slowed as it approached his street, the spell of the evening beginning to fade as the familiar, gritty architecture of his neighborhood came into view. When the car stopped, she finally spoke.

“Goodnight, Mark,” she said, her voice soft.

Hearing her say his name, so simply and without artifice, sent a disarming warmth spreading through his chest. It was a small thing, but it felt like a confirmation, an acknowledgment of the man, not the professor or the variable who turned her world upside down. It was the sound of a wall coming down.

“Goodnight, Helena,” he replied, the name feeling real on his tongue for the first time.

+

Upstairs, he felt both completely worn out from the sheer effort of the performance, and strangely, wildly energetic. He didn't turn on the lights, but stood in the darkness of his apartment, the familiar silence of the space now feeling different—less like an empty tomb and more like a quiet waiting room. His mind was a chaotic slideshow of the last few hours.

He replayed their walk through the MoMA galleries, the way the soft light had caught the fiery strands of her red hair as she’d studied a painting. He replayed the shared, stunned silence in front of the Hopper, a moment of profound, painful honesty. He could still hear the low, musical murmur of her voice in the restaurant, a sound so different from the crisp, corporate tone she used with the rest of the world. He could still feel the unexpected, possessive warmth of her body against his on the sidewalk as the cameras flashed.

He was thinking about her. Helena. Not Helena Eagan, the media sensation and unreachable idea. But the woman underneath it all.

And the realization, when it came, was not the gut-punch of guilt he had anticipated. The profound, all-consuming grief he felt for Gemma was a part of his history, a sacred, sealed-off chamber in his heart. This new feeling, this tentative warmth for Helena, didn't feel like a betrayal of that. It felt… separate. True, in its own way. It felt like the first ray of sun on your skin after a long, brutal winter; it didn't erase the memory of the cold, but it was an undeniable sign of life. It was the beginning of something he thought he didn't deserve, something he didn't even know he wished for anymore.

His phone rang, the sound a violent intrusion, startling him. He fumbled for it in his pocket.

It was Devon.

“Okay, so the update accounts are going insane,” she said, her voice a mix of awe and sisterly concern. “That picture of you two leaving the restaurant… my God, Mark. You look happy. Genuinely.”

He felt a hot flush of embarrassment climb his neck. He sank down onto his sofa, the cushions sighing under his weight. “It… wasn't that bad.”

“Just ‘not that bad’?” she teased gently. He could practically hear her smile. “Come on. I’m your sister. What is she like? The Ice Queen in person?”

Mark hesitated, trying to find the right words, words that felt true but not… dangerous. “She’s… not what I expected,” he started, the understatement of the century. “I expected a machine. A shark. And she is, I guess, in a way. But there’s something else there. She’s smart. And quiet, when she’s not performing for an audience.”

“And she’s really beautiful,” Devon finished for him, her voice soft and knowing.

He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion of the day finally hitting him. He let out a long, slow sigh of surrender. “Yeah, Dev,” he said, his voice heavy with a truth he couldn’t examine too closely. “She is.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a shift from teasing to the familiar, gentle worry he knew so well. “Okay,” she said. “Well… just be careful. Please. Remember what this is supposed to be, alright?”

“I know,” he lied, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.

After he hung up, a strange compulsion made him pull out his own phone and search her name.

The photo was already everywhere.

He looked at the image of himself, his arm around her waist, his face broken into a wide, easy smile. It wasn't a real smile, not in the way he’d smiled with Gemma—a slow, comfortable spreading of warmth born of years of love.

This was something different.

The smile of a man caught off guard by a moment of unexpected joy, something complicated and hopeful.

But he knew, despite the hours of real conversation and the undeniable warmth of that public embrace, that the truest moment of their day had not been captured by any camera. It had been a quiet, shared moment of pain in front of a lonely painting, witnessed by no one.

It was a perfect, secret thing that belonged only to them, a moment broken by the impartial chime of a clock—a quiet, constant reminder that their time together already had an expiration date.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

New photos show Mark Scout with his arm around Helena Eagan after a dinner date in NYC.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

HIS ARM AROUND HER WAIST I'M SCREAMING!!! 😭 Look at the way he's smiling! And Helena looks genuinely sooo happy! They are EVERYTHING to me right now, my heart can't take it!

Vulture (@vulture)

And right on cue, the public romance narrative progresses to Phase 3: The Possessive Waist Hold. The carefully crafted story of the Heiress and the Professor continues to hit every expected rom-com beat with impeccable precision. Our analysis: vulture.com/article/eagan-scout-analysis.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Lumon's PR strategy for Helena Eagan appears highly effective, as new, more intimate photos of her with Mark Scout emerge. The images have further solidified their public narrative and correlated with a boost in positive sentiment online.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

THINGS ARE HEATING UP! 🔥

Helena Eagan and Mark Scout were spotted looking cozy after an intimate dinner. A source tells us, "They were laughing all night. He's completely smitten."

Chapter Text

XVIII.


The silence in the car on the ride back to her penthouse was a living thing. It was no longer the empty, clinical quiet of her usual life, but a space filled with the echo of his voice, the memory of a shared, sad smile. When the car pulled into the private underground entrance of her building, the seamless transition from the chaotic city to her controlled world felt less like a relief and more like the final, definitive closing of a door.

Upstairs, the penthouse was exactly as she had left it: a vast, silent expanse of glass and minimalist furniture, breathtakingly beautiful and completely devoid of life. Normally, she found an immaculate peace in the order of it all, a quiet reset after a day of corporate warfare. But tonight, after the warmth and easy laughter of the restaurant, the silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt profound, an aching emptiness that mocked the memory of the company she’d just left. She was restless, the quiet amplifying her solitude rather than soothing it.

She went through her nightly rituals with the precision of a machine—removing her makeup, cleansing her skin, and changing into a pair of navy silk pajamas—each step a familiar act of control. But tonight, the armor felt thin and brittle.

She lay in her enormous bed, the cool, high-thread-count sheets a familiar comfort that offered none. Sleep was a distant country she had no hope of reaching. Her mind, the efficient, analytical tool she relied on, was stuck in a loop, replaying the evening not as a strategic operation, but as a series of small, significant, and utterly unmanageable moments.

She replayed his dry joke about the faculty dining hall, and the surprising, rusty sound of his real laugh. She replayed the academic passion in his voice as he explained Gemma’s interpretation of the Hopper painting. She replayed the moment he’d looked at her across the table, his eyes full of a startling, shared understanding. She had spoken of her life as a script she couldn't escape, and he had admitted his was one, too—a single, tragic page he was forced to read repeatedly. Most vividly, she replayed the feeling of his arm around her waist on the sidewalk—a gesture meant for the cameras, but one that had felt solid, warm, and possessively real in the cool night air.

And then her mantra from that afternoon echoed in her mind, a mocking ghost of her own pragmatism: Contain the variable. Control the narrative. Fix the problem. She had sat in the car on the way to his apartment, certain that this was a simple, if distasteful, three-step process—an easy, fixable problem.

But she was thinking about him.

The realization wasn’t triumphant and offered her no solace at all.

It was terrifying.

He was the variable, the problem she was supposed to manage and contain.

But his quiet sincerity had shattered her logic, refusing to be caged within the lines of her strategy. The carefully constructed script hadn't just been altered; it had been set ablaze by a single, honest conversation about a lonely painting. And the feelings that had blossomed from those ashes were not a manageable part of a PR campaign. They were a liability —a beautiful, dangerous wildfire threatening the carefully constructed future she was supposed to protect. The iron grip she thought she had on this problem was nothing but smoke.

Unable to lie still any longer, she reached for her phone that was charging on her nightstand. She bypassed the market reports and the unread memos from the board and went straight to the source. The photo was already everywhere, the centerpiece of a dozen gushing articles. She looked at the image of them leaving the restaurant, a perfect, polished lie. His smile was easy and genuine. Her own expression was one of unguarded happiness.

It was startling to see herself like this. She couldn't remember the last time she had been caught by a pleasant surprise, the last time a genuine, uncalculated smile had reached her eyes. In the presence of this quiet man overwhelmed with so much grief, she had felt safe enough to share so much, to be so open.

She felt, with a clarity that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that in thirty years of a very public life, no one had ever truly known her, and she had just shown a glimpse of her true self to him.

Natalie had done her job perfectly. This was, for all intents and purposes, their first real public appearance as a confirmed couple.

The shot was perfect.

The world was already believing it.

But she knew with a certainty that made her chest ache that the truest moment of their day had not been captured by any camera.

It had been earlier, standing before the Hopper.

While he spoke of his wife’s interpretation of the painting, she had felt his gaze shift from the lonely house on the canvas to her. It wasn't the assessing, predatory gaze she was used to from the men in her world, but something else entirely—quiet, intense, and genuinely curious.

And in that moment, under the weight of that gentle, unwavering attention, she had felt the carefully constructed walls of her performance begin to dissolve. She had forgotten about the strategy, about the lie. She had just… been.

It was a perfect, secret thing that belonged only to them, a moment witnessed by no one, broken by the impartial chime of her own clock. And she knew the danger was not the lie they were selling to the world. The real danger was the devastating, inconvenient, and undeniable truth she was starting to believe in it.


XIX.

Sleep, for Helena, was usually a non-negotiable eight-hour block of managed unconsciousness. But she woke at six on Sunday morning with a jolt, surfacing from a shallow, dream-haunted doze. Her mind was already racing, replaying the previous night's events in a chaotic loop.

A glance at the clock on her nightstand confirmed it: less than four hours of broken sleep. A low, frustrated huff escaped her lips. The schedule, however, was immutable. She rose, the expensive silk of her pajamas whispering as she moved into the vast, marble bathroom. She went through the motions of her morning skincare routine with a kind of detached precision, applying a series of clinical serums and creams not as a luxury, but as a necessary maintenance protocol. She stripped off the pajamas, letting them pool at her feet, and pulled on a severe, black one-piece swimsuit—a garment designed for performance, not leisure. After tying her hair into a tight knot, she was ready.

The private, Olympic-sized pool in her building was usually a place of quiet dominion. She sliced through the cool blue water, lap after lap, pushing her body to the point of exhaustion. She focused on the burn in her muscles, the rhythmic pull of her arms, the sharp intake of chlorinated air—anything to silence the relentless echo of his voice in her head. But it didn't work. She finished 3000 meters, and the moment she stopped, the thoughts rushed back in, stronger than before.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she hauled herself from the pool, the physical exhaustion a useless blanket over her racing mind. The walk back to her penthouse was a silent journey through empty corridors. Inside her apartment, she moved directly to the shower.

The water cascading over her skin was precisely 102.2 degrees Fahrenheit. She stood under the stream, eyes closed, trying to focus on the sensation of the heat, on the steam filling the vast marble enclosure. But it was no use. The water couldn't wash away the memory of his smile, and the steam couldn't obscure the image of his eyes looking at her across the candlelit table. It was a failed exorcism.

She dried with a brisk, impersonal efficiency. She drank a tasteless protein shake—pure fuel, not pleasure—and still felt the frantic energy thrumming under her skin, a wild animal pacing in the cage of her ribs. The swim had failed. The shower had failed.

She changed not into another uniform of command, but into a pair of soft grey cashmere sweatpants and a matching sweater. It was the closest thing to a white flag she owned. She forced herself to work. She opened her laptop to a flurry of emails from Natalie, all variations on a single, triumphant theme.

One email subject line read: “Saturday Metrics & Sentiment Analysis.” The body was a series of bullet points and percentages. “Social media sentiment up 400%. Engagement on all platforms is at an all-time high. Key takeaway from focus groups: public finds you ‘accessible’ and ‘relatable.’ The narrative is solidified. Excellent work.”

Accessible.

Helena almost laughed.

The irony was bitter in her mouth. She had never felt less accessible in her life. She felt like a specimen in a deep-sea aquarium, her life a perfectly curated habitat behind inches of invisible, unbreakable glass. The world could press its face against it, could watch her glide through her beautiful, pressurized world and think they understood her, but she couldn't hear them. She couldn't feel them. She was utterly isolated.

Even after two hours of dissecting quarterly reports, the restlessness was still there, a frantic energy with nowhere to go. She gave up on work and retreated to the TV room, a dark, comfortable space with a screen that took up an entire wall. She flipped through channels, hoping to find something mindless. She watched a few minutes of a reality show about wealthy housewives fighting each other, then a news report on geopolitical tensions that felt blessedly impersonal.

She was about to turn it off when a familiar black-and-white image filled the screen. A handsome, haunted-looking Cary Grant. Ingrid Bergman, luminous and trapped. Notorious.

She left it on, a kind of morbid curiosity taking hold. She watched the story unfold—a story of a woman with a complicated past, recruited to perform a role, to get close to a dangerous man, all while falling for the government agent who was her handler. A story about a lie that becomes tangled with a devastatingly real love.

Helena found herself chewing on the edge of her thumbnail, a nervous habit she hadn't indulged in since she was a teenager. She watched as the characters navigated their web of duty, danger, and unspoken desire; the way their carefully constructed performances cracked under the weight of their real feelings. The restlessness in her chest tightened into a sharp, painful ache.

This was unbearable.

It was too close.

Her life was no Hitchcock film.

Her situation was a business arrangement. A deal.

But it didn't feel like a deal. It felt like this.

She looked at her phone, sitting dark and silent on the cushion beside her.

It was a portal.

A risk.

Her entire life was a fortress built to contain variables, and he was the most dangerous variable she had ever encountered. Every instinct, every bit of training she’d ever had, screamed at her to leave it alone.

To maintain control.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was anxious, apprehensive.

And then, a different thought, a reckless, liberating one, cut through the noise.

Fuck it.

Her thumb moved, unlocking the screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard before she could stop them, the words coming out in a series of stilted, formal bursts that felt both absurd and necessary.

Today, 9:05 PM

Helena

Watching an old Hitchcock movie. Are you busy?

She stared at the message, a bubble of panic rising in her chest. He didn't have her number. He would think it was spam. Acting on a second, equally reckless impulse, she sent another.

Helena

This is Helena.

And then, because the formality of her world was so deeply ingrained in her, a final, absurd clarification.

Helena

Eagan.

She hit send on the last message and stared at the screen, a fresh wave of panic washing over her.

She had done it. She had completely and utterly lost control.

It was the most impulsive, idiotic, unprofessional thing she had done in her adult life.

She was about to turn the phone off, to throw it across the room, when three dots appeared, indicating he was typing.

A moment later, his reply came through.

Mark

Good to know. For a minute I wasn't sure which Helena Eagan I was supposed to be fake-dating. Which Hitchcock? I might have to put it on.

A small, surprised laugh escaped her lips.

Helena

Notorious.

Mark

Ah. The one about the reluctant spy and the handsome agent who pushes her into an impossible situation. Can't imagine why that would resonate with you.

She could feel the dry wit, the playful jab, and it felt more intimate than their staged appearance.

Helena

I'm choosing to ignore that. The direction is brilliant.

Mark

The crane shot down to the key in her hand is an all-timer. Pure suspense from a simple object. Hitchcock was a master at that.

Helena

But it's Bergman who holds it all together. She's devastating in it.

Mark

She is. The way she could convey a whole lifetime of regret and desire with just a look… they don't make movie stars like that anymore.

Helena

No, they don't.

For the next hour, they commented on the movie together, their phones lighting up in the dark. He would point out a subtle camera movement; she would make a sharp, insightful comment about a character’s motivation. The film played on her giant screen, but the real story was the one unfolding in the small, quiet space of their text chain. When the credits rolled, the silence in her penthouse felt different.

Helena

Wow. That was… perfect.

Mark

It holds up. It's what got me into the whole Old Hollywood noir genre in the first place.

Helena

So what else is on the 'Professor Scout Essential Viewing' list?

He sent back a short list of black-and-white films that made her smile. This led to a conversation about books. She asked what a history professor’s favorite books were, the ones that weren’t on a syllabus.

Mark

That's a dangerous question. But if I had to choose: 'The Guns of August' by Tuchman, because it's history written like a thriller. 'The Big Sleep' by Chandler, because all great noir comes from him. And, this is the deep cut, a novel called 'Stoner' by John Williams.

Helena

Never heard of it.

Mark

Not many people have. It's a quiet book about a quiet professor's life. It's devastating. And perfect.

She looked up the book as they texted, reading the description. A quiet professor's life. She felt a now-familiar pang of recognition.

And then he was typing again, asking her another question.

Mark

Okay, your turn. What does the Eagan heiress like to read when no one's looking?

She paused, the phone heavy in her hand.

People didn’t ask her questions like that. They asked about market projections and philanthropic strategy.

Helena

A lot. But my favorites are a biography, Katharine Graham’s ‘Personal History’. And a novel, ‘Never Let Me Go’.

Mark’s reply came a moment later, and it sent a surprising shiver through her.

Mark

I'll admit, I haven't read the Graham biography; a bit outside my usual century. But the Ishiguro... that one I know. A quiet, devastating novel about people who have to live out a life they never chose, all while wondering if they have a soul of their own. That feels... familiar.

She didn't know how to answer that.

He saw it. He saw her.

The night grew later, the conversation drifting easily from topic to topic, a small, private world being built, text by text.

Finally, a new message from him appeared.

Mark

You should get some sleep, Helena.

She looked at the clock. It was almost midnight.

Helena

You too, Mark.

Mark

Goodnight.

Helena

Goodnight.

She put her phone on the nightstand. The television was off. The penthouse was silent.

But for the first time in a long time, the silence didn't feel empty.

It was peaceful, filled with the lingering echo of their conversation. The restlessness in her chest, the frantic, pacing animal, was finally still.

Helena got into bed, pulled the heavy sheets over her, and for the first time since a photograph had turned her world upside down, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


XX.

The week that followed was a masterclass in compartmentalization.

By day, Helena was the perfect corporate machine. As Lumon’s COO, she didn’t just wait to inherit the company; she ran its daily operations with a seamless, icy precision. She spent a full morning grilling the head of R&D over a delayed clinical trial, dissected a bloated budget for a failing subsidiary until its director paled, and approved a billion-dollar acquisition, all before lunch. Her focus was absolute, her performance flawless. She was every inch the ruthless, competent leader her father and the board demanded her to be.

But in the quiet, stolen moments between the meetings, her phone would vibrate with a text from Mark.

Mark

Found a first edition of ‘The Guns of August’ at a dusty used bookstore. Thought of you.

She would stare at the message, a secret warmth spreading through her chest, before typing back a cool, detached response.

Helena

A good find.

But her heart did an unfamiliar flutter.

Meanwhile, public frenzy was growing. Natalie cornered her on Tuesday between meetings, her tablet glowing with charts and graphs.

“The sentiment metrics are unprecedented,” Natalie said, practically vibrating with energy. “#MarkHelena was the number one trending topic all weekend. The narrative is that you’ve been humanized. You’re not just an heiress; you’re a woman in love. It’s perfect."

Helena glanced at a collage of photos—them leaving the restaurant, his arm around her.

“It’s a perfect lie,” she corrected, her voice flat.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Natalie said, completely missing the irony.

The trivial texts with Mark became her only shield against the terrifying intimacy of what was happening. On Wednesday, she was in the back of her car, stuck in traffic, when he sent her a photo he’d taken of a ridiculously over-the-top romance novel on a drugstore shelf, the cover featuring a muscular man and a swooning woman. His text read:

Mark

Found the cover for our unauthorized biography.

A startled, genuine laugh had escaped her lips in the middle of traffic. She’d quickly sent him back a photo of a ridiculously opulent cake from a luncheon, captioning it,

Helena

Even the desserts are performative here.

Each message was a secret thread, weaving a connection that felt more real than anything else in her life.

“We need the next public step,” Natalie said on Thursday, pacing in front of Helena’s vast office window. “The public wants more. The #MarkHelena tag is getting restless. I was thinking of something charitable. A soup kitchen photo-op? A Habitat for Humanity build? It tests well.”

Helena barely looked up from her screen. “Absolutely not. It’s crass and obvious.”

“A charity run in the park?”

“I’m not sweating for the cameras, Natalie.”

Frustrated, Natalie fell silent. That's when Helena saw an ad scrolling on a news feed. A poster for a new, highly anticipated production of Romeo & Juliet on Broadway that was currently on air. It was an impulse, a reckless departure from the PR-approved script, an idea born from her secret conversations with him, not from a marketing brief.

“Book a box seat for the new Romeo & Juliet on Saturday,” Helena said. “And have a ticket waiting at the box office for Mark Scout.”

Later that evening, as she was reviewing the quarterly reports from the Tokyo office, his reply came.

Mark

Romeo and Juliet? A bit on the nose for two people in a fake relationship with a built-in tragic ending, don't you think? But yes. I'd like that. It's been a while.

The wit of his response made her smile, a moment of genuine truth in a week of calculated performances.



XXI.


The city had begun its surrender to winter. The air, for the first time that year, had a real bite to it—a crisp chill that was a promise of the deeper cold to come. The sun dipped below the skyline earlier each day, and the festive lights already strung across the avenues glittered with a fierce brightness against the encroaching twilight. This change in season mirrored the shift inside Helena. The frantic, chaotic energy of the past few weeks had settled into a humming anticipation, a quiet but constant awareness of him.

On Saturday night, she stood in the center of her walk-in closet, a vast space lined with a curated collection of clothes for every possible occasion. She had absolutely no idea what to wear. The power suits felt too cold, a relic of the woman she had been in that first meeting. The simple sweaters and trousers she had worn on their previous dates now felt like a costume, a performance of approachability she no longer needed to feign.

She knew, on a rational, strategic level, that this was still a PR stunt—another scheduled appearance on Natalie’s timeline.

But it didn't feel like that. Tonight felt different.

For the first time in as long as she could remember, the imaginary audience of the press and the public faded into an insignificant hum. There was only one opinion that mattered.

She admitted it to herself with a startling jolt: she wanted to impress him. She wanted Mark Scout to look at her and see not the Eagan heiress or the woman from the viral photo, but something else. The desire to be seen, truly seen, by him—it was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in god knows how long.

After dismissing a dozen options, her fingers finally settled on a black Versace dress. It was a statement of pure, unapologetic confidence. The draped, plunging halter neckline was held in place by the signature gold Medusa safety pin hardware, the fabric clinging to her torso before falling into a knee-length skirt. She paired it with a pair of Versace stilettos, their razor-sharp heels balanced by a delicate ankle strap and a jagged, crystal-embellished lightning bolt of gold hardware that ran down the front. She chose a glittering gold clutch to match.

As a final layer, she slipped on a black Balenciaga coat, its severe, double-breasted cut defined by razor-sharp, exaggerated shoulders that created a commanding silhouette. It was a fortress of high fashion, and beneath it, she felt dangerously, thrillingly exposed.

The woman in the mirror was a familiar stranger. The face was hers. Her makeup was understated and precise—a sharp, clean wing of black eyeliner, skin perfected but not masked, and a deep, wine-colored lipstick that was both powerful and severe. The diamonds in her ears glittered with their usual cold fire. But the woman staring back was different. There was a flush of real warmth beneath the foundation, a tremor of anticipation that softened the hard set of her jaw. Her eyes, usually chips of cool green, were wide and dark with uncertainty.

The ice queen redhead. The heir apparent. The woman who commanded boardrooms—all the familiar roles were there, reflected in the sharp lines of the Versace dress and the commanding silhouette of the Balenciaga coat.

But the frantic, hopeful beat of her own heart belonged to someone else entirely, a woman who was stepping onto a stage without a script, and the thought was terrifyingly exhilarating.

She walked through the silent expanse of her penthouse. The quiet, which so often felt like isolation, tonight felt like the held breath before a plunge. The city glittered below, a sea of infinite possibilities it felt as though she had only ever observed from behind glass. Tonight, she was stepping into it.

The ride to the Square Theatre was torture. The car moved through the evening traffic, the festive lights of the city streaking past in ribbons of gold and red. The silence inside the car was no longer suffocating; it was filled with a low, humming anticipation that echoed the frantic, hopeful beat of her own heart.

The car moved through the evening traffic, a quiet, insulated space between those two worlds. Now, she was on her way to meet the man from her phone, and a sharp anxiety bloomed in her chest. She was terrified that the easy, witty intimacy they had built in the safety of a screen would evaporate under the real-world lights of a theater lobby. She smoothed her dress with a hand that was not quite steady. This feeling—this sweet , anxious apprehension—was a foreign country.

For the first time in her life, Helena Eagan was an unprepared traveler.

+

The car stopped in front of the theater. Her driver opened the door, and she stepped out into the crisp December air. A member of her security team was waiting to escort her through a private entrance, away from the main crush of the crowd. She took a deep, steadying breath and walked inside.

He was waiting for her in the theater’s private space for patrons, and the sight of him stole her breath away. The rumpled professor was gone. In his place was a devastatingly handsome man in a perfectly fitted black suit and a crisp white shirt, clean-shaven, his jawline sharp and defined. He had met her on her own territory, in her own language of tailored elegance, and the effect was breathtaking.

“Helena,” he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. He stepped forward as she shrugged off her coat, his hands warm on her arms as he took it from her. She felt a blush creep up her neck at the simple, proprietary touch. “You look… incredible.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Professor,” she managed, her voice a little unsteady.

They were led to their seats in a private box, a small, velvet-lined world set high above the rest of the audience, level with the mezzanine. It was a space designed for intimacy and discretion, and in the dim, pre-show light, the tension was immediate and electric. They were intensely aware of each other, of the small, charged space that separated their chairs, of the way his suit brushed against her arm.

Then the house lights went down, plunging them into a shared, anonymous darkness. The play began.

The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet unfolded on the stage below, but for Helena, the real drama was in the silent space beside her. She wasn't watching the actors; she was watching the way the stage lights cast flickering shadows across Mark’s face. She saw the deep concentration in his eyes as he absorbed the language, the way his brow furrowed at a particularly poignant line. He was not a passive observer. He was a man who understood the weight of stories.

During the balcony scene, as Juliet lamented the meaningless name that separated her from her love, Helena risked a glance at him. He was already looking at her. In the reflected glow from the stage, his eyes were not questioning but knowing. It seemed a look of profound, startling recognition, a silent acknowledgment that she was, too, trapped by her name—Eagan—and the impossible world it represented. Her heart gave a painful thud in her chest.

The lights came up for intermission, and the intimate bubble shattered. They both looked away, a flush of heat on Helena's cheeks. They didn't speak. The air was too thick with unspoken things. He reached for the playbill on the small table between them at the same moment she did. Their fingers brushed—and they both pulled back at the same time.

When the lights dimmed again, the tension had deepened. The play hurtled toward its tragic conclusion. Helena watched Mark as Mercutio fell, as the lovers were banished, as the final, desperate plans were made. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand clenched almost imperceptibly on the velvet armrest during the final, devastating scene in the tomb. She was watching a man who knew grief intimately, a man who understood the finality of a life extinguished too soon.

As the stage was plunged into a final darkness before the curtain call, her eyes, already accustomed to the dim light, found his one last time. The raw emotion he had held in check all night was finally there, unguarded on his face—not just sadness for the characters, but the deep, familiar ache of his own history.

It wasn't that their story was the same. They weren't children, and their war was with headlines and public perception, not swords and family grudges. But the play's central, aching question echoed in the space between them with a painful clarity: what do you do when the one real thing you've found is forbidden by the world you live in?

The thought of their own newfound, fragile connection, with its built-in expiration date, was a silent truth that settled in her chest, heavy as a stone.



XXII.

After the show, they stepped out into the December night. The tragic romance of the play settled in Helena’s chest like a physical weight, a somber echo of the impossible odds she felt in her own life. The car was waiting, a silent, black fortress ready to ferry them to the next stage of the evening.

The restaurant, Buvette, was a world away from the theater's grand formality. The moment they stepped inside, they were enveloped in a warm, amber glow. The space was tiny, almost cramped, with small marble-topped tables, dark wood, and flickering candles that made the whole room feel alive and intimate. The happy clatter of plates and the murmur of a dozen conversations was a welcome antidote to the heavy silence that had fallen over Helena. She felt the weight on her chest begin to lift, just slightly.

They were led to a small, secluded table in the back. For the first time, it felt less like a performance and more like a genuine escape.

“So,” she began, after they had ordered wine, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “The expert’s verdict on the production?”

Mark considered it for a moment. “The direction was a bit heavy-handed with the modern parallels,” he said, the professor in him surfacing. “But the actress playing Juliet was incredible. She found strength in a character you don’t always see. She wasn’t just a victim of her fate.

“It’s a difficult role,” Helena mused, her gaze distant. “Trapped by her family’s expectations, in love with the one person she’s forbidden from having.” She was talking about the play, but the words felt like her own.

He looked at her, his expression thoughtful. “It’s the core of all those old stories, isn’t it? The cage of inheritance. Whether it’s a name, a crown, or a company.” He didn’t ask if she was trapped; he simply stated the theme, a gentle invitation for her to connect.

“And what’s the alternative?” she asked, her voice quiet. “To just… walk away from it all?”

“The stories would say the only alternative is love,” he said, a wry, sad smile touching his lips. “But they usually end in a tomb, so their advice is questionable.”

The dark, witty honesty of his response made her feel seen. It also opened a door she wasn't sure she should walk through, but the question left her lips before she could stop it, a tentative probe into the heart of his sadness, a shocking departure from the safety of their script.

“You miss her, right?”

His smile faded, but he didn’t look away. He held her gaze, and she felt the entire restaurant fall away, leaving just the two of them suspended in the warm, candlelit glow.

“Every day,” he said. The admission was simple, profound, and completely devoid of the self-pity she might have expected. He paused, and the look in his eyes shifted, becoming something more intense, more present. “But it’s getting better.”

And the way he held her gaze as he said it, the silent, weighty focus of it—it felt like a confession. It felt as though the words were no longer about the woman he had lost, but about the one sitting right in front of him. The last of the weight in her chest dissolved, replaced by a warmth so profound it left her breathless. She couldn't find a single word to say, so she just looked back at him, letting the truth of his unspoken admission settle between them.

After a long moment, a small, tentative smile touched her lips as she sought to gently bring them back to safer waters. “You were very insightful about the play tonight,” she said. “That comment about the director being heavy-handed…”

The question seemed to pull him back from the precipice, and he let out a short, surprised laugh. “Just an observation.”

“Is that how you are in the classroom?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Do you critique your students’ papers as sharply as you critique Broadway directors?”

“Worse, probably,” he admitted with a shrug. “My students would definitely say I’m a hard-ass. I’m not flashy. I just love the material, and I expect them to respect it.” He paused. “My best friend at Ganz, Dylan, he’s the flashy one. He’s a professor in the Chemistry department, of all things.”

Helena raised an eyebrow. “A flashy chemistry professor?”

“Let’s just say his experiments are famous enough that the campus fire marshal knows him by his first name,” Mark said with a warm, fond smile. “He has a flair for the dramatic. The freshmen love him. He was the one who introduced me to Gemma, actually. We all started at Ganz the same year.”

“He sounds like a good friend,” she said softly.

“He is,” Mark confirmed. “He and Devon—my sister—are the only ones who can successfully drag me out of my apartment on a weeknight.”

“What’s she like?” Helena asked, leaning forward slightly, her curiosity genuine.

“Devon? She’s the functional one. Organized, steady. She’s a landscape architect,” he said. “Her husband, Ricken, is a wonderful guy, but he has a new, life-altering passion every other week. Last I checked, he was perfecting the art of artisanal kimchi.”

Helena smiled. “And they have a daughter, you said?”

The affection that washed over Mark’s face was so open and unguarded it made her chest ache. “Yeah, Eleanor. Eleven months. She’s the new center of everyone’s universe.” He leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “Dylan is already convinced he needs to start her scientific education. Last week, he seriously suggested showing her a simple acid-base reaction with some red cabbage juice. Just to, you know, ‘spark her curiosity.’”

Helena laughed, a delighted sound. “For an eleven-month-old?”

“Exactly,” Mark said, his own smile widening. “Devon gave him a look that could curdle milk and told him the only experiment Eleanor is allowed to conduct is figuring out how to get mashed bananas in his hair. Which, to be fair, she has perfected.”

The genuine, delighted sound of Helena’s laugh seemed to warm the small, candlelit space around them. As Mark’s own smile widened, she watched the way the light danced in his eyes, and for a moment, she forgot they were a PR strategy. He wasn't a variable; he was just a man telling a funny, loving story.

As her laughter subsided, a quiet, thoughtful expression took its place. He had painted a picture for her, a small, vivid snapshot of his messy, ordinary, and deeply rich life, woven through with connections and shared history. And as Helena listened, a familiar, profound ache settled in her chest. She had people who worked for her, people who reported to her, but no one who simply knew her. She didn't have a Devon or a Dylan.

It was another reminder of the profound, echoing loneliness she had lived with her entire life.

The conversation drifted to movies and music, and eventually to the awkwardness of early technology.

“My first laptop was a brick,” she said with a laugh. “I think it had less processing power than my watch does now.”

He smiled, the candlelight making his eyes crinkle. “My first college laptop couldn’t even conceive of the year 2000. I was genuinely worried about the Y2K bug.” He shook his head at the memory. “Helena, I’m pushing 50. My version of youthful anxiety was worrying about a global computer apocalypse at the turn of the millennium.”

