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Chapter Text

It had been over a year since the headlines had faded, and with them, so had her name. Lydia Tár—once a towering presence on the world stage—was now little more than a footnote in conversations she used to dominate. These days, her baton moved not for Mahler or Elgar, but for crowds dressed as anime characters. She conducted symphonic suites for film franchises she couldn't name, in a theater that smelled faintly of popcorn and mildew, somewhere deep in the Philippines.

No one recognized her anymore. The stage lights were cheap, the orchestra passable. She tolerated it because it was something. And she told herself—like an incantation—that music was music. But it wasn’t, and she knew it.

Then, on a gray Tuesday afternoon, as she stared blankly at her inbox from the dim confines of her makeshift apartment, a message appeared. Short. Terse. Danish.

“Lydia Tár.
We represent KDS Enterprise.
As we are entering the classical music sector, we wish to offer a position as conductor.
The Danish Symphony will be under our patronage.
If you are interested, please reply with when it will be possible for you to travel.
A jet will be arranged at your convenience.”

She blinked, rereading it three times. KDS Enterprise? The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it immediately. A few searches revealed a colossus in Scandinavian construction—clean lines, icy corporate dominance. Their real estate shaped skylines from Oslo to Copenhagen. But beneath the concrete and steel, there was something else: they had quietly become one of the largest private sponsors of the arts in the region—anonymous donations to galleries, obscure artist residencies, even orchestras. And they had just taken over the funding and board of the Danish symphony.

The deeper she dug, the more elusive it became. The company’s owner, the enigmatic “K.D.”, was a cipher. No photos, no interviews, no social presence. All she could find were mentions of an architectural degree and a reputation as a reclusive patron of the arts. No gender, no origin. Just initials and a vast, shadowy influence. She imagined K.D as a blonde Scandinavian version of Eliot Kaplan, and chuckled to herself over the mental image that came to her of a blonde Eliot.

But the offer—this offer—was real. It wasn’t the Philharmonic, but it wasn’t cosplay conventions either. It was a baton. A hall. A real orchestra. And maybe, just maybe, it was her one last shot at stitching her soul back together.

She stared at the blinking cursor. The words she typed were measured, deliberate.

“I am able available for travel as early as Monday.”

The faster she got out of this hellish nightmare she had lived for this past year, the better. She didn’t care for whatever non existent reputation or responsibility she has here.

She hit Send and held her breath while she waited and almost obsessively refreshed her inbox every other second. 

Within minutes, a reply came. Her heart was beating so fast that she was afraid it would come out of her chest. In anticipation she opened the message. 

“Departure scheduled:
Monday, 06:40 AM
Location: General Aviation Terminal, Mactan-Cebu International Airport.
You will be met upon arrival.”

She let the phone fall to her lap.

It was happening.

Chapter Text

The jet was clinical in its luxury—quiet, sharply tailored, the kind of elegance that didn’t announce itself in its silent luxury. There was no other passengers, just a waiting crew and a silent pilot who addressed her by name and offered nothing more.

In the air, she was given a glass of champagne in a crystal flute that she sipped on with nostalgia from a time when such luxuries was her everyday. The silence around her was thick. She had been given a black folder with her champagne that was now lying on the seat beside her with embossed gold initials: K.D.

Inside: a single note in green ink on thick paper.

Welcome, Ms. Tár.
Upon arrival, a car will transport you to KDS Headquarters in central Copenhagen.
There, you will be briefed on the acquisition of the Danish Symphony,
your contractual role within the KDS structure, and preliminary expectations. 
—K.D.

It was signed only with those initials. No title. No flourish. Just intention.

Copenhagen was cold on descent—slate gray skies and a hush of snow over the rooftops. It almost felt like Berlin, a relief from the almost strangling humid warmth of the Philippines.
The car was waiting as promised, an electric black sedan with smoked windows and a driver in quiet uniform. The streets moved past like a watercolor, the city's winter bones softened by the hush of Danish restraint.

The car pulled up in front of a historic building nestled among the spires and facades of central Copenhagen. 19th-century stonework met minimalist Scandinavian design—warm woods, sand-colored interiors, and light that seemed to come from nowhere. A perfect harmony of preservation and forward-thinking architecture.

At the entrance stood a young man—early twenties, clean-cut, tailored black coat over a soft blue turtleneck. He carried himself with the quiet professionalism of someone used to being underestimated.

“Ms. Tár?” he asked, in a thick danish accent, extending a gloved hand. “My name is Alex. I’ll be assisting you during your onboarding.”

He was courteous, self-assured, and unmistakably queer—but in the way that had no need to declare itself. She noticed the subtle pride in the way he stood, and the meticulousness in the way he handed her a thin leather case.

“Your security ID,” he explained. “You’ll need this to access our office. KDS policy.”

She opened it: her name printed cleanly under a photo taken—God knows when—but still hauntingly current.

Alex gestured toward the main doors. “We’ll begin with a preliminary meeting that I’ll be escorting you to—overview of the Danish Symphony acquisition, your contractual terms, and a walkthrough of the artistic charter within KDS. Afterward, I will be waiting for you and show you to your temporary residency. Your baggage will be brought there, so no need to bring anything but what you need for the meeting. If you will follow me please”

She nodded once. No small talk. No wasted time.

As they stepped inside the building, the warmth and light caught her off guard. Not sterile and industrial grey like she had been used to in Berlin. Not corporate. It breathed. Just like the kind of space someone who loved both form and function might have built. An architect’s building.

Alex nodded to the security guard and scanned his own badge, so she followed suit and scanned her badge against the glass entry gate like he had done. A soft click.
The door opened.

And Lydia Tár walked in.

Chapter Text

The reception area unfolded in clean, gliding lines—glass, pale wood, and restrained elegance. Every surface seemed to hum with intention. Natural light spilled across the light oak floors, diffused through the high windows that crowned the atrium. A curated silence hung in the air, punctuated by soft conversations in Danish and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards.

People moved with purpose, but not urgency. There were smiles—genuine ones—shared between coworkers as if they had all read the same good news this morning. They like it here, Lydia thought, vaguely suspicious of the mood. No tension, no ego flaring behind anxious eyes. Just calm. Strange.

Alex led her through the space with a quiet, graceful pace, his gait effortlessly.

They ascended the staircase—sleek, floating steps without visible supports—and came to the first floor, where the entire space had shifted. Miniature house models lined museum-like shelves, and long tables were dotted with architectural sketches and renders, some mid-process. Sleek lighting and framed vintage blueprints lined the walls. This was the architect’s floor. The creative nucleus. Lydia paused a moment to take it in.

Alex said nothing, only offered a soft smile and gestured to continue upward.

At the second floor, the space changed again. Quieter. More controlled. The landing opened into a high-ceilinged lounge with Scandinavian furniture placed in a configuration too deliberate to be casual: muted greens, tobacco leathers, and a low black fireplace that was and cozily warmed the space.