The joke, so specific to his place in time, made her laugh again, a real, unburdened sound. “Okay, it’s not that bad, now you’re just trying to make me feel young.”

He laughed with her, warm and easy. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

It was in the comfortable silence after their laughter died down that she knew the nature of their arrangement had irrevocably changed.

+

In the car ride home, the air was thick with the leftover emotion from the play and the simmering chemistry from their night together. Something had shifted. Instead of retreating to their opposite ends of the vast backseat like before, they had settled closer, a silent, mutual decision that left only a foot of space between them.

Helena was intensely aware of his nearness. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. The passing streetlights illuminated his profile in brief, rhythmic flashes—the sharp line of his jaw, the angular angle of his nose, the way he stared out the window but didn't seem to be seeing the city at all. She replayed their conversation, his easy laughter, the unexpected safety she had felt in his company. She stole a glance at him and found his eyes already on her in the darkness, an intense gaze that made her breath catch.

The silence wasn't awkward anymore; it was a heavy, expectant thing, a space humming with everything they weren't saying.

As the car slowed for a red light, the sudden stillness seemed to amplify the tension a hundredfold. He turned to her. “Helena…” he started, his voice a low, rough sound that vibrated through her.

She turned to face him, her heart hammering against her ribs. The look in his eyes was one of pure, unadulterated yearning. He leaned in, slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips.

This was it.

The moment the entire evening had been building towards, a silent question that had been hanging in the air since their eyes first met across the theater. Her body thrummed with a sharp, aching anticipation.

She closed her eyes.

A phone buzzed, a harsh, jarring sound in the quiet cocoon of the car.

Mark cursed and pulled back instantly, the spell shattered. He picked his phone out of his pocket and looked down at it, its screen glowing with a name: Devon.

He cleared his throat, a deep flush creeping up his neck. "I'm so sorry, I... I have to take this." He answered the call.

The conversation was brief, a murmur of brotherly reassurance. But it was a brutal reminder of the other world he belonged to, the world of family and grief that she had no part in. The moment was gone, stolen by the intrusion of a life she couldn't touch.

The rest of the ride was a return to their familiar, awkward silence. He was dropped off with a stilted, formal goodbye.

Back in her penthouse, Helena stood at the glass wall, staring down at the city lights, her body thrumming with a frustrating, unspent energy.

She was no longer sure where the performance ended and her real life began. The line had blurred, and she was adrift in the hazy, uncertain space in between. All she knew, with a certainty that made her ache, was that she had wanted him to kiss her. And the realization of how much she had wanted it, and how much it hurt that he hadn’t, was the most terrifying loss of control yet.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan and Mark Scout pack on the PDA on their date night on Broadway. 🎭

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

THE ARM AROUND HER WAIST I'M GOING TO COMBUST 😭❤️ New photos of #MarkHelena after their date at the theater tonight! Look at her smile!!! He makes her so happy. I've never seen her look like this!

Vulture (@vulture)

You simply have to admire the craftsmanship. The Heiress and the Professor, a romance already laden with subtext, attend a performance of Romeo & Juliet . The PR narrative is no longer just writing itself; it's citing its sources. Our analysis:
vulture.com/article/eagan-scout-analysis.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

The meticulously managed public romance of Lumon's Helena Eagan continues to pay dividends in social capital, with new photos from a Broadway date further enhancing her 'humanized' brand image.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

A BROADWAY ROMANCE! Helena Eagan and Mark Scout took their love story to Broadway this weekend, catching the new Romeo & Juliet before a cozy, candlelit dinner at Buvette. An insider tells us, "They looked completely lost in their own world. It's the real deal."

Chapter Text

XXIII.

Helena was on top of him.

The sight knocked the wind out of him—he didn’t know how they got here, how his need for her felt more like a memory from a past life, a phantom ache for a home he’d lost and only just found again.

One second, they were in the car, and then there she was, straddling him in the low flicker of his bedroom lamp, her thighs splayed wide over his hips. A goddess carved in shadow, every inch of her skin flushed and glowing and dewy with sweat, eyes heavy-lidded with lust. The scent of her—floral and sweet—wrapped around him like smoke, dizzying and thick. She’d already sunk onto him, bare and dripping, her cunt so hot and tight he could barely breathe. His hands were braced on her waist, fingers marking indents on her skin like he needed to ground himself or he’d fucking float away.

“Jesus Christ, Helena—”

She just smiled—a sly, wicked smile—before dragging her hips back in a slow, torturous pullout until only the head of his cock was still inside her, then slamming back down hard. The slick slap of skin against skin echoed, obscene and perfect, and Mark swore under his breath, hips twitching up to meet hers.

“You gonna come already, Professor?” she panted, her nails raking down his chest, sharp and possessive. “Haven’t even started.”

A raw sound—half-groan, half-laugh—tore from his throat. “Not even close,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint. He grabbed her hips, stilling her movement, just for a second. “You felt it tonight, didn’t you? At the theater.”

Her eyes, dark and endless, burned into his. “I felt everything,” she whispered. “You watching me. Not the stage.”

“I couldn’t look away,” he admitted. “You—you looked so fucking beautiful. God, Helena, this is becoming so much more than just a deal—”

Her hips stilled for a split second. “Mark,” she whined, and leaned down, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. “You want me.” She said it not as a question but as an admission.

His hands slid down to her ass, grabbing hard as he thrust up into her. She gasped but stayed locked on his gaze.

“Say it.” Her tone was soft, almost a whisper. Gentle and teasing, like she was coaxing it out of him, not demanding it. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” he gasped, the confession torn from him, raw and absolute. “God—Helena—I want you so much—”

Her smile turned triumphant. She crashed her lips into his, moaning into his mouth as her hips began to move again with slow, deliberate need. “Should’ve kissed me in the car,” she whispered, her grin lazy and aching. “You almost did.”

“I tried,” he breathed.

“You didn’t try hard enough.”

She dragged her hips faster, deeper, riding him like she was the one in control of gravity. He was pinned beneath her, utterly undone, watching her take him like it was something they’d both been starving for. Her thighs trembled around him, her lashes fluttered, her lips parted. She looked like she was ascending—and taking him with her.

“Just feel,” she commanded, her voice fierce as she took the rhythm with a rough roll of her hips. “Use me. Fuck me like I’m yours.”

“You already are,” he growled, the words torn from him as he met each powerful thrust, claiming her as she claimed him.

Just as the pressure turned to fire, as his vision began to strobe, she slowed, her fingers threading into his hair. She kissed him then—soft, slow, like she had all the time in the world to taste him. When she pulled back, her forehead rested on his, her eyes glazed with heat.

“You wanna come in me? You wanna fill me up, baby?”

“Yes,” he moaned, his hips jerking up in a raw, desperate plea. “Helena, I’m so close—”

“Come inside me, Professor,” she whispered, her voice a decadent command. “Be good for me. Give it all to me.”

That was what did it. Her orgasm slammed into her with a strangled cry, body shaking above him, thighs trembling as she came hard, her cunt clenching around his cock like a vise.

And seeing her come apart was his undoing.

Mark came with a low, broken groan, her name bitten into her shoulder as he spilled into her, wave after wave crashing through him, blinding and deep. He held her tight through it, arms wrapped around her waist, mouth buried in her neck, as if he let go for even a second he’d disappear entirely.

Helena’s head rested on his chest, her breath still shallow, her hair damp and tangled across his collarbone. He didn’t say anything. Just held her. One hand stroking slow circles over her back, the other tangled in her hair.

And for the first time in a long, long while—he felt quiet. Still. Home.

+

Mark snapped awake like a man drowning, yanked from the depths by the collar of his lust.

The room was dark, and the only sound was his own ragged breathing. Cool air hit his sweat-slicked skin, a stark contrast to the smothering heat of the dream, of Helena’s body on top of him, her thighs wrapped around his hips. Sheets were tangled around his legs like bindings he'd fought against in his sleep. The fleece of his pajama pants was hot and damp, twisted tight where his cock strained against it—painfully hard and aching.

He groaned, a low, wounded sound in the quiet dark. His hand flew down before he could form a rational thought, a primal instinct taking over. He wrapped his fingers tight around his cock, stroking once, twice—too fast, too desperate. It wasn’t enough. The image of her—Helena—was burned onto the back of his eyelids, more real than the room around him.

Her scent, floral and sweet. The feral hunger in her eyes. The bounce of her tits as she rode him, her voice a decadent whisper in his ear: “Come inside me, Professor.”

He bit down on another groan, squeezing his eyes shut, chasing the ghost of her. He could almost feel her weight on him, the slick heat of her cunt clenching around him, the ghost of her fingers in his hair. His touch felt clumsy and alien, a hollow substitute. He moved his hand faster, rougher, an almost angry friction, frustrated that she wasn't real, that his body was betraying him with a need this consuming, this maddening.

“Fuck—fuck—Helena—”

His hips lifted off the mattress, his back arching as he chased a phantom pressure. His balls drew tight. Every muscle in his body strained, pulling taut like a bowstring.

He came with a strangled gasp, the orgasm tearing through him not as fulfillment but as a violent severing. Hot, messy spurts soaked his stomach and hand, and his body jerked with the force of it, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't even a relief. It was the frantic, desperate hunger of a man who knew he was utterly, hopelessly lost.

For a long moment, all he could do was breathe, his chest heaving. The frantic rhythm of his heart slowly subsided, leaving a dull, echoing ache. The pleasure faded with brutal speed, replaced by the cold, stark reality of the empty bed, the silent room.

When he finally opened his eyes, her image was still there, lingering in the shadows. Helena—beautiful like a goddess, flushed and triumphant, thighs trembling as she came on top of him—was branded into his brain like a fever he couldn't break. This was no longer just about lust. This wasn't about their deal. A dream like that wasn't a fantasy; it was a symptom, it was a warning he no longer knew he could ignore.

He dragged a trembling hand through his damp hair, the ruin of his own making still cooling on his skin, and whispered into the darkness, a final, ragged admission of defeat.

“God help me.”


XXIV.

After the dream, Mark moved through his apartment like a ghost, his surrender still hanging in the air. The pleasure of the dream had been a violent, hollow thing, and the shame that followed was a physical weight. He showered as if trying to scrub a layer of skin off, the hot water doing nothing to wash away the phantom feeling of her body against his.

That morning, his phone lit up with a message from her. It was simple, a continuation of the easy, secret world they had started to build before everything had become so complicated. Good morning, Professor, along with a picture of her coffee on her desk.

That one word—Professor—was a gut punch. He could still hear her whispering it in the dream, her voice a decadent command just before he’d lost all control.

The message was an invitation back to the fragile, hopeful thing they were building. But after the feral, consuming hunger of his dream, it felt like a trap. 

He couldn't. 

He was a man drowning, and she was the ocean.

He ignored her text.

The next three days were a masterclass in avoidance.

His phone would light up on the kitchen counter, her name flashing across the screen. Helena. A simple teasing after days of complete radio silence on his part—Still alive over there, Professor?—and the notification would send a jolt of pure panic through him. His thumb would hover over the screen, a dozen replies forming and dying in his mind. I’m busy. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.  

In the end, he would say nothing, the silence was his only defense, a confirmation of his cowardice.

He tried to lose himself in work, revising syllabi for his classes as he was coming back to Ganz after winter break, but the words on the page blurred into the curve of her smile. He tried to run until his lungs burned, but every stride only reminded him of her relentless rhythm. The phantom ache from the dream lingered, a constant, low-level thrum of need and lust that left him restless and raw. 

But the moment he stopped, she was there again, waiting for him in the quiet spaces of his mind.

His only sanctuary was in the small, quiet workshop in the spare room of his apartment. There, surrounded by the smell of old paper, leather, and glue, he could impose order on chaos. Book restoration. It was a hobby he’d picked up years ago, a meticulous, patient craft that felt like the antithesis of the storm she’d unleashed in him. His hands, which had trembled in the dream's aftermath, were steady here. He spent hours carefully stitching signatures, reinforcing spines, pressing gold leaf into worn leather. He was binding something broken, trying to make it whole again, trying to convince himself he could do the same for his own unraveling life.

But even there, the dream found him. 

Running his hand over the smooth, bound leather of a book's spine felt like a hollow echo of holding her, a memory so vivid it felt stolen from reality. The way a line of faded ink flowed across the page would mock him, a pale imitation of the sharp, confident strokes of her signature on their contract. His hands, so steady and precise with this work, would suddenly betray him, aching with the phantom sensation of gripping her hips. 

Every careful touch was a torment, a reminder of how desperately he longed to make the dream real now—to finally trace the line of her jaw, to feel the heat of her skin under his palms.

By Friday, the house felt too small, suffocating. 

For years, this place had been haunted by the quiet, sad ghost of Gemma, a presence he had learned to live with, like the settling groans of old floorboards. 

But Helena wasn't a ghost. 

A ghost is a memory, a faint echo of the past. 

Helena was a fever in his blood, a constant, humming current that had taken root inside him, demanding all his attention and leaving no room to breathe. 

He fled to the one place she had never contaminated: his office at Ganz.

+

The university was deserted for the winter break, the long hallways echoing with a profound silence, made deeper by the heavy snow falling outside. It was his fortress of solitude, the place he came to untangle complex historical theories, not the messy knot of his own emotions.

From his window, he watched the snow blanket the campus quad, dusting the skeletal branches of the trees against a gray sky. He was supposed to be revising his syllabus for his return, but he just sat there, feeling a false, fleeting sense of security.

A sharp, confident knock echoed from his office door.

He didn't move, assuming it was campus security. 

After a beat, the knock came again, louder, more insistent.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. "I'm not holding office hours," he called out, his voice hoarse.

The doorknob turned.

The door swung open, and there she was. Not the sweat-slicked goddess from his dream, but something far more dangerous. She was dressed in a sharp, black wool coat with snowflakes melting on the shoulders, tailored trousers, and leather boots, her hair pulled back in a severe, elegant knot. 

She looked like a CEO ready for a hostile takeover. She didn't look angry. She looked… determined.

She took in the cluttered office, the stacks of books, the man behind the desk who looked like he hadn't slept in days. 

Her eyes finally landed on his.

"Running away, Professor?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft as she closed the door behind her, shutting them in together.

He shot to his feet, the legs of his old office chair scraping harshly against the worn wooden floor. “Helena, hey,” he breathed, his voice a mixture of raw shock and something that sounded terrifyingly like hope. “Um… What—what are you doing here?”

She took a small, deliberate step into the office, her gaze unwavering. Snowflakes on her dark coat began to melt into tiny, glistening dots. Her expression was a complex mixture of frustration and vulnerability that mirrored his own, stripping away his defenses. “You didn’t answer my texts,” she said, simply.

The understatement of the year. 

He felt an echo of the dream—her heat, her scent, her name on his lips—and a wave of guilt washed over him. He’d been hiding, not just from her, but from the terrifying intensity of what he’d felt. 

They hadn’t spoken, hadn’t seen each other since that night in the car, since that almost-kiss that had started this whole avalanche.

“I… was busy,” he lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

“Taking refuge in your sanctuary of dusty books?” she countered, but there was no bite to it. She gestured around the office, at the towering shelves of books. She sighed. “Our situation is… complicated, Mark. I get that.” She finally broke eye contact, her gaze drifting around the room before settling back on him, softer this time. “But I like talking to you. I thought… maybe we could be friends.”

The word hung in the air between them, absurd and impossible. 

He stared at her, a piercing, incredulous look. He thought of her on top of him in his dream, of the way he’d whispered her name into the dark of his empty bedroom. All the raw, consuming feeling inside him recoiled from such a clinical, platonic word.

“Friends,” he echoed, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion.

She swallowed then, a small, nervous gesture that he almost missed. It was the first crack he’d seen in her confident facade. “Yes,” she confirmed, her voice a little quieter. “Friends.”

A tense silence stretched, filled only by the quiet hiss of the old radiator. 

He ran a hand through his hair, breaking the stare to look out the window at the gently falling snow. “I’m back at Ganz after winter break is over,” he said, changing the subject, needing safer ground. “Just getting a head start and revising my syllabus.”

“I figured as much,” she said, a hint of a smile returning to her lips. 

The tension eased, just a fraction.

“How did you know I’d be here today?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I have my ways, Professor,” she said, the playful glint returning to her eyes. 

An authentic laugh escaped him then, a short, surprised bark of sound. He couldn't help it. The absurdity of it all—the deal, the dream, the avoidance, and now her, standing in his dusty office like she belonged there.

“Of course you do,” he said, shaking his head as a real smile touched his lips for the first time in days.

Her gaze drifted to his desk, landing on a small, silver frame. He tensed instantly, a familiar, protective instinct rising in him. It was their wedding photo, a relic from another lifetime. Mark and Gemma, caught in a sun-drenched moment of what felt like impossible happiness. He was younger in the photo, his smile unguarded and easy. Gemma was looking up at him, radiant, as if he were her entire world.

Helena looked at it for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she met his eyes, and all he saw was a quiet, knowing softness. She said nothing.

That silent acknowledgment of his past, of his loss, felt more intimate than any of their charged words had so far.

She cleared her throat. “Actually, I came here to ask for a favor.”

“A favor?”

“The Lumon Gala is tomorrow,” she said, a hint of dread in her tone. “It’s a crushing bore. A necessary evil full of people I’d rather not speak to. And I know it’s very sudden, but I was hoping you’d come with me.” She held up a hand before he could protest. “Not as a date. Not for the contract. Just… as a friend. Helping another friend survive a terrible party.”

He looked at her, at the genuine plea underneath her polished exterior. He thought of the three days of silence, of his foolish panic. Agreeing was a terrible idea. But saying no felt worse.

“Fine,” he said, the word coming out rougher than he intended. “But you’ll owe me.”

Her eyes darkened, the playful light replaced by that familiar, charged intensity that made the air crackle. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, husky promise. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

The double meaning hung between them, thick and potent. His heart hammered against his ribs, the memory of the dream roaring back to life. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but a sharp knock on the door made them both jump.

The door pushed open and Dylan poked his head in. “Mark! Irving told me you were on campus. I was just about to—oh, sorry,” he said, his eyes widening as he took in the scene, the palpable tension. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mark cleared his throat, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “Dylan, it’s fine. This is Helena. Helena, my colleague, Dylan.”

Helena’s composure was immediate and flawless. She smiled warmly at Dylan, a polite, distant smile that revealed nothing. “A pleasure. I was just leaving.” She turned back to Mark, her eyes conveying a universe of things he couldn’t begin to decipher. “I’ll see you at the gala, Professor.”

To let her exit, Dylan stepped fully into the room.

And with that, she was gone, pulling the door closed and leaving him with the terrifying, thrilling promise of what was to come.

The click of the door latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet office. Mark was left standing in the middle of the room, feeling like he’d just survived a hurricane. The faint, floral scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a ghost of her presence. He could still feel the phantom weight of her stare, hear the low, husky promise in her voice. I’ll do whatever you ask. He was completely lost in the memory when Dylan’s voice cut through the haze.

“Whoa,” Dylan said softly, pushing off the door he’d been leaning on. “So that’s the famous Helena.” He let out a low whistle. “Your ‘deal’ with her looks… intense.”

Mark snapped back to reality and quickly moved back behind the safety of his desk, shuffling a stack of papers that didn’t need shuffling. “It’s not what it looked like,” he muttered, his voice tight. “A friend stopped by.”

Dylan shot him a look of pure disbelief and entered the room, lowering his voice. “Dude, don’t even try that with me. I opened the door and nearly got my eyebrows singed off. You two were about five seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off against a bookshelf.” He grinned. “Which, I am pretty sure, it’s not part of your deal with her.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. He sank into his chair, the worn leather groaning in protest. He couldn't deny it; Dylan had read the situation perfectly. “It’s getting… complicated,” he finally admitted, the words feeling like a massive understatement.

“‘Complicated’?” Dylan laughed, perched on the edge of Mark’s desk, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Is that what you call it, Mark? Because from where I stood, it looked like you were about to give a very hands-on tutorial. The deal was for a few parties, man. It didn't say anything about offering… private office hours.”

Mark’s face burned. He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. There was no point denying it. “Can you just… not?” he muttered into his palms, the words muffled.

Dylan’s grin softened into something more sympathetic. “Hey,” he said, his voice losing its teasing edge. “I’m just messing with you.” He leaned forward a bit. “But seriously, man. You okay? You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

Mark raised his head, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. He stared out the window at the fat snowflakes drifting down, blanketing the campus in a muffling silence he desperately wished he could feel in his head. “I don’t even know what it is anymore, Dylan,” he admitted, his voice quiet and frayed. “It’s a complete mess.”

Dylan was quiet for a moment, letting the confession hang in the air. “Okay,” he said finally, standing up and clapping a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I get it. Just… be careful. All right? I’ve seen her picture in the news. She looks like she could eat a man for breakfast, and you, my friend, look like you want to be the main course.”

Mark let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. “You have no idea.”

“Right, well,” Dylan said, heading for the door. “I was just gonna run out and grab a burger from the cafeteria. You want one? You look like you could use something other than pure anxiety for dinner.”

Mark just shook his head, unable to imagine eating.

“Alright,” Dylan said with a final, sympathetic look. “Try not to spontaneously combust before winter break is over.”

The door clicked shut again, plunging the office back into a profound, snow-muffled silence. Mark was alone, but the room still felt charged with her energy, the promise of the gala hanging in the air like an unlit fuse. He was in way over his head, and for the first time, he had to admit that a part of him—a reckless, foolish, desperate part—was thrilled by the thought of drowning.



XXV.


Mark adjusted the absurdly stiff collar of his tuxedo for the tenth time. He felt like an imposter in his skin, a history professor playing dress-up. He’d rented it from the most expensive place in the city, a quiet, mahogany-paneled shop where the attendant named a price that should have made him choke. But Mark paid it without flinching. At the time, he'd told himself it was because he didn't want to embarrass Helena.

He scoffed at his reflection now. Who was he kidding? He’d wanted to impress her. He’d wanted her to see him as something more than the rumpled academic who hid in a dusty office. The thought was so transparently foolish it made his jaw ache. How had his perception of her, of their "deal," warped so completely? It hadn't happened all at once. It had been a gradual erosion—their quiet conversations, her unexpected humor, the glimpses he got of the real woman beneath her armor. The dream was simply the earthquake that had finally brought it all down, leaving him standing in the rubble.

For years, his world had been a monotonous, predictable loop: classes, home, and the occasional, obligatory dinner party at Devon’s, where the conversation was always pleasant and excruciatingly safe. Tonight was a terrifying departure. He was anxious, his palms slick, but beneath the anxiety was a thrum of something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time: genuine, startling excitement.

As he arrived at the gala, the noise hit him first—a wall of sound composed of clinking glasses, forced laughter, and the drone of people talking about money. The Lumon Gala was a performance, not a party. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like glittering, oversized insects, casting a cold, brittle light on a sea of expensive suits and surgically enhanced smiles. He felt out of place, but it was more than that. He felt like a different species.

And then he saw her, and the world didn't stop, it just… narrowed, focusing on a single point of light across the room.

She was holding a flute of champagne in one hand and a small, impossibly elegant golden clutch in the other, a perfect, polite smile on her face as she spoke to a group of people. Mark didn't know the first thing about fashion, but he knew the effect of what she was wearing. It was a golden dress that seemed more like a suggestion than an actual piece of clothing. It shimmered when she moved, catching the light. A wide, glittering belt cinched it at her waist, gathering the material before letting it fall loose to the floor in a cascade of sheer, shimmering layers. It wasn't tight, but the gown’s translucent gold hid nothing. He could see the strength of her arms and the freckles scattered around them, the long, strong lines of her legs silhouetted beneath the fabric, the confident curve of her hip. It was incredible, stunning armor, and she wore it like a queen.

He took a steadying breath and started moving, navigating the crowded floor until he reached her side. She turned as he approached, and for a split second, her public mask dropped. He saw a flicker of genuine relief in her eyes, a warmth meant only for him.

“Mark,” she murmured, her voice a low anchor in the sea of noise. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”

“Never,” he said, his voice equally low. He refused the champagne flute a passing waiter offered. “Though I can see the appeal of running from this.”

Her smile became real for a moment. “It’s even worse than I remembered. Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’ll do my best to look like I belong.”

She laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Don’t worry. With me on your arm, no one will dare question you.” She gave his arm a light squeeze before turning back to a conversation, seamlessly slipping her flawless mask back on.

For the next hour, he played his part. He watched her work the room, a dazzling force of nature. She would laugh, a bright, musical sound, but he could see that the dazzling light didn't quite reach her eyes. He noticed the almost imperceptible shift in her weight, the subtle restlessness of a person looking for an escape. She would catch his eye from across the room for a split second, and the mask would drop. In that momentary glance, he would see a flicker of pure, unadulterated boredom—a shared, secret eye-roll just for him. He knew because she was letting him in on the joke. That shared knowledge was a silent, intimate conversation happening between them from across the crowded ballroom.

He was watching her gracefully dismiss a man with slicked-back hair and the predatory confidence of new money when the man leaned in too close, his hand hovering near the small of her back. Mark saw the shift in Helena’s posture, the professional calm that was now clearly strained.

And he started moving.

He didn't even think. He walked straight to her, his path cutting through the crowd. He reached them just as the man was saying, “A woman like you shouldn’t be here alone.”

“She’s not,” Mark said, his voice calm and steady. He placed his hand gently on the small of her back, right where the other man’s had wanted to be. The warmth of her skin through the delicate fabric was a jolt to his system. He looked the man squarely in the eye. “She’s with her boyfriend.”

The word felt alien and electrifying in his mouth. A word he had promised himself he would never use again for anyone, yet it settled between them with a strange, unsettling rightness.

Mark turned his full attention to Helena. Her polite mask was gone, replaced by a puzzled, intense stare. Her eyes searched his, full of questions he couldn't answer. He saw the "friend" proposal, the "deal," all the careful pretenses they'd built, and in that moment, he was tired of all of them. He gave up.

He leaned in, his voice for her alone. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips parting in surprise. “Go where?” she whispered.

He didn't answer with words. He looked at her, at the spectacular, glittering dress she wore, and the vulnerable woman within it that he was beginning to see. He held out his hand.

“Come with me.”

+

He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers laced with hers, a jolt of heat against the ballroom's artificial chill, and he started moving. He pulled her through the throng of bodies and curated smiles, a quiet, determined wake cutting through the sea of people. She didn't resist; her fingers tightened around his as she tucked the small golden clutch under her other arm without breaking stride. They didn’t look back.

The frigid night air hit them like a physical blow the moment they pushed through the heavy glass doors, a welcome shock after the stuffy heat of the gala. The city sounds were muffled by the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the streets. Helena gasped softly, her arms wrapping around herself. Her dress, which had been a breathtaking weapon inside, was no match for the biting cold. It was made of light and suggestion, not warmth.

Without a second thought, Mark shrugged out of his rented tuxedo jacket. The heavy wool was warm from his body. He draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering there for just a second longer than necessary. The jacket was huge on her, swallowing her delicate frame, the dark fabric a stark contrast against the glittering gold of her dress. It smelled of him. She looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light, and a silent, charged acknowledgment passed between them. He had been navigating a minefield of desire and unspoken rules all night. But this act wasn't on the map. It was a simple, thoughtless gesture of care that bypassed all his defenses and struck somewhere deeper inside him.

He cared about her.

The realization hit him right then, in the biting cold of the snow-dusted street, the heavy warmth of his jacket still on her shoulders. It was a terrifying, exhilarating, and deeply inconvenient truth.

An idea sparked in his mind then, reckless and stupid. A memory from years ago, from his grad school days when he was broke and cynical—a dive bar tucked away just two blocks from this monument to glittering excess. The Lucky Star. It was an impulse, a test. He wanted to see what she would do, what the real Helena would do, when faced with something gritty and real, something without a single polished surface.

He nodded toward a narrow opening between two buildings. "This way."

He led her down an alley slick with melted snow and grime, reeking of last week’s garbage. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement, fast and sharp, then faltered.

“Mark, slow down! Where are we—?”

He glanced over his shoulder, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Just trust me."

He didn’t answer further. Just shouldered open a battered wooden door with the weight of a man trying to shed a second skin.

Warmth hit them like a wall—thick with the smell of grease, cheap beer, and that unmistakable scent of a place that had survived decades by not giving a single damn what anyone thought. The Lucky Star was half-dissolving neon signs and scarred Formica tables, a jukebox warbling some sad country tune through scratchy speakers, and old men hunched over their beer like they were guarding it from God. No one looked up. It was exactly as he remembered.

Mark waited for the recoil, the curled lip, the inevitable disdain from the woman who graced magazine covers. But instead—her eyes widened, lashes still dusted with faint, expensive mascara. Her lips parted in something that looked like genuine wonder.

And then she smiled. Bright. Giddy. Like she was seeing stars in the grime.

“Oh,” she said, half-laughing as she slid the tuxedo jacket from her shoulders onto the back of the booth and placed the golden clutch on the table beside it with a soft click. “It’s perfect.”

Something loosened in his chest, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Told you.”

They sank into a booth held together with duct tape and prayers. She moved with an elegance that was completely at odds with her surroundings, yet somehow, she didn't look out of place. When her hands lifted to her head and began pulling out pin after delicate pin from her intricate chignon, something in him stilled. He watched, mesmerized, as she dismantled the glamorous illusion of Helena Eagan right before his eyes. Her hair tumbled free, glossy waves catching the bar’s jaundiced light. She looked ten years younger. Or maybe just more real. She shook it out, ran her fingers through it—messy, wild, untouchable in a different way now.

He stared, open-mouthed. She caught his gaze and a light blush crept up her cheeks. “What?”

He tore his eyes, swallowing hard against a suddenly dry throat. “Nothing. Just…”

A young waitress with tired eyes and a tattoo of a coiled snake on her forearm approached their booth, wiping down the scarred table with a damp rag. She glanced from Helena's impossible golden dress to Mark's formal wear, but her expression didn't even flicker. She’d clearly seen stranger things in this place.

“What can I get for you folks?” she asked, her voice raspy.

Mark looked at Helena, deferring to her with a small nod.

Helena’s grin was immediate and playful. She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with the waitress. “He’ll have the fries. A large one.” Then she leaned back, looking at Mark with a challenging glint in her eye. “And I’ll have a pint of your lightest beer on tap.”

The waitress jotted it down, then looked at Mark, her pen hovering over her notepad. “And for you, hon?”

“Just a Coke, thanks,” he said, his voice even and casual.

The waitress nodded and shuffled away. Helena was quiet for a moment, watching him with an unreadable, curious expression. He could feel her unspoken question hanging in the air, and he didn’t offer an explanation. How could he tell her the truth? That he’d chosen not to drink tonight for the sole reason that she was sitting across from him, and she was intoxicating enough on her own. He needed a clear head to navigate the new, treacherous, exhilarating territory of being alone with her, with no script to back them up, no paparazzi waiting for the perfect picture to sell. He just met her gaze, letting the jukebox fill the silence between them.

She broke the silence first, her voice soft. “So, this is your style, Professor?”

Her voice was quiet, but the word—Professor—landed like a brand. It sent a wicked, coiling heat straight to his cock, a direct echo of the way she’d whispered it in his dream right before he’d lost all control. He had to clear his throat before he could answer, forcing the memory down.

“I used to come here in grad school,” he said, the admission feeling more personal than he’d intended. “When I needed a place where no one cared who you were or what you were trying to be.”

Her eyes softened, a flicker of understanding in their depths. “A place to hide.”

“Something like that,” he admitted.

Their order arrived, breaking the spell. A mountain of golden, perfectly greasy fries and their respective drinks. Helena grinned, a genuine, unguarded expression that made his chest ache. She stole a fry from the basket, popping it into her mouth.

And just like that, the tension shifted. It didn't disappear, but it changed into something warmer, more comfortable. They talked. She licked salt from her thumb and swore about a critically acclaimed movie that Mark had secretly loved. She made fun of a fashion line she’d once been the face of, doing a wicked imitation of the pretentious designer. Her laugh was too loud for the quiet bar, and yet it was the most perfect sound he’d ever heard in it.

Mark was right about choosing not to drink that night. He found he didn't need it. He was getting drunk just watching her, high on the novelty of seeing this brilliant, beautiful woman be so completely, unapologetically herself. With him.

+

When they finally spilled back into the alley, the air was cold and damp, the earlier snow having given way to a fine, misting rain while they were inside. He looked over at her, and reality snapped back into focus. The heavy wool of his tuxedo jacket, still draped over her shoulders, did little to ward off the chill that made her shiver.

The sight of her—this impossibly glamorous woman shivering in his jacket in a dirty alley—made him feel completely unmoored. The evening had been a series of jarring contrasts: the glittering performance of the gala, the gritty honesty of the bar, and now this quiet, damp intimacy. It felt less like a single night and more like three different lifetimes, and the only constant was her.

Mark kicked at loose asphalt, his hands buried in his pockets. “I can’t believe you actually agreed to come here.”

She turned, brows lifting. “Why? It was fun.”

He let out a scoff. “Helena, this place? Tonight? You being here with me?” He shook his head. “It’s absurd.”

She stopped. “Why is it absurd?”