To the left, a beautiful wooden carved door. Subtle, refined. Marked only by:

K.D.

Below the initials, an ID tag plate.

She stopped, her eyes narrowing. Why a tag plate on an office door? For what? Access? Identification? Why would anyone need to identify themselves to enter when they already did it to enter the building?

The mysteries of K.D. only deepened. This was no ghost. This was someone with structure. Intent. She filed the observation away.

Alex touched her arm gently. “This way”

He led her into a large, beautiful meeting room. The walls were smoked glass and blonde wood; the table long, dark, and seamless, as though carved from a single ancient tree. The lighting was indirect and warm, pooled like golden hour across the surfaces.

Inside, several well-dressed men stood scattered about, chatting easily, cups of coffee in hand. Tailored suits in navy, charcoal, deep olive. Their laughter was soft and knowing, the kind shared by people who knew the inner workings of a powerful machine.

She exhaled, grateful she had changed on the plane. A black wool suit—slightly out of season but dependable—paired with a collarless white blouse she hadn’t touched in over a year. It felt stiff. It smelled of storage. And the fabric was wrinkled across her shoulders and arms, refusing to forget its abandonment. She felt it every time she moved.

People were politely greeting her when she entered, some shaking her hand or nodding politely in acknowledgment of her presence among them. Then she noticed her.

By the window stood a woman.

Tall. Late twenties, maybe, she had an air of timelessness about her. Porcelain skin with a hint of northern sun. Dark blonde hair that fell to her waist like a silk waterfall. Her natural red mouth—unapologetically red—seemed both classic and defiant. She wore a beige fitted sweater and deep brown slacks that clung to long legs with ease. She looked like she’d been sculpted by snow and bone.

She was speaking quietly to an older man, nodding in subtle intervals, her hands clasped in front of her. Even in stillness, she radiated control—not the academic sort Lydia knew so well, but something cooler. Wilder. Something primal beneath all that Scandinavian restraint.

She was a Valkyrie, Lydia thought. Or at least, a vision of one.

“The meeting will begin shortly,” Alex said, almost apologetically. “I’ll wait outside and take you to your temporary residence after.”

She gave him a nod, only half-hearing. She was already scanning the room, calculating seating. Most of the men were still milling. But the woman was walking over to take a seat at the table, a leather binder was lying open on the table in front of her. She sat down, took out a pencil and started reading something in the binder, occasionally jotting notes.

Lydia drifted toward her.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked.

The woman didn’t look up at first. “No,” she said, distractedly, eyes still on her binder.

Lydia sat. The air around the woman smelled of something dark and foreign—not girly floral, not light and fresh. Deeper. Something expensive and dangerous. It suited her.

“I’m Lydia,” she said carefully, voice low.

This time the woman looked up.

The smile she gave was unexpected: wide, warm, sensual without effort. Her hazel eyes caught the light—green, gold, flecks of brown—eyes that didn’t just look, but saw. And her accent was Danish, yes, but softer spoken than the others in the room. Almost melodic.

“I’m Katrine,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice that sounded more mature in age than she looked.

Then, just as easily, she looked back down, scribbling something in her binder.

Lydia barely moved, but her senses had ignited. She’s probably just a secretary, she reminded herself. She’s just here to take notes. Still, there was something about the quiet focus Katrine exuded that felt... unsettling. Danish people seemed very reserved.

One by one, the men in the room began taking their seats.

The older man Katrine had spoken with—graying, sharp suit, authoritative air—stepped forward.

“Well,” he said, tapping his fingers against a metal water carafe, “let’s begin.”

Lydia tried to focus on his opening remarks about KDS’s acquisition of the Danish Symphony, restructuring timelines, board negotiations, contract clauses—but her eyes kept drifting. Katrine, seated beside her, didn’t speak. She nodded occasionally, flipped through documents, made neat annotations. Never interrupted. Never looked up.

Then, she moved.

She leaned forward, reaching past Lydia to grab a simple ceramic coffee cup and the black canister of coffee in the center of the table. Her sweater pulled gently along her back, and as she poured, Lydia caught the full scent of her perfume.

It wasn’t just dark. It was seductive. Resinous. A late-night scent. A scent that knew things.

Lydia didn’t turn her head. But every nerve in her body did.

Lydia had always prided herself on control.

Of time. Of sound. Of people.

Of herself.

But sitting there, she felt it slipping. Not visibly, no. Her body was still, her hands clasped loosely on the table, expression unreadable. But inside—beneath the tailored surface—something had cracked open. Something she thought she’d buried.

Katrine.

The name hung in her mind like a dissonant chord that refused to resolve.

Lydia glanced sideways again. Katrine was writing, long fingers poised, eyes scanning a document with the kind of focus Lydia used to demand from her first chairs. Her profile was exquisite. Regal, almost. That red mouth, impossibly lush, was pursed now in concentration. The scent of her still lingered in the air between them, subtle but unmistakable: dark rose, patchouli, heat.

And just like that—desire. Raw and immediate. A nerve she thought had been numbed beyond function flared back to life.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, steadying herself.

This is absurd.

She hadn’t felt anything in so long. Not since Berlin. Not since Olga and when Sharon had walked out with that look—half disgust, half heartbreak. Taking her daughter from her. Not since the emails. The headlines. The veiled interviews. The unspoken punishments.

Since then, Lydia had been hollowed out. Not dead, just... blank. Even the women she might’ve once toyed with had passed by her unnoticed. The desire had gone dark. Starved out by shame. Eclipsed by her own wounded pride.

And now this? Just because of one... girl?

No. Not girl. Woman. A young one, yes—but Katrine had that terrifying Nordic stillness, the kind that came from centuries of weather and myth.

Still, Lydia knew this feeling too well. Knew it like a drunk knew the warmth of a glass between their fingers. This wasn't appreciation. It was want, desire. The kind of want and desire that turned people into liabilities. The kind that once made her arrogant. Reckless.

She turned her eyes back to the room and mentally slapped herself. You’re not going to fall back into that. Not again. You’ve been given a second chance. Don’t throw it away the second a beautiful young woman is within touching distance—no matter how fucking breathtaking she is. You are here to conduct. To rebuild. To survive.

She straightened just as the older gentleman at the head of the table tapped his finger against a folder.

“Maestro Tár,” he said. “Let’s talk specifics.”

The room stilled. Lydia felt every pair of eyes turn to her. Except Katrine’s. She was still writing.

“Yes,” Lydia said, smoothing her voice into composure. “Let’s.”

The man smiled politely and gestured to the papers in front of him.

“We have secured full patronage of the Danish Symphony. You will have complete artistic oversight—selection of orchestra members, supporting staff, rehearsal structure, and performance calendar.”

Lydia nodded, trying not to show how ecstatic she was to finally have something to control again. And even more control than she had in Berlin. 