He stared at the slick pavement, jaw tightening. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

He lifted his head finally, eyes burning into hers. “Because you’re you,” he said flatly. “Helena Eagan. And I’m—fuck, I’m just a guy who teaches about wars and dead people.”

Her voice was soft but clear. “Mark, that doesn’t mean anything.”

He barked a humorless laugh. “Don’t play dumb. You know. You’re beautiful. Unreal. And I’m just—” He waved a hand over himself, exasperated. “Me.”

“Well,” she said, stepping directly into his space, closing the distance until the damp fabric of his jacket on her shoulders brushed against his chest. “You’re handsome. And very attractive too.”

That stopped him. Cold. The sounds of the alley—the distant traffic, the drip of water from a fire escape—all of it faded into a dull roar. The only thing that felt real was the heat coming off her body and the sudden, shocking stillness in his chest, like his heart had forgotten how to beat.

“What?” The word was a ragged whisper, a sound of pure disbelief.

She smiled—small, deliberate, defiant. Her eyes held his, and in their dark depths he saw no pity, no games, only a raw, unwavering sincerity that terrified him. “You heard me.”

That was the permission. That was the key turning in a lock he didn't even know was there. For a moment, he saw the truth of her words reflected in her gaze. Every single one of his carefully constructed arguments, all his self-deprecation and doubt, turned to ash. The air between them didn't just catch fire; it detonated.

He surged forward, closing the last inch between them. One hand buried itself in the glorious mess of her hair, tangling in the soft waves, tilting her head back. The other clamped onto her hip, pulling her flush against him, staking a claim. The small golden clutch she’d retrieved from the table slipped from her grasp, falling to the wet pavement with a soft, forgotten thud. 

He kissed her like it would end the world, a desperate, crushing collision of mouths. She met him with equal force, a groan vibrating from her chest into his as her hands fisted in the front of his dress shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. She tasted of salt and champagne and a deeper, muskier flavor that was just her.

This was not a kiss of tenderness; it was a kiss of starvation. There was no patience in it, no decorum, only a raw, panting greed. His body instinctively caged hers against the cold, rough brick of the alley wall, shielding her, possessing her. It was brutal and honest and the most real thing he had felt in years.

The kiss grew reckless. His tongue slid against hers and she moaned, the sound vibrating into his lungs as she arched into him. His hand left her hip, gathering handfuls of the shimmering, weightless fabric of her dress’ skirt. He pushed the sheer gold up her thigh until his palm met the bare, heated skin beneath. He caught her there, his hand sliding up to cup her as he braced her weight, grinding up into her. Her hips met his, the press of her center to his clothed cock—with only the thinnest layer of lace between them—a sharp, exquisite shock that sent fire through his veins.

A sharp, guttural sound tore from her throat, a noise of pure, undiluted need. Her nails dug into his shoulder, her grip tightening almost painfully. “Do it again,” she hissed.

He did. He thrust against her with his body, rutting slow and steady, the friction a sweet, maddening torture. She moved with him, breath shuddering, every roll of her hips pushing them further into that raw, electric space just shy of losing control.

He lowered his forehead to hers, panting. “Can you come like this?” he whispered.

She gasped. “Mark, we’re in public—”

“Tell me.” His voice was low, urgent. “I need to know. Can you come just like this? Grinding on me, right here, in this goddamn alley?”

Her eyes fluttered. “Yes. Yes—please, I’m close—”

He caught her mouth again, devouring her, as he rocked harder, faster. His hand under her thigh gripped tight, his thumbs definitely marking indents on her skin. Her head tilted back, mouth falling open on a broken gasp as her body tensed against his.

“Mark—oh god, Mark—” She clung to him like she was falling. “I’m—I’m—”

He felt the moment she finally came, a fine, exquisite tremor that ran from her body directly into his.

She came with a soft, helpless cry, legs trembling, face buried in his neck. He held her, kept moving through it, letting her ride it out against him. Her orgasm pulsed against him in waves, her body jerking slightly with each tremor. His own need throbbed painfully in his pants, but he didn’t care. Not yet. This was about her.

He held her tight, his hand stroking her back in slow, calming circles. His voice was a low murmur against her hair, soothing sounds he didn't realize he was making until one, specific word slipped past his lips, a ghost from another lifetime.

“Honey,” he whispered, the sound rough with emotion. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The word hung in the air between them, a relic he hadn’t touched in years. He froze for a split second, the shock of his utterance almost as potent as her orgasm. He hadn't called anyone that since Gemma. But as Helena trembled in his arms, her face buried in his neck, the endearment didn't feel like a betrayal. It felt… right. Terrifyingly, impossibly right.

When she finally stilled, her breath coming in short, stuttering bursts, he eased her back, brushing hair from her face. Her eyes were glassy, dazed with pleasure, her lips swollen, glowing. She looked like something holy. Or wrecked. Maybe both.

It wasn’t just lust.

It was the beginning of something impossible. 

And real.

They stood there, suspended in the aftermath, the air thick with unspoken words and the raw, lingering scent of their encounter. The seconds stretched into an eternity, each one a lifetime of looking, of wanting, of understanding. Doubt, fear, the ghost of his past—none of it mattered next to the solid, breathing reality of her in his arms. 

He was done running. He was done fighting it. He wanted nothing more than to just give in. To drown in the ocean of her. 

He lowered his head and kissed her again. 

This kiss was different. Not the fiery, desperate crush of before, but something deeper. 

It was a promise. A surrender.

“Come home with me,” he whispered against her lips.

He waited, his entire world hanging suspended in the space of her next heartbeat. Her response, he knew, would rearrange his universe completely and irrevocably, forever.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan and Mark Scout attend the Lumon Gala in NYC. The couple was photographed leaving the event together early in the evening.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

I AM DECEASED. Helena in gold at the Lumon Gala with Mark tonight. THE DRESS. THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. And sources say they left early together?! I'm so unwell 😭

Vulture (@vulture)

The Professor has officially entered the Dragon's Lair. Mark Scout's appearance at the Lumon Gala marks the 'meeting the corporate family' stage of his public romance with Helena Eagan. The narrative is proceeding exactly as one might expect.
vulture.com/article/eagan-scout-analysis.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Mark Scout's presence at the Lumon Gala alongside COO Helena Eagan signals a new level of integration for their relationship into the company's brand strategy, likely aimed at projecting stability and a positive narrative to investors.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

From Boardroom to Ballroom! Helena Eagan and Mark Scout made their stunning official debut as a couple at the Lumon Gala tonight. An insider tells, "They couldn't take their hands off each other," before the couple made an early exit together. 👀

Chapter Text

XXV.

Before her mind registered the time, it registered the memory: the back of a car, the scent of him, and the sharp, aching disappointment of an almost-kiss.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:14 AM. A time Helena had not seen from her own bed since she was a teenager.

There was no pre-programmed command, only the slow, natural creep of the late morning sun across the vast marble floor of her bedroom. A profound sense of dislocation washed over her. Her life was a vault built on the bedrock of precision and routine, and this small, digital number was proof of a fundamental breach.

She lay still, tangled in sheets that felt unusually heavy, and allowed the memory to play again on the screen of her closed eyelids. She could still feel it: the phantom warmth of his body so close to hers, the scent of him filling the small space. She replayed the moment on a relentless loop: the way the passing streetlights had carved his profile from the darkness; the rough, low timber of his voice as he’d said her name; the intense, yearning look in his eyes as he’d leaned in. Her own breath had caught, her body thrumming with a sharp, aching anticipation she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. She had been ready, a complete and willing surrender.

And then, the jarring buzz of his phone. The spell had shattered, leaving only frustrating, unspent energy and the  stilted silence that followed.

A low sigh escaped her lips. Lying here was a pointless indulgence. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her thumb hovering over his contact name.

What was the protocol for this? What was the correct way to follow up on a moment that was both deeply intimate and technically non-existent?

Her world had scripts for corporate takeovers, not for this fragile, uncertain territory.

A text now, from her bed, felt weak. Desperate.

She snapped the phone shut, a wave of self-recrimination washing over her. Control was her armor, and she had almost discarded it.

Resolved to regain her footing, she forced herself through the motions. A long, hot shower did little to soothe the profound disquiet that had settled deep beneath her skin. From her closet, she bypassed anything soft or forgiving, her hands instinctively choosing the familiar structure of a perfectly tailored black pantsuit. She drew on the crisp white silk blouse, the cool, smooth fabric a welcome friction against her unsettled skin, and shrugged on the matching jacket. It settled on her shoulders with a familiar, grounding weight, a deliberate reconstruction of her own authority.

She walked into her office to find a minimalist porcelain cup of coffee waiting on her desk, its steam rising in a perfect curl—a testament to an assistant who knew her schedule better than she had adhered to it herself this morning. By the time she was seated, surrounded by the cool architecture of her power, she had almost convinced herself the night had been a momentary anomaly, a brief system error now contained.

But the silence from him was a gaping hole in the center of her carefully reconstructed composure. The numbers on her screen blurred. The urge she’d suppressed in her bedroom returned with a vengeance, no longer a fleeting weakness but a profound, undeniable need.

She finally surrendered.

Her hands, betraying a slight tremor, picked up the phone.

The message was an offering, a fragile bridge extended across the silence. Good morning, Professor. She attached the photo of the cup on her desk and hit send before she could lose her nerve.

And then, nothing.

The first hour of his silence was a minor anomaly.

By midday, it had become a splinter under her skin, an insistent irritant she could not dislodge. The perfect cup of coffee sat untouched, growing cold. She tried to force her focus onto her work, moving through her life with the same seamless efficiency, but inwardly, she was in disarray.

The morning swim, her usual cold plunge to start the day, had been skipped entirely—a casualty of her disrupted morning routine. At the office, she’d attempted to force a return to normalcy, but the effort was futile. Financial reports swam before her eyes, the crisp black digits blurring into meaningless patterns. Her focus, usually so sharp it could cut glass, was hopelessly tethered to the dark screen of her phone. The splinter of his silence had dug in deeper, making concentration impossible.

By late afternoon, the anxious energy was coiling in her gut, a frantic thing with nowhere to go. She fled the pristine quiet of her office for the even quieter solitude of the pool. She sought refuge in the cool, chlorinated water, hoping to exorcise the feeling through brute force. She pushed her body through a punishing swim, lap after grueling lap, but with every turn at the wall, the image of his unanswered text was there, waiting for her. The water offered no escape, and the exercise was a hollow, exhausting failure. It only left her with aching muscles and the same internal thrum, stubbornly, maddeningly alive.

By the second day, the silence had morphed from a professional frustration into a deafening absence. She found herself in the quiet of her penthouse late at night, pulling up their text history, the screen’s glow a lonely light in the cavernous room. She scrolled through their conversation, the words a painful reminder of the connection she’d allowed herself to feel. His dry, witty recommendation of a sad book about a quiet professor. Her own surprising confession about a favorite novel. A ridiculous picture he'd sent of a squirrel in a park with a caption that had made her laugh out loud alone in her car.

It had felt like a secret world they were building, message by message. Now, reading it back felt like walking through the ruins of a city she had only just discovered. She searched the words for a misstep, a flaw in her own approach, but found nothing. Her mind, an instrument honed for finding patterns and solving problems, could find no logic for this sudden void—only the raw and unfamiliar ache of it.

The men in her world did not go silent. They postured, they negotiated, they maneuvered.

Mark’s disappearance was something else entirely.

It wasn’t a strategy; it felt like a verdict.

A quiet, absolute rejection that had nothing to do with Lumon or her name, and everything to do with her. The realization was a cold ache that settled behind her ribs, a feeling so foreign she couldn't immediately name it as hurt.

By Friday, after three full days of silence, the ache became unbearable.

She’d tried to outrun it that morning on the treadmill in her private gym, but the gnawing anxiety remained, pacing her stride for stride. She was staring out her office window, watching the city move below her—a complex, sprawling machine she normally felt a part of—and she felt utterly disconnected from it all.

Her logic had failed. Her physical discipline had failed. Her patience had shattered. The only thing left was this relentless, hollow feeling.

At that moment, she capitulated. Not to him, but to the undeniable need to extinguish this agonizing uncertainty.

She would break every one of her own rules. She would go to him.

She buzzed for Drummond. His presence was, as always, immediate and silent.

“I need to know Mark Scout’s current location,” she said, her voice betraying none of the turmoil raging inside her. She kept her gaze fixed on the skyline, unable to meet his eye. “It’s a protocol check for the contract. I want to ensure he’s maintaining a low profile as agreed.”

The excuse felt flimsy and transparent even to her own ears. Drummond, a man who could read a threat from a block away, surely saw the truth. But he was a fortress of discretion. “Of course, Ms. Eagan,” was all he said.

A minute later, a discreet message appeared on her monitor. Ganz University. Baird Hall, Office 402.

He was hiding in his sanctuary.

The thought sent a fresh wave of something sharp and painful through her.

She stood, her movements stiff.

“Have the car brought around, Drummond,” she said, her voice leaving no room for discussion.

Downstairs, her driver, Marty, was waiting and held the heavy door. But as she approached, a new, reckless impulse took hold. This was not a corporate maneuver.

This was personal, and it needed to be done on her own terms.

“I’ll drive myself today, Marty,” she said, her voice firm.

The driver’s polite surprise was evident, but he simply handed her the keys. “As you wish, Ms. Eagan.”

Sliding behind the wheel was a disorienting act. She rarely drove, cocooned as she was in a world of handlers and drivers. The city felt different from this vantage point—louder, closer, more chaotic. It was like trying to speak a language she had once been fluent in but had long since forgotten, every movement of the wheel a clumsy, foreign syllable.

The drive to the university was a torment of second-guessing. Her hands, usually so steady, felt clammy on the cool leather of the steering wheel.

This was foolish. It was undignified. It was a complete surrender of leverage. If her father could see her now, the chaotic mess she found herself to be at the moment, he would’ve scoffed. Would’ve shown his disdain for her and would make sure she knew it.

These emotions are unbecoming of an Eagan, Helena, she was sure he’d say. Control yourself. Tame your tempers.

But as she pulled onto the quiet, snow-dusted campus, she knew she couldn’t turn back. The need to see him, to hear his voice, had become more powerful than her pride and everything she had ever learned from being born into her family.

+

The quiet of the campus was absolute, a world away from the city’s relentless pulse. The only sound was the soft crunch of her leather boots on the thin layer of fresh snow. The air was sharp and clean in her lungs, and the sky was a vast, indifferent gray. It felt like another planet. She walked the deserted path toward Baird Hall, each step feeling like a transgression, a deliberate march into a territory where her power and her name meant nothing. This was his world, a place of quiet thought and history, and she was an invader.

The woman who could eviscerate a CEO with a single, quiet question stood frozen in a university hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. The carefully constructed arguments she’d rehearsed on the drive over—words like protocol and agreement—now felt like flimsy paper shields against the raw, aching need that had brought her here. 

This wasn't a negotiation; it was a surrender. 

Her hand felt heavy, disconnected from her body as she raised it to his office door. The gesture was hesitant, but the sound of her knuckles against the wood was sharp and brutally final.

The door swung open, and the world tilted on its axis.

All her plans, all her carefully constructed phrases, evaporated. 

He wasn't the handsome, witty man from the theater or the rumpled professor she’d first met. The man standing before her looked wrecked. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes were carved deeper, his jaw was stubbled with a day's worth of neglect, and he stared at her with a look of such raw, unguarded shock that it felt like a physical blow. He looked like a man who had been wrestling with ghosts and losing.

“Helena,” he breathed, his voice rough. “What—what are you doing here?”

Her intended opener about contractual obligations and communication protocols died on her lips. The sight of his genuine pain short-circuited every corporate instinct she had. All that was left was the raw, unvarnished truth. 

“You didn’t answer my texts,” she said, the words coming out softer than she’d intended, less an accusation and more a simple statement of fact.

He flinched, a wave of something like guilt washing over his features. “I… was busy,” he said, and the falsehood made something in her chest tighten. 

It was the familiar, unwelcome feeling of a negotiation starting where a real conversation should have been.

Her hostile takeover had failed before it even began. All she wanted now was to stop this agonizing silence, to salvage whatever fragile connection they had built. 

She needed to de-escalate, to offer a retreat.

“Our situation is… complicated, Mark. I get that,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I like talking to you. I thought… maybe we could be friends.”

The word hung in the air between them, absurd and impossible. 

It was a clumsy, desperate offering, a white flag from a woman who had never surrendered in her life. It was the biggest compromise she had ever made, and she felt the foolishness of it the moment it left her lips.

“Friends,” he echoed, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. The look he gave her was one of incredulous disbelief.

In the tense silence that followed, he broke eye contact first, retreating to safer ground. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away toward the snow-dusted window. “I’m back at Ganz after winter break is over,” he said, his voice strained. “Just getting a head start and revising my syllabus.”

She saw the deflection for what it was—a desperate grab for normalcy. She decided to grant it to him, to see if she could coax back the man she’d bantered with over text. “I figured as much,” she said, allowing a hint of a smile to touch her lips.

He looked back at her, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. “How did you know I’d be here today?”

Here, on steadier ground, she felt a spark of her old self return. “I have my ways, Professor,” she said, the words a playful, low murmur.

An authentic laugh escaped him then, a short, surprised bark of sound that seemed to startle even him. The tense lines around his mouth softened, and for the first time since she’d arrived, he looked at her without the weight of the last three days between them. The sound was a balm to her frayed nerves, a sign that their newfound connection wasn't entirely broken.

As his smile faded, her gaze drifted past his shoulder, landing on a small, silver-framed photo on his desk. 

It was a picture of a smiling, sun-drenched woman looking up at a younger, happier Mark. 

Gemma. 

The ghost in their machine. 

Looking at the uncomplicated joy captured in that image, the shame she had been suppressing rose in a sharp wave. 

This wasn't just a man who was hurt; this was a man who had lost his world. The smiling woman in the frame was the silent, ever-present third person in every room they shared.

She finally looked back up at him, her own expression changed, the last of her defensiveness stripped away. She said nothing, but let her gaze convey the quiet, knowing softness she felt—a silent acknowledgment of his past, of his profound loss. The moment felt more intimate than any of their charged words had so far.

She took a steadying breath, the carefully constructed reason for her visit finally surfacing. “Actually, I came here to ask for a favor.”

His expression shifted, wary again. “A favor?”

“The Lumon Gala is tomorrow,” she said, letting a hint of her genuine dread color her tone. “It’s a crushing bore. A necessary evil full of people I’d rather not speak to.” She held her breath, forcing herself to make the offer, to expose herself to rejection one more time. “And I know it’s very sudden, but I was hoping you’d come with me.” She saw the protest forming in his eyes and quickly held up a hand. “Not as a date. Not for the contract. Just… as a friend. Helping another friend survive a terrible party.”

He stared at her, the silence stretching on, and her heart hammered against her ribs. 

She had laid her cards on the table, couching her raw hope in the safe, absurd language of friendship. She watched him wrestle with it, his jaw tight. Saying no was the logical thing to do. But she saw in his eyes that he knew, just as she did, that logic had very little to do with this anymore.

“Fine,” he said finally, the word coming out rough, like it had been torn from him. “But you’ll owe me.”

The relief that washed over her was so potent it almost made her dizzy. 

He had agreed. 

But his words were a challenge, not a gentle acquiescence. 

She felt a thrill run through her, a heady mix of victory and desire. 

She met his challenge by closing the small space between them, her voice dropping to a low, husky promise that was anything but friendly. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

The double meaning hung in the air, thick and electric. 

His eyes darkened, his breath hitched. The air crackled, charged with the raw need she saw ignite in his gaze, and the answering thrum of it deep inside her. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but a sharp knock on the door made them both jump, shattering the moment.

The door pushed open and another man poked his head in, his eyes widening as Helena saw he took in the palpable tension. “Mark! Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mark cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. “Dylan, it’s fine. This is Helena. Helena, my colleague, Dylan.”

Helena’s composure snapped back into place instantly, a flawless mask of polite distance. The vulnerable woman of a moment ago vanished, replaced by the coolly confident persona she shows to the public. But underneath, a giddy, triumphant energy was buzzing through her veins. 

He had said yes. 

The connection was real. 

“A pleasure,” she said to the newcomer with a warm, meaningless smile, before turning back to Mark. 

Her eyes, however, held a private, sparkling glint of their shared secret.

“I was just leaving,” she said, taking a step back. Her voice was smooth, but laced with a playful promise. “I’ll see you at the gala, Professor.”

And with that, she turned and walked away. The fear and uncertainty that had driven her here had evaporated, replaced by a thrilling, terrifying anticipation. The click of her heels on the linoleum floor echoed down the empty hall, each step feeling lighter than the last, carrying her away from the quiet, dusty office and toward the promise of the night to come.


XXVI.

The next night was a study in practiced deception. Helena sat before a vanity, a team of artists moving around her with quiet efficiency, constructing the public façade of Helena Eagan while the woman inside was quietly coming apart. The makeup was a flawless mask over the anxiety that had tightened her skin. The intricate hairstyle was a cage for the chaotic thoughts that had been racing through her mind all day. She was being assembled, piece by piece, into a woman she didn't feel like at all.

Her mind wasn't on the gala. It was in his office. It replayed the raw, unresolved tension, the way his laughter had felt like a reprieve, the silent understanding that had passed between them when she’d seen the photo of his wife. She had left his office feeling giddy with a dangerous hope. 

But hope, she was discovering, had a cruel edge. It had spent the day curdling into a sharp, terrifying anxiety.

His attendance tonight was no longer a contractual obligation; it was an answer. 

A choice. 

And the possibility that he might choose not to come—that he might have spent the day regretting his reluctant agreement and retreated back into his silence—was a fear so potent it left a cold, hollow space in the pit of her stomach. 

If he didn't show, it would mean their moment had been a fluke. It would mean she had misread everything, exposing her own fragile hope as a pathetic, one-sided fantasy.

Later, as she moved through the glittering, oppressive heat of the gala, that fear was a suffocating companion. The ballroom was a human aquarium, a sea of expensive suits and surgically enhanced smiles, the air thick with the scent of ambition and forced pleasantries. She performed her role with flawless precision, her smile a dazzling, practiced thing, her hand held out for a thousand meaningless greetings. 

But it was all an act. 

Every polite laugh felt brittle, every conversation a meaningless drone. Her eyes were constantly scanning, her focus pulled again and again toward the grand entrance, searching the faces in the crowd for the only one that mattered.

With every passing minute, the hollow space inside her grew. The hope that had felt so thrilling yesterday now felt naive and foolish. 

She was beginning to resign herself to the crushing weight of his answer, to the quiet, devastating humiliation of being stood up, when she finally saw him.

He was standing near the edge of the room, looking handsome but still profoundly and beautifully out of place in a tuxedo, his expression a mixture of discomfort and quiet observation. 

And the moment her eyes landed on him, the entire, suffocating ballroom seemed to dissolve. The cacophony of chatter faded to a dull hum. The glittering chandeliers, the sea of faces, the crushing weight of her own performance—it all receded, leaving only him.

The relief was so profound, so overwhelming, it was a physical sensation. A tremor of it ran through her, loosening the tension in her shoulders she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was the feeling of drawing a full, deep breath after being held underwater for far too long, the cold space in her chest suddenly flooded with a dizzying warmth.

He had come. He had chosen to be here.

And as he turned and his eyes found hers across the crowded room, a slow smile touched her lips, a smile that had nothing to do with her practiced role and everything to do with the fragile, terrifying, and now undeniable hope that was blooming in her chest.

+

The silent, smiling promise that passed between them across the room was a spark, but the distance was an ocean. The giddy hope in her chest immediately began to war with a new, frantic impatience. He was here, they talked briefly, and then she had to talk to other people. Now she had to get to him.

But her duties were a cage. She was immediately cornered by a board member, his voice a self-important drone in her ear as he pontificated about market futures. She nodded, her smile fixed, her responses perfectly calibrated, but her entire being was oriented across the room. He was a magnetic north, and every particle of hers wanted to align. She could see him, navigating the edge of the crowd with an awkward grace, and the sight made the polite fiction she was trapped in feel like a physical torment. The board member’s cloying cologne, the weight of the champagne flute in her hand, the oppressive heat of the room—it was all an obstacle course separating her from the only real thing there.

Her restlessness grew, a frantic energy thrumming just beneath her skin. She finally extricated herself with a practiced, polite excuse, only to be intercepted by a man with slicked-back hair and a smile that never reached his eyes. He leaned in too close, his voice a low, proprietary murmur.

“A woman like you shouldn’t be here alone.”

Before a cold, dismissive reply could form on her lips, a quiet energy cut through the space beside her. 

It was Mark. 

He had moved through the crowd with determined purpose, and his presence was an immediate shield.

“She’s not,” he said, his voice calm and steady. He placed his hand gently on the small of her back, a shock of warmth and safety that instantly dispelled the other man's predatory chill. He looked the man squarely in the eye. “She’s with her boyfriend.”

The word hit her with the force of a silent detonation. 

Boyfriend. 

A lie, a fiction born of their contract, and yet, spoken by him in that moment, it felt like the most profound and thrilling truth. It was a public claim, a simple, protective gesture so far beyond the scope of their deal that her heart gave a painful, hopeful lurch. It was probably depressing that this was the most romantic thing she had ever heard.

The other man vanished, and Mark turned his full attention to her. His eyes, dark and serious, ignored the swirling chaos of the gala, focusing only on her. Helena knew he saw the strain behind her smile, the exhaustion she fought to conceal.

He leaned in, his voice for her alone. “Do you want to get out of here?”

It wasn't just an offer to leave the party. It was an offer of rescue, a recognition of the gilded cage she was in. 

He was seeing her, truly seeing her, and offering her a refuge. 

He held out his hand. 

It was a simple gesture, but it felt monumental, an anchor in a sea of deception.

She placed her own hand in his without a second's hesitation.

He pulled her through the throngs of people, a warm, solid presence cutting a path through the glittering artifice. She felt the surprised glances of board members and the slight, indignant brush of a society columnist's shoulder, but none of it registered. The only thing that felt real was the strength of his hand laced through hers and the promise of the frigid night air ahead.

+

The moment they pushed through the heavy glass doors, the cold hit her like a physical blow, a shocking but welcome baptism that washed away the stuffy heat of the gala. The city sounds were muffled by the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the streets, the air sharp with the scent of winter and exhaust fumes—a raw, honest smell that was a relief after the suffocating cloud of perfume inside. She gasped softly, wrapping her arms around herself as the cold bit through the thin, shimmering fabric of her dress.

Without a second thought, Mark shrugged out of jacket. The heavy wool was still warm from his body, and as he draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingered there for just a second longer than necessary. The jacket was huge on her, swallowing her delicate frame, its dark, solid fabric a stark contrast against the glittering gold of her dress. It smelled of his cologne and she tried to scent it, clinging to it. This simple gesture of care was more intimate than a thousand calculated compliments. It was a shield, but a different kind of armor—one that was offered, not worn for battle.

He nodded toward a narrow opening between two buildings. "This way."

The alley was a world away from the curated perfection she had just left. Here, the air was damp and smelled of the city's underbelly—a scent she found strangely invigorating. The click of her heels, so confident on marble floors, sounded jarring and out of place here. Every step was a step away from Helena Eagan and toward something else, something simpler and a version of herself that was perhaps more real. This wasn't a place she was supposed to be, which was precisely why it felt like a liberation. 

When he pushed open a battered wooden door, she didn’t hesitate; she was ready to see what was on the other side.

The warmth that hit her was a thick, immersive wave of sensations—the smell of frying food, spilled beer, and something old and wooden. It was the complete antithesis of the filtered, pristine air of her own world. Her eyes adjusted to the dim, jaundiced light, a soft glow that felt kinder than the brittle glare of the gala's chandeliers.

The place was a beautiful, honest mess. Neon signs bled soft color onto scarred tables that held the stories of a thousand anonymous nights. A jukebox was crooning a song of honest heartbreak, a stark contrast to the meaningless pleasantries she had just escaped. A few old men were hunched over their beers, utterly indifferent to the impossible woman in the shimmering dress who had just walked into their quiet corner of the world. 

For the first time all night—perhaps for the first time in years—no one was watching her. No one wanted anything from her.

A genuine, unburdened laugh of pure delight escaped her lips, the sound startlingly loud in the relative quiet. "Oh," she said, looking at Mark, her eyes shining with the discovery of it all. "It's perfect."

They sank into a booth whose worn vinyl was held together with strips of black duct tape—a testament to its resilience. It was here, in this place that had no pretense, that she felt his gaze on her, quiet and unwavering. 

It wasn’t the indifferent stare of the old men or the calculating gaze she was used to; it was something else entirely. It was an attention that felt like a safe harbor. It gave her a strange, reckless courage.

Her hands lifted to her head, and she began to pull the pins from her intricate chignon, one by one. The metallic snick of each pin dropping onto the scarred table was a small, satisfying sound of release, an act of dismantling she felt safe enough to perform only for him.

She was intensely aware of him watching her, but the quality of his attention was unlike anything she had ever known. Men in her world looked at her with appraisal, their eyes calculating her net worth, the value of her name, the cut of her dress. Paparazzi looked at her like a prize, their gazes invasive and possessive. 

Mark’s gaze was different. 

It was still, patient, and filled with a quiet, rapt fascination, as if he were witnessing a rare and delicate celestial event. He wasn’t looking at the heiress; he was watching, with a kind of gentle reverence, as a woman unraveled herself.

With the last pin out, her hair tumbled free, a heavy, glossy cascade over the dark wool of his jacket. She shook it out, the movement feeling liberating, and ran her fingers through the messy waves. 

For a woman who had mastered the art of being looked at, this was a revelation. His gaze wasn't taking anything from her. It was giving her something: a safe space to dismantle the public architecture of Helena Eagan. She was not being assessed or judged; she was being seen. And in the profound safety of his quiet, appreciative attention, she felt, for the first time in a very long while, completely and utterly real.


XXVIII.

As they finally spilled back into the alley, a sudden, cold dread coiled in Helena’s stomach. The night, so full of warmth and laughter and startling reality, was ending. The thought of picking up her phone felt like the clock striking midnight. It meant summoning the gilded carriage that would deliver her from this enchanting reality back to the cold, empty castle she called home, and the dread of it was a physical weight.

She looked at Mark, his silhouette framed by the distant glow of the street, and a feeling so foreign and overwhelming rose in her chest that it almost made her dizzy. It was the frantic, adolescent pull of a first crush, a breathless desire to keep this person near, to invent any excuse to make the moment last five more minutes. 

Is this what has become of me?  

A woman who negotiated billion-dollar deals, reduced to the simple, schoolgirl wish of not wanting a night to end. 

It made no sense. 

It defied every logical, carefully constructed protocol of her life. 

But it was the truest thing she had felt in years.

She watched him kick at a loose piece of asphalt, saw the doubt return to his face, and in that instant, everything clicked into place with a startling, definitive clarity. 

She wanted to be reckless. 

She wanted to give in, just once, to a feeling without running it through a gauntlet of risk assessments and analysis. She wanted to do something that wasn't for the board, or the brand, or her father's legacy, but just for the woman she had never been allowed to be in thirty years of life. 

She wanted to be free. 

She wanted to be with him.

“I can’t believe you actually agreed to come here,” Mark said, his voice pulling her from her thoughts.

“Why? It was fun,” she countered, though she knew what he meant. A woman whose entire world was built on futures and projections, and a man whose life was a study of the past, meeting in a present moment that felt both impossible and wonderfully real. To him, it was an absurdity. To her, it was the only real thing that had happened all night.

“Helena, this is… it’s absurd,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why is it absurd?” she pushed, her voice soft but insistent. She needed him to say it, to give voice to the insecurity she saw gathering in his eyes so she could fight against it.

He stared at the slick pavement, his jaw tightening. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t,” she lied, refusing to let him retreat. “Tell me.”

He lifted his head finally, and the raw, pained look in his eyes made her chest ache. “Because you’re you,” he said flatly. “Helena Eagan. And I’m—fuck, I’m just a guy who teaches about wars and dead people.”

The words, so full of idiotic self-deprecation, sparked a protective anger in her. An anger for him. He saw her name as a towering wall between them, the very thing she had spent the evening trying to dismantle. He had no idea that his world, the one of books and quiet thought, felt more real and valuable than anything her name had ever bought her. 

“Mark, that doesn’t mean anything,” she said softly, the words a desperate attempt to disarm the power of her own legacy.

He barked a humorless laugh, the sound sharp and bitter in the damp air. “Don’t play dumb. You know. You’re beautiful. Unreal. And I’m just—” He waved a hand over himself, exasperated. “Me.”

And that was it. 

The final breaking of her restraint. 

It wasn't just about her name anymore. 

He had called her unreal. 

He was looking right at the most real version of herself she had ever dared to be, and he was calling her a fantasy. The anger and the ache and the desperate need to make him see her coalesced into a single, reckless impulse.

She stepped directly into his space, closing the distance until the damp wool of his jacket on her shoulders brushed against his chest, until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat.

“Well,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with the force of the truth she was about to offer. “You’re handsome. And very attractive too.”

The words, a raw and honest confession, hung in the air between them. She watched as they landed, as the sound of the alley—the distant traffic, the drip of water from a fire escape—seemed to fade into a dull roar for him. She saw the sudden, shocking stillness in his chest, the pure, unadulterated disbelief that washed over his face.

“What?” The word was a ragged whisper.

A small, deliberate, and defiant smile touched her lips. 

This was not a game. This was not pity. This was the most honest thing she had said to a man in her entire life, and she would not let him dismiss it. 

She held his gaze, pouring all of her unwavering, terrifying sincerity into it. “You heard me.”

She had said the words, and it felt like stepping off a cliff into thin air. In the silent, heart-stopping moment that followed, all she could do was hold his gaze and wait to see if he would fall with her.

There was no time for thought, no space for the careful analysis that had governed her entire life. There was only the sudden, shocking heat of his palm on her hip, the possessive tangle of his fingers in her hair, and then the crushing, desperate force of his mouth on hers.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision, a world-ending impact that was pure, absolute validation. She didn’t just meet his hunger; she answered it, a low groan vibrating from deep in her chest as her hands fisted in the front of his dress shirt, pulling him closer, deeper into the beautiful, terrifying chaos.

He tasted of salt and Coke, and of something else—a deeper, elemental flavor that her soul seemed to recognize. It wasn't a kiss; it was an answer to a question she had never dared to ask. A dissolution of the woman she was supposed to be, the years of practiced restraint turning to smoke at the touch of his mouth, of his tongue moving against hers. The kiss spiraled into something deeper, a frantic search for more, and she met his hunger with a desperation that felt both foreign and profoundly familiar, as if a part of her had been starving her entire life.

When he moved her, caging her against the cold, rough brick of the alley wall, the texture was a brutal anchor to reality. Her life was a series of smooth, polished surfaces; this was raw and abrasive, and she arched into it, needing the grounding sensation. His hand on her bare thigh wasn't a gentle caress; it was a firm, possessive brand, a claim that set every nerve ending alight with a feeling she could only name as want. The press of his body against hers wasn't a negotiation of terms; it was a raw, physical truth, a magnetic pull so strong it felt like it was rearranging her very atoms. The guttural sound that tore from her throat was the language of a part of herself she had never been allowed to meet.

He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath hot against her skin. “Can you come like this?” he whispered, his voice low and urgent.

The question itself was an unheard-of courtesy in a world of demands. Men in her world took; they didn't ask permission. His question wasn't just about her pleasure; it was an offering of control in the midst of her complete surrender. It was the only invitation she needed.

“Yes,” she gasped, the word a broken, desperate plea. “Yes—please, I’m close—”

He caught her mouth again, and as he rocked against her, harder and faster, the world dissolved. Her head tilted back, a helpless cry escaping her lips. The icon of Helena Eagan—cool, untouchable, always performing—shattered. The long, quiet winter of her soul giving way to a sudden, blinding thaw. She came undone in a dirty alley, in the arms of the one man who had seen the prisoner inside the walls, and it was the most terrifying and liberating moment of her life.

She clung to him as the last of the shudders subsided, her breath coming in short, stuttering bursts. He held her, his body solid and real, keeping her steady. His hand stroked her back in slow, calming circles as he murmured soothing sounds against her hair. Then, one word cut through the hazy aftermath, clear and impossibly soft.

“Honey.”

In her world, currency was power, influence, and billion-dollar valuations. The endearment, so simple and gentle, landed with the force of a different kind of wealth—one she had never known. It wasn't a word of passion or seduction. It was a word of ordinary, profound care, a gentle, domestic anchor in the storm of what had just happened. It was more intimate than his kiss, more earth-shattering than her own orgasm. It was a gift of tenderness she had no idea how to repay.

She was still reeling from the impact of it when he kissed her again—a slow, deep promise that sealed the broken pieces of her back together into something new. He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes dark and serious.

“Come home with me,” he whispered against her lips.

Home.

The word was vast and uncertain, and she didn't know what he truly meant by it. It could be the beginning of something real, or it could be just for a night. She hoped, with a sudden, fierce pang, that it was more than just a one-night stand.

But in that moment, the distinction barely mattered. The simple, physical act of being a woman who leaves a bar with a man she desires felt like the ultimate form of liberation. To spend a few, unobserved hours in the quiet of his space, to be free from the crushing weight of her own name, if only until the sun came up... it was a fantasy of normalcy she had never allowed herself to have.

For one night, she didn't have to be a brand, an heiress, or a fortress. She could just be Helena.

And that was an offer more valuable than any contract she had ever signed.

Every shattered, rearranged piece of her soul screamed a single, silent, overwhelming answer.

Yes.

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan and Mark Scout attend the Lumon Gala in NYC. The couple was photographed leaving the event together early in the evening.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

I AM DECEASED. Helena in gold at the Lumon Gala with Mark tonight. THE DRESS. THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. And sources say they left early together?! I'm so unwell 😭

Vulture (@vulture)

The Professor has officially entered the Dragon's Lair. Mark Scout's appearance at the Lumon Gala marks the 'meeting the corporate family' stage of his public romance with Helena Eagan. The narrative is proceeding exactly as one might expect.
vulture.com/article/eagan-scout-analysis.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Mark Scout's presence at the Lumon Gala alongside COO Helena Eagan signals a new level of integration for their relationship into the company's brand strategy, likely aimed at projecting stability and a positive narrative to investors.

Us Weekly (@usweekly)

From Boardroom to Ballroom! Helena Eagan and Mark Scout made their stunning official debut as a couple at the Lumon Gala tonight. An insider tells, "They couldn't take their hands off each other," before the couple made an early exit together. 👀

Chapter Text

XXVIII.

Mark’s life was a constellation of indelible moments, pinpricks of light and darkness that charted the man he’d become. There was the day he met Gemma, a supernova of chance and laughter. The iridescent joy of their wedding. The shattering day she died, a black hole that had threatened to swallow him whole. The miracle of Eleanor’s birth, his sister's child, a new star igniting in the void. He was a man forged in the twin fires of profound happiness and insurmountable grief, so he understood the weight of a single night. He knew he would remember this one, too.

He would remember the details not as a soft, hazy montage, but in sharp, jarring fragments that felt both terrifying and sacred. The neon-wet city lights bleeding past the cab window. The damp chill of the night air on his face when he stepped onto the curb, a ghost of a touch. He’d remember the grounding reality of Helena’s thigh pressed against his in the backseat, an anchor in the spinning chaos of his own head.

And he would definitely remember the ridiculous, juvenile tremor in his hand as he stood in front of his own apartment door. His fingers, which had built furniture and held his newborn niece, were suddenly thick, useless traitors. The key met the lock with a maddening scrape, a clumsy announcement of his nerves. He fumbled it once, twice, a quiet curse catching in his throat.

She didn’t laugh at him, but a soft, warm sound escaped her lips, a sound of pure understanding. She shifted behind him, and he felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his back, a steadying touch. It wasn't a gesture of pity, but of permission. Permission to be nervous. Permission to be merely human. He took a breath, the key finally turned, and the lock gave a heavy click.

The space between them had become a physical thing, a current pulling them together. He closed the distance between them in a single step. He didn't plan what he was going to do, his body just moved. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the elegant line of her jaw. He looked down into her eyes, that forest of green and brown, and saw no hesitation, only a reflection of his own desperate need.

The first kiss wasn't a firework. It was a question, and a prayer. It was tentative at first, a soft press of lips, testing, learning. It was tender. Then she sighed into his mouth and a hand came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepened into something else entirely. It became intense, hungry, a desperate conversation about all the time they hadn't had, all the nights he'd spent alone, all the silent hope she had carried. It was the raw, undeniable feeling of being alive. So intensely, beautifully alive.

When they finally broke for air, their foreheads rested against each other. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the new quiet.

"Mark," she whispered, her voice thick. It wasn't a question, just his name. A confirmation. An anchor.

He knew this was the point of no return. He was leading her into the most sacred, haunted part of his life. Taking her hand, their fingers lacing together with a sense of rightness that stunned him, he led her down the short hallway. Each step was a lifetime. Each step was a choice to move forward. The door to his bedroom was already open, a rectangle of soft, shadowed light. And he walked her through it, not leaving his past behind, but for the first time, bringing someone new into his present.

He stopped just inside the room, a sudden wave of awkwardness washing over him as he took in the slightly messy space. “Fair warning,” he said, his voice still ragged from their kiss. “The last people who stayed over were my sister and my niece a few weeks ago. The bar for hosting is set at finding stray LEGOs with your feet in the middle of the night.”

Helena laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through his chest. “I think I can handle it.”

The journey from the doorway was a clumsy, chaotic dance of kicking off shoes and shedding clothes. Her clutch was dropped without a thought, skittering across the hardwood floor. His shirt was unbuttoned with fumbling fingers and shrugged off, landing on a pile of books by the wall. When she turned her back to him to work on the zipper of her dress, it snagged. She let out a frustrated hiss, a sound of pure impatience that made him smile.

“Here,” he said, his voice thick. He stepped behind her, and the warmth radiating from her skin enveloped him. His fingers brushed the expanse of her back, tracing the delicate bumps of her spine as he searched for the zipper. The contrast of the cool metal pull against her heated skin sent a tremor through his hand. He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, and slid it down deliberately, revealing the long, elegant line of her spine inch by inch. The fabric parted, and he pushed it gently from her shoulders, the material whispering as it fell, pooling at her feet in a soft, shimmering circle.

She stood before him wearing nothing but a single, scandalous scrap of black lace underwear. The sudden, total nakedness of her torso hit him like a physical blow. His eyes went first to her breasts. They were small, and to him, they were perfect. The dusty peaks were pebbled and perky in the cool air of the room. His gaze drifted down her lithe, toned torso, tracing the faint, hard lines of her stomach to where the lace sat low on her hips. It was an intricate, dark triangle against her pale skin, revealing the powerful curve of her hips, the tops of her strong thighs, and just above the waistband, the soft, unmistakable blush of red hair.

And Mark… Mark just stared, his breath catching in his throat. The feeling that took his breath away wasn't just desire, though that was a fire licking through his veins. It was awe. After years of seeing the world in monochrome, he was suddenly witnessing a masterpiece in full, vibrant color.

She shifted under his intense, silent gaze, crossing her arms over her chest. “What?” she asked, a hint of a nervous smile on her lips. “Why are you looking at me like that? Like you’ve never seen a woman before?”

The words came out of him, raw and unplanned, torn from a place he kept locked away. “Well, I haven’t. Not really. Not… since, you know.”

The smile fell from her face, replaced by an expression of profound, aching softness. The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of his admission. “Oh,” she whispered, the sound barely audible. She closed the slight space between them, her hands coming up to frame his face, her touch gentle, reverent. “Oh, Mark. Come here.”

Her kiss was different this time, a slow, healing thing meant to soothe the old wound he’d just exposed. It wasn’t about passion; it was about acceptance. It was a promise that his past didn’t scare her. The feeling of relief that washed over him was so potent it almost brought him to his knees. She led him the final few feet to the bed, tumbling with him onto the mattress. She slid her underwear down her thighs and threw it, landing it somewhere in the room.

He knelt on the bed before her as she lay back, her red hair a spill of fire against his pillows. For a long moment, he just looked, mapping the landscape of her body with his gaze. Her legs parted for him, a movement that was both hesitant and hungry, and Mark felt his throat dry at the sight of her, so exquisitely vulnerable and open for him.

He kissed her like a man worshipping at an altar, his mouth mapping a reverent path from her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the valley between her breasts, pausing at every freckle as if they were constellations. His mouth traveled lower, over the soft skin of her stomach, until he found a single, faint freckle at the crease where her leg met her hip—a secret landmark. He pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to it that made her whole body quiver.

He looked up at her then, his eyes dark, burning with a raw mix of hunger and profound, humbling awe. “Helena,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsteady. Her name was a prayer on his lips. "You are so incredibly beautiful," he breathed, the words feeling clumsy but essential. "Just... perfect. Lying here like this. For me." He shook his head slightly, a look of pure wonder on his face. "I can't believe you're real."

The words seemed to land on her skin, tangible and warm. A soft, shaky sound escaped her lips—half sigh, half moan—and her eyes, already shining, grew glassy. A single tear escaped, tracing a path toward her temple. Her hips gave a small, involuntary tilt upward, a silent plea and a thank you all in one. The sight of her, so exquisitely undone by his words alone, was the final undoing of him.

He moved lower, his touch now full of a quiet reverence. The first stroke of his tongue was impossibly gentle, a soft, exploratory glide. She gasped, a sweet, breathy sound, and her thighs trembled but didn't clamp down. The sound went straight through him, a current that lit up every nerve ending. It wasn't a thrill of power, but of presence. Of being so intensely in a moment with another person that the rest of the world simply fell away. He groaned softly against her, a sound of pure awe, and his hands came to rest gently on her hips, not to hold her steady, but to ground himself in the reality of the moment. He licked her again, slow and deliberate, learning the taste of her, the unique scent that felt like coming back to life after years of numbness. Her hands came to rest in his hair, slightly pulling, her fingers flexing with each soft moan that escaped her lips.

He buried his face deeper, sucking gently at her, circling his tongue until she was squirming, her hands clutching the sheets, her hips lifting instinctively to meet him. He loved the way every soft moan grew sharper, higher, the harder he worked her. He teased the edge of her entrance with his tongue, dipping inside for a moment before coming back up to her clit, pulling her closer to his mouth, like he needed her to drown him in this sensation, to erase everything else.

When she shattered, it was sudden and absolute. Her cry was raw, her whole body clamping down as she came, thighs trembling violently. Her fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him closer as if she was afraid he’d stop. Mark held on, licking her through every wave, feeling the strong pulses against his mouth until she finally sagged back, flushed and beautifully ruined.

He crawled up the length of her body, his mouth shining, and kissed her hard, letting her taste the perfect, intimate echo of her own release.

“Mark,” she gasped into the kiss, her voice strained and breathless. “Please. I need you. Inside me.”

He moved up her body, his mind already shifting to the condom in his nightstand drawer, a gesture of ingrained responsibility. But she caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “No, it’s okay,” she breathed, shaking her head. “I have an implant.”

The trust in that statement—the simple, unburdened permission to be completely, unreservedly present with her with no barriers—broke something open in his chest. He kissed her again, a deep, shuddering kiss that felt like taking his first real breath after years of holding it. His cock, slick with precum, pressed against the soft skin of her stomach. He shifted, his length gliding against her inner thigh until he nudged against the slick wetness at her entrance, the touch making her gasp softly. Positioning himself there, his eyes locked with hers, and then he slid into her in one, slow, impossibly deep thrust.

“Jesus,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “You feel so good, Helena…”

She let out a sharp huff of breath, a sound that told him she hadn't done this in a long time, either, and the shared vulnerability of it almost undid him. The pace was slow, unhurried, almost reverent. Each deliberate stroke was a rediscovery for him, a miracle of sensation. He was relearning the weight of a woman’s body beneath his, the scent of her hair, the sound of her soft gasps syncing with his own breathing. He watched her face with an admiration that bordered on worship, memorizing every flicker of sensation as it crossed her features—the flutter of her lashes, the frantic beat of the pulse at her throat, the parting of her lips on a soundless gasp. Color bloomed up her chest, a deep, irresistible flush that told him she was close. He felt it too, in the way her body spoke to his without words: the tightening coil inside her, the way her cunt clenched around his cock with every slow thrust, holding him in that molten, silken grip.

He felt her begin to tremble on the edge, and a raw, protective instinct surged through him. His own pleasure fell away, completely eclipsed by the urgent need to watch her come apart. The thought was simple, absolute: All for her.

He slowed his rhythm to something achingly deliberate, withdrawing until just his tip lingered at her entrance before sliding back inside with exquisite friction. The move made her gasp his name, her voice ragged, breaking apart under the strain of holding herself back. His hand, which had been cradling her face, drifted lower in a reverent path—over the soft rise of her breast, down the trembling plane of her stomach, until it slipped between their joined bodies. His thumb found her clit, already swollen and slick. He began to move it in slow, steady circles, perfectly in time with the deep, unhurried rocking of his hips.

Her breath hitched, a sharp, surprised sound. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and dazed, finding his in the dim light.

The look of pure, unguarded trust in them nearly broke him. He leaned down, pressing his lips close to her ear, his own breathing unsteady.

“That’s it, Helena,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration against her skin. “Let go for me. I want all of it. Show me.”

He continued the devastating dual rhythm, watching her as she began to completely unravel. Her fingers, which had been resting on his back, now gripped his shoulders, her nails pressing gently into his skin, a sweet sting that only pushed him harder. Her hips lifted to meet him, desperate, pleading without words for more.

“So beautiful like this,” he murmured against her temple, his thumb never ceasing its hypnotic circling on her clit. “So responsive for me. Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me feel you come apart.”

That was all it took. Her eyes squeezed shut, a low, keening cry tearing from her throat as her body arched powerfully against his. He felt it as much as he saw it—her inner walls clenching, pulsing around his cock in frantic, rhythmic waves that was the most incredible sensation he had ever felt. The heat, the slickness, the way she was gripping him—it shattered his composure.

The sight of her undone, the sound of her keening his name, the feel of her coming apart around him—it was too much. His own orgasm tore through him, not with violence but with a deep, shuddering groan pressed into the curve of her neck, his body giving way to hers in perfect surrender. His cock throbbed as he spilled deep inside her, staying rooted in place, his body wracked with shudders as she pulled it all from him, leaving him undone and utterly hers.

When the haze cleared, he stayed where he was, still sheathed within her, his forehead pressed to hers. Their sweat-slicked skin clung together, their ragged breaths tangled in the small space between them. He opened his eyes to find hers, still dazed and glistening. A slow, genuine smile curved his lips, the kind that came from someplace unguarded and true. Her body was still trembling against his, or maybe it was his own shaking he felt resonating through them both. It wasn't the simple fatigue of spent muscles, but a deeper tremor—the aftershock of a moment so staggeringly intimate it had shaken him to his core. He kissed her softly, reverently, letting his lips linger as a single, clear thought rose through the haze: This changes everything.

+

Later, when the world had settled back on its axis, the quiet of the bedroom wrapped around them like a blanket. A profound tenderness, foreign and yet utterly natural, moved through Mark. He slipped out of bed and returned with a soft cloth, dampened with warm water. Gently, he began to clean her. He started with her stomach, wiping away the evidence of their frantic lovemaking, then moved lower, between her thighs. She was pliant and open beneath his hands, her legs parting for him without hesitation. She watched his face, the intense focus in his eyes, and her own were wide and trusting. As he cared for her, she reached out and placed her hand over his, a silent, weighty acknowledgement that squeezed his heart.

When he was done, he disappeared again and came back with a glass of water. "Here," he murmured, helping her sit up. She drank greedily while he settled back beside her, pulling the duvet over them both before gathering her against his chest. His arm wrapped securely around her, his hand resuming its slow, soothing circles on the bare skin of her back. Her skin was warm, flushed, and smelled of him, of her, of them. He never wanted to move from that spot.

Helena’s cheek rested right over his heart, the slow, steady drum of it a calming rhythm in her ear. The room was quiet except for their breaths and the faint, distant hum of city traffic. She traced lazy, absentminded circles on his skin with her fingertip.

Mark shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. “What are you thinking about?”

She smirked without lifting her head, her voice a low murmur against his skin. “That you’re a lot gentler than I expected.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. His thumb brushed slowly over her shoulder. “Gentle?” he murmured, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Is that a bad thing?”

She tilted her head up then, her green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Not even close.” Her expression softened, becoming more vulnerable. “I just… I didn’t think you’d take care of me. Not like that.”

His chest rose and fell beneath her on a long, slow breath. He hesitated, the truth of his next words feeling heavy and momentous. “I don’t think I’ve wanted to take care of anyone in a long time,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “Not like this.”

The weight of it settled between them, not heavy but real. She swallowed, pressing her cheek back against his chest. “That was… perfect,” she clarified softly. “But this…” she trailed off, her fingertip tracing an idle line over his sternum. “This gentleness, after… I like it. I like you like this.”

His lips found her hair again in a lingering kiss. “Good,” he murmured against the soft red strands. “Because I don’t think I could stop, even if I tried.”

Silence stretched again, but it was full of warmth and unspoken understanding. In the quiet, a slow, certain realization settled over him: what had begun as hunger was now something deeper, something that felt less like a discovery and more like a homecoming.

Helena exhaled, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t usually… stay. After.”

Mark’s hand, which had been rubbing her back, tightened instinctively at her waist, holding her in place. “Do you want to?” he asked, his voice quiet.

She nodded against his chest. “Yeah. Tonight, I do.”

He closed his eyes, a wave of relief so profound it was almost painful flickering across his face in the dark. “Then stay,” he whispered. “As long as you want.”

He thought this was it—the quiet descent into sleep, the peaceful exhaustion after the storm. But after a while, he felt a new energy begin to hum from Helena. Her fingers, which had been resting limply, began to explore with purpose. They traced the lines of his pectoral muscles, then drifted lower, finding and toying with his nipple until it pebbled under her touch. He was stroking her hair, his own eyes closed, savoring the feeling of her weight against him.

“You’re still awake,” she whispered, her voice soft with sleep but clear.

He opened his eyes. “I don’t want to miss a second of this,” he admitted, his voice rough with a sincerity that surprised even him.

He felt her smile against his skin. She tilted her head up to kiss him, a soft, lingering press of her lips. “Me neither,” she murmured.

That simple, shared confession was all it took. The air in the room shifted, charged not with frantic hunger but with something deeper—a magnetic pull drawing them closer. His arm tightened around her—possessive, protective—pulling her flush against him as he rolled them gently onto their sides. Their limbs tangled in the sheets, their bodies finding a warm, inevitable alignment.

“Helena,” he breathed, her name falling from his lips like a prayer. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek, drinking in the impossible softness of her skin. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light, met his. He saw his own reflection there and recognized a man stripped of his armor, open in a way he hadn't known was possible to be again, soft with an emotion he was still too afraid to name. He leaned in and kissed her, a long, slow kiss that was less about prelude and more about confirmation, a silent acknowledgment that this was real.

He shifted, his hand moving to her hip to guide her leg over his. The new angle brought her closer, and when he eased inside her, it was with aching deliberation. She was already so wet for him, her cunt enveloping his cock in a tight, perfect welcome. He groaned softly into her mouth at the sensation, at the way she clung around him, every inch of her body whispering yes. He pressed deeper, until he was fully seated, his cock buried deep inside of her, and for a moment he simply stayed there, savoring the overwhelming intimacy of being joined so completely.

They began to move together, hips rocking in a steady, unhurried rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. Each slow stroke dragged along her slick, tender walls, the glide exquisite, her body yielding to his as if it had always known him. It was the cadence of a shared heartbeat, of two breaths mingling into one in the quiet of the room.

He kept his eyes on hers, completely mesmerized. This was more than just sex—it was raw, unfiltered closeness. It wasn't just their bodies joined; it was their gazes, their breaths, the silent conversation passing between them that spoke of vulnerability and acceptance. He watched the pleasure build in her expression, the way her lips parted on a soft sigh, the flush that crept up her neck and over her collarbones, all of it filled him with reverence. His free hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing back and forth, stroking her skin with a tenderness he hadn’t known he still possessed, grounding them in between the sharper jolts of pleasure. This, he thought with a clarity that cut through the haze of pleasure, this is what it feels like to be truly seen. The years of grief and loneliness hadn't been erased, but they had been quieted in her arms, in her body.

“Mark,” she whispered, voice trembling, her hand finding his and pressing it tighter against her cheek.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, his hips still moving, deep and slow, the words both reassurance and promise.

It was a slow burn, like the swell of a tide. He felt her body tightening around him, those delicate flutters turning into desperate, rhythmic squeezes that dragged him closer to the edge. Her breath hitched, her eyes widened, and then she broke against him. She shuddered, her cry muffled against his lips as her cunt seized around his cock, gripping and fluttering in desperate, wet pulses that dragged his release closer with every squeeze, soaking him as slickness flooded between their joined bodies.

The sensation undid him. His own orgasm surged in answer to hers, overtaking him in deep, pulsing bursts as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling hot inside her. He groaned into her mouth, his body shuddering as he emptied into her, the spasms of his release drawn out by the relentless grip of her body.

He was still inside her, the last of the aftershocks trembling through them. The fever had broken, and in its place was a quiet he had never known—not the empty silence of his old life, but a deep, grounding peace. Their hips moved in a slow, hypnotic rhythm without conscious thought. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, breathing in the scent of her skin, of them. It wasn't a thought, not at first, but a certainty that settled deep in his bones as he held her in the dark. This wasn't the end of a night. It was the start of everything else.

After a minute, Helena stirred, her voice a thick, sleepy murmur. "Mark... I have to..."

He understood, withdrawing from her slowly, a sense of immediate loss washing over him as the cool air hit his skin. He watched as she slid off the bed, her movements slow and unsteady, and padded into the ensuite bathroom. He heard the soft click of the door, the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the quiet rush of water from the tap. The bed felt impossibly large and empty without her.

When she returned, a faint silhouette in the darkness, she didn't hesitate. She crawled back into bed and curled into his side, fitting herself against the curve of his body as if she were made for it. He pulled the duvet over them, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She rested her head on his chest, gave a soft, contented sigh, and closed her eyes.

Mark held her, listening to her breathing even out, feeling the simple, profound weight of her in his arms. 

And the world was quiet again.

For years, the quiet in this room had been a roaring, empty thing. The silence of one person in a bed made for two. He knew every dip and valley of the lonely half of the mattress, a cold and desolate landscape. He waited for the ghost of that old life to rise up now—for the crushing weight of betrayal, the sharp sting of guilt for feeling this peace with someone who wasn't Gemma.

But it didn't come.

Instead, there was only the steady, calming rhythm of Helena’s breathing against his ribs. There was the foreign, wonderful weight of her head on his chest. There was the scent of her skin, clean and warm and uniquely her. The silence wasn't empty anymore; it was shared. It was full.

This wasn't a replacement for the love he had lost. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that nothing ever could be. This was something different. This was a discovery. The quiet, astonishing realization that his heart, so long dormant and defined by its grief, was still capable of beating in time with another's. That a new warmth didn't erase the old one; it simply made the cold a little less absolute.

He held her tighter, his eyes closing in the darkness of the room. It wasn't the life he had planned or ever expected, but for the first time in a very, very long time, everything was terrifyingly close to perfect.


XXIX.

The first thing Mark registered was the light. Not the harsh, intrusive light of a morning he had to face, but a soft, golden glow filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. It was gentle. The second thing was the weight. A warm, solid, and impossibly comforting weight settled over his heart, rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm.

He risked opening his eyes.

Helena was draped across him, fast asleep. Her fiery hair, a tangled mess from their night together, was a silken web across his skin. He could feel the soft puff of her breath against his collarbone, a rhythm that was slowly, surely, syncing with his own. For years, the only other sound in this room had been the low, lonely hum of the radiator, a mechanical ghost trying and failing to fight back the winter cold that had settled deep in his bones. The cold and empty void of the other half of the mattress had been his daily reality.

But this morning, there was the soft, sleepy murmur she made as she shifted closer to him.

He waited for the familiar wave of morning dread to wash over him, the gut-level clench of facing another day alone. He braced for it, but it never came. In its place was a quiet stillness he didn't recognize. Instead, there was the solid warmth of her body pressed against his, the faint, clean scent of her. The peace he felt was so profound, it was almost frightening.

He was overcome with a simple, powerful urge: he wanted to take care of her. The thought of making her breakfast, so mundane and domestic, felt like a quiet act of defiance against the emptiness he had lived with for so long.

Extracting himself from the bed required a slow, careful precision. He held his breath, easing his arm out from under her inch by inch, his own movements deliberately delicate. She murmured again, snuggling deeper into the pillows he vacated. He managed to slip out of the bed, and stood for a moment just looking at her, a warm, slumbering fire in the cool gray stillness of his room. He carefully pulled the duvet up to cover her bare shoulder before turning and padding silently out of the room.

His kitchen was a reflection to his life for the past few years: a space of quiet neglect. The counters were clean but barren, the fridge mostly empty save for condiments and takeout containers from meals he barely remembered eating. It was a room he passed through, not one he lived in. He vaguely remembered Devon stocking his pantry on one of her rescue missions, her own attempt to force some domesticity on him. His fingers brushed against a box of pancake mix. Helena would like pancakes, he thought, the idea of doing something so simple and normal for her feeling momentous.

The disaster began subtly. He couldn't find a proper mixing bowl, so he settled for a large, stainless steel pot that felt absurdly oversized. He dumped in what he guessed was the right amount of mix, creating a plume of flour that settled on his bare chest and the countertop. The instructions called for milk, an egg, and oil. He had two eggs left, the dregs of a milk carton that smelled faintly questionable, and a bottle of very expensive olive oil he’d received as a gift from Ricken.

"It'll be fine," he muttered to himself, cracking the eggs and pouring in the milk. The resulting batter was a lumpy, paste-like sludge. He added more milk to thin it out, then a little more, until it had the consistency of soup. Cursing under his breath, he added another heap of mix.

He finally had something resembling batter and turned his attention to the stove. He put the heat on too high, and the olive oil began to smoke almost immediately. Panicked, he ladled a dollop of batter into the shimmering oil. It sizzled violently, the edges crisping to black in seconds while the center remained a gooey, raw puddle.

"Shit," he hissed, scraping it into the trash. The smoke alarm chose that moment to let out a single, piercing shriek. He lunged for it, grabbing a dish towel and fanning it frantically.

"Trying to burn the place down, Professor?"

He froze, spatula in hand, and turned. Helena was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but the white dress shirt he’d discarded on the floor last night. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, the fine cotton ridiculously big on her, and the hem fell to her mid-thigh, leaving an infuriatingly long expanse of bare leg. An amused, sleepy smile played on her lips. She looked breathtaking.

He looked from her, to the smoking pan, to the smear of batter on his chest, and a laugh escaped him—a genuine laugh that came from his belly. It was the sound of a man who had forgotten what it felt like to fail at something so wonderfully insignificant.

"I was trying to make you breakfast," he said, a sigh of utter defeat in his voice.

Her smile widened. She walked into his disaster zone, her bare feet silent on the floor. She surveyed the scene—the lumpy batter, the blackened pancake carcass, the thin haze of smoke still hanging in the air. "I can see that," she said, her voice warm. She came to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back. He could feel the soft press of her breasts against him, the heat of her skin through the fabric of his shirt. "It's the most romantic disaster I've ever seen."

He leaned back into her embrace, the tension of his culinary failure melting away, replaced by the profound peace of her presence. The breakfast was a catastrophe, but the morning, he realized as he stood there in his messy kitchen with her arms around him, was absolutely perfect.

And it could be even better.

He leaned his head back against her shoulder, a comfortable silence settling between them, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the cooling stove. The warmth of her body seeped into his back, a grounding, solid presence. He turned his head slightly, trying to look at her.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word feeling both ridiculously inadequate and perfectly fitting.

She tightened her arms around his waist, her own voice a little shy. “Hi.”

He slowly turned in her embrace until they were face-to-face. Her eyes, green and bright even in the morning light, searched his. He could see a hint of morning-after vulnerability there, a question she wasn't asking yet. He leaned in and kissed her, a soft, slow press of his lips. It wasn’t like the consuming kisses of the night before, but something infinitely more gentle. There was no urgency, just a slow, soft exploration, a kiss that felt like they had all the time in the world. He learned the curve of her bottom lip and the way it fit perfectly against his; she answered with a soft pressure, a curious tilt of her head. It was the simple pleasure of rediscovering how good it felt to just kiss someone, a quiet conversation their lips were having all on their own. It tasted of sleep and her and something new.

He pulled back with a small, lopsided smile. “You brushed your teeth.”

A faint flush crept up her cheeks, a lovely view. “It felt rude not to, considering I was about to accost the chef.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Unfortunately, the chef has proven he has absolutely no skills to cook for you.” He gestured with his head toward the disastrous pan. “But he is very good at making reservations. We could go out, get some brunch, if you’re available.”

She hummed, pretending to think it over, a playful glint in her eyes. For a split second, a cold flash of fear went through him—the old, familiar fear that she would hesitate, that the magic of the night would evaporate in the harsh light of day.

“Hmm, let me see,” she said, tapping a finger to her chin. “My schedule is pretty packed today, lots of important things to do...”

He couldn't help it; he reached out and gave her ass a gentle pinch. “It’s a Sunday.”

She let out a surprised snort of laughter, the flush deepening on her cheeks, eyes widening at him. He saved that for later. And then: “But Lumon needs me,” she joked, her eyes dancing.

He watched her, his expression softening. She was worrying her bottom lip now, the playfulness giving way to that same vulnerability he’d seen before.

“A brunch,” she said, her voice softer now, tentative. “Like… a date?”

He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He brought a hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin.

“Yes, Helena,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “Like a real date.”

Us Weekly (@UsWeekly)

EXCLUSIVE: From the Gala to His Place! After making an early exit from the Lumon party, a source confirms to Us Weekly that Helena Eagan spent the rest of the evening at boyfriend Mark Scout's apartment. "She feels safe and normal with him," says the insider.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

US WEEKLY IS REPORTING HELENA WENT HOME WITH MARK AFTER THE GALA I AM UNWELL. She went to HIS apartment in her gown!!! This is endgame. I'm crying 😭😭😭

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan reportedly spent the night at boyfriend Mark Scout’s apartment after the two left the Lumon Gala together early (via @UsWeekly).