“You will, however, be expected to attend weekly status briefings with K.D. Once the structure is stable and operational, this will shift to a monthly cadence.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Direct briefings with K.D? In person?”

“Yes. This is after all K.D’s endeavor. But you two will talk it over between you later, I’m sure”

Of course. Lydia tried to decipher some hidden tone in the way he said the name, but there was none. Just the usual corporate evenness.

“There are a few... behavioral expectations,” he continued, sliding a thin packet of paper across the table toward her. “We would like you to sign these before your formal onboarding is complete.”

Lydia took the packet and glanced at the title.

Code of Conduct Agreement: KDS Cultural Division

Of course there was. She flipped through quickly.

“This clause here,” he said, tapping a page, “pertains to interpersonal conduct. It explicitly outlines that no personal or intimate relationships are permitted between you and any member of the orchestra or symphony support staff.”

Lydia didn’t flinch. But she felt the heat bloom on her collarbone.

“To prevent reputational risk,” the man added carefully, “and maintain the artistic integrity of the ensemble.”

Her voice was ice. “Naturally.”

He nodded, relieved by her lack of resistance. “We will also be conducting a public-facing PR campaign to reposition the past narrative. Our firm believes that what occurred previously was the result of malicious intrigue and opportunism. A modern witch hunt, if you will.”

She blinked. Slowly.

“We intend,” he continued, “to place you in the context of a misunderstood figure. A woman punished for her power and her genius, rather than any proven misconduct.”

Lydia swallowed. It was both comforting and insulting. But she would take it.

“You’ll be given a press liaison to oversee interviews,” he finished. “But your focus, of course, will be on rebuilding the orchestra.”

Lydia tapped the edge of the binder. “That’s why I’m here.”

There were nods all around the table. Polite smiles. Someone made a note in a laptop.

And next to her, Katrine... still silent. Still scribbling.

Lydia dared one more glance.

This time, Katrine turned a page in her binder and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and Lydia noticed that she was wearing beautiful dangling jade earrings. Her perfume bloomed again, rich and magnetic, and Lydia almost physically flinched from the wave of memory and lust it triggered.

She gripped the edge of the table. Breathed in. Breathed out.

Don’t ruin it. Don’t ruin it before it even begins. But a little voice in her head noted that Katrine wasn’t in the orchestra or symphony staff… so she wouldn’t be a part of her conduct contract. No! no, she shouldn’t even go there. This was dangerous thoughts. 

Chapter Text

The meeting closed with the rustling of papers and the soft clink of coffee cups finding their saucers. Chairs shifted. The older men began to stand, shaking hands and murmuring things to one another in Danish. It had been a formal presentation, tight and dry, but the undercurrent of anticipation in the room was real.

Lydia turned slightly toward Katrine, hoping for a casual exchange—a soft question, a small bridge, anything. But the man seated on Katrine’s opposite side leaned in immediately, speaking low and confidently in Danish. His voice had that familiar tone of someone who knew her well on a casual basis. Katrine laughed quietly at something he had said. Just a light exhale. But it was enough to sting.

Lydia remained seated a moment too long, poised and motionless, watching as Katrine bent over the binder again, discussing something in the notes with the man, who gestured over her shoulder at a diagram in the back. Even her Danish sounded beautiful and musically, whereas the others Danish had sounded just as harsh as German, but with impossible soft vowels. Their conversation seemed purely professional. But still—he had her attention, and Lydia did not.

She stood.

“Maestro Tár.” The older gentleman from the head of the table approached her, extending his hand with genuine warmth. “Jesper Holm. Executive Partner at KDS. We are truly honored to have you.”

She took his hand, shook it firmly. “Thank you,” she said with practiced grace. “I’m eager to begin.”

Jesper smiled. “We believe you’re the only person who can give this orchestra not only form—but soul. It’s a rare opportunity, and you’ll have the full resources of KDS behind you.”

She nodded. His tone was respectful but clear: this was a business. She was the investment.

Jesper looked over her shoulder toward where Katrine was still sitting and speaking with the guy. “I hope the team didn’t overwhelm you.”

“No,” she said, glanced in the same direction he had looked—Katrine was still bent over the binder, the Danish man still talking, still lingering. “Not at all.”

As if on cue, Alex appeared at the door.

“Ready to head out?” he asked brightly.

Lydia hesitated. One more glance.

Katrine didn’t look up. Her focus was on the paper. She nodded politely at something the man said, scribbled another note. Completely immersed.

Lydia turned away.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They ascended the staircase and arrived at a tall, imposing wooden door with a discreet ID plate beside it. It was the most mysterious building Lydia has ever been in, like it held secrets.

Alex held up his tag and the lock clicked open with a smooth, high-pitched chime.

As they entered, Lydia’s breath caught.

The room before her unfolded like a film set for a perfectly curated penthouse. Ceilings high enough to echo. Pale oak floors stretched out into open space, interrupted only by a level change—a small platform that gave way to a sunken living area anchored by a massive stone fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a soft, slate-blue Copenhagen skyline.

The kitchen was a design marvel: green marble countertops, deep and mossy with white veins, paired with clean, sculptural cabinetry. A brown glass dining table sat under a pendant light. The living room below glowed with late-afternoon sun, the furniture plush and low—modern Scandinavian with unapologetically expensive taste.

But what truly seized Lydia’s eye was the grand flygel piano near the fireplace. Black lacquer, polished, untouched. She stepped toward it involuntarily.

“It’s tuned monthly,” Alex said, smiling from behind. “K.D. doesn’t play much, more of a clarinet and saxophonist, but insists it’s always ready.”

Lydia looked at the keys, her fingers twitching.

Alex stepped ahead and pointed. “That door leads to the fitness room, the other’s a pantry and laundry. That one—” he gestured toward the far end of the space, where a carved arch framed a dark door surrounded by bookshelves, “—is K.D.’s suite.”

“And mine?” Lydia asked.

He turned and led her across the room to the opposite wing.

“This way.”

As they walked, Alex spoke with the breathless excitement of someone too long sworn to silence.

“You’re... incredibly lucky, you know. No one ever stays here. Not even the other executives. This is K.D.’s sanctuary. I’ve only been in this space a few times myself. Usually just to drop off or collect something. I mean, I’m allowed, technically—I’m K.D.’s assistant—but it’s strictly limited. And now you’re... here. Staying here.” He gave her a sideways grin. “I’m honestly jealous.”

They passed a staircase with copper and glass railings spiraling downward.

“That goes straight to K.D.’s office. It’s private access—mostly for quiet entries and exits. K.D. likes to keep things low-profile in case you haven’t noticed.”

Finally, he stopped before a large, double-door suite. He opened it with a quiet reverence.

“This will be your room until the orchestra and maestro housing has been finish renovated.”

The suite opened into a space flooded with soft northern light. A wide bed faced the window—positioned perfectly to take in the skyline. Lydia’s small suitcase and one worn garment bag stood politely by the bed, looking absurd in contrast to the luxurious surroundings.

A beautifully carved desk sat against the wall, flanked by empty built-in shelves that waited to be filled. To the right, a walk-in closet, also empty, and a large bathroom in matching green marble—cool, serene, and quietly extravagant.

She stood in the doorway, stunned.

“This is...” she trailed off.

Alex beamed. “K.D. has taste.”

She didn’t answer. The view had caught her again.

“You want to get some late lunch?” he asked, stepping back into the kitchen area. “There’s a great place around the corner. K.D. probably won’t be back until dinner anyway, so we have time to eat and for you to settle in.”

Lydia didn’t answer immediately.

She looked again toward the door across the living room—K.D.’s suite. Locked away behind those carved panels. Then to the piano. Then to the view. Her new home. At least for now.

She swallowed.

“Yes,” she said. “Lunch sounds good.”

But already, her thoughts were drifting—back to the meeting room. Back to the red mouth. The perfume. The soft Danish vowels. And the pair of hazel eyes that hadn’t even looked up to say goodbye.

Chapter Text

The heavy door to the penthouse clicked shut behind them, and Lydia followed Alex down the wide staircase. Their footsteps echoed in the silence of the upper floors, the air still humming faintly with the scent of the expensive interior—cedar, citrus, stone polish.

As they descended past the first floor landing, Lydia instinctively turned her head—drawn by motion or magnetic force, she couldn’t tell—and there she was.

Katrine.

Standing amongst a small group of architects clustered around a white model of a new building, Katrine leaned over slightly, one hand braced on the edge of the table. Her long dark-blonde hair fell over her shoulder and Lydia’s finger twisted with want to run her fingers through it, feeling if it was as soft as it looked. She wore that same fitted beige sweater and dark slacks, but from this angle, Lydia caught the subtle curve of her waist, the strength in her arms, the quiet intensity in her focus. She looked like she belonged there—utterly immersed, confident, radiant.

Lydia felt a heat rise low in her belly.

She tore her gaze away before she lingered too long. It was just a reaction. Attraction and want didn’t mean anything. Not anymore. And not here.

Alex glanced at her but said nothing.

They exited the building onto the clean, cobbled street. The late winter sun bathed the neighborhood in pale gold. It was quiet here—just far enough from the city’s commercial chaos to feel exclusive.

“Come,” Alex said, grinning. “There’s a fantastic café around the corner. We practically have a permanent table there.”

He led her down a short block lined with boutiques and minimalist furniture showrooms until they reached a sleek corner café. Inside, pale wood and sage green accents surrounded a cluster of locals murmuring in Danish.

Alex walked up to the counter like he owned it and flashed a small silver card.

“Don’t worry about anything today,” he said. “I’ve got the company card and a free pass to make sure you’re thoroughly spoiled. K.D. insisted.”

Lydia gave a polite smile but chose a simple arugula and fennel salad with toasted walnuts and pear. She added a sparkling water. Alex ordered something with roasted beets and goat cheese, plus a pastry he didn’t even glance at twice.

As they sat by the window, Lydia picked at her salad thoughtfully.

“I’m vegetarian,” she said, almost absently. “Or—was. In the Philippines, it wasn’t an option most days. I just ate what I could afford.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Hard to picture you worrying about money.”

She gave him a small, humorless smile. “I wasn’t conducting film symphonies for prestige. Just survival.”

“You look fantastic though,” he offered. “Honestly, just like the Tár I when I looked you up after K.D asked me to reach out about the position. Or well, more insisted that it was you or no one and to get you even if I had to personally travel to wherever you were and beg”

“So it was you who wrote me?.”

“Yeah, luckily you made my job very easy and I’m getting a pay raise for it” he said, smiling mischievously.

Lydia didn’t answer, but her fork paused for a second.

Alex took a sip of his water. “You’ll probably get on well with K.D., actually. Vegetarian too. Big on organic produce. Love a good drink though...” he grinned, “...owns an outrageous wine collection.”

Lydia leaned back. “You talk about K.D. like some sort of deity.” 

He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

She studied him for a moment. “When will I actually see this K.D?”

Alex blinked.

“You already did.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “When?”

He looked even more confused. “K.D attended the meeting”

She frowned and searched her memory, scanning the lineup of older, well-dressed men with identical pleasant voices and practiced smiles. She remembered a dozen hands. A dozen names. None that stuck. None that had stood out.

Which one of those bland executive types was K.D.?

She tried to imagine it—one of them as the architect of this mysterious empire, the one who had watched her scandal unfold, then reached down and pulled her from the mud and placed her in a penthouse above it all.

She must’ve missed something. A name when doing the greetings. A title. A look.

But no one in that room had looked at her like they owned it. No one had caught her attention except—

She cut the thought off sharply, took a sip of her sparkling water, and turned her attention back to the salad, annoyed at herself.

K.D. was clearly meant to remain elusive.

For now.

Chapter Text

They lingered over the last bites of salad, the plates nearly empty except for a few wayward greens and dressing-slicked crumbs of walnut. Lydia sipped at her water, watching the soft spill of people through the café’s tall windows, the Danish winter sun casting a kind, pale light over the quiet street that reflected the frosty surface.

“You know,” Lydia said, her voice light but thoughtful, “it reminds me of Berlin here. Not the geography, exactly. But the rhythm. The restraint.”

Alex smiled, brushing pastry flakes from his lap. “Berlin’s a bit rougher, no?”

“Rough, yes. But honest. Denmark… Copenhagen…” She looked out the window again. “It’s clean. Controlled. Something orderly in the way people move here. But there’s a quiet pride. I can feel it already. Like they know who they are, and don’t need to explain it to you.”

Alex chuckled. “That’s… fairly accurate.”

“I feel,” she said, more to herself now, “at home, strangely. But also watched.”

“That’s just the newness. And probably some paranoia of new surroundings and culture,” he teased. “You’ll adjust.”

They both stood, Alex flashing the silver company card again as they left. The waiter waved them off like they were regulars. As they walked back through the bright streets, Lydia fell quiet.

Inside, her thoughts stirred restlessly.

She wanted—badly—to ask Alex about the young woman from the meeting. Katrine.

What did she do here? Was she a secretary? A junior partner? Some kind of executive?

Was she single?

Was she—someone who would be open to a woman’s advances?

Maybe Alex would know. Maybe—

Her thoughts turned heated.

Maybe Katrine’s lips tasted like sin as red as them. Maybe her hair smelled even more concentrated and euphoric than what she had picked up when she had learned in close. Lydia imagined cupping the back of her head, pulling her in, letting her fingers tangle in those thick, impossibly soft strands—

Stop it, she snapped at herself.

She’d been clean. Cold. Numb, even. For over a year.

Desire had felt dead in her. Shriveled up like the rest of her career. But now, after all this time—it took nothing more than a voice, a curve of the mouth, and she was ready to fall back into old patterns. Possession disguised as passion.