Vulture (@vulture)

The 'She's Just Like Us' chapter of the Helena Eagan PR-mance has officially begun, with Us Weekly reporting the billionaire heiress spent the night at her professor boyfriend's humble abode. A masterstroke in calculated relatability.
vulture.com/2025/12/helena-eagan-relatability-narrative.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Following reports in Us Weekly, the narrative surrounding Lumon's Helena Eagan has pivoted to a more personal, 'down-to-earth' angle, a PR move likely designed to build significant social capital for the future CEO.

Chapter Text

XXX.

Helena woke up feeling a delicious, deep ache between her thighs. It wasn’t a foreign feeling, but a warm, pleasant thrum that was a physical echo of the night before—of Mark, inside her, holding her. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she had slept through the night in another person’s bed, a deep, dreamless, and profoundly satisfying sleep. A lazy, contented smile spread across her face as she stretched, her limbs feeling wonderfully languid and relaxed. She burrowed her face into the pillow, inhaling deeply. It smelled of him—clean soap, warm skin, and something else, something that was just Mark. God, I'm acting like a teenager, she thought, but couldn't bring herself to care.

She opened her eyes, a soft, happy sigh on her lips, expecting to find him beside her. But the other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cool. A sharp pang of disappointment—and something that felt dangerously like fear—went through her.

Of course, Helena. What did you expect?

But then she heard it: a faint clattering from the kitchen, followed by a low, muttered curse.

Relief washed over her, so potent it made her dizzy. It was immediately followed by a new, more practical wave of panic. She hadn't stayed the night at a man's place since… god knows when. She was completely out of practice, completely without her usual armor. No toothbrush, no makeup, no clean clothes. He was going to see her like this—sleep-rumpled and completely unscripted.

The horror of it propelled her out of bed. She padded into his ensuite and found his toothpaste—a generic mint brand—and, cringing at the absolute indignity of it, squeezed a dollop onto her index finger. She scrubbed at her teeth as best she could, rinsing and spitting until her mouth felt passably fresh. The entire act was so mortifyingly intimate, so far beyond the casual boundaries she usually maintained, that she had to lean against the counter for a moment, her head in her hands.

Composure marginally regained, she went back to the bedroom and her eyes landed on the white dress shirt he’d discarded on the floor. On impulse, she picked it up. It was a simple white dress shirt, but the cotton was so fine and smooth it felt almost like silk. It smelled intensely of him—that clean, warm scent that was just Mark. She slipped it on, the cool fabric a soft shock against her bare skin. It enveloped her, ridiculously large, the cuffs dangling past her fingertips and the hem falling to her mid-thigh. Wearing it felt shockingly intimate, a silent claim she was making on him, and the thought made her breath catch. Taking a moment to steady herself, she headed for the kitchen.

She found him in the kitchen, backlit by the morning sun, shirtless and fanning a smoking pan with a dish towel. There was a smear of what looked like batter on his chest and an expression of intense frustration on his face. He was a mess, but he looked so intensely focused on what he was doing that a wave of pure, undiluted affection washed over her.

"Trying to burn the place down, Professor?"

He froze, then turned. The look of sheer, panicked defeat on his face melted into a slow, relieved laugh, and the sound of it made her heart do a ridiculous little flip. He looked at her, then at his disastrous kitchen, then back at her. "I was trying to make you breakfast," he said, and the sincerity in his voice, the simple effort of it, was the most romantic gesture she'd had in years.

Her own smile widened. She walked into his disaster zone and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek to his warm back. "It's the most romantic disaster I've ever seen," she told him, and meant every word.

He turned in her arms to face her. "Hi," he murmured, his eyes soft and searching.

"Hi," she answered, feeling a shy blush rise in her cheeks.

He leaned in and kissed her, and she instinctively braced herself for the same consuming hunger from the night before. But it never came.

Instead, his lips met hers with a gentleness that was so unexpected it stole her breath. There was no demand, no frantic passion—just a slow, soft exploration that made her own racing heart slow to match its rhythm. It was a kiss that had time, and the sheer luxury of that, the safety in it, made something tight and anxious in her chest finally begin to loosen.

She found herself focusing on the simple mechanics of it—the shape of his mouth against hers, the soft sound of their lips parting, the way he seemed to be learning her. It was a quiet question, and she felt her body answering before her brain could, her own lips softening, responding, learning him in return. 

She felt dazed when he pulled back, her mind still swimming in the warmth of the kiss. She blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus, her heart still hammering in her chest.

He was watching her with a lopsided smile. “You brushed your teeth.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “It felt rude not to, considering I was about to accost the chef.”

“Unfortunately, the chef has no skills to cook for you,” he said, a genuine regret in his voice. “But he is very good at making reservations. We could go out, get some brunch, if you’re available.”

The simple, profound tenderness of his suggestion left her feeling dangerously open, her heart completely exposed. And that was when the old, familiar instinct for self-preservation kicked in. Her heart gave a painful lurch. Yes, it screamed. Her brain, honed by years of self-preservation, whispered, Don't seem too eager. 

She hummed, pretending to think it over. “Hmm, let me see. My schedule is pretty packed today, lots of important things to do…”

She saw a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes, a momentary panic that she would refuse him, and the sight of his vulnerability shattered her playful facade. Okay, so this wasn't a game to him. 

She was about to relent when his hand shot out, pinching the curve of her ass. The sheer audacity of the gesture sent a surprised, undignified snort of laughter out of her. Her eyes widened, the blush already on her cheeks instantly deepening to a full-blown flush as a delicious, illicit thrill shot through her at the boldness of the gesture. 

Mark was surprising her with every passing minute. 

“It’s a Sunday.”

“But Lumon needs me,” she joked weakly.

He just watched her, his expression tender. She gave up, worrying her bottom lip. “A brunch,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, laying all her cards on the table. “Like… a date?”

He smiled, a slow, beautiful smile that made his eyes crinkle. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “Yes, Helena,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “Like a real date.”

The relief was so absolute, it felt like she could finally breathe again.

“Okay, but I have to go home and get ready,” she said, the real world intruding. The idea of leaving, of breaking this fragile bubble, was suddenly unbearable.

“No, no, let’s be spontaneous,” he urged.

“Mark, I literally do not have a clean pair of underwear here.”

His eyes darkened with a heat she was growing familiar with. “I like you better naked,” he murmured, his voice a low growl.

She flushed and slapped his arm playfully. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing, holding his hands up in surrender. “We can figure something out.”

He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and led her out of the kitchen. She expected him to head for a hall closet, but instead, he led her back toward the bedroom—his bedroom. The space felt different in the full morning light. It was clean and sparse, almost like a guest room, except for the rumpled chaos of the bed where they had slept. The sight of it, a clear sign of life in a room that felt otherwise paused, made a fresh blush rise in her cheeks.

He tugged her toward a closet, and when he pulled the doors open, she had to suppress a smile. It was a perfectly respectable size for a man, she supposed, but it was barely a quarter of the size of her own. “Let’s see what we can find,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble beside her ear. He smelled faintly of smoke and pancake batter, and she found it ridiculously endearing.

He began rummaging through the space, pulling out a thick, gray sweatshirt with the Ganz University crest on it and handing it to her. “A start,” he said. He turned back, pushing hangers along the rail, and pulled out a pair of simple black sweatpants. “These should be comfortable.”

He handed them over, and she held the small pile of soft cotton against her chest. He knelt, opening a chest at the bottom of the closet and pulling out a pair of sturdy-looking winter boots.

“Devon got stranded here during that first big snowstorm last winter,” he explained with a shrug. “She ended up having to go straight to work from my place the next morning and borrowed a pair of Gemma’s old shoes that I forgot to donate. She never came back for these.”

Helena looked at the pile in her arms, then at the boots, then at his hopeful face. “Mark. I’m going to look ridiculous.”

“You’ll look pretty,” he said, his expression completely sincere, his eyes soft.

The simple, unadorned compliment stole her breath away for a second. She rolled her eyes to cover her reaction and turned away, pulling the oversized dress shirt off over her head, feeling his eyes on her bare skin. “Whatever you say.”

She started to dress, pulling on the sweatpants, which were far too long, bunching around her ankles.

“I mean it,” he added, his voice quiet but firm from behind her.

She turned back to face him after pulling on the ridiculously large sweatshirt. “I look like I robbed the Ganz merch store.”

He laughed, a deep, full sound, his eyes raking over her in a slow, appreciative appraisal. “Careful,” he said, stepping closer. “Someone might mistake you for a student trying to get extra credit.”

The innuendo was shameless, and she felt her blush return with a vengeance. “For a man your age, you’re really horny,” she shot back, tugging the sweatpants’ drawstring tight.

He feigned a look of deep offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Excuse me? I am in my prime.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” she teased, adjusting the sweatshirt.

He closed the remaining space between them, his hands finding her waist. “We could always go back to bed and I could… prove that,” he suggested, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur.

She laughed, the sound bright and real in the quiet of his room. She placed her hands on his chest, a playful barrier. “I’m sorry, but I’m really hungry. So, we have to eat first.”

He sighed dramatically, but his eyes were dancing. She pulled on the boots, which were at least a size too big, and then remembered her hair, a wild red mane that was anything but anonymous. Mark seemed to read her mind, disappearing for a moment and returning with a simple black baseball cap. “Here,” he said, placing it gently on her head and tucking a few stray strands behind her ears, his fingers warm against her skin.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his gaze impossibly tender. “Now, let’s go on our date.”

+

The air was crisp and cold, the kind of early winter day where the sun hangs low and golden in the sky, offering light but little warmth. It was the first truly cold day of the season, and Helena found herself instinctively shoving her hands in the pockets of the ridiculously large sweatshirt. As they walked, the cold nipped at her fingers when she pulled them out. Mark, without a word, took her free hand and tucked it deep into the pocket of his wool coat, his own hand a furnace around hers. The simple, possessive warmth of the gesture sent a rush through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

This was what the day was made of: a series of small, quiet intimacies that left her feeling breathless.

He took her to a sprawling, dusty old bookstore with narrow aisles that smelled of aging paper and leather. They browsed in a comfortable silence, his arm brushing hers as he pulled a book from a high shelf to show her a passage he loved. She found herself watching him more than the books—the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the rare, quiet smile that touched his lips.

For brunch, they went to a small, crowded diner where he told her stories about his childhood, making her laugh until her stomach hurt. The booth was worn, the coffee was decent, and the air was filled with the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation. In the middle of it all, Helena felt like they were in their own private world.

“...so Devon, who couldn't have been more than ten at the time, is convinced we can build a functional raft out of old tires and plywood to cross the Hudson River,” Mark was saying, a nostalgic grin on his face. “Not just paddle around the edge. Cross it. She’d drawn up blueprints, Helena. She had this whole business plan where we’d charge other kids a nickel for a ride.”

Helena laughed, a picture forming in her mind of a small, fiercely determined girl taking on the mighty Hudson. “Please tell me this ends with you both falling into the freezing cold water.”

“Worse,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “We spent three weeks building this thing. It was a monstrosity. We get it to the water’s edge, and it immediately sinks. Not a slow, noble sinking. It just went plumb and was gone. Devon didn’t speak to me for three days because she was convinced I’d used the wrong kind of knots.”

The story was so simple, so warm, and painted such a vivid picture of a life filled with sibling antics and neighborhood adventures. With every story, he was filling himself in, becoming less of a fantasy figure and more of a real, solid man with a history, with roots. When their laughter subsided, he looked at her, his expression soft and curious. 

“So what about you?” he asked gently. “What kind of trouble did a ten-year-old Helena get into all by herself?”

The question was innocent, but it landed on her with a quiet thud. The warmth in her chest cooled slightly. “It’s a short list,” she said, her smile feeling a little more brittle.

He seemed to sense the shift in her immediately. The playful light in his eyes softened into a gentle concern. “Oh yeah?” he prompted, his voice softer now.

She shook her head, tracing a pattern on her water glass. “There wasn't much room for getting into trouble. My childhood was… very structured.” She took a breath, surprised at her own willingness to open up. “After my Mother passed away, my Father… he wasn’t around much. Too busy running Lumon. So he sent me to a boarding school for girls in the countryside.”

She offered the facts in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone, a habit learned long ago to keep the pity out of people’s eyes. “It was one of those places that believed in keeping girls busy. Endless activities to keep us occupied—swimming, equestrian lessons, ballet, French. They were very good at filling up a schedule. Not much time left over for building rafts.”

He didn't say anything for a long moment, just watched her. She braced herself for the usual awkward condolences, but they never came. Instead, he reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles over her knuckles.

“That sounds lonely,” he said, his voice quiet and full of an understanding that went straight to her core.

He wasn't feeling sorry for her; he was seeing her. He was hearing the truth she’d tucked between the facts. The truth is that all those lessons and structured days were just a way to manage a lonely little girl whose father didn't know what to do with her.

A lump formed in her throat. She gave him a small, watery smile, her fingers curling around his. “It was, sometimes,” she admitted. 

The simple act of saying it out loud, and having him just accept it, felt like releasing a breath she’d been holding for twenty years.

He didn't let go of her hand. He simply held it, his thumb continuing its slow, steady circles over her knuckles, a silent, grounding gesture. The noisy clatter of the diner seemed to fade away, leaving them in a quiet bubble of shared understanding. 

He didn't press for more details, didn't offer empty words of sympathy. He just stayed with her in the quiet moment, letting her feel seen in a way that was so new, so profoundly comforting, it almost made her want to cry.

After a moment, he squeezed her hand gently. “Well,” he said, his voice soft but with a hint of its earlier warmth returning. “For what it’s worth, I think a girl who can survive an all-girls boarding school could definitely build a better raft than I could.”

The unexpected turn back to humor was so perfectly judged, so gentle, that it startled a real laugh out of her. The fragile tension broke, replaced by a fresh wave of warmth. 

This man, she thought with a dizzying sense of wonder, seemed to know exactly what she needed, even before she did.

+

They left the diner a little while later, stepping back out into the crisp winter air. As they walked, he didn't just take her hand. Instead, he draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her into his side until she was tucked securely against the warmth of his wool coat. The gesture was solid, protective, and felt impossibly right, a silent declaration to the bustling Brooklyn streets that she was with him. The earlier giddiness of the day had settled into something calmer, more solid. The space between them felt charged, not just with attraction, but with the weight of the stories they had shared. It felt real.

They bought soft, warm pretzels from a street vendor, the steam from the paper bag warming their faces. They walked, sharing bites and laughing as she got mustard on her chin and he wiped it away with his thumb, the casual touch lingering. 

She couldn’t remember the last time a day had felt so simple, so natural. The ease of it, the uncomplicated joy of just being with someone, was something she hadn't known she was starving for.

As the sun began to set, he led her to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. They stood by the railing, overlooking the slate-gray chop of the East River. The wind was sharp and cold, but the view was breathtaking: the iconic skyline of lower Manhattan lit by the dying, golden light of the afternoon, with the Statue of Liberty a distant, solitary figure. The cold air made their breath puff out in white clouds.

“You know,” Mark said, his voice quiet as he looked out at the water, his arm still warm and heavy around her shoulders. “This contract... The whole reason for it was the grant for Gemma’s memorial. I thought… I thought it was the right way to honor her. To build something permanent.”

Her heart, which had felt so warm and full all day, gave a painful, familiar lurch. 

This was it. 

The moment the other shoe dropped. 

The bubble, she thought with a familiar anxiety, was about to burst. 

It was a feeling she knew well, the cold dread of waiting for the illusion to shatter. 

Her whole life, starting in the empty hallways of her childhood home, had taught her one cruel lesson: genuine affection was a phantom. People were drawn to what she represented, not who she was. 

At the end of the day, she wasn't Helena; she was an Eagan, an asset with a fortune attached. 

He was going to bring it all back to business, to the contract, and gently let her down, reminding her that this perfect weekend was just part of the charade.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, her voice impressively steady, though her stomach was twisting into knots.

He turned to look at her then, his eyes filled with a raw, difficult honesty. “But the truth is, I think I was just building a prettier cage for myself. A way to stay locked in the past, to stay grieving, because I didn't know what else to be. I thought I would dread this part of it—pretending with you.”

He paused, his gaze softening as he took in her face. “But this... being with you today... it doesn't feel like an obligation. It feels like… breathing again. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm actually living, not just honoring the dead.” He squeezed her shoulder gently. “I didn’t account for that, Helena. I didn’t account for you.”

The breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her, a shaky cloud in the cold air. 

He wasn't ending it. He was doing the opposite. 

He was dismantling the cage, not just for himself, but for her, too. He was offering her the one thing she was too afraid to ask for: something real. It was everything she’d been hoping for, everything she’d been terrified to want. 

Her heart swelled with so much emotion she felt she might burst.

She stood on her toes, turning into him to cup his cheek, and kissed him. It started as a sweet, salty kiss that tasted of pretzel and the crisp winter air—a simple, heartfelt thank you. But as he responded, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against him, something shifted. 

The fear that had been her lifelong companion quieted, replaced by a wave of raw, defiant hope. For the first time in a long time, she didn't pull away or retreat behind a joke. Instead, she leaned into him, her lips parting, consciously choosing to take this beautiful, terrifying risk.

The kiss deepened, the gentle press of their mouths giving way to a slow, hungry exploration. It was no longer just a kiss of understanding; it became a promise of the night ahead, a silent acknowledgment of the heat simmering just beneath the surface of their perfect, tender day. When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, the unspoken contract between them rewritten into something new and exhilaratingly true.



XXXI.

What started as a tender kiss on the windswept promenade, with the first city lights beginning to twinkle across the river, caught fire the moment they were back inside his apartment.

The door had barely clicked shut behind them when he pressed her against it, his mouth devouring hers. The tender, storytelling man from the afternoon was gone, replaced by the hungry, desperate man that she had no idea who he was yet but was beginning to know. The kiss was a stark contrast to their earlier gentleness; it was deep, wet, and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a raw possession that made her knees weak. She moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to fist in the thick wool of his coat, pulling him impossibly closer.

“You’re already hard,” she laughed, the sound breathless as she broke the kiss to gasp for air, grinding her hips against him just to feel the insistent press of his erection against her stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about you wearing nothing underneath my clothes all day,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble against her neck. His hands were already at the hem of the sweatshirt, pushing it up with an impatient roughness that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her legs. The raw honesty of his confession, the knowledge that he had wanted her this badly all day, was an intoxicating thrill on its own.

He didn't just lead her back to the room; he practically dragged her, their hands still tangled, their mouths crashing together for another desperate kiss in the hallway. When they reached the bedroom, he began to undress her, but his movements were a maddening contradiction—slow and adoring, a stark contrast to the ravenous hunger burning in his eyes. He pulled the sweatshirt over her head, and his gaze fell to her bare breasts. He didn't touch her, not yet. He just looked, and the intensity of his stare was a touch all its own.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, before his mouth descended. He kissed every inch of skin he uncovered, his lips and tongue a hot, wet brand on her stomach, her hips, the sensitive, trembling skin of her inner thighs, the single freckle she had there. He licked a slow path up to her breasts, and when he finally took her nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, a sharp, helpless moan tore from her throat. She arched into him, her head falling back, her hands fisting in his hair.

He moved to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, his free hand stroking down her body, his fingers teasing the damp curls between her legs but not going further. He was tormenting her, and she loved it.

He stilled then, his mouth hovering just above her breastbone, his breath a hot, unsteady ghost against her skin. She felt a change in him, a sudden tension that seemed to be more than just desire. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

“Helena,” he started, his voice a low, unsteady murmur against her collarbone, the vibration of it running straight through her. “This is…” he chuckled. “God, this is going to sound ridiculous. I had a dream about you. The other night.” He swallowed, and she felt the movement in his throat. “You were calling me Professor, and I… I touched myself to it. It’s why I was avoiding you. It felt…” He trailed off, the admission hanging in the air.

Oh. 

This changes everything.

The words landed on her not with a thud, but with a spark. To know she had affected him so deeply, even from a distance, that a single dream had unsettled him this much, made her feel dizzyingly desired. She’d heard things like that before, whispered from smug, leering mouths, and the thought of other men using her image for their solitary pleasure had always been extremely disgusting, a crude violation. 

But hearing it from Mark, in his unsteady, awestruck voice, didn't feel like a violation at all. It was a confession of his absolute, unguarded want for her, and it sent a jolt of pure, wicked power through her veins. To be the object of his desire, his private fantasy, didn't make her feel vulnerable; it made her feel intoxicatingly powerful. She was a careful person by nature, always testing the waters before she dived in. But this wasn't a risk; it was an invitation. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, offering her his hand, and for the first time in her life, she didn't just want to jump—she wanted to pull him down with her and drown in whatever was waiting in the deep.

She took his hand and gently pushed him back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She straddled him, lowering herself onto his hard cock with an agonizing slowness, taking just the very tip of him inside her. The sheer thickness of him made her gasp, a little breathless as her body began to adjust. She fell back on her usual armor of banter, trying to ground herself.

“Professor, huh?” she laughed, the sound shaky. “What, was I begging you for extra credit?”

She expected him to laugh with her, or at least smile. Instead, a shudder went through his entire body. His eyes, which had been hazy, snapped into sharp focus on her face, and they were filled with a raw, almost painful-looking want. His hands, which had been resting on her hips, tightened, his fingers digging in with a possessive strength that was new.

“Fuck, Helena,” he breathed, the words a broken sound. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

The raw, unguarded awe in his voice was her undoing. All her playful defenses crumbled, replaced by a surge of pure, confident power. He liked this. He liked her like this. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.

“You’d better start believing it, Professor,” she whispered, her voice a low, sultry promise. “Because I’m about to make that dream feel very, very real.”

And with that, she sank down on him.

A deep, guttural groan was torn from his throat as she took all of him inside her, his head falling back, his hands gripping her hips as if she were the only solid thing in the world. The raw, unguarded pleasure on his face only spurred her on. The feeling of him buried so deep inside her, stretching her, filling that lonely ache she always carried—it was overwhelming. She felt powerful, yes, but also cherished in a way that made her want to weep. This wasn't just a physical act; it was a conversation, a negotiation of desires they were only just beginning to understand. A thrill, sharp and heady, went through her. If this was a negotiation, she wanted to know his terms.

She tried again, her voice a slower, more deliberate purr this time, testing the new language they were creating. “Well then, Professor… maybe you should teach me what you want.”

His answering growl was low. “You have no idea what that does to me,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “You feel so good. My perfect girl.”

The words—simple, absolute—landed on her not like a compliment, but like a detonation. 

Perfect. 

Good. 

In her life, she had been called many things: brilliant, capable, intimidating, an Eagan. But no one, not once, had ever looked at her with such raw reverence and called her good. It wasn't just that she liked praise—she'd always known that, a quiet, shameful secret rooted in a lonely childhood. 

But she had never known a praise that felt like this. Hearing it from him, in his raw, reverent voice, wasn't just a pleasure; it was a necessity. She realized with a terrifying, gut-wrenching clarity that she didn't just want it from him. She was starved for it.

Emboldened by this new, desperate hunger, she began to move, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. Her voice was a husky whisper, a question designed to draw more of that intoxicating validation from him. “Is this good for you, Mark? Do you like the way I feel around your cock?”

“Helena,” he rasped, his hands sliding from her hips to map the curve of her waist. “So fucking stunning. Just… watching you.”

Each word of praise was a log on the fire, the heat building, becoming more intense, more necessary. The physical pleasure was exquisite, but it was the validation in his voice that she was chasing. She rocked harder, her thighs trembling, her mind going hazy. She rocked down, and the thick ridge of his cock pressed against a spot deep inside her that made her vision white out for a second, her body clenching on the precipice of an orgasm. 

The feeling was so intense, but she couldn't let go. 

Not yet. 

She needed to hear it.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking, a sound of pure, unvarnished need as she looked down at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Mark—tell me. Am I better than the dream? Tell me. I need to hear you say it. Please.”

The plea, torn from a place she didn’t know she had, seemed to shatter his control. A raw, guttural sound was ripped from his throat. He surged up to meet her, his own thrusts suddenly sharp, driving.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t even compare,” he ground out, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn't name. “The dream was a cheap sketch. This—” his hand fisted in her hair, a possessive, claiming tug that made her gasp, “—this is a masterpiece. You are a masterpiece. My perfect girl, riding my cock like you were made for it. So fucking good for me, Helena. So perfect.”

His words, the raw need in his voice, were all it took. The pleasure that had been coiling low in her belly snapped tight, the knot twisting into something unbearable before it broke apart. She cried out his name, her body convulsing as the first wave of her orgasm crashed through her. It ripped her open, violent and consuming, every nerve sparking white-hot as her inner muscles clenched down on him, squeezing hard, refusing to let him go.

She felt him shudder beneath her, felt his cock thicken inside her as her spasms dragged him under with her. His answering groan shook her to the core, her name torn from his throat as if it hurt to hold it in. He drove up into her in deep, desperate thrusts, burying himself to the hilt, and then she felt it—his release flooding hot and thick into her, spilling deep inside until she was trembling with the fullness of him.

Her body answered with another shattering orgasm, the sensation doubled, tripled, until she was dissolving against him, writhing through wave after wave as his cum pulsed into her. The world blurred to nothing but the blinding, brutal pleasure, the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies still moving together, and the heady feeling of him pouring himself into her while she came around him again, completely helpless and utterly undone.

They collapsed together, a tangled, boneless mess of sweat-slicked limbs. He held her down so she was lying on his chest, her ear right over his hammering heart. He was still buried deep inside her, a warm anchor in the aftermath. She could feel the last of his pulses, the ebb of her own aftershocks making her shiver around him.

He stroked her hair with tender hands, lips brushing soft, sweet kisses against her temple as if he couldn’t stop touching her. The room was thick with the scent of sex, of them, the air heavy and warm around their joined bodies. She was utterly spent, her muscles deliciously sore, her core still trembling with echoes of pleasure. For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breaths evening out.

He was the first to speak, his voice a low, awestruck rumble against her ear. “Jesus, Helena.”

She let out a low, satisfied groan, nuzzling her face into the curve of his neck. “You too, Mark,” she murmured.

Another stretch of comfortable silence passed. In the quiet, with her ear pressed to the steady, slowing drum of his heart, she let herself drift. She thought about her past, about the men who had shared her bed. With them, sex had always felt like a performance, a transaction. She was playing a part—the cool, sophisticated heiress, the detached, worldly woman. It was about managing their egos, anticipating their needs, and never, ever revealing the messy, wanting, vulnerable parts of herself. It had been an act, and a lonely one.

But with Mark, there was no performance. The thought was staggering. She had been a wreck in his arms—teasing, then dominant, then desperately needy, begging for praise as she came apart. She had shown him a side of herself she hadn't even known existed, and he hadn't just accepted it. He had revered it.

The memory of her own desperate pleas washed over her, and a hot blush crept up her neck.

He must have felt the shift in her, the sudden tension. “What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly. “You’re a million miles away.”

“I…” she started, her voice small. She tried to hide her face in the curve of his neck. “God, it’s embarrassing.”

He held her a little tighter. “What is?” he prompted gently. “Helena, what was embarrassing?”

“All of it,” her voice was muffled against his skin. “Begging you like that. Needing you to… say those things. I’m never like that. With anyone. Sex is always… a performance. I’m always in my head to be in control.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his hand stroking her hair. His response, when it came, was so sincere it made her heart ache.

“Hey,” he murmured against her hair. “Don’t be embarrassed.” He paused, his voice turning serious, thoughtful. “If we’re… if this is real now, then there’s no room for embarrassment. I’m glad you felt you could let go with me. I want you to.” He shifted, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. His eyes were dark and earnest. “Helena, I want to know everything you want and everything you need. And I want to be the one to give it to you.”

The profound, bone-deep relief of his promise, of being so completely seen by him, was more intimate than the act itself. A watery smile touched her lips. The emotional intensity was almost too much to bear, and she fell back on the safety of a joke.

She settled her head back on his chest. “So… a masterpiece, huh?”

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that she felt in her bones. “More than,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “You completely undid me.”

“Is that a good thing?” she whispered.

“It’s a very dangerous thing,” he said, his tone turning playfully serious.

“Dangerous?” she purred, tracing a lazy finger down his chest. “Are you saying I was naughty, Professor?”

The playful title, whispered now in the sated quiet, made his eyes darken with a familiar heat. His voice dropped to a low, suggestive rasp. “The naughtiest.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “And next time,” he promised, his voice a vow against her skin, “I’m going to have to do something about it.”

The words hung in the air between them, a charged and delicious promise. He let out a long breath. “For now, though,” he said, his voice returning to a gentler register, “I think we both need a shower.”

She nodded, the thought of warm water on her aching muscles a heavenly one. “Yes,” she said. “But absolutely no funny business. I’m sore.”

They took a few minutes to finally untangle themselves and get up from the bed, and he led her by the hand into the ensuite bathroom. In the shower, under the hot, pulsing spray, he was the soul of tenderness. The steam billowed around them, creating a private, hazy world. He took the soap and lathered his hands, washing her with a slow, careful reverence. His palms glided over her shoulders, her back, the curve of her ass, his touch both respectful and possessively intimate. He shampooed her hair, his strong fingers massaging her scalp in slow circles until she melted bonelessly against the tiled wall, a soft, pliant sound in her throat.

As he rinsed the conditioner from her hair, she felt him press against her from behind, undeniably hard again. She turned in his arms, a laugh bubbling in her throat as she felt the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressed against her stomach. "Oh, really?" she teased, looking down at his cock and then back up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Are you trying to go for a new record, Professor?"

He groaned, a helpless, wanting look on his face. "Believe me, I'm just as surprised as you are." He leaned in, his voice a low murmur over the sound of the water, his forehead resting against hers. "This is your fault. You're entirely too hot. It's... distracting."

The sight of his raw need was its own kind of aphrodisiac. She took him in her hand, the weight and heat of him becoming a familiar comfort now. She stroked his thick, slick cock, watching his eyes glaze over as he groaned her name, his head thrown back under the spray. After a moment, his free hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her jaw.

"Let me," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "Let me make you come again, honey. Please."

Before she could answer, his hand slipped between her legs, fingers finding her slick folds. He avoided her clit, already knowing she was too sensitive and sore, but his fingers slipped inside her, pressing and stroking in a rhythm that mirrored her hand on him. His touch was so expert, so exquisitely attuned to her, that a sharp, sudden orgasm ripped through her, her cry lost in the sound of the rushing water.

He came a second later, his cum hot against her stomach as he held her steady, their bodies trembling together as they finished showering.

They dried each other off, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels that smelled of him. The gestures were slow, domestic, and more intimate than anything she'd experienced. He gave her a pair of his own pajamas—soft, worn flannel that enveloped her in his scent—and they crawled under the duvet, their clean bodies tangling together. He pulled her close, her back pressed against his chest, his arm a heavy, secure weight around her waist. He nuzzled his face into her hair, his lips brushing the nape of her neck. Soft, sleepy kisses followed, with no agenda other than closeness, until the steady rhythm of his breathing told her he was asleep. As her own breathing slowed and steadied, a profound peace settled over her—safe, sated, completely his in that moment. Her cheek rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her, and she let herself drift into sleep still filled, still held, still anchored in him.

+

Monday morning was a harsh, unwelcome reality. After slipping out of Mark’s apartment, Helena had gone home, the cold winter air a shock against her skin. The world felt muted and gray outside the bubble they had created. In her own pristine, silent apartment, she showered again, watching the last traces of his scent wash off her skin and down the drain. She dressed for work, pulling on the layers that felt like armor: silk stockings, a cashmere turtleneck, and a heavy, immaculately tailored wool suit. The clothes were a shield, a way to become the untouchable Helena Eagan again after a weekend of just being… Helena.

Now, sitting in her lifeless, glass-walled office at Lumon, she felt the effects of the weekend deep in her bones. A delicious, persistent soreness lingered between her thighs, a secret reminder of their time together. It had been so hard to leave him sleeping in the pale morning light, to resist his sleepy plea for her to stay. But she’d promised him she would call, and even though she was supposed to be reviewing year-end projections on her laptop,  her mind kept drifting, already scrolling through possibilities, a lazy smile on her face. Maybe she could take him to the Eagan house upstate for a weekend. A cozy fire, no people, no phones…

“You look like the cat that got the cream.”

Helena’s head snapped up. Natalie stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, a shrewd, knowing look on her face. “You disappeared,” Natalie continued, stepping into the office. “Phone off all weekend. That’s not like you.”

Helena felt a flicker of annoyance at the intrusion. “I was busy,” she said, her tone dismissive as she turned back to her laptop, pretending to read an email.

Natalie was silent for a moment. Then, “Helena. We need to talk.” The seriousness in her voice made Helena finally look up. Natalie stood in front of her desk, holding a tablet. “I admire this new spontaneity. But your position—and by extension, Lumon's public image—doesn’t allow for it. Not really.”

“What are you talking about, Nat?”

“I’m talking about Mr. Scout,” Natalie said, her voice dropping. “He’s a long-term brand liability, Helena. His history, his age, his public grief… he’s not the right fit for the woman who will one day be CEO of this company.”