She gritted her teeth and stared ahead as they neared the office building.

Back inside, they passed through the security gate—Lydia’s new ID tag giving a polite, sterile beep—and walked back up the grand staircase. Her eyes moved like radar across the architect floor as they passed.

No Katrine.

Her stomach sank in a way she refused to acknowledge.

Alex led her up to the penthouse floor and paused at the door.

“This is you,” he said cheerfully. “K.D. usually wraps around five. You’ll probably meet properly over dinner. Just… get settled. Relax.”

He grinned and did a little wave. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

She watched him walk away, then turned to the heavy door, swiped her tag, and stepped inside alone.

The quiet swallowed her whole.

She stood just inside the penthouse, taking it in with a deliberate slowness. Afternoon light poured through the grand windows, hitting the deep wood tones and green marble like a stage light. The space radiated elegance, warmth, wealth. Not ostentatious—no, it was curated. Tasteful.

Her eyes drifted to the bar.

Several cut-crystal decanters lined the countertop—each filled with aged, golden spirits. Brandy. Whiskey. Cognac. A bottle of Japanese scotch.

Temptation hummed softly in her veins.

She turned away and moved to the bookshelves, running her fingers over the spines. Volumes on design theory, classical philosophy, rare art monographs, poetry in multiple languages. The LP collection made her pause—Mahler, Bruckner, Bernstein, even obscure Soviet recordings she hadn’t seen in decades. She found herself reaching toward one before stopping short.

Her gaze moved, almost magnetically, to the piano.

The grand black flygel gleamed like a siren. She took a slow step toward it, placed her hand on the cool edge, and let her fingertips linger.

She wanted to play. Desperately.

But another urge tugged at her.

She crossed the room and stood in front of that door—K.D.’s suite.

Her hand hovered at the handle.

Curiosity roared in her chest. What lay beyond this door that could give some insight into this elusive person.

She touched the handle lightly.

Then dropped her hand.

No.

She wouldn’t start this new chapter by violating someone else’s space—especially someone who had given her a second chance.

Instead, she turned and walked toward her own suite. Stripped off the day’s clothes, her skin still humming faintly with city sweat and adrenaline, and stepped into the green-marble bathroom.

Hot water crashed over her like absolution.

She let it run for too long, standing motionless beneath the rainfall showerhead, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythms.

It had been so long since she felt warm. Clean. Safe.

Not yet whole.

But almost… almost beginning again.

The water was scalding hot, just how she liked it—just how she needed it. It poured over her in sheets, washing away the dust of Manila, the airplane, the memory of that cosplay hell she’d barely escaped.

She leaned against the smooth marble wall, eyes closed, breathing slow and heavy.

For months—no, for more than a year—her body had been a stranger to her. A vessel of function, routine, necessity. Nothing more. No hunger, no touch, no ache. Desire had become something theoretical, a word buried in academic texts and sonatas.

Until now.

Until her.

She tried not to think the name, but Katrine’s face bloomed behind her closed eyes like a fire caught in bloom. That absurdly flawless skin, that mouth—ripe, firm, parted in focus as she’d spoken to that Danish man in the meeting room. The low tone of her voice, more melody than speech. The scent that had wafted over the table like a spell.

Lydia felt heat rise in her—not just from the water, but from something deeper. Something she’d locked away.

She let her fingers press gently to her sternum, then her ribs, as if confirming she was still alive. Her hand slid across her stomach, a slow, cautious motion. She wasn’t thinking. Not fully. Just… remembering. Sensing.

What would she sound like?

That voice, breaking slightly—lilting in ecstasy.

What would her skin feel like, pulled under the weight of wanting?

Lydia bit her lip, her breath catching in her throat. A kind of sadness laced the want. A loneliness. An ache not just for the physical, but for connection, intimacy, power, vulnerability—whatever it was Katrine had stirred awake in her so violently.

She let her forehead rest against the cool marble tile. The need pulsed through her like a bowstring pulled taut.

It didn’t take long.

A wave—sharp, silent, and desperate—overtook her, and for a moment, she forgot who she was. Or maybe, remembered.

When she finally stood up straight again, the water had cooled slightly. Her breath was still heavy, but slower now. Her face was blank, unreadable, the way it always was after performing.

There was no guilt. Not exactly.

Just… awareness.

Of what was waking back up inside her.

Of what it might mean.

And of how dangerous it could become.

Chapter Text

Steam curled softly through the suite as Lydia stepped out of the shower, her skin flushed pink from the heat, her pulse finally steady. She wrapped herself in one of the oversized towels—impossibly soft, dense as a cloud. The fabric clung to her body like a lover, and she allowed herself to savor that simple luxury. Clean. Warm. Undisturbed.

She padded barefoot across the cool floor, towel tucked under her arms, and opened her suitcase.

There was little in it. Sparse, practical. A few carefully folded shirts—clothes from a different life, salvaged, once discarded and now resurrected. She pulled out a white dress shirt, the fabric creased from long storage but still whispering of her former precision. She rolled her sleeves just past her elbows and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—tired, yes, but not entirely broken.

Outside her suite, the penthouse lay in warm quiet. Afternoon was turning toward early evening. The golden light poured through the windows like liquid honey, casting amber stripes across the pale wood floors and green marble countertops.

Drawn by a pull that needed no explanation, Lydia crossed the open living space and stepped down into the sunken lounge. The piano stood waiting for her, majestic and still, catching the sunset in its glossy black surface. She approached it reverently, like stepping into a sacred space.

She sat down slowly.

Her fingers hovered above the keys, then sank.

A single note. Then a second. And then a phrase—unfinished, searching. Her hands moved of their own accord, pulling notes from memory and muscle.

She began to play.

The tones were soft at first, exploratory. But then deeper—rich and layered. Schumann. No, something altered, something in between Schumann and Mahler. Her own stitching, maybe. Her body swayed gently with the rhythm. The music took her, the way it always had. Time began to fold inward.

She was inside it now.

For the first time in over a year, she wasn’t surviving or hiding. She wasn’t humiliated, shrunken, or ashamed. She was conducting herself, alone at the helm, weaving grief and lust and longing into each measure.

The keys beneath her fingers felt alive.

Everything else—the ghosts of scandal—faded. In this moment, there was only music.

The music spilled from Lydia like a confession, winding through the fading light of the room. She didn’t notice the sound of the door opening—a rare thing. Lydia Tár, so fine-tuned to every creak and breath of a space, completely consumed by the Steinway beneath her hands.

The notes danced upward. Her eyes were closed.

And then—click. A soft sound. Glass meeting the stone countertop. The faint glug of liquid pouring from a crystal decanter.

She froze.

Not the sound of the bottle, but the fact that she hadn’t heard anything until now. Her fingers slipped off the keys, silence wrapping around her shoulders like a net.

She turned slowly.

Leaning against the carved edge of the bar was her. Katrine. Still in those sinfully fitted brown slacks and cream colored sweater. The warm lighting lit her skin like something out of a dream. She swirled the cognac gently in her glass, then took a sip—her gaze never leaving Lydia.

“Good evening,” Katrine said, smirking slightly. “I hope you don’t mind. I let myself in.”

Lydia was speechless. Her throat tightened, suddenly dry.

“I—uh—didn’t hear…” she managed, standing up from the bench, her palms damp against her thighs. “I usually—um—I…”

Katrine gave a soft laugh. “Don’t mind me really. I’m an abysmal piano player, I’ve never heard the piano played that beautifully in person before. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Lydia stared. The sensual smirk on Katrine’s lips—the same lips Lydia had fantasized about less than an hour ago—only deepened her disorientation.

“You’re… K.D.,” Lydia finally said, blinking.

“Technically, yes,” Katrine said as she walked toward her, the glass still cradled in her hand. “Katrine D’arcy Sand. I assumed Jesper or Alex would’ve warned you, but then again…” She smiled wider. “They probably enjoyed watching your confusion.”

Lydia’s breath caught in her chest as Katrine stepped closer and placed her glass on the piano, her fingers brushing the polished surface with easy familiarity. Lydia stared at the mark her lips had left on the glass’s rim.

“I hope it’s alright,” Katrine continued, “but I already ordered sushi for dinner. I’m starving, and I figured you wouldn’t object. Copenhagen isn’t great for late reservations, anyway.” She leaned in slightly, conspiratorially. Lydia nodded mutely, her brain folding in on itself.

“Goodie then, I’ll change into something less… boardroom,” Katrine said, already turning, her silhouette cutting back across the open room toward her suite door. She paused just before entering. “Make yourself at home, you have traveled from a long way so it must have been a rather long day for you.”

Then the door clicked softly shut.

Lydia stood there, heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes returned to the glass of cognac Katrine had left behind, still with a few fingers of cognac left. Without thinking, she stepped forward and lifted it. Her fingers aligned with where Katrine’s had held it, and then—shamelessly—she brought it to her lips in the same spot Katrine’s lips had left a mark, taking a generous sip.

The cognac was exquisite.

Warm. Rich. Dark. Like her.

Lydia’s eyes drifted toward the closed suite door.

And she knew—without music or words to guide her—that this was going to get complicated.

Chapter Text

The room felt impossibly still. Lydia remained where she stood, the fading resonance of the piano now replaced by the pulsing rhythm in her ears.

K.D. is Katrine.

She turned that fact over in her mind again and again, trying to make it settle, to make it make sense. How could no one have said anything? Not Jesper, not even Alex—Alex, who had gushed about K.D. Like some untouchable oracle on a mountaintop.

A half-laugh escaped her, tight and breathless. She looked down at the glass of cognac in her hand.

"Of course," she murmured to herself, and took another sip.

The liquid went down smoother now, but her stomach still twisted. The dissonance between the image she had built of K.D.—a faceless, genderless Scandinavian tycoon—and the magnetic, devastatingly composed young woman from the meeting room was almost too sharp. Katrine, leaning at the bar like she owned it—which she did. Katrine, watching her play, that knowing smirk curled on her lips.

Lydia drained the rest of the glass.

The taste of it lingered—oak and honey and heat. Her fingers tightened around the glass as her eyes drifted back toward the closed suite door.

She’s changing.

The thought dropped uninvited into her mind. Lydia closed her eyes, annoyed with herself for the indulgence, but unable to stop. She pictured Katrine peeling off those dark slacks, the rustle of fabric falling to the floor. The curve of her hips. That impossibly pale skin kissed by the golden light of the penthouse windows. Maybe she was pulling her hair up—no, letting it fall. Maybe she wore silk lingerie underneath. Or nothing.

Lydia opened her eyes and scolded herself silently.

Stop. You’re not twenty-five. This isn’t some fantasy. She’s your employer… very young and attractive employer. And this time, you don’t get to be reckless.

But even that sternness wavered as she looked again at the empty rim of the glass, her lips still tingling where Katrine’s had been.

This wasn’t recklessness. Not yet. But the spark had caught.

And Lydia—hungry, lost, freshly reawakened—was terrified of how much she wanted to follow it.

She moved to the bar, gently set the glass down beside the decanter, and inhaled deeply. She needed to calm herself. She needed to find her balance.

She looked over at the piano—still warm from her playing—and then back toward the door behind which Katrine D’arcy, the elusive patroness of Scandinavian culture, the conductor of this entire strange new chapter, was undressing.

Lydia leaned both hands on the marble counter and exhaled slowly.

God help me, she thought, this is already a symphony I can’t control.

The door opened without fanfare.

Lydia turned at the sound—casual, confident, unannounced. Katrine stepped out, barefoot and relaxed, dressed in dark green silk pajama bottoms that glided over her hips like water, and a dark grey tank top that hugged her frame with unconscious perfection. The soft cotton revealed the elegant line of her shoulder and left nothing to the imagination about the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Lydia swallowed, hard.

Katrine’s honey-blonde hair was gathered into a loose, messy bun, strands falling like lazy silk around her temples. Without her heels, Lydia noticed with a jolt that she was slightly shorter than her—an observation that, for reasons Lydia couldn’t explain, sent a flush of satisfaction through her chest.

The suite door remained open behind her.

“Peter’ll bring the sushi up when it gets here,” Katrine said offhandedly as she walked across the penthouse with feline ease. She moved straight to the sleek built-in wine fridge, browsed without urgency, and selected a bottle. “This should pair well.”

The pop of the cork echoed faintly in the high-ceilinged space.

Lydia hovered by the piano, trying to keep her posture composed, one hand brushing the keys without pressing. She felt like her blood was singing.

Katrine poured two glasses with unhurried precision, then turned, glass in hand. Her gaze was direct and almost amused. She crossed the room barefoot—casual, predatory—and handed Lydia a glass.

Their fingers touched. Just briefly. But it was enough to spike Lydia’s heart rate.

“Thank you,” Lydia managed, trying to make her voice sound normal. It didn’t.

Katrine had already turned, sipping her wine as she moved to the kitchen island. She pulled out delicate ceramic dinner plates, small soy sauce bowls, chopsticks in minimal Scandinavian design, and began to set the dining table as though this was simply how every evening went.

Lydia stood rooted, watching in disbelief as the woman she’d fantasized about in the shower thirty minutes earlier casually set the table like she was hosting an old friend.

She took a sip of wine—too fast—and immediately slowed herself. The wine was dry, crisp, and icy, like snowmelt in spring.

Breathe, Lydia told herself. Just breathe.

The soft chime of the penthouse entry system interrupted the silence. Katrine didn’t even look up as she called, “Come in.”

Peter, the security guard Lydia had greeted downstairs when walking in, stepped inside respectfully, holding a large paper bag stamped with the gold brushstroke logo of Sushi Anaba.