Helena’s blood ran cold. “That’s ridiculous,” she snapped, but even as she said it, a cold stone of truth settled in her stomach. She knew exactly how if this thing with Mark actually became long term, how it would look to the board, to Father, to the world.

“Is it?” Natalie turned the tablet toward her.

On the screen were a series of crystal-clear photographs. Mark, his arm draped protectively over her shoulders as they walked down a Brooklyn street. The two of them laughing as they shared a pretzel. And one, a stunningly intimate shot, of them kissing on the promenade, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind them like a thousand unforgiving eyes.

She froze, the air leaving her lungs. The feeling was visceral—a cold, sickening wave of violation. The perfect, normal day she had cherished so much, the one that had felt so real and private, something just for her, just for them, had been turned into public consumption without her consent. Again.

“These were about to be sent to a gossip outlet this morning,” Natalie said quietly. “I intercepted them. Paid a hefty price to make sure they disappear.”

Helena couldn’t speak, her throat tight. “Thank you,” she finally managed to choke out.

“I’m just doing my job,” Natalie said, her expression softening slightly. “And my job is to protect Lumon’s brand, which, whether you like it or not, is you. You need to decide if this is worth it. And not just for you. For him, too. He’s a private man, Helena. But you’re not a private woman. You’re an Eagan. You’re both in the public eye now, and every time you’re seen together, you’ll be scrutinized.”

Natalie left the tablet on the desk and walked out, leaving Helena alone in the suffocating silence of her office. 

The joy of the morning, the warmth of the weekend, had evaporated, leaving a familiar, heavy ache in her chest. 

She stared at the picture of them kissing, a perfect moment captured and tainted.

Is it worth it?

Yes, she thought, a fierce, defiant part of her answering without hesitation. To her, Mark was worth it. 

But the real question, the one that made her heart feel like a lead weight in her chest, was the one she couldn’t really answer and felt afraid of the response: How long would he think she was worth the storm that would inevitably follow?

Lumon Industries @LumonIndustries

Inspired by Ms. Eagan's vision for integrated wellness outlined at the #LumonGala, we are proud to begin development on our new community partnership programs. A brighter future, together.

helena eagan 4eva @eaganwatcher

lumon's out here posting PR fluff while we've had ZERO updates on helena since she was spotted leaving the gala with mark. we all know what that means… 🍆 good for her!

ivy loves helena @eaganistic 

if our queen is spending the weekend getting absolutely railed by that hot professor, then i am here for it. get it, girl! we're all just jealous. 👏🔥👑

Chapter Text

XXXII.

After their weekend together, Mark found himself living in a state of altered gravity. For years, Mark’s life had been governed by a single, immense, and predictable force: the crushing weight of his grief. It was a heavy planet he orbited, its pull dictating his every quiet, methodical move. The days were orderly, the silence was constant, and his work was a familiar landscape. Now, a new sun had blazed into his universe. Helena. Her presence was a brilliant, terrifying, and utterly irresistible force, and she had thrown his careful orbit into beautiful, dizzying chaos.

His apartment, once the quiet center of his solitary world, now felt like a temporary outpost, a place he was merely passing through. The silence was no longer a comfort; it was a vacuum, painfully absent of her sound. He was on winter break, a stretch of time usually reserved for the deep, monastic pleasure of uninterrupted thought and research. But his mind, once a well-ordered library where every idea was shelved and cataloged, was now in beautiful disarray. The thought of her was a dazzling, modern sculpture that had been placed in the middle of his quiet, dusty stacks, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

He’d sit at his desk, determined to get a head start on planning for the spring semester, and find himself staring at a page of his own notes, the words blurring into meaningless black marks on the page. The only text his mind could clearly read was the memory of her: the scent of her hair on his pillow, the taste of her skin, the sound of her gasping his name in the dark.

His libido, which had been dormant for years—practically fossilized in grief—had roared back to life with the force of a supernova, leaving him in a constant, thrumming state of arousal that was deeply inconvenient for a man trying to think, read, or do anything other than think about her. It felt faintly ridiculous for a man his age. He was restless, agitated, and felt the acute, almost juvenile agony of waiting for a text message. He was, to put it mildly, a complete goner.

His phone buzzed on the desk, a welcome interruption from the impossible task of his syllabi. A text from her.

Helena (Tue, 3:14 PM): Just sat through a three-hour presentation on quarterly revenue projections. I am now clinically brain-dead.

He smiled, a foolish grin that felt completely involuntary. The simple, profound relief of seeing her name, of knowing that somewhere in a lifeless Lumon boardroom her mind had wandered to him, was pathetic. He found he didn't care.

Mark (Tue, 3:15 PM): My condolences. I've spent the last two hours staring at the same paragraph in a book and have no idea what it says. My brain has officially gone on vacation without me. You're in good company.

Their texts throughout the week became his lifeline, small anchors tethering him to the new reality of her. They followed a pattern that reflected the vast difference in their daily lives. Hers were like flashes of light from a distant, fast-moving ship—brief, intense, and often sent late at night.

Helena (Wed, 10:48 PM): Just got home. Longest day of my life. Hope yours was good.
Mark (Wed, 10:49 PM): My day was quiet. Better now that I’ve heard from you. Sleep well, Helena.
Helena (Wed, 10:51 PM): You too, Mark.

He knew she was busy, trapped in a world of meetings and reports. But the knowledge did little to temper the raw, impatient wanting. By Thursday night, the quiet of his apartment had become an accusation. He paced the worn floorboards, his gaze catching on the carefully curated fragments of the life he’d packed away. The spine of The Brothers Karamazov on his nightstand, her favorite book, seemed to watch him. The single wedding photograph on his dresser, usually a source of quiet, painful comfort, now felt like a portrait of a different man from another century.

For years, he had called this exile a form of veneration. He’d told himself that preserving this hollowed-out space was a way of honoring Gemma’s memory. But now, with the phantom sensation of Helena’s laugh still echoing in the silence, it felt like something else entirely. It felt like a waste. Two years. Two years spent in this self-imposed museum when the world, apparently, still held people who could make him feel terrifyingly, brilliantly alive.

The restlessness was no longer just a physical agitation; it was a profound impatience with the man he had allowed himself to become. He stopped pacing, an undeniable need solidifying in his chest. He needed to see her. He needed to confirm that the woman from the weekend was real, not just because he doubted his own lonely mind, but because if she was real, it meant this life—this long, dutiful, and wasted exile—didn't have to be the end of his story.

As if summoned by the sheer force of his need, his phone rang, the sharp, digital sound slicing through the quiet of the room. Her name was illuminated on the screen. His heart gave a painful, hopeful flip. He took a breath and answered, trying to compose his voice into something resembling a normal human’s.

“Hi.”

“Mark. Hi.” Her voice was crisp, efficient, the sound of a long day spent in a high-rise office. It was her executive voice. “Sorry to call so late. I’m just getting into the car. I wanted to… well, Natalie wanted me to brief you on our next public date for the contract.”

His posture stiffened. The warmth that had been blooming in his chest cooled to a familiar, heavy dread. Of course. The contract. After the raw, earth-shattering realization he’d just had, the word felt like a splash of ice water.

“Right,” he said, the single word feeling like gravel in his mouth.

“She’s scheduled our next public appearance for this Saturday,” Helena continued, her tone formal, as if reading from a memo. “It’s a ‘high-visibility seasonal engagement opportunity.’ The car will be at your place at seven. I just had to make sure you were officially informed.”

Briefed. Contract. Informed. He was a line item in a PR strategy. He sank onto the edge of his sofa, the powerful disappointment a bitter taste in his mouth. This was her world, a place of schedules and strategic opportunities, and he was just a temporary variable in it.

“Okay,” he said, his voice flat. “Consider me officially informed.”

There was a pause on the line, filled only by the distant sound of a car horn. Then, a soft sigh came through the speaker. Her voice, when it came back, was completely different. The corporate armor fell away, leaving something softer, more hesitant.

“Anyway,” she said quietly. “That’s the Natalie-approved version of why I’m calling.” He heard her shift, the rustle of her coat. “But since we have to be together for that on Saturday, I was hoping that maybe… afterward… we could have some time that’s just for us?”

The knot in his stomach didn’t just loosen; it evaporated. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. The relief was so potent it felt like a drug. “Helena,” he breathed, a weak laugh escaping him. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Good,” she murmured, and he could hear the smile in her voice, a tired but genuine thing. “Her notes suggest we attend some dreadful charity gala…”

“Helena. Even if it is for… the contract… I’d like it to be something good. Something remarkable. For us.”

He could almost feel her surprise through the phone. She was quiet for a long moment, and he wondered if he’d overstepped. “Okay, Professor,” she said finally, her voice laced with an intrigued, velvet warmth that made his pulse jump. “Surprise me.”

After he hung up, the bravado immediately gave way to a wave of sheer, ice-cold panic. He, Mark Scout, was now responsible for planning a "real date" for a woman who probably considered flying to Paris for dinner a casual Tuesday.

He stood in the middle of his quiet apartment, the phone still warm in his hand, a strange mix of terror and exhilaration buzzing under his skin. What had he just done? He was an academic. His idea of a remarkable evening involved a bottle of decent whiskey and a particularly compelling historical biography. That was not going to cut it.

He did what any modern man completely out of his depth would do. He stalked over to his laptop, flipped it open on the kitchen table, and turned to the great oracle of our time: Google.

The blinking cursor in the search bar seemed to mock him. He took a breath and began to type, his search history over the next twenty minutes painting a tragicomic portrait of his desperation.

It started broad: how to impress a woman who has everything

Then, it got more specific and panicked: date ideas for billionaires nyc

The results were a terrifying list of things involving helicopters, private yachts, and renting out entire museums—options that cost more than his yearly salary. He refined his search, a note of academic absurdity creeping in. 

unique romantic experiences not based on monetary value

Followed by a descent into pure, unfiltered cluelessness:

are private fireworks displays still impressive

how much does it cost to get a private concert

restaurants in nyc with unlisted phone numbers

Finally, scrolling through an article titled "Ten Outrageously Expensive Dates to Wow Your Heiress," he hit his breaking point. This was a fool’s errand. Trying to compete in her world of extravagant gestures was not only impossible, it was inauthentic. The entire point of his interruption on the phone was to do something real. None of this was real. This was a performance.

He sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room, and buried his face in his hands. He couldn't impress her with money he didn't have or a lifestyle that wasn't his. He had to offer something else. Something genuine. But what did that even look like?

He stared at the glowing screen, at the list of ridiculous, impersonal options. There was no answer here. He needed a human. He needed someone who knew him, who could translate his fumbling intentions into a coherent plan.

He closed the laptop with a definitive snap, the panic giving way to a simple, clear resolution. He picked up his phone and called his sister.

Devon picked up on the third ring.

“Mark? It’s almost midnight. Is the world ending, or did you just remember you have a family?”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” he said, the tension already easing slightly at the familiar sound of her voice. “No, the world is not ending. Although it feels like it. Anyway, I need your help.”

He could practically hear her sit up straighter. “Help? With what? Don’t tell me you tried to assemble another piece of IKEA furniture by yourself. I’m not coming over to hold the little wooden dowels for you again.”

“No, it’s not—look, it’s about Helena.”

The name landed, and the teasing tone in her voice vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense curiosity. “Oh,” she said, drawing the word out. “Helena. Well, well, well. This is new. Mark Scout, calling his younger sister for advice about a woman. Go on. I’m sitting down. This should be good.”

He ignored the goading, forging ahead with his practical problem. “I need a date idea. For Saturday. And it needs to be… good.”

“Good how?” she prodded. “‘This experience is not actively causing me pain’ good, or ‘I might actually be enjoying myself’ good? Because with you, there’s a pretty wide spectrum.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated. “Both, okay? It needs to be both. It’s for the contract, for the photographers, but… I told her I wanted it to be real. For us.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, and the admission hung in the air between them, vulnerable and exposed. The line went quiet.

“Mark,” Devon said finally, her voice soft and serious now. “Listen to yourself. You sound… what is that I’m hearing? Is that excitement? I think that’s excitement. It’s been a while, I almost didn’t recognize the sound.”

He couldn’t deny it. “I don’t know what it is,” he mumbled, sinking onto the edge of his sofa. “It’s just… a lot, Dev.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice a mix of awe and sisterly concern. “So let me get this straight. You need to plan a date that is a complete PR stunt for your fake relationship, but it also has to be a genuinely amazing date for your very real, secret, burgeoning… something. Is that about the size of it?”

Hearing her lay it out so plainly, he couldn’t help but let out a short, sharp laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the size of it. So, help me.”

“Okay. Okay, I can work with this.” He could hear the smile returning to her voice as she shifted the phone. “So, what’s the goal here, exactly? Are we aiming for a grand, over-the-top romantic gesture? Or is the vibe more ‘Look at us, we’re surprisingly normal people who do cute, relatable things’?”

“The second one,” Mark said immediately, pacing back toward the window. “Definitely the second one. I just… I want to have a good time with her.” He paused, the words catching in his throat before he pushed them out. “She’s not what I expected, Dev. At all.”

“Oh?” Devon’s voice was full of intrigue. “How so? Is she secretly a history buff who can quote Russian literature?”

The comparison to Gemma, though gentle, was unmistakable. “No,” Mark said, a sad smile touching his lips. “Nothing like that. She’s just… I don’t know.” He struggled to find the right words, pacing a short line in his living room. “There’s a stillness to her, underneath all the noise. It’s like… it’s like we’ve both been living in a quiet room for a long time, just in very different buildings. I feel… at ease with her.”

The admission hung in the air, the most vulnerable thing he’d said about another woman in years. There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“Well, I should hope so,” Devon said, her tone suddenly deadpan. “I mean, the sex must be pretty great if it’s got you this tied in knots.”

Heat flooded Mark’s face. “Devon! Jesus Christ. That’s not—It’s not just about that.”

“Relax, big brother, I’m teasing,” she said, but her voice was warm and genuine when she spoke again. “I’m happy for you. It’s just… it’s really nice to hear you talking about feeling anything again.” She let that sink in for a moment before her practical, problem-solving tone returned. “Okay, so not a performance. Something where you can actually talk and laugh. So, a carriage ride in Central Park is out—too cheesy and you can’t escape if the conversation dies.”

“God, no. Definitely not.”

“And the Rockettes are out. Too much spectacle, not enough you.”

“Right.”

“Okay,” she said, a new energy in her voice. “I get it. Not a show. Something fun, a little bit active, where you can be a clumsy idiot and she can laugh at you. I’ve got it. You are taking her ice skating at Rockefeller Center. It is a cliché for a reason. The cameras will get their perfect Christmas-in-New-York shots, and it’s physically impossible to be broody and intellectual when you’re desperately trying not to fall on your ass.”

“Ice skating,” he repeated, the idea sounding both perfect and terrifying. “I think I can do that.”

“Good,” she said. Her voice became serious then, losing all its teasing edge. “Okay, but listen to me for a second, Mark. I spent two years watching you basically become a ghost. Seeing you like this… it’s everything. But her world is a freaking minefield. So just… watch your step. Please.”

The fierce, protective love of a younger sister who had watched her big brother shatter and painstakingly put himself back together hit him squarely in the chest. “I will,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

“Okay,” she said, her tone brightening, deliberately shifting them back to safer ground. “Well, speaking of things you need to be careful about, don’t forget you’re on the hook for Christmas dinner with us. Ricken is already planning a dramatic reading of some self-help poem he found. You’re my only buffer.”

The joke about his brother-in-law was a familiar routine, but it landed like an opportunity. An escape rope she’d offered without even realizing it. He took it.

“Actually,” he said, the words feeling momentous as they formed. “About that. Can I… Can I bring her?”

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint static hum of the baby monitor on her end. It was the quiet of a normal, sleeping house—a life he suddenly, desperately wanted Helena to see.

“…Bring her?” Devon finally whispered, her voice barely audible, as if she were afraid to wake the baby or shatter the unbelievable notion. “You’re asking to bring Helena Eagan? To my house? With the squeaky floorboard and the cat that sheds on everything? For Christmas dinner?”

“Yeah,” he said, a nervous smile touching his lips. “I am.”

There was another long pause. He could picture her on the other end of the line, probably sitting in her dimly lit living room, just shaking her head in disbelief.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice a mix of awe and shock. “Wow. Okay, Mark. Yes. Of course, you can bring her.” She took a slow, audible breath, as if steeling herself. “Okay. She’s coming to our house.”

He felt a wave of relief. “Thank you, Dev.”

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, panicked whisper. “Oh, fuck, Mark. What the fuck am I gonna cook for a billionaire?”

Mark let out a real, deep laugh, the sound bubbling up from a place that hadn't seen the light of day in years. The panic he’d been feeling all night finally receded, replaced by a fragile, fluttering hope. “Your lasagna is perfect.”

“My lasagna?” Devon’s voice was incredulous. “Mark, I serve that lasagna with mismatched forks. I don’t think I even own a full set of matching wine glasses. I can't serve Helena Eagan a casserole using cutlery I got from Target.”

“I’ll bring a really, really good bottle of wine,” he promised, still laughing. “It’ll distract everyone from the forks.”

“You better,” she said, her voice giddy. “Wow. Okay. This is really happening.”

He hung up the phone and the silence of the apartment settled around him again. It was the same quiet, the same hollowed-out space it had been five minutes ago. The wedding photograph was still on the dresser, a portrait of a past life. The air was still heavy with the weight of two years of solitude.

But something had fundamentally changed.

Before, the emptiness had been an oppressive weight, a constant physical reminder of his loss. It was a conclusion, a memorial to a life that was over. Now, standing in the same room, he felt a flicker of something else. The emptiness no longer felt like an ending. Instead, for the first time, it felt like a possibility. A blank page.

The quiet wasn't the silence of a tomb anymore; it was the expectant hush before the first note of music was played. He looked around the room, not at the ghosts of what had been lost, but at the space waiting to be filled. And for the first time in a very, very long time, it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a beginning.

+

On Saturday, the city was electric with the impending holiday. Mark stood in front of his bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of a dark merino wool sweater. He had consciously left his usual professor armor—the tweed jackets and worn corduroy trousers—in the closet. He’d chosen dark, well-fitting jeans and his best winter coat. He felt a bit like he was in costume for a role he was still learning, but it was a role he was starting to desperately want.

He’d spent a nervous afternoon coordinating with Natalie whose efficiency was both terrifying and impressive. The plan was simple: he would make his own way to the location, while Helena’s driver was given instructions to drop her off at the corner of 49th and 50th with a simple "Mr. Scout will meet you here." He wanted to see her face when she realized where he was taking her. He wanted, for once, to be the one to offer a surprise.

He arrived at Rockefeller Center first, taking a cab through the festive, traffic-choked streets. He found a spot near the edge of the plaza, a relatively calm eddy in the churning river of tourists, and waited. The air was a festive, chaotic assault on the senses. The scent of roasted chestnuts and pine needles mingled with the faint whiff of exhaust. A soaring, orchestral version of "Carol of the Bells" blasted from hidden speakers around the plaza, a majestic soundtrack nearly drowned out by the more human symphony of the thousand-strong crowd and the rhythmic scrape of skates on the ice below. Above it all, the iconic tree loomed, a glittering, majestic behemoth against the darkening indigo sky. He could already spot them: three photographers, pretending to be tourists, their long lenses a dead giveaway. The whole scene felt absurd, a stage set for a play he was still learning the lines to.

Then, a car Mark was familiar with already pulled to the curb. The door opened, and Helena stepped out. Mark’s breath caught. She was wearing a simple, impeccably tailored black coat that fell to her knees, but underneath he could see dark-wash jeans and a pair of flat, practical boots. Her hair was tucked into a soft, cream-colored beanie. He didn’t know or care about designers, but he knew the effect: she looked elegant and relaxed, beautiful and, most surprisingly, ready for anything.

She looked around, a flicker of confusion on her face as she scanned the chaotic plaza, before her eyes found him. Her confusion melted into a slow, brilliant smile of pure, unguarded delight. That smile was worth all the anxiety.

He met her halfway, the crowd parting slightly around them.

“So this is your idea of a ‘real date,’ Professor?” she teased, her eyes dancing as she took in the glittering tree and the swirl of skaters. “Luring me to the world’s most crowded tourist trap?”

“It’s a classic for a reason,” he said, his own smile feeling wide and easy as he took her hand. “Come on. The public humiliation portion of the evening is about to begin.”

He led her down the steps toward the skate rental entrance, a crowded, brightly-lit underground space that smelled of rubber, disinfectant, and damp wool. The glamour of the plaza above gave way to the noisy, chaotic reality of a hundred people trying to trade their shoes for ill-fitting skates.

“Charming,” Helena murmured, though she was still smiling.

“Okay, what’s your size?” Mark asked, trying to get the attention of a harried-looking employee behind the counter.

“Seven and a half,” she said, already unlacing her boots with efficient movements. “Don’t be shy, Mark. What about you?”

“Eleven,” he said. “And I have a feeling the rental skates are going to be significantly less forgiving than my actual shoes.”

They found a small, crowded bench to put them on. The skates were stiff, cold, and smelled vaguely of other people’s feet. Mark struggled with the laces, trying to pull them tight enough while his fingers felt clumsy and thick in the cold.

“How do people walk in these things?” he grumbled, finally getting to his feet and teetering precariously. He felt like a baby deer taking its first steps. “My ankles have already filed a formal protest.”

Helena stood up in one fluid motion, perfectly poised on the thin blades without a hint of a wobble. Her ankles were rock-steady as she took a few confident steps on the rubber matting toward the rink. “You’re not supposed to walk in them, you’re supposed to skate. It’s a completely different set of muscles.”

“That does not inspire confidence,” he said, taking a tentative, Frankenstein-like step toward the rink entrance.

She just laughed, a low, warm sound. “Don’t worry,” she said, linking her arm through his. “I won’t let you fall. At least, not right away. The photographers will want a few good shots first.”

Getting onto the actual ice was a fresh wave of terror. The solid ground was gone, replaced by a slick, unforgiving surface. Mark’s carefully constructed plan to look at least somewhat competent immediately evaporated. He spent the first ten minutes in a state of low-grade panic, clinging to the barrier like it was the last remaining piece of a shipwreck.

Helena, of course, was effortlessly graceful. She let go of him and skated backward in slow, easy circles around his static, terrified form, a deeply amused smile on her face.

“Having fun over there, Professor?” she teased, her voice carrying easily over the music.

“I’m contemplating the physics of my own humiliation,” he grumbled, his knuckles white on the railing. 

“You know the wall isn’t going anywhere, right? Are you ever planning on letting go?”

“It appears to be the primary structural support for my dignity right now,” he shot back. “I’m not sure it’s wise to remove it.”

She laughed again, the sound warm and clear in the cold air, and glided to a stop directly in front of him. The spray of ice from her skates misted his coat.

“That’s it. I’m intervening,” she declared, her tone playful but firm. “Your very serious relationship with this wall is officially over. You’re with me now.” She held out both of her gloved hands, an undeniable invitation.

He looked from her determined face to her outstretched hands, a slow smile touching his lips despite his nerves. “Are you always this bossy?”

“Only when the situation requires a firm hand,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “And this,” she gestured to his white-knuckled grip on the railing, “definitely requires it. Now come on. I promise I’m much more interesting to hold onto.”

He took a deep breath, released his death grip on the railing, and lunged for her hands. His skates slid out from under him for a terrifying second before her grip tightened, her strength surprising as she easily stabilized him. He was now standing, wobbling, in the middle of the rink, his only anchor the woman in front of him.

“See?” she murmured, a triumphant smile on her lips. “Not so bad.”

“My entire life just flashed before my eyes,” he said, his heart hammering. “But other than that, fantastic.”

She started to skate backward slowly, pulling him with her. “Just follow my lead. Don’t fight it.”

“That’s surprisingly good advice for… a lot of things, actually,” he said, a real smile finally breaking through his concentration. They moved in a slow, clumsy orbit, a small, private bubble in the middle of the joyful chaos.

“If I go down, I’m taking you with me,” he warned, his voice tight as they navigated a turn. “That’s a promise.”

“I’ll take that risk,” she said. “Just try to bend your knees a little.”

“I’m trying! My knees have entered a state of terrified rigidity.”

To his astonishment, as they found a stumbling rhythm together, the terror began to fade, replaced by a warm, exhilarating buzz. He was actually having fun. He was holding her hands, the colored lights of the city were swirling around them, and the sound of her laughter was the only thing he could really hear.

To the dozens of people watching, they were the perfect picture of a burgeoning romance. Mark was aware of the sideways glances, the not-so-subtle phones pointed in their direction. For a moment, he felt a flicker of the performativity, of the contract. But then Helena would squeeze his hand or give him that private smile, and the rest of the world would melt away. This didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like a date.

This feeling, this undeniable truth, solidified in his chest as they continued their slow lap. After a few more laps, he grew bolder, his movements less jerky. They glided to a stop near the center of the rink, directly in the glow of the magnificent tree. The music seemed to swell, a classic, soaring carol, and the chaotic energy of the crowd faded to a distant hum. It was just the two of them, their breath fogging in the cold air, their hands still linked.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, looking at the genuine, unguarded happiness on her face. “For an evening of contractually-obligated public humiliation, this is… surprisingly not terrible.”

“Just ‘not terrible’?” she asked, her smile turning gentle. “I think you’re having fun, Mark.”

“I think you might be right,” he admitted, his gaze dropping from her sparkling eyes to her lips. The whole world seemed to narrow to the small space between them. He could feel the slight tremor in her hands, or maybe it was his own. “Helena…”

He leaned in, and she met him halfway. The kiss was soft, almost tentative, a simple, gentle press of cold lips that was impossibly warm. It was a question and an answer all at once. For a single, perfect moment, they weren't a story or a strategy; they were just two people stealing a moment of quiet tenderness in the heart of a loud city. The world kept spinning around them, the cameras kept flashing, but in that small, breathless space, they were completely still.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers for a second. Her eyes, when they opened, were dark and shining.

“Well,” she whispered, a little breathless, a slow, dazzling smile spreading across her face. “That will definitely make the morning editions.”

“Let’s give them a good story, then,” he said, his voice a low murmur. He squeezed her hands, a new confidence flowing through him, and pulled her into another slow lap around the ice. After a few more turns, gliding together in a comfortable rhythm, he could feel his ankles begin to protest in earnest.

“Okay,” he said, his voice a little breathless from the effort and the laughter. “I think my ankles are about to officially unionize and go on strike. How about we take a break?”

“Lead the way,” she said, her smile bright. “As long as it’s on solid ground.”

He guided them off the rink, the transition back to the solid rubber matting a jarring, clumsy relief. They navigated the crowd to a small kiosk selling hot chocolate. The simple act of him ordering for them, of handing the cashier a crumpled bill from his wallet while she stood beside him, felt more real than anything else that night.

They found a small, crowded bench just off the rink and sat, their shoulders brushing. The photographers were still there, shooting from a respectful distance as he handed her a steaming paper cup. 

She took a sip, letting out a soft sigh as she watched the skaters swirl by under the glittering tree. The steam from her cup misted in the cold air, and for a moment, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, she looked entirely at peace. Then her phone, resting on the bench between them, buzzed with a muted, insistent vibration. She glanced at it, and the easy happiness on her face tightened almost imperceptibly, a curtain falling. She silenced it without looking at the message.

“I really am sorry I was so unavailable this week,” she said, her voice quiet but sincere, her gaze fixed on the laughing families on the ice. “It’s not what I wanted.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, meaning it. He felt a now-familiar protective instinct rise in him. “Your life is… what it is. I get it.”

She finally turned from the skaters to look at him, and the smile on her lips didn't reach her eyes. “Do you?”

The question was so soft, yet it landed with the weight of a stone. It wasn’t a challenge; it was a genuine, painful question. He saw in that moment that this wasn't just about a busy week. This was about something deeper.

He didn't know what to say, so he just held her gaze, waiting.

She looked down, tracing a pattern on her paper cup with a gloved finger. “It’s just… this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the distant, blurred figures of the photographers, at the whole glittering, public spectacle of their date. “This is always a part of it. The scrutiny. The schedule. My entire life is a performance, and the audience never leaves.”

He watched her, his own chest tightening with a feeling he couldn’t name. He saw past the billionaire heiress completely, past the woman on the cover of magazines, and saw someone intensely, achingly lonely.

“The last man I dated,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, the words costing her something to say, “he told me I wasn't really a person. He said I was more like a beautiful, high-functioning product designed by Lumon, by my father. That my life looked so big and impressive from the outside, but on the inside, it was completely hollow.”

She took a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the skaters in the rink.

“And then he said the cruelest part… that even with all that empty space, there was no room for him. That every inch of my life was already spoken for by everyone except me.”

The confession settled in the space between them, raw and heartbreaking. The words—spoken for by everyone except me—didn’t just land in his ears; they hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

He felt a surge of white-hot anger at the faceless man who had said such a cruel, dismissive thing to her. But beneath it, a deeper, more terrifying pang of recognition sent a chill through him. He thought of his own quiet, hollowed-out life. He had told himself it was an act of devotion, a memorial. But hearing her words, he saw it for what it truly was. His life, for the past two years, hadn't been his own either. It had been spoken for by the past. Dictated by the ghost of his grief. Every choice he’d made—or, more accurately, every choice he’d failed to make—was a decision made for him on the day his wife died.

He, too, was living a life that wasn’t his. Hers was controlled by Lumon, his by a memory. The specifics were different, but the result was the same: a profound, lonely hollowness.

He had to be honest with her. A platitude now would be an insult to the unwitting connection she had just revealed. He reached out, his hand covering hers on the bench where it rested. She flinched almost imperceptibly, as if expecting him to pull away, and his heart ached for her.

“He was wrong,” Mark said, his voice quiet but sure. Her eyes, wide and vulnerable, met his. “About you being hollow. That’s the one part he got completely wrong. I’ve never met anyone less hollow in my life.”

He saw a flicker of surprise in her gaze, a small, involuntary parting of her lips.

“But he wasn’t wrong about how different our worlds are,” he continued, his voice dropping, his grip on her hand tightening. “Your life… it’s a language I don’t speak, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be fluent in it. I don’t know if a guy like me ever really fits into all of… that.” He made a small gesture with his head, encompassing the unseen world of her life—the company, the public life, the expectations.

He saw the flicker of pain return to her eyes, the confirmation of her deepest fear, and he tightened his grip again, pulling her focus back to him, refusing to let her look away.

“But here’s the thing he missed,” he said, leaning closer. “The reason I understand what you said… about your life being spoken for… is because for the last two years, my life has been spoken for, too. It’s been dictated by the past. By a ghost. Every day was already decided for me, and I was just living out the sentence.”

He looked her directly in the eye, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his next words. “So, yes, this started as a publicity stunt. And yes, our lives on paper make no sense together. But sitting here, with you… watching you laugh because I almost took out a seven-year-old on the ice… that has nothing to do with any of it. That’s our story. Just ours.”

His words hung in the air, a bridge built between them. He watched her process them, saw the rigid, protective set of her shoulders soften. The guarded look in her eyes dissolved, replaced by a raw, stunned stillness. She didn't cry. Instead, she just stared at him, her expression a mix of shock and a dawning, fragile hope that was more moving than any tear.

Then she leaned forward, her free hand coming up to cup his jaw, a silent, searching touch. She closed the final inch between them. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly soft. In that moment, the cacophony of the city—the soaring orchestra, the chatter of the crowd, the distant sirens—simply ceased to exist for him. All the noise, both outside and inside his own head, was gone. There was only the steady warmth of her hand on his face and the grounding pressure of her lips, a moment of such absolute peace it felt like taking the first real breath after years of holding it.

She pulled back slowly, but her hand remained on his face, her thumb stroking his cheek. Their foreheads came to rest together, and for a long moment, they just breathed in the small, warm space they had carved out of the cold night. He opened his eyes and found hers, dark and deep and full of a new, unwavering certainty. The performance was over. The story was theirs now.

“Mark,” she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she didn't need to name. “Come home with me.”


XXXIII.

The drive back felt longer than it was. Maybe because neither of them spoke much, and the city moved outside the tinted windows like it had been slowed down just for them. Helena’s hand was still on his, their fingers resting together under the fold of her coat. It was a quiet, steady touch, not possessive, not tentative, simply there. Every time the car shifted lanes, their shoulders brushed, and Mark caught himself wishing the ride wouldn’t end.

He replayed the date in his mind: his own oafishness on the ice, the sound of her laughter, the stolen, perfect kiss in the center of the rink, the raw honesty of their conversation on the bench. It had all felt so real, so grounded. He risked a glance at her. She was looking out the window, her face illuminated in fleeting flashes of neon and streetlight, her expression thoughtful and unreadable. The anxiety he’d felt earlier returned, a cold knot in his stomach. The date was over. Now he was entering her world for real, and he was terrified it would reject him on sight.

When the driver finally eased to the curb, Helena moved first. Her voice was smooth as she gave a final word to the man up front, something Mark couldn’t quite hear. She stepped out with the kind of grace that came from habit. Mark, on the other hand, mumbled a thank you that he wasn’t sure was meant to be said. He thought he saw the faintest flicker of amusement on her face as she glanced back, like she’d caught the small tell of his discomfort.

The lobby was all marble and glass, the kind of place where you could hear your own footsteps echo. He had never felt more like a history professor in his life—a creature of dusty archives and quiet classrooms, now trespassing in a temple of modern capital. He instinctively straightened his coat, a useless gesture. He followed her into the elevator, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Neither of them spoke, but the silence between them wasn’t empty. She must have sensed his unease because she reached out and her fingers brushed the back of his hand, a small, grounding gesture that broke the tension. And then her shoulder brushed his again, deliberate this time, and when he glanced at her she gave him a small smile that felt like a secret.

Then the doors opened.

The first thing that hit him was the silence. It was different from the silence in the car or the lobby. This was an absolute, pressurized quiet, the kind that exists only in places untouched by life. The second thing was the view. Her penthouse unfolded before him in clean white lines and sharp reflections. It should have been impressive, and it was, but in the same way a gallery was impressive: striking, curated, but cold. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the space in a sweeping view of the city, and for a moment he was caught by it. The lights stretched endless, tiny stars scattered across the ground, all of it framed and distant.

The apartment itself was pristine to the point of severity. The sofas were white leather, untouched. Tables gleamed without a single ring from a cup or smudge from a hand. Not a book, not a photo, not a sweater draped over a chair. Nothing to suggest anyone actually lived here.

Mark followed her deeper into the space, boots heavy on marble that seemed to reject the sound. He found himself holding back, careful where he stepped, as if he might leave a trace he wasn’t supposed to. His eyes kept snagging on details—the way the light slid across the glass, the way every piece of furniture was spotless as if the way the air itself seemed scrubbed too clean.

It made him uneasy. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it felt empty. A place like this should have carried the weight of someone’s life, but all he saw was absence. It was as if the walls were designed to keep the world out, and in the process had pushed out everything human too. This was the physical manifestation of the life she had described. The beautiful, high-functioning product, hollow on the inside. A space so full of luxury that it was completely empty of warmth. His heart ached for her, thinking about how it's been to live somewhere so cold that felt more like a showroom than a home. Although, he could feel some kind of understanding towards her since in the past years since Gemma died, some could say the same about his place.

He must have been standing there for a full minute before he heard her voice, soft and a little hesitant, beside him.

“It’s a bit much, I know.”

He turned to look at her. She had taken off her coat and stood in her simple dark jeans and a soft black sweater, looking small and impossibly human against the backdrop of the galactic view.

“It’s… incredible,” he said, the word feeling clumsy and inadequate.

A wry, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. “It’s the view my father paid for. The furniture came with it. I think I’ve sat on that sofa twice.”

The honest, unvarnished admission was a lifeline. It wasn’t a defense of her world; it was a quiet condemnation of it, a shared secret that allied them against the oppressive perfection of the room. The space between them, which had felt like a chasm moments before, began to shrink.

She led him to the window, and they stood side-by-side, looking down at the silent, sprawling city. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I feel as far away from all those people as we are up here.”

He turned to face her, his heart aching with intense empathy. He reached out, his hand gently cupping her jaw, and tilted her face up to his. “You’re not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His thumb stroked her cheek, a small, grounding gesture. “What do you think about,” he asked, his voice a low murmur, “when you’re standing here, looking at all this?”

She let out a soft, humorless breath, her gaze drifting back to the endless expanse of lights. “Work, mostly,” she admitted. “The next meeting. The next quarterly report. Projections. It all feels… abstract. Like a game being played by tiny, distant lights that have nothing to do with me.” She paused, turning her face slightly into the palm of his hand. “Mostly, I try not to think at all.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, surprising himself with the admission. “That feeling of detachment. Ever since my wife died… sometimes I'll be in the middle of a lecture, looking out at a hundred students who are all moving forward with their lives, and I feel like I'm completely still. A ghost just watching their world spin on without me.”

She turned back to him fully then, her eyes searching his, a flicker of profound recognition in their depths. The word he’d used seemed to hang in the air between them. “A ghost,” she whispered, as if tasting it. She shook her head slightly, a small, definitive movement. “You don’t feel like a ghost to me, Mark.”

Her words were a simple, sincere gift. He let out a short, rough breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips for the first time since they'd entered the apartment.

“And you don’t feel like part of all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the perfect, empty room. His voice was firm and low as his thumb stroked her cheekbone. “You feel like the only real thing in it.”

He kissed her, and the kiss was an answer to the coldness of the room, an act of defiance against the silence. It wasn’t the soft tenderness of the rink; this was a hungry, desperate confirmation of their shared, solid reality. His tongue slid against hers, teeth clashing in their haste, breaths ragged between gasps. Her hand cradled his jaw, then slid higher, curling into the back of his neck, fingers gripping his hair with enough force to make him gasp into her mouth. She tugged him closer, walking backward with a blind assurance, leading him away from the window and deeper into the heart of her beautiful, empty world.

His hands locked on her hips, feeling the shape of her through the soft wool of her sweater. He gripped harder than he meant to, needing something solid as the world tilted. The kiss was a frantic, chaotic dance of lips and tongues, breaking only for sharp, ragged breaths. His coat slid from his shoulders, thudding onto the marble. She tugged her own sweater up, wriggling free of it in a frantic, graceless motion, the fabric pooling at their feet like spilled ink against the white floor.

By the time they reached her bedroom, Mark shoved her gently against the wall, devouring her mouth. She kissed him back with the same desperation, panting against his lips, body hot and pliant against his.

“I’ve thought about this all week,” she gasped, her mouth brushing his as she spoke. The words jolted through him like an electric current.

He dragged his mouth down her throat, biting at the sharp edge of her jaw. “Yeah?” His voice was wrecked, low.

“The way you—” She broke off with a shudder, nails digging into his shoulders. “The way you fucked me.” Her whisper cracked, sharpened by need she could no longer disguise. She pressed her forehead against his, breath hot. “I tried… Mark, I tried. I have this absurdly expensive vibrator and I couldn’t even use it.”

His body jerked against hers, his breath catching.

“I just held it,” She pushed on, her voice trembling with heat and honesty. “Because I knew. Nothing would even come close to the real thing. To you.”

A groan was torn from his throat. He crushed his mouth back to hers, tongue desperate, his grip on her hips punishing. Her words shredded him, leaving nothing but the raw ache of wanting. His cock throbbed against her, straining against his zipper, every nerve ending screaming for release.

She felt it, felt his whole body shudder. When she pulled back, a slow, triumphant, hungry smile spread across her lips. Her gaze locked on his, eyes dark and heavy-lidded with lust. Then, her hands slid from his shoulders, down his chest, tracing every line, every button, every twitch of muscle. He froze, chest heaving, watching her sink lower and lower. Her palms dragged over his stomach, then to his hips, and she dropped to her knees with a grace that contrasted with the feral gleam in her eyes.

The sight hit him like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs. Helena, kneeling before him on the pristine floor of her perfect, empty room. Her fiery hair was a tangled mess from his hands, her lips were already swollen and dark from his kisses, and she was looking up at him with a triumphant, unapologetic hunger that made the floor feel unsteady beneath his feet. His hands found the cool, unyielding wall behind her, his fingers splaying wide, desperate for something to hold onto. If he touched her now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop.

“Helena…” His voice was wrecked, half warning, half plea.

She only smiled wider, a slow, wicked curve of her lips that told him she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. Her hands slid to the buckle of his belt with an almost taunting patience. The metallic click of the buckle being undone echoed in the hollow quiet of her bedroom. He watched, mesmerized, as she worked the button free and then, with agonizing slowness, tugged the zipper down. The rasp of the metal teeth was the loudest sound in the universe. She freed him from the confines of denim and fabric, and his breath hitched as her cool, soft hand wrapped around the base of his hard cock.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his head tipping forward to rest against the wall. The touch was electric, a stark contrast to his own heat. The first, feather-light brush of her lips over the flushed, weeping head of his cock nearly undid him right there.

Then she took him in, slow at first, lips stretching, tongue teasing along the underside. Mark’s hands shot down, one gripping the edge of the door to her bedroom, the other tangling in her hair without thinking. He didn’t pull at first, just held her, needing the anchor, needing to feel her.

Her eyes flicked up to his, dark and heavy-lidded, and that look of raw, possessive hunger nearly leveled him. When he gave the slightest tug on her hair, her answering moan vibrated around him, deep in her throat. The sound tore a curse from him, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.

“Fuck, Helena…” His fingers curled tighter in her hair, pulling slightly, guiding her as she set a rhythm, lips sliding down over him, tongue working every inch. Every moan she gave around him made him twitch against her tongue, his chest heaving with sharp, uneven breaths. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop watching the obscene beauty of her there on her knees, swallowing him down against the immaculate perfection of her room.

Each time she pulled back, her lips glistened, her breath hot against him. She licked along the vein at the base of his cock, dragged her tongue slowly, deliberately, and then took him in deep again. His legs trembled, his jaw locked tight as he fought for a control he knew he’d already lost.

The coil in his gut tightened fast, too fast. His grip in her hair turned rougher, tugging until she moaned again, a sharper, needier sound this time and the vibration almost sent him over the edge. His eyes squeezed shut, a desperate groan ripping free.

“Stop,” he gasped, his voice ragged. He tugged her head back, forcing his cock to slide from her mouth with a slick, wet sound that made him shudder. “Please, honey—” His breath stuttered, the words coming in harsh, broken pants. “I need—fuck—I need to be inside you. Now.”

She looked up at him, her lips glistening, her breath coming in soft pants. There was no hesitation in her eyes, only a shared, desperate understanding. She rose in one fluid motion, her hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, pulling him down for another bruising kiss as she came to her feet.

He responded instantly, lifting her off the floor as her legs wrapped around his waist. He carried her the few steps to the massive bed, their mouths still locked together. He fell back onto the mattress, pulling her down on top of him. The world was a dizzying rush of sensation: the soft give of the expensive mattress, the weight of her body settling onto his, the rasp of her denim against the bare skin of his legs. 

Propped up on her hands on either side of his head, she looked down at him, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. Her eyes were dark with a fierce, possessive heat. She was still in her bra and underwear; he was bare-chested with his own jeans a ruin around his ankles. The sight of her, poised and powerful above him, stole the air from his lungs. He was, for a moment, completely speechless, able to do nothing but stare up at her.

“Well,” she whispered, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden, Mark.”

A rough, breathy laugh escaped him. His hands came up to rest on her hips, feeling the warm skin above the lace of her underwear. “Just admiring the view,” he said, his voice a low growl. “It’s… significantly better than the one out the window.”

“Is that so?” she murmured, leaning down, her hair brushing against his face, her lips hovering just above his ear. “Tell me what you see.”

His hands slid from her hips to her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. He let out a rough, shaky breath that was almost a laugh. His eyes were full of a kind of dazed, helpless wonder.

“I see the person who has made it impossible for me to form a coherent thought for seven straight days,” he said, his voice a low, raw murmur. “I see the woman who has completely hijacked my brain.” He shook his head slowly, in disbelief. “I see the end of my quiet, orderly life.”

A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her lips. She leaned closer, her whisper a velvety vibration against his skin. “Is that a complaint, Professor?”

He looked her directly in the eye, his expression one of complete, utter surrender. “Oh, I’m not complaining,” he breathed, a rough groan building in his chest. “But you are going to be the absolute death of me, Helena Eagan.”

He crushed his mouth to hers, a kiss that was a surrender and a claim all at once. In a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, they tore at the rest of their clothes, denim and lace cast aside onto the pristine white floor in messy heaps. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her hips, and she moved with him, kicking them free.

He fell back onto the vast, cool sheets, pulling her with him. She rose over him, a vision in the dim light of the city, and guided him to her entrance. She sank down onto his cock with a sharp, shuddering gasp, taking all of him in one slow, impossibly deep slide.

But instead of propping herself up, she collapsed forward, her body melting against his. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her face burying into the curve of his shoulder. Instinctively, his own arms came up to encircle her, his hands splaying across the smooth skin of her back, pulling her impossibly closer until there was no space left between them. They were chest to chest, heart to heart, their bodies joined, locked in a desperate, aching embrace.

“Helena,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe, the word a prayer against her skin. “You are so incredibly beautiful.”

She didn't answer with words. She let out a soft, shaky sound, a half-sob, half-moan, and her hips rocked against his, a silent, pleading movement. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes wide and dark. “Say it again,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his own voice unsteady. “The way you feel… the way your eyes go dark right before you kiss me. The sound you make in the back of your throat.” He shifted his hips, pushing deeper inside her, and she gasped. “That sound. It’s perfect.”

She shuddered, a tremor running through her entire body. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her voice a raw whisper.

He began to move, a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was dictated by the sheer closeness of their bodies. There was no room for anything but this profound, shared friction. He felt every inch of her—the press of her breasts against his chest, the damp heat of her slick cunt clenching around his cock with every slow thrust, the frantic pulse beating in her neck. His hands roamed her back, learning the sharp line of her spine, the delicate shape of her shoulder blades

The pace quickened, their rhythm becoming more urgent. Her soft moans grew sharper, her nails digging into his shoulders. He felt her losing control, her body beginning to tighten. He wanted to see her. He needed to see her. His hands slid from her back to her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks until her eyes, which had squeezed shut, fluttered open.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice impossibly tender. “Look at me.”

She did, and he saw a universe of trust in their depths.

“Just like that,” he breathed, his voice raw with emotion as he moved deeper, faster. “Stay with me, Helena. Come with me.”

He watched her unravel, his name a torn, desperate cry from her lips as her orgasm seized her. Her cunt clenched around his cock in a series of exquisite, pulsing waves that shattered his own control. He cried out her name—a broken, desperate sound against her skin—as his release surged through him, hot and deep. His hips drove up one last time in a final, shuddering surrender to the overwhelming sensation of being completely lost in her.

He collapsed back against the pillows, his arms still locked around her, holding her tight as she slumped against his chest, both of them trembling and spent. They didn't move for a long time, their bodies still joined, their ragged breaths syncing in the quiet room. He tangled a hand in her hair, his other stroking her back in slow, soothing circles, his lips pressing soft kisses to her damp temple and shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice still a little rough.

“Mmm,” she sighed, a deep, contented sound, and snuggled back against him. “More than okay.” She shifted, turning her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes languid and dark. A slow, radiant smile spread across her face. “That was… exactly what I needed.”

He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “Funny, I think I did too.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, simply holding each other. His arm was a warm, heavy weight around her, her head resting on his chest. Outside the massive window, the city was a silent, glittering tableau. Mark found his gaze drifting over the endless pinpricks of light.

“You know,” he said into the quiet, his voice a low murmur. “The whole city looks different from up here at this time of year.”

He felt her stir slightly. “Different how?”

“Down there,” he said, thinking of the chaotic energy of the rink, “it’s a complete mess. The crowds, the shoppers, the music from every storefront. It’s chaos. But from up here… it’s just quiet. Just lights.”

She was silent for a moment, processing that. “You sound like you prefer the chaos,” she said, her voice laced with a soft, teasing curiosity.

He let out a small laugh. “That sounds about right,” he admitted. “The good kind of chaos, anyway. It reminds me of the holidays with my family.” He paused, a fond smile touching his lips. “My sister has been sending me photo updates all week. It’s my niece Eleanor’s first Christmas, so Devon has gone… completely overboard. There’s glitter on surfaces that shouldn’t have glitter. She sent me a picture of her cat in a tiny Santa hat it clearly despises. She’s even planning a big dinner, and she warned me on the phone last night that her husband Ricken is already practicing a dramatic poetry reading for the occasion.”

He described the scene with a warmth that filled the space between them. When he finished, he realized Helena had gone very still.

“That sounds…” she said, and he could hear the genuine, quiet longing in her voice. “… fun.”

The single word, so full of meaning for both of them, hung in the air. He gently tilted her chin up. “And what about you? What does the holiday look like in your world?”

He felt her smile fade before he saw it. Her body, which had been relaxed against his, seemed to tense almost imperceptibly.

“There isn’t one,” she said, her tone suddenly flat and distant, as if she were describing a business trip. “There are ‘arrangements.’ My father’s house gets a tree. A design firm comes on December 23rd to install it. It’s always tastefully minimalist. Then they come back on the 26th to remove it. We have a quiet, formal dinner on the 25th that feels more like a diplomatic negotiation.” She let out a soft, humorless breath. “It’s very efficient.”

The simple, stark contrast hit him right in the chest. He pictured the scene: a perfect, untouchable tree in a vast, silent house, an ornament of a holiday rather than a celebration of one. He thought of the loud, chaotic, and deeply loving mess of his sister's home—the pictures of glitter on the cat, the threat of Ricken's terrible poetry. He saw, in that moment, the aching loneliness at the center of her life, a void that no amount of money or luxury could ever fill.

And in that void, he felt a chilling pang of recognition. His own holidays for the past two years had been their own kind of efficient—quiet, solitary, and devoid of messy, complicated joy. Hers was an exile of expectation, his an exile of grief.

He tightened his arm around her, pulling her impossibly closer. “That sounds,” he said, his voice a low murmur against her hair, “incredibly lonely.”

He felt her take a slow, shaky breath, a silent admission. She didn't have to say a word.

“For the past two years,” he admitted quietly, “mine have just been… quiet. A different kind of empty, but empty all the same.”

He shifted then, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at her. “I have a proposition for you,” he said, a small, tentative smile on his lips. “A counter-offer to the ‘arrangements’.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed in curiosity. “A proposition?”

“It’s a bit of a departure from minimalist trees and diplomatic negotiations,” he warned, his thumb stroking her cheek. “The forks don’t match. My niece will probably try to feed you a Cheerio she found on the floor. My brother-in-law will definitely corner you to explain the core principles of his new self-help book. And the cat, despite my sister Devon’s best efforts, will shed on your very nice clothes.”

He watched her face as she processed his words, saw the flicker of confusion give way to dawning, fragile comprehension.

“It’s messy,” he continued, his voice softening. “And it’s chaotic, and it’s not at all like what you’re so used to. But it’s fun, and it’s real—the way a holiday should be. I was thinking… what if you came with me? To my sister’s house. For Christmas dinner.”

Helena went completely still, her eyes widening. She stared at him as if he’d just started speaking a foreign language. “You’re… you’re inviting me? To your sister’s house?”

“I am,” he said softly, leaving no room for doubt.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, her gaze searching his, and Mark wondered if she was looking for the catch, the angle, the contractual obligation. He knew she would find none. All she found was him, and in his open, honest gaze, she saw a vulnerability that mirrored her own. Her eyes began to well with tears.

“Mark,” she whispered, the name a fragile, breathless thing. She didn't have to say anything else.

“Is that a yes?” he asked gently.

She nodded, a small, jerky movement. Then she nodded again, more firmly this time, a slow, radiant smile breaking through the unshed tears she was trying to hold back. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Of course, yes.”

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and leaned down to kiss her. The kiss was gentle, not demanding, but it held the weight of a quiet vow. It was the sound of a door opening, not just into a new room, but out of the one he'd been trapped in his whole life.

He settled back down, pulling her close again, her head finding its familiar place on his chest. Her arm draped across his stomach, her hand resting over his heart as if she could feel the steady, reassuring beat of it. The city lights still glittered outside, but they felt different now, less like a symbol of their separate worlds and more like a shared backdrop.

“Okay,” she murmured into his skin after a long, comfortable silence. “One question.”

“Anything,” he said.

“What does one wear to a dinner party where the cat is in a Santa hat?”

He let out a real laugh, the sound deep and warm in the quiet room. “Whatever you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “But maybe leave the couture at home. Glitter is notoriously difficult to get out of expensive clothes.”

She laughed with him, a soft, happy sound that was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in this stark, silent place. He held her tighter, his eyes closing as a feeling of pure, unadulterated peace settled over him. He felt a quiet shift inside him, a loosening of a knot he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for two years. For so long, the future had been a room he kept locked, a place too painful to even approach. But holding her now, he felt the lock give way. The change wasn't a grand, earth-shattering revelation but something smaller and quieter, like the turning of a single page. It was the simple, terrifying, and utterly wonderful thought that his story hadn't ended. He was just beginning a new chapter, with her.

Us Weekly (@UsWeekly)

HOLIDAY ROMANCE! ❤️ Helena Eagan and boyfriend Mark Scout share a magical night ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Sources say the couple looked "completely smitten" and couldn't keep their eyes off each other.

Helena Eagan Updates (@eaganupdates)

NEW PICS OF HELENA AND MARK ICE SKATING AND HOLDING HANDS I AM UNWELL 😭 HE'S SO CLUMSY AND SHE'S HELPING HIM THIS IS A REAL LIFE HALLMARK MOVIE MY HEART 😭😭😭

Pop Crave (@PopCrave)

Helena Eagan and Mark Scout spotted on a date ice skating at Rockefeller Center in NYC tonight. ⛸️❤️ (via @UsWeekly)

Vulture (@vulture)

And so we reach the 'Cheesy Holiday Activity' narrative beat. The Heiress and the Professor's public romance hits every predictable rom-com trope with masterful precision.
vulture.com/2025/12/helena-eagan-relatability-narrative.html

The Wrap (@TheWrap)

Lumon's PR strategy for Helena Eagan continues to prove effective. The highly publicized, idyllic date with Mark Scout has generated overwhelmingly positive online sentiment, a key asset in humanizing the future CEO ahead of the new year.

Chapter Text

XXXIV.

Anxiety, for Helena, had always been a tool. It was a cold, sharp motivator, the familiar, productive hum of an upcoming board meeting or the calculated risk of a multi-billion-dollar acquisition. It was a whetstone she used to sharpen her focus.

But the feeling that took root the week before Christmas was something else entirely. A warm, messy, and unproductive dread that settled low in her stomach and refused to be optimized. It was the anxiety of the deeply, terrifyingly personal. It was the anxiety of being seen.

It was sparked by a memory. She was in her silent, perfect apartment, a tablet resting on her lap, when a festive advertisement for a department store flickered across the screen. Suddenly, she was nine years old again. A tree, impossibly tall and decorated by strangers in shades of silver and ice blue, had been erected in the grand foyer of her father’s house. She remembered the clumsy, glitter-glue-and-paper ornament she’d made at school, and the fierce, secret pride she’d felt as she found a space for it on a lower branch. A housekeeper had removed it minutes later with a quiet, apologetic smile, explaining that it didn’t align with the “approved design scheme” for the year. The gift she received that year was a framed stock certificate for a subsidiary of Lumon. It was, her father had explained, a far more valuable gift than any doll.

That memory, and a dozen others just like it, was the lens through which she now viewed the upcoming holiday. Mark’s world, a place of sentimental chaos and unconditional familial love, was an alien territory she desperately wanted to enter but had no idea how to navigate.

This feeling came to a head on the evening of the twenty-third. She was alone in her office, and the rest of the floor was dark and silent, the army of assistants and executives having long since departed for their own families and holiday plans. Below her, the city was a glittering, festive carpet of light, but up here, the air was still and sterile. She was staring at a financial report, the numbers blurring together, when a soft knock came at her door.

“Come in.”

Natalie entered, tablet in hand, her expression one of crisp efficiency. “Just a final confirmation for your holiday schedule, Ms. Eagan. I’ve sent the full itinerary to your personal calendar.”

Helena gestured for her to continue, her gaze still fixed on the distant, indifferent lights of the city.

“Christmas Eve dinner is at the club at eight with the board members from the European delegation,” Natalie read, her voice even. “Christmas Day lunch is at your father’s estate, from one to three p.m. Your car will be ready at noon.” She swiped the screen. “Then on the 26th, we have the preliminary budget review at nine a.m., followed by the quarterly debrief with the marketing team at eleven…”

As Natalie’s voice droned on, listing the endless, soulless arrangements, Helena’s mind drifted. She thought of Mark’s description of his sister’s house—the excitement for his niece’s first Christmas, the glitter, the bad poetry, the cat that sheds on everything wearing a tiny, ridiculous hat.  She thought of his warm and easy laughter. She thought of his hand in hers, a solid, grounding presence in the middle of a chaotic yet joyful crowd.

She looked at the schedule Natalie was laying out for her—a series of impersonal, strategic meetings designed to reinforce the Eagan name and the Lumon brand. It was a map of her days, and all of it had been drawn by other hands.

And for the first time, she felt an overwhelming, visceral need to rebel, to choose the man who saw Helena over the world that only saw an Eagan. She needed to disconnect from the persona, from the product, if she ever wanted a chance to just be herself by his side.

“Natalie,” Helena said, her voice cutting through the recitation with a cold authority. “Stop.”

Natalie looked up, surprised. “Ms. Eagan?”

“Cancel it,” Helena said, turning from the window to face her assistant. “All of it.”

“I… I don’t understand. Which meeting?”

“All of them,” Helena clarified, a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom washing over her. “Clear my schedule. From tomorrow afternoon through January 2nd. I’m taking the rest of the year off.”

Natalie was speechless for a moment, her professional composure faltering. “But… your father expects the preliminary review…”

“My father can read the files I’ll be sending him tonight,” Helena said. “I am unavailable. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Eagan,” Natalie said, the shock still evident in her voice.

After Natalie left, closing the door with a soft, deferential click, Helena stood in the absolute silence of her office for a long time, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had just committed an act of corporate—and familial—rebellion. The thought was terrifying. Her father’s reaction would be a cold, quiet storm, and the professional fallout would be a headache she’d have to manage in the new year. The fear was a familiar, metallic taste in her mouth.

But the fear was secondary to the exhilarating clarity that had driven the decision. It was as if, while Natalie was speaking, a distorted lens she’d been looking through her entire life had suddenly clicked into focus. The blurry, color-bled version of her future—the one filled with ‘arrangements’ and ‘diplomatic negotiations’—had become sharp, and she had seen it for what it was: a life that wasn't hers. For the next ten days, her time was a blank page.

And she knew exactly what she wanted to write on it.

A new kind of energy surged through her, a giddy, unfamiliar excitement. She sat down at her massive desk, a vast expanse of polished black granite that seemed to absorb all the light in the room, and swiveled in her chair, a girlish impulse. She pulled her laptop towards her, the screen illuminating her face. The first order of business for her newfound freedom: gifts.

She was immediately overwhelmed, but this time, the anxiety was a happy, purposeful panic. She scrolled through websites, the contrast of her task against her surroundings almost comical. Here she was, in the seat of corporate power, earnestly trying to solve a problem that felt more complex than any market projection.

For Eleanor, her search led her to the children's section of a high-fashion website. A tiny, exquisitely made Burberry trench coat, complete with a matching checked bonnet. The idea of a one-year-old, who Mark had described as being constantly covered in glitter, wearing a four-figure designer outfit was objectively absurd. It felt cold, like she was dressing a doll for a photo shoot, not giving a gift to a child.

For Devon, it should have been easier. Mark had told her she was a landscape architect, a profession Helena understood perfectly well from a corporate perspective. She’d overseen the budgets for half a dozen campus redesigns and had sat through countless presentations on horticulture and sustainable design.

Her mind immediately generated a list of impressive, high-impact gestures: a donation to the Central Park Conservancy in Devon’s name, an after-hours private tour of the High Line with one of its founding designers, or funding a scholarship for a landscape architecture student at Devon's alma mater.

She dismissed each one instantly. They were transactions. Power plays. The kinds of things Lumon did to impress the city council. They had nothing to do with the woman at the center of the sentimental chaos Mark had painted for her; the woman she was suddenly, desperately anxious to impress, not for a deal or for an advantage, but for him. Frustrated by her inability to think on a human scale, she defaulted to the one category she knew: a simple, impersonal, luxury good.

A handbag. She found a beautiful, classic leather tote from a brand she herself carried. It was tasteful, expensive, and had absolutely nothing to do with Devon’s passions. It was the kind of polite, impersonal gift one gives to a business associate's wife to acknowledge an occasion.

And for Ricken, the author. A quick, discreet search had revealed his publisher, his surprisingly earnest blog, and the literary heroes he often cited. She found a signed, first-edition copy of a book by one of those heroes. On paper, it was the perfect, thoughtful gift. But the price was astronomical, and the gesture felt less like a gift and more like a flex, a vulgar display of resources. It was the kind of gift that silenced a room, that became an anecdote.

Every perfect, expensive, and logically sound option felt utterly, hopelessly wrong. She had spent her entire life understanding the currency of power and influence, but she was a complete novice in the currency of thoughtfulness. This was a problem she couldn’t solve with research and money.

She needed an expert. She needed him. She picked up her phone and called Mark.

“Hey, you,” his voice was a warm, reassuring rumble that instantly soothed the frantic edge of her nerves.

“Hey,” she said back, a real smile spreading across her face. “I am in the middle of a gift-giving crisis and I require your immediate assistance.”

“Uh-oh.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “As your official consultant on all things ‘normal,’ I have to warn you, my rates are steep. I charge by the minute.”

She laughed, a real, relaxed sound. “Put it on my tab. Right now, I’m staring at a tiny Burberry trench coat for a one-year-old. Is that… a thing people do?”

“Only if you want my sister to put it in a glass case and never let Eleanor actually touch it,” he said gently. “Helena, you don’t have to get them anything extravagant.” He paused, and his voice softened. “Just bring yourself. That’s all they really want.”

“Just me?” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Mark, that’s a notoriously difficult gift. You have to soften the blow with a really good bottle of wine, at least.”

“Okay, the wine is a good call,” he conceded with a chuckle. “And if you’re serious about the gifts… don’t overthink it. It’s not a test.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “For Eleanor, anything soft she can immediately put in her mouth is a win. For Ricken, a nice, simple notebook for his writings—he’ll be thrilled. And for Devon… honestly, she’d probably just love a really interesting plant she’s never seen before. It’s that easy.”

The advice was so practical, so simple, so completely outside her own world of grand, empty gestures that she felt a wave of relief. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. I can do that.”

“I know you can,” he said. There was a pause, and the banter faded into something more intimate. “Seriously, though. I’m just… really happy you’re coming.”

“Me too,” she said, her voice softening as well. “It’s been a long week. I’ve missed this. Talking to you.”

“I’ve missed it too,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I have to admit, my apartment felt incredibly quiet after I left yours on Monday. Too quiet.”

The raw, simple honesty of his words made her feel brave. “Well,” she said, her new, daring plan taking shape. “About that… I did something today. I cleared my schedule for the rest of the year.”

She heard the surprise in his voice. “You’re kidding. The whole week?”

“The whole week,” she confirmed. “And I was thinking… after we survive the glitter and the bad poetry at your sister’s… I have a place upstate. It’s calm. No phones, no Natalie, no one.” She took a breath. “I thought maybe we could just… disappear for a few days. Until the new year.”

He was silent for a long moment, and she felt a flicker of panic, of having overstepped.

“Helena,” he finally said, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. “Just us? No security detail lurking in the trees? No assistants on standby?”

“Just us,” she affirmed, a smile returning to her voice. “And a fireplace. And a distinct lack of cell service. Think you can survive being disconnected?”

“I think the more pressing question is whether the global economy can survive you being disconnected for a week,” he teased. His voice dropped lower, becoming a low, playful growl. “But personally? I think I’ll manage. We might have to find some creative ways to entertain ourselves.”

“I was counting on it,” she said, her voice a purr. “I’ll have to pack accordingly. I’m thinking of bringing something… special. Just for you.”

She could hear his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine. “Helena, you could show up in a potato sack and you’d still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He paused, and his voice dropped even lower, thick with desire. “But for the record… my favorite outfit on you is still nothing at all. I really, really enjoy seeing you naked.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, a delicious, coiling warmth spreading through her belly. “Is that so?” she whispered. “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I won’t pack much at all, then.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” he groaned softly. “You’re making it very, very difficult to focus on anything else between now and then.”

“Good,” she murmured, feeling triumphant and deeply desired. “The feeling is mutual.”

Her tone shifted then, her practical, future-CEO side peeking through. “Okay, so. Logistically. The dinner at your sister's is on the 25th. You think we'll be leaving around ten?”

“Right,” he said, as if his mind catching up. “Probably around then, whenever the food coma fully sets in.”

“Perfect,” she said, making a mental checklist. “I'll have my driver meet us at your sister's around then. It’s about a three-hour trip, so we can be there late. I’ll make sure the place is stocked.”

“You’ve already got it all figured out, don’t you?” he said with an amused fondness.

“I’m a planner,” she said simply. “It’s a sickness.”

“Well, it’s a plan I can definitely get behind,” he said, a happy, contented sigh in his voice. “I should probably let you go.”

“Okay,” she said, but her voice was soft, hesitant. She paused. “Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m… a little nervous,” she admitted, the words barely a whisper. “About Wednesday. What if they… what if they hate me?”

The raw vulnerability in her question took him by surprise. He could picture her in her vast, empty office, suddenly looking small. His own voice was impossibly gentle when he answered.

“Helena,” he said softly. “They’re not meeting ‘Helena Eagan.’ They’re meeting you.” He let out a small, rough breath. “They’re meeting the woman who laughs when I’m being an idiot on the ice. The woman I haven't been able to stop thinking about. If you just let them meet her, they are going to love you. I promise.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” he said back, and the sincerity in his voice was more reassuring than any grand promise.

“Goodnight, Mark,” she said, her voice a warm promise.