“Good evening Katrine” he said politely, placing the bag on the marble counter.

“Thanks, Peter,” Katrine said warmly, flashing him the kind of smile that made people loyal for life. “You can take the rest of the shift off if you like. You’ve earned it.”

Peter smiled happily. “Thanks! You have a good evening then.”

“You too,” she replied. “Get home safe, the roads are really icy.”

He left with quiet steps and the door sealed again.

Katrine began unpacking the sushi—precision-cut pieces of toro, uni, ebi, delicate rolls dusted with microgreens, tiny containers of house-made soy and wasabi so fresh it could singe the sinuses.

Lydia finally managed to step forward, still grasping her wine glass like a lifeline. She was painfully aware of every inch of the distance between them. Katrine, meanwhile, moved like she’d done this a thousand times—with someone else, maybe. Maybe not.

Lydia tried to shake the heat climbing her throat.

“Looks… divine,” she said, voice thinner than she wanted.

Katrine glanced up with that easy smile again—quiet, unreadable, and devastating.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said. “Because although I’m starving, I’m definitely not starving enough to eat all of this by myself”

Lydia laughed softly and took another sip of wine. Starving, she thought. Yes—on so many levels.

Chapter Text

Katrine slid gracefully into her chair, folding her long limbs with that casual elegance that seemed to come so naturally to her. She pulled her wineglass toward her with two fingers, then leaned slightly to top up Lydia’s before taking a slow sip of her own.

Lydia sat down too, slightly stiff at first, trying to mask just how utterly disarmed she was. Every movement Katrine made seemed unconsciously choreographed—as if she wasn’t aware of how beautiful she was. Or maybe she was, and simply didn’t care. That somehow made it worse.

“I’m really happy you agreed to come,” Katrine said, tone light, effortless. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Lydia smiled, the wine helping her slip into something that almost resembled her old self. “The offer was... unexpected. And intriguing.”

Katrine let out a soft laugh “I hope intriguing is a good enough thing for you to want to stay and make this project a success”

Lydia watched the curve of her lips, the way the soft light played off her cheekbones, the way she tilted her head as she reached for a tofu roll and placed it delicately on her plate.

“I’ve always been fascinated by how conductors build something from silence,” Katrine said after a pause. “Not just follow the score. But build an identity.”

Lydia glanced up at her, curious.

“And what do you think my identity is?” she asked, voice lower, more direct.

Katrine tilted her head, considering. “When I saw you conduct in Berlin, a few years ago… you were doing Mahler. My colleagues and I were in town for a conference. One of the guys was a classical music nut and insisted we go.”

Lydia blinked. “You were there?”

Katrine nodded. “Second row, left side. I remember how the room responded to you before you even lifted your hands. That silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that waits—it was the kind that trusts.”

Lydia felt a pulse behind her ribs—quick, warm. She looked down at her plate, then back up at Katrine. “I didn’t know I was being watched.”

Katrine smiled faintly. “You didn’t need to know. You had the whole room in your hands.”

Lydia let the compliment land. It didn’t come from admiration for fame or controversy. It came from something real. Witness. Presence.

“You know,” Lydia said, swirling her wine slowly, “your accent is different. Softer. It’s… musical. More rounded than the clipped Copenhagen vowels I’ve been hearing all day.”

“Ah,” Katrine said with a knowing smile, setting her chopsticks down briefly. “That would be the Bornholm in me. My grandfather is from the island. I spent a lot of my years there.”

“That explains it,” Lydia mused, pleased with herself. “There’s something... airy about it. Like someone singing just under their breath.”

Katrine’s smile widened but didn’t turn coy. She picked up her chopsticks again, expertly separating a piece of avocado nigiri and dipping it with just the right touch into soy sauce.

Lydia watched the motion too closely. The control, the precision. She wondered how those fingers would feel caressing her skin with that same precision… or gripping her wrist.

“I adore the symphony,” Katrine said after a pause, as though unaware of the magnetic pull she was generating. “But I’ll admit… I don’t know as much about it as I’d like. I’ve always been more visual. I paint—mostly abstract—and sketch a lot. That led me into architecture. But I’ve played the clarinet since I was little. Some saxophone, too, but not as seriously.”

Lydia almost choked on her wine, the image of Katrine’s mouth playing such an instrument came to her mind.

She glanced away quickly and forced a smile, willing the heat to settle somewhere other than her cheeks. Or lower.

“I’m... actually still building my vision,” Lydia said, taking a delicate piece of cucumber maki, chewing slowly to stall. “But I want it to have structure. Intellect, yes, but also feeling. Edge. Control in chaos. Precision that makes space for risk.”

Katrine nodded slowly, clearly listening.

“That sounds very you,” she said. “You like to push it. Not just sound beautiful—but make it mean something.”

Lydia was struck for a moment by how carefully Katrine had been listening. Not just tonight. Since before.

“Exactly,” Lydia said softly.

Katrine smiled, picking up another piece of sushi. Lydia’s eyes flicked to her hands again—the way she handled the chopsticks like an extension of her body. Delicate. Skilled. Precise. This time she imagined those same fingers fluttering over clarinet keys… sliding down the side of a saxophone... parting buttons...

Lydia quickly reached for her wine.

“Clarinet,” she said, trying to ground herself in something harmless. “Underrated instrument. Breath and tension. There’s intimacy to it. Demand and release.”

Katrine raised a brow with a slow smile. “You make it sound very sensual.”

Lydia coughed, covered it with a sip.

“Maybe it is,” she said, lowly, then looked away.

There was a charged silence between them—brief, but undeniable. Then Katrine’s gaze softened, and she reached forward to pass Lydia the soy sauce.

The sushi was nearly gone, delicate porcelain bowls now littered with streaks of soy sauce and pale remnants of pickled ginger. The wine had been topped up once, maybe twice, and Lydia felt herself floating somewhere between satisfaction and alertness, her mind tuned to every nuance in Katrine’s voice and body language.

Katrine leaned back slightly in her chair, her fingers delicately curling around the stem of her wineglass. Her gaze, though calm, was unmistakably reflective—darker than it had been earlier, more inward.

“You know,” Lydia said carefully, “you’ve built quite a mystique around yourself. Even Alex didn’t say a word.”

Katrine gave a quiet smile, almost amused. “I like it that way.”

Lydia cocked her head. “Why?”

There was a pause. Katrine tilted her head back, eyes tracing something in the ceiling, perhaps just buying herself a moment.

“In this world,” she said finally, “especially in architecture and the construction business, mystery works in my favor. If I let people see too much of me, they start trying to categorize me. Limit me. Domesticate me.”

Her words landed with a slight chill that Lydia recognized immediately. It was the language of someone who’d spent too long being underestimated.

“And the gender ambiguity?” Lydia asked, her voice softened with genuine curiosity.

Katrine looked at her fully now, expression serene but unmistakably sharp. “It gives me a kind of... untouchable mobility. I can move through conversations and deals without them seeing a woman first. Or projecting what they think a woman should be. It keeps me free.”

“You are very young, for one with such deep insight and already established, mind if I ask how old you are?” She tried to sound very casual about her question, not giving away just how intrigued she actually was.

“29, but really, a lot of it has just been dumb luck and pure stubbornness” Katrine absentmindedly shrugged a bit self aware.
Lydia nodded slowly, admiring her openly now, she looked at least a few years younger. But this made her feel a little bit more at ease about her attraction to this woman. She was definitely not age appropriate, but she was at least old enough not to be considered an impressionable naive almost still teenager. 

Outside, the Copenhagen dusk had given way to night. Katrine leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms in a subtle arch, her silk pajama pants catching the light with a quiet sheen. Then she yawned—openly, unbothered by decorum, covering her mouth with a loose fist before smiling sleepily.

“Forgive me,” she said, voice slightly huskier now with fatigue. “As much as I’d love to stay up and keep you company, it’s been a long day. I should get some sleep before I’m completely useless.”

Lydia nodded slowly, though a flicker of disappointment passed through her chest. “Of course. It has been... quite a day.”

Katrine stood, gathering a few of the soy bowls and napkins with a casual grace. “I’m an annoyingly early riser anyway,” she added with a wry glance over her shoulder. “No matter how late I go to bed, I wake up around five. It’s a curse, really.”

Lydia watched the play of her shoulder blades under the tank top as she moved toward the kitchen. Her pulse picked up unreasonably at the idea of Katrine already being a part of her mornings. So she wakes early too. The thought landed with a strange intimacy—shared rhythm, shared silence. A domestic hum in the echo chamber of Lydia’s mind. Something in common… when we’re in a bed.

Clearing her throat, Lydia stood a bit too quickly, catching a porcelain dish as an excuse to follow. “Let me help with the cleanup.”

“You’re a guest,” Katrine replied, but without stopping her motions. She glanced back, amused. “Besides, I’m pathologically fast at this.”

“I’m pathologically awkward if I just stand around and watch you do it,” Lydia countered, half-smiling, drying her hands on a towel and moving to stack the empty plates by the sink.

They moved around each other in the kitchen space like dancers still learning the steps. Lydia found herself almost overly conscious of her own limbs—how close Katrine moved past her, how the scent of her clung faintly in the air and made Lydia lightheaded.

Katrine washed swiftly, like it was second nature. “You really don’t have to,” she murmured, more kindly now.

“I’m used to pulling my own weight,” Lydia said, gently brushing a few crumbs off the counter with the side of her hand. “Besides, I’m... tired too. That flight, the whole day—it’s all catching up to me.”

It was a lie, of course. Lydia felt wired, vibrating with energy, the adrenaline of this new beginning still coursing through her. The closeness to Katrine wasn’t helping. Her hands moved mechanically through the motions, but her mind was split between the glow of career revival and the magnetic pull of the woman beside her.

“I get it,” Katrine said with a low chuckle. “Landing in a whole new life doesn’t come with jet lag instructions.”

Lydia gave a breath of laughter at that.

As the final plate was dried and shelved away, Katrine dried her hands, her face softer now in the warm kitchen light. “Sleep well tonight”

Lydia nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You too, Katrine. And... thank you. For everything. The welcome, the trust. I mean it.”

Katrine’s smile curved, a little slower this time. “You’re here because you earned it. Not because I’m generous.”

Then she turned, bare feet padding softly back toward her suite. She didn’t close the door behind her this time either. Just left it slightly ajar, enough for a sliver of amber light to spill from inside her suite.

Lydia stood in the kitchen for a long moment after. Her skin tingled with leftover awareness, nerves and curiosity coiling in her stomach like a second pulse.

She finally exhaled and turned toward her own suite. Get a grip, she thought.

But as she slipped into her bed and pulled the soft sheets around her body, her thoughts wandered—to the woman lying in another bed, just a few meters away.

Chapter Text

The world was still black behind the windows when Lydia’s eyes opened. For a moment, she couldn’t place the texture of the ceiling or the luxurious weight of the down comforter. Her hand instinctively reached across the bed for her phone.

5:17.

She blinked, disoriented by the unfamiliar softness beneath her. This wasn’t the threadbare mattress she'd grown used to in the Philippines, the one with the unreliable springs and the scratchy linen she had long since stopped noticing. This bed was plush, supportive. Alien in its comfort.

Then it came to her all at once—Copenhagen. The penthouse. The meeting. The job.

Katrine.

The memory rushed in like a sudden inhale. The conversation last night. The sushi. That open door across the room. Those silk pajama bottoms.

Lydia’s chest fluttered with an electric charge she hadn’t felt in over a year—excitement, possibility, danger. Her new life was starting, yes—but it was the presence of Katrine just rooms away that made her blood hum.

She threw the blanket off and sat up. She needed to move.

Alex had said something about a fitness room. Lydia stood and padded silently to her suitcase, pulling out her running clothes—simple, black leggings and a dark tank. She tied her hair back quickly, eyes adjusting to the low light. She didn’t know Copenhagen well enough to go running in the streets yet. Not in the dark. Not without a route.

But here? The penthouse had everything.

Slipping quietly out of her suite, she padded past the bookshelves, past the grand piano, and to the discreet door Alex had pointed to yesterday. She opened it gently.

The room was softly lit, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the still-shadowed skyline of the city. Sleek machines glowed silently—treadmills, ellipticals, a rack of weights. And there, elevated on a stair master, was Katrine.

Lydia froze for a beat too long.

Katrine hadn’t noticed her yet, earbuds in, moving steadily. Her long legs flexed with each slow step, her body clothed in sleek training leggings and a fitted black sports bra that hugged her in all the right ways. Her hair was tied back in a high, casual ponytail. Her skin shone faintly with effort, and her lips parted rhythmically with her breath.

Lydia finally found her voice, almost cracking, “Good morning.”

Katrine looked over, pulled out one earbud, and smiled mid-step. “Godmorgen,” she said, breathless but bright. “Couldn’t sleep anymore?”

“Early riser,” Lydia replied, walking stiffly toward the treadmill to avoid staring. “And restless.”

She stepped onto the machine, setting a slow jog. She kept her eyes ahead, focusing on her breath—but every part of her was aware of Katrine still moving in her peripheral vision. The faint sound of the stair master. The sound of breathing.

Katrine’s voice floated across the room a few minutes later. “I’m just gonna take a quick shower,” she said, stepping off and grabbing a towel from a nearby shelf. “ and then I’ll make us some breakfast in a bit.”

Lydia could only nod. She didn’t trust her voice.

The door whispered shut behind Katrine.

Lydia stared straight ahead at the window, the treadmill whirring beneath her, and then—

She cranked up the speed.

She ran harder