“You too, Helena.”

After the call ended, Helena stood in the absolute silence of her office for a long time, her phone clutched in her hand. The warmth and promise of Mark's voice echoed in the cavernous space, a stark contrast to the cold, glittering city outside. For the first time, she had a plan for the holidays that felt like a choice, not an obligation. The thought was terrifying. And wonderful.

+

The next day, Christmas Eve, Helena set out into the city with a sense of determined purpose. The task of finding the gifts Mark had suggested felt more important than any board presentation she had ever prepared for. It was, she realized, a test. Not from them, but from herself. A test to see if she could operate in this new, softer world.

She had her driver take her to a small, independent children’s bookstore in the West Village, a place so cluttered and charming it felt like another universe. She spent nearly an hour surrounded by the smell of paper and the low murmur of parents reading to their children, finally selecting a beautifully illustrated, soft-paged book about a bear who lost his hat. For Ricken, she found a stationery shop that seemed frozen in time, and purchased a simple, elegant notebook with thick, creamy paper and a dark leather cover.

Her final stop for the family was for Devon. Her online research had led her to a highly-rated specialty shop in a part of the city she’d never been to: My Bonita Gardens in Queens. She’d found the perfect plant on their website and arranged to pick it up in person. The journey itself felt like a deliberate step outside her usual orbit of Manhattan’s polished avenues.

The plant was waiting for her—a stunning variegated monstera, its large leaves a beautiful, imperfect marbled pattern of deep forest green and creamy white. The transaction was swift and simple, but the intent felt entirely new. She wasn't acquiring an asset; she was choosing something living and beautiful. The goal wasn't to impress; it was to delight.

With the three simple, perfect, and blessedly normal gifts secured in the back of the car, a much larger and more impossible problem remained: Mark.

As she walked through the festive, crowded streets, the city a blur of light and motion around her, her mind turned inward. She had a list in her head of things she could buy him. She could secure a set of authentic and rare hand-drawn battlefield maps from a private collector in Europe. A vintage Patek Philippe watch. She could arrange for a week of private access to the closed military archives in Paris, complete with a leading historian as his personal guide. She could acquire any of these things with a single phone call.

They were statements, not sentiments. They spoke of value, but not of worth. Each option felt like a reinforcement of the world she was trying to escape, a reminder of the ‘Helena Eagan’ persona, not the woman Mark saw when he looked at her. The battlefield maps were an acquisition, the watch a status symbol, the archive access a power play. They were the kinds of gifts her father gave—impressive, expensive, and utterly devoid of the warm, terrifying, and intensely alive feeling that had taken root in her chest.

In the span of a few short weeks, this quiet, sad, and ridiculously brilliant man had turned her entire world upside down. He had walked into her cold, orderly life and set it on fire. He saw past the Eagan name, past the future CEO persona, and looked at her with an unguarded sincerity that both terrified and thrilled her. For the first time, she was letting someone see the person behind the product, and the vulnerability was dizzying. But with him, it felt… safe. She realized, with a clarity that was as shocking as it was undeniable, that she was letting herself fall for him. And the thought of giving him a gift that was just another display of wealth felt like a betrayal of the fragile, real thing they were building.

The idea for his gift came to her then, a sudden, perfect flash of inspiration born from that thought. He was a historian, a man who looked at the past. She wanted to give him something to look at the future with. A vintage Leica camera. A beautiful, mechanical object for capturing new moments, new memories. Their memories. It was expensive, yes, but its value wasn't in the price tag; it was in the promise. It was a tool for them to start documenting their own story.

Acquiring it was another matter. It took the rest of the afternoon, a flurry of urgent calls, and three assistants working across different time zones. Finding a museum-quality model available for immediate, same-day international delivery on Christmas Eve was a logistical nightmare, even for her. The final price, after the last-minute sourcing fees and the cost of chartering a private courier from London, was astronomical, even by her standards.

But as she received the final confirmation email, a serene sense of satisfaction settled over her. It wasn't about the money. It was about the chase, about deploying her entire arsenal of resources not for a corporate takeover, but for a single, perfect, deeply personal object. It was worth it.

Later that evening, she stood by the massive window of her penthouse. The city below was a symphony of festive lights. The wrapped gifts sat on her living room table—three simple, modest boxes for his family, and one discreet, elegant package containing the Leica. The logistics were handled. There was nothing left to plan, nothing to acquire. There was only the silence and the waiting.

For years, this kind of silence on a holiday eve had been a familiar, empty companion. But tonight, it felt different. It was filled with a low, humming anxiety, a feeling she couldn't quell with logic or preparation.

She had playbooks for every conceivable business scenario. She knew the correct fork to use at a state dinner, the right wine to order to impress a client, the precise moment to smile in a negotiation. Her life was a series of controlled, predictable performances where she always knew her lines.

But there was no playbook for this. No protocol for meeting the family of the man she was falling for. No strategy for navigating a warm, messy, loving home. The fear was simple and immensurable: that her entire life had been a training exercise for a world that didn't matter, and had left her completely unprepared for one that did. She was terrified they would look at her and see not a person, but a price tag; that her perfect clothes and collected composure would be mistaken for coldness. That in a room full of genuine warmth, she would be the only one who didn't know how to be real.

Her mind drifted back to Mark, as it always did now. She thought of his voice on the phone, the simple, unwavering sincerity in his reassurance. They’re meeting you. He made it sound so easy, as if "her" was a simple thing to be. He didn't see the carefully constructed persona, the layers of corporate armor, the daughter trained to be an asset. He saw a woman who laughed when he was being an idiot on the ice.

A slow warmth spread through her chest, an antidote to the cold knot of fear. It was the memory of his voice on the phone, the simple, unwavering belief he had not in “Helena Eagan,” but in her—the woman who laughs when he’s being an idiot on the ice.

And in that quiet moment, she realized the objective of her mission had changed. This trip to his sister's house was no longer about a contract or a performance. It wasn't even about making a good impression. It was about seeing, firsthand, the world that had created him. She wanted to understand the source of his soft strength, his easy kindness; to witness the sentimental chaos that he called home.

The thought was terrifying, a risk far greater than any market fluctuation, because the potential loss wasn't capital; it was her own, newly-awakened heart. For the first time, she was consciously stepping into a situation where she had no power, no playbook, and everything to lose. And she was doing it willingly. For him.

XXXV.

On Christmas afternoon, Helena stood before the mirror in her massive walk-in closet, a space that was usually a source of calm, decisive power, and felt a wave of pure, unadulterated panic.

Her suitcase for their trip to the cabin was already packed and waiting by the door. She had packed it the night before, an act of hopeful anticipation. It was a study in contrast. On one side, there were soft, practical things she rarely wore: thick cashmere sweaters, worn-in jeans she’d had for years, heavy wool socks. It was a costume for a life of gentle domesticity she was eager to try on. On the other side, tucked away in silk pouches, was an arsenal. Expensive, ridiculously sexy lingerie in silk and delicate lace that she had bought with only him in mind. Tucked alongside it, after a moment of wicked deliberation, was a small, discreet sex toy she didn’t even take out of the box yet. A secret weapon, just in case.

But for tonight, for dinner, she needed the perfect armor. Not the intimidating armor of the boardroom, but something softer. She’d kept her makeup minimal—a touch of mascara, a soft blush, and a sheer, glossy lip, a look designed to say “I’m not trying too hard,” which had, of course, taken twenty minutes of meticulous effort. Instead of her usual tight knot, she had pulled her hair back into a loose, low ponytail, allowing a few soft tendrils to frame her face. She’d considered and discarded a dozen options before settling on a fluid, cream-colored silk blouse that felt good against her skin, and a pair of perfectly tailored, wide-leg wool trousers in a warm camel color. It was chic, elegant, and announced its quality in the perfect drape of the fabric.

Looking at her reflection, she saw a woman who was impeccably dressed. She also saw a complete imposter. She imagined this version of herself, a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion editorial, trying to navigate a home where the most valuable things were probably the children's drawings taped to the refrigerator.

She looked like she belonged in a magazine, not a family. For a terrifying moment, she wanted to cancel, to retreat to the safety of her silent, perfect penthouse.

The buzz of her intercom startled her from her spiral. "Mr. Scout is here for you, Ms. Eagan."

Her heart did a frantic, nervous flip. It was too late to retreat. She took one last, steadying breath, and when she opened the door, he was standing there, his own cheeks flushed from the cold, a light dusting of snow on the shoulders of his dark coat. He was holding a single, small, slightly lopsided gift bag. His eyes did a slow sweep from her boots to her face, and his easy, earnest smile washed away a layer of her anxiety.

“Helena,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble that was somehow both awestruck and completely at ease. “You look… incredible.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Professor,” she said, her own smile feeling less like a performance and more like a real thing. “That sweater is very respectable.”

He laughed, glancing down at himself as if suddenly self-conscious. She took him in properly for the first time since opening the door. He was wearing a dark charcoal merino wool sweater that fit him well, skimming his shoulders and chest in a way that hinted at the solid frame she now knew so intimately. Paired with dark, clean-cut jeans and a pair of scuffed but clearly well-made leather boots, it was, she realized, his version of dressing up.

There was an endearing, deliberate quality to it. He didn’t look like a man trying to impress a billionaire with labels or trends. He just looked like Mark. Solid, dependable, and quietly handsome.

As he smiled back at her, a hint of nervousness appeared in his eyes. “This is for you,” he said, holding out the small, slightly lopsided gift bag. “It’s… not much. A bit of a project, really.”

She took it, her fingers brushing his. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a small, old, leather-bound volume of Pablo Neruda’s love sonnets. The leather was worn but supple, clearly restored with a careful, loving hand. The gold leaf on the title was new, a bright, imperfect shimmer against the aged leather.

“It’s not a first edition or anything valuable,” he said quietly, almost nervously, as she ran a finger over the restored binding. “It was just an old copy I found with a wrecked cover. I thought… well, I know you don’t have many books around here. And I fix them sometimes. So, I fixed this one. For you.”

She finally looked up from the book, her eyes shining. "It's the most thoughtful gift I've ever received," she said softly. "Thank you."

The warmth of his gaze as he looked at her, his relief palpable, made a soft blush rise on her cheeks. Between his deeply personal gift—a thing he had repaired with his own two hands, a gift of his time, his skill, his gentle care—and the simple, unguarded way he was looking at her, she felt seen in a way that was both terrifying and utterly wonderful. A million-dollar watch would have meant nothing. This—the book and the act behind it—meant everything.

"I should probably stop staring," he said, with a small, self-conscious laugh. "It's just... I'm really glad you're coming with me tonight, Helena. More than you know."

His sincerity was a palpable thing, a gentle pressure against the armor she usually wore. Moved, she stepped closer, rising up on her toes to meet him. She didn't crush her mouth to his; she simply brought her lips to his, a soft, questioning touch. He responded instantly, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back, drawing her in.

The kiss was slow, a deliberate savoring. It wasn't about the frantic, desperate need of their first nights, but about a deep, unfolding affection. She felt the slight roughness of his jaw, tasted the clean, sharp coolness of mint on his tongue—a taste that was more fresh than sweet—and a low, happy hum vibrated in her chest, escaping into his mouth.

She pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, her own voice a little shaky. "I can't wait to be alone with you after tonight, too." She looked him directly in the eye, a wicked, playful glint appearing in their depths. "And for the record, I have a lot of surprises for you packed in my luggage.”

A low groan rumbled in his chest, and his hand tightened on her back, pulling her flush against him. He kissed her again, deeper this time, a hungry promise of what was to come.

"We should... we should go," he finally murmured against her mouth, his voice rough. "Or my sister will actually send out a search party."

She laughed, a real, breathless sound. "Okay, Professor." She stepped back, taking his hand. "Let's go face the chaos."

+

The drive to his sister’s house was a journey into a different atmosphere. The familiar, climate-controlled silence of the car was a bubble, but the world passing outside the tinted windows was new. The sharp, vertical geometry of Manhattan gave way to the soft, horizontal lines of the suburbs. Houses, each one unique, glowed with warm, mismatched Christmas lights. It was a world of subtle, lived-in details, and Helena felt like she was trying to learn a foreign language by watching it flash by at sixty miles an hour.

She had spent a lifetime becoming fluent in the language of her own world: the clipped, precise dialect of the boardroom; the cool, formal grammar of a high-society event; the unspoken syntax of power. She could navigate that world with her eyes closed. But this world, the one of lopsided wreaths and snow-covered lawns, felt entirely unreadable. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing, of using the wrong tone, of revealing with some small, unconscious gesture that she was just a tourist here, with a phrasebook full of useless, corporate words.

She risked a glance at Mark, hoping to draw some calm from his steady presence. But he wasn't calm. He was staring out the window with a focused intensity, his jaw tight. She watched his hand, resting on his knee, his fingers tapping out a silent, anxious rhythm. He was her native guide to this new territory, and he was nervous. The thought was so unexpected it startled her.

“You’re a million miles away,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “Everything okay?”

He startled slightly, turning from the window. A faint, self-conscious smile touched his lips. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just…” He let out a short, rough breath. “I was just hoping you’ll be okay. That it won’t be… too much. The chaos.” His eyes were full of a raw, honest concern. “I just… I really want you to feel welcome.”

And in that moment, her own tightly-coiled anxiety seemed to loosen, replaced by a sudden, stunning clarity. He was nervous. The man who was her anchor in this strange new world was just as terrified as she was. But his fear wasn't for himself; it was for her. He was so worried about her happiness, about her feeling like she belonged, that he was twisting himself into knots.

A slow, warm wave of something powerful and grounding washed over her. It was the startling, solid feeling of being a we. His anxiety wasn't a weakness; it was proof. It was the undeniable evidence of how deeply he cared. And if he cared this much, then this wasn't her test to pass alone. It was theirs. Suddenly, she wasn't an imposter about to be judged; she was just a woman being brought home by a man who was desperately hoping she would feel welcomed. 

And in that moment, a surprising and deeply grounding realization took hold. She had been clinging to the idea of him as her anchor in this storm of social anxiety. But looking at the sincere, selfless worry etched on his face, she saw not a weakness in him, but a reflection of her own worth to him.

Her own fear for herself was shouldered aside by a fierce, sudden clarity. The complex variables of the evening—the gifts, the conversation, the fear of judgment—all of it dissolved. His concern wasn't strategic, the way her father's would be, focused on the optics of the evening or how she performed as an Eagan. It was simpler, and far more real: he was just terrified she wouldn’t be happy. And in that simple, stunning truth, all her anxiety about performing vanished. She doesn't have to perform for someone who is already on her side. She realized, with a jolt of strong confidence that settled deep in her bones, that she wasn't an outsider on a mission anymore. She already belonged.

+

The car glided to a stop in front of the house with the lopsided wreath. For a moment, neither of them moved. Outside, the windows glowed with a warm, inviting light, a stark contrast to the cool, silent luxury of the car.

He held his hand out to her, palm up. “Ready?” he murmured.

She met his gaze before placing her hand in his. He gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and she answered with a firm grip.

“We are,” she said. “Let’s go.”

He smiled, that slow, honest smile that always seemed to undo her, and got out of the car.

As they walked up the shoveled path, Helena could hear the sounds of life from inside—the murmur of a holiday movie, the faint jingle of music. Before Mark could even lift his hand to knock, the door flew open, releasing a wave of warmth, laughter, and the delicious smell of roasting garlic into the cold night.

Devon stood in the doorway, her face lit up with a huge smile. She was wearing a soft, dark green sweater that sparkled with tiny threads of silver, and a sleeping Eleanor was nestled against her shoulder in a soft carrier.

“You’re here!” Devon said, her voice bright and warm. “We were just taking bets on whether you’d actually make it. Get in, get in, it’s freezing!”

Mark laughed, stepping forward ahead of Helena to give his sister a one-armed hug. “Well, whoever bet that I’d actually show up with the beautiful, mysterious girlfriend wins the pot,” he said, his voice full of easy, teasing affection as he glanced back at Helena. “Ricken, I assume you bet against me?”

A man with a kind, open face and a truly spectacular knitted reindeer sweater appeared at Devon's shoulder, beaming. “My friend, my heart was with you,” he said with total sincerity. “But my five dollars was on you getting cold feet.”

The casual, loving banter immediately took the formal edge off the evening. Helena followed Mark inside, stepping over the threshold and out of the biting December cold. The door closed, and the world changed. It wasn't just the sudden, enveloping warmth; it was the texture of the air itself. It was thick with the scent of roasting garlic and pine, of something sweet like cinnamon baking, and beneath it all, the simple, clean scent of a family home. The sound from a classic Christmas movie mingled with soft music and the happy, unintelligible babble of the baby on Devon's shoulder. A fluffy, grey cat wearing a tiny, deeply resentful Santa hat watched her with narrowed eyes from its perch on an armchair. The atmosphere was so full of life and warmth that it felt like a physical presence, a gentle, cozy pressure that seemed to seep into her bones and melt the last of her carefully constructed armor. Her heart gave a painful, unfamiliar ache—a feeling of profound, gut-wrenching longing for something she’d never known she was missing.

Devon’s gaze was warm, but also sharp and appraising, with the same no-bullshit intelligence Helena had come to recognize in Mark. She looked her up and down, not in a judgmental way, but with a frank, direct curiosity.

“Well, he wasn’t lying,” Devon said, a welcoming smile spreading across her face. “You’re even prettier than your paparazzi photos. I’m Devon.”

The directness was so unexpected it was immediately disarming. Helena felt a real, unforced laugh escape her. “Helena. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

“And I am Ricken. Welcome to our humble hearth, Helena. Its warmth is magnified by your presence.”

“Thank you, Ricken,” Helena said, a small, wry smile touching her lips. “Mark warned me you had a way with words.”

“A gift from the universe, which I am merely a conduit for!” he said with total sincerity, before gesturing with his glass. “Can I offer you some of my famous heavily spiced and possibly too strong eggnog?”

“I would love some,” she said, relaxing another fraction.

“I’ll get it,” Mark said, taking the gift bags from her hands and setting them by the table. “You two get acquainted.” He gave her a quick, reassuring smile before disappearing toward the kitchen.

Devon shifted the sleeping Eleanor to her other shoulder. “Don’t mind him,” she said to Helena, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “He thinks he has to be the host, but he has no idea where anything is in my kitchen. It’s adorable.” She nodded toward the living room. “Come on, sit down. Take your coat off. Unless you’re planning a quick escape.”

The joke, so dry and unexpected, made Helena laugh again. “No,” she said, shrugging off her long black coat and handing it to Devon. “No escape plan. Not yet, anyway.”

She followed them into the living room, a space that was the absolute antithesis of her own. A slightly crooked, charmingly over-decorated tree stood in the corner. The furniture was comfortable and inviting, a soft throw blanket draped casually over the arm of the sofa and a few colorful pillows nestled into the cushions. Every available surface seemed to hold a framed photograph, a stack of books, or one of Eleanor’s brightly colored teething toys. It was the beautiful, comfortable clutter of a life fully lived, and standing in the middle of it, she had never felt so far from home, and yet, so strangely, wonderfully close to it.

Devon gestured toward the comfortable sofa. "Make yourself at home." She looked at Mark as he re-entered the room from the kitchen, a bottle of red wine and two glasses in hand. "See? I told you he has no idea where anything is. I keep the eggnog in the fridge, not the pantry."

Mark shot his sister a look of fond exasperation as he set the glasses down on the coffee table. "I was looking for the corkscrew, which, for the record, was not in the drawer where normal people keep corkscrews." He poured a generous glass of wine for Helena, his eyes twinkling. "I figured you might need this. As a buffer."

"A buffer for what?" Helena asked, a smile playing on her lips as she took the glass.

Before Mark could answer, Devon, who had been expertly unstrapping Eleanor from the carrier, chimed in. "For him," she said, nodding at Ricken. "Once he gets going on the elemental nature of things, it's a bit of a runaway train."

"It's a valid line of inquiry!" Ricken insisted, though he was smiling. He turned to Helena, his expression one of pure, earnest curiosity. "Helena, I'm fascinated by the world you inhabit. Tell me, do you find that the pursuit of capital inevitably creates a kind of spiritual vacuum?"

Helena was saved by Mark, who choked on a laugh beside her. "Ricken, we’ve been here for five minutes. Let her at least finish a glass of wine before you ask her to solve the fundamental paradox of modern society."

"I think it's a great question," Helena said, surprising them both. She looked at Ricken, a genuine, thoughtful expression on her face. "I think a spiritual vacuum is created by a lack of meaningful connection, not by capital itself. Though the two are often correlated."

Ricken's eyes lit up. "Precisely! The commodification of human experience!"

Mark just shook his head, looking at Helena with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur just for her. "You're actually engaging him. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or terrified."

"A little bit of both, maybe?" she whispered back, the private joke a warm, intimate spark between them.

The conversation that followed was a dizzying, charming mix of Ricken’s poetic sincerity and Mark’s dry, witty interruptions. Helena found herself laughing more than she had in years, a sound that felt foreign and wonderful.

Just then, Devon returned, having successfully put Eleanor down in her crib. "Okay, the tyrant is asleep, which means I have a ten-minute window to get the lasagna on the table before something else catches fire." She grinned at Helena. "Come on. Let's eat."

+

Dinner was a loud, joyful, and delicious affair. The happy table was laden with an almost overwhelming abundance of food. There was a rich, bubbling lasagna steaming in a large ceramic dish, and right beside it, as if that weren't enough, a perfectly roasted prime rib, sliced and glistening.

Helena looked at the spread, then at Devon, who was laughing as she poured wine for Ricken. She was in awe. To go to such lengths, to pour so much effort and care into a single meal for just four adults, was a form of generosity she had never witnessed before. It wasn't about presentation or impressing a guest in the way she was used to; it was about providing warmth and happiness in the most tangible way possible. Surrounding the main dishes were platters of roasted root vegetables, creamy mashed potatoes, and homemade garlic bread, all passed from hand to hand with an easy, familiar comfort.

The conversation was a chaotic symphony of overlapping stories and laughter. Devon told a mortifying story about a twelve-year-old Mark attempting to dye his hair blond, which resulted in a patchy orange disaster. Mark retaliated with a story about Devon’s brief but intense goth phase in high school.

The remnants of the feast were still on the table, and the wine had left everyone in a warm, contented haze. Ricken was in the middle of a long, rambling, but surprisingly charming story about a silent retreat he’d once attended, and Devon and Mark were exchanging looks of fond, familiar exasperation over his head. Helena found herself just listening, a small, genuine smile on her face, feeling the easy, loving rhythm of the family. She felt less like a guest and more like an audience member at a wonderful, chaotic play she’d been given a front-row seat for.

A faint, electronic cry, tinny and insistent, cut through the conversation from a small baby monitor on the kitchen counter.

“Ah,” Devon said, her head snapping up with the practiced, instant response of a parent. “The tiny tyrant awakens.” She pushed her chair back, a fond, tired smile on her face. “Excuse me for a moment. The second act is about to begin.”

As she disappeared down the hallway, Ricken’s story wound to a gentle conclusion. Mark caught Helena’s eye and gave her a small, reassuring smile, a silent “you’re doing great” that she returned with a grateful glance. A comfortable stillness settled over the table.

“Let’s move back to the sofa,” Mark suggested, pushing his own chair back. “It’s more comfortable.” He led them from the dining table, and Helena settled back into the soft cushions of the couch.

A few minutes later, Devon returned. In her arms was Eleanor, now awake, her wide blue eyes blinking in the warm light of the dining room. She was swaddled in a soft white blanket and smelled, even from a few feet away, of baby powder and clean linen.

Mark’s face softened completely at the sight of his niece, a look of such unguarded love that it made Helena’s throat tighten.

Devon came to a stop beside the sofa where Helena had moved after dinner. She looked down at her daughter, then at Helena, a soft, easy smile on her face.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Panic, cold and sharp, seized Helena. Her entire body went rigid. She’d held billion-dollar contracts in her hands with less fear. She looked at the small, fragile, breathing person and her mind went completely blank. Her own childhood was a landscape of nannies and polite, impersonal distance; she had no memory, no training, no instinct for this.

“Oh, I…” she stammered, her hands feeling clumsy and useless in her lap. “I don’t really know how.”

Mark was at her side in an instant, his hand a warm, steady presence on her back. “Just support her head,” he said, his voice a soft reassurance. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Encouraged, Helena held out her arms, a motion that felt stiff and foreign. Devon gently transferred the warm, heavy bundle to her. The baby was surprisingly solid in her arms, a small, dense bundle of incredible warmth. Eleanor looked up at her, her eyes blue and shining, taking her in with an expression of pure, unfiltered curiosity. Her tiny hand reached out, fingers uncurling and then closing with a surprising strength around the soft silk of Helena’s blouse, holding on tight.

The tiny hand, gripping the silk of her blouse, was a small, warm anchor in a sea of new and overwhelming feelings. On a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse, Helena met the baby’s wide, curious gaze and slowly, tentatively, raised her eyebrows and gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

It was a ridiculously small gesture, but the effect was immediate. Eleanor’s face broke into a huge, gummy, toothless grin. A happy, gurgling coo escaped her lips, a sound of uncomplicated delight.

Helena was so surprised she let out a soft laugh. She did it again, this time adding a little wiggle of her nose, and Eleanor responded with another fit of happy coos and kicks. A warm, unfamiliar feeling bloomed in Helena’s chest, a simple pleasure that momentarily eclipsed all of her anxieties.

She was so absorbed in the tiny creature in her arms that she didn’t notice the room had gone quiet until she felt his eyes on her. She looked up.

Mark was leaning against the doorframe of the living room, just watching them. He wasn’t smiling in the way he usually did, with that easy, witty curve of his lips. This was a different expression entirely. It was a look of such unguarded, bone-deep fondness that it made her breath catch. He was looking at her as if she were the most natural, most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She felt a blush creep up her neck as their eyes met. He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly toward her.

“She likes you,” he said, his voice a low, soft murmur that was for her alone.

The simple words landed with the weight of a profound validation. It wasn't just a comment about the baby; it was an acceptance, a confirmation. It meant she wasn’t the alien she had feared she was.

Before she could find the words to reply, Devon re-entered the room, rubbing her hands together.

“Okay, I think she’s officially charmed,” Devon said, her voice a warm, bustling sound that cheerfully broke the intimate spell. “Are we ready for presents before this one decides she needs to inspect them with her mouth?”

Helena reluctantly handed the warm, solid weight of Eleanor back to her mother, the loss of her presence immediate and noticeable.

“Presents it is,” Mark said, giving Helena’s hand a quick, private squeeze as he led her toward the tree, where a small, happy pile of gifts waited under the crooked, charming tree.

Helena followed him to the floor in front of the tree, sitting on a soft rug while Devon settled into an armchair with Eleanor. The atmosphere shifted from the loud chaos of dinner to a quieter, more focused anticipation. Ricken took on the role of master of ceremonies, handing out gifts with a flourish.

Helena’s nerves, which had been soothed by holding the baby, returned in a flutter as they got to her gifts. She watched with held breath. Eleanor immediately tried to eat the soft book about the bear, her gums working on the corner of the cover. Devon showed pure delight, and Ricken’s eyes lit up at the sight of the simple, elegant notebook, his fingers tracing the leather cover.

“Ah, a vessel for the muses! It's perfect. Thank you, Helena.”

She watched as Devon opened her gift, her eyes widening as she saw the elegant leaves peeking out of the tissue paper.

"Oh my god," Devon breathed, her voice full of genuine awe as she carefully lifted the plant. "Helena, is this a Monstera Albo? It's perfect." She ran a gentle finger over one of the white patches on a leaf, a look of pure delight on her face. "I've been trying to get a good cutting for almost a year, but they're always either sold out instantly or the prices are astronomical. This is... wow."

“I have my sources,” Helena said with a small smile, feeling a genuine spark of pleasure at Devon’s expert appreciation.

Then it was Mark’s turn. She picked up the last, discreetly elegant package from under the tree and handed it to Mark.

“This one’s for you,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

He took it, a look of surprise on his face. He unwrapped it carefully, his movements deliberate. He lifted the lid of the box and just stared. For a long moment, he was completely silent, his fingers tracing the cool, metal body of the camera. He looked up at her, his eyes full of a stunned, questioning awe that made her heart beat faster.

She felt her cheeks flush, her carefully planned words suddenly feeling clumsy. “I wasn’t sure… if it was the right thing,” she started, her voice a little shaky. “It’s not another piece of history to put on a shelf, or a story that’s already been written.” She took a small breath, finding her footing, needing him to understand. “But I kept thinking about how this all started for us. With a photograph. A picture someone else took, to tell a story about us that wasn't true.”

She looked him directly in the eye, her voice gaining confidence. “And I thought… Maybe it's time we started capturing our own story. For ourselves.”

He was still speechless, his gaze fixed on her, the weight of her words—of the gift’s true meaning—settling between them. He carefully placed the camera back in its box and set it on the rug beside him. Then, he simply turned to her, his expression full of a raw, tender emotion. He leaned in and pulled her into a deep, loving kiss right there in the middle of his family’s living room. It was a silent thank you that said more than words ever could.

When he pulled back, he was smiling, his eyes shining. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever received, Helena,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She smiled back, her own eyes glistening. “Merry Christmas, Mark.”

+

Later, as Ricken and Mark were engrossed in a debate about the historical accuracy of the Christmas movie playing on the TV, Devon began clearing away the empty glasses and dessert plates. On impulse, Helena stood up.

“Let me help you with that,” she offered.

Devon turned, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh, no, you’re our guest. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Helena said simply, and the sincerity in her voice seemed to be enough. Devon smiled and nodded toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warm and smelled of coffee and leftover lasagna. For a few moments, they worked in a comfortable, domestic silence, rinsing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. It was Devon who spoke first, her voice low and serious, without the witty, sarcastic edge from before.

“I’m really glad you came tonight, Helena,” she said, not looking at her, her focus on a wine glass she was carefully drying.

“Me too,” Helena said honestly.

Devon paused, setting the glass down. She leaned back against the counter and looked at her directly. “He hasn’t smiled like he had all night… not really, not with his whole face… since before Gemma died.”

The name hung in the warm air between them, not as a ghost, but as a quiet, acknowledged truth. Helena didn’t know what to say, so she just listened.

“I loved her like a sister,” Devon continued, her voice thick with emotion. “We all did. And her absence… it was a crater. But watching Mark just… disappear into it… watching him turn his back on everyone and everything that loved him… that was a different kind of pain.” She took a shaky breath. “Seeing him tonight, with you… it’s the first time in two years I’ve felt like my brother is actually still in there.”

She looked at Helena, her gaze intense and full of a fierce, protective love. “I don’t know what this is between you two. And it’s not my business. But he’s a good man, with a very soft heart that’s already been broken into a million pieces once.” She gave a small, sad smile. “So, please… just be careful with him.”

Helena met her gaze, understanding the immense trust Devon was placing in her with this confession. “I will be,” she said, her voice a solemn promise.

Devon nodded, the serious moment passing, and she turned back to the sink. “Good. Now let’s go before Ricken tries to explain the geopolitical subtext of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

Helena returned to the living room, her mind reeling from the weight of Devon’s words. She sat down on the comfortable sofa, the warmth of the house wrapping around her like a blanket. Across the room, Mark was now on the floor, patiently showing a captivated Eleanor how to stack a set of wooden blocks. He’d say a soft word of encouragement, and the baby would inevitably knock the tower over with a clumsy, happy swipe of her hand, giggling with delight. And Mark would just laugh, a deep, easy sound, and start building again.

A soft, discreet buzz from her phone, resting on a cushion beside her, startled her. She glanced at the screen. It was a text from her driver.

Car is ready at your convenience, Ms. Eagan.

The real world, her world, was calling. The bubble was about to burst. She let out a small, almost inaudible sigh.

“Mark,” she said softly. “I think our car is here.”

He looked up, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes that the evening was ending. He nodded and stood up, extending a hand to help her. Devon and Ricken came over to the door to say their goodbyes.

“Thank you so much for coming, Helena,” Devon said, her smile genuine and warm. “It was really, really good to finally meet you.”

“Thank you for having me,” Helena said, the words feeling utterly inadequate. “It was a perfect evening.”

Ricken enveloped her hand in both of his. “The pleasure was all ours! Safe travels on your journey to the new year!”

They gathered their coats and as they stepped out into the biting December cold, Helena looked back one last time at the warm, glowing doorway, at the small, messy, wonderful family framed within it.

In the silent, luxurious car, she watched the warm rectangle of light from his sister's house shrink in the distance until it was just another star in the suburban night. She looked over at Mark, his face silhouetted against the passing streetlights, and reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. He was quiet, tired but with a soft, contented smile on his face. She thought back in the evening.

The loving chaos, the genuine warmth, the gift of his favorite book, the trust in his sister’s eyes—all of it coalesced into a single, stunning realization. She thought of her own life, of the silent penthouse and the endless, efficient schedule that awaited her. The thought of returning to that life, of him no longer being the best and most real part of it, was not just a sad thought. It was unbearable.

And in the quiet, moving darkness of the car, holding the hand of the man who had brought her here, she finally gave the feeling a name. She was, she realized with a jolt that was both terrifying and thrilling, completely and irrevocably in love with Mark Scout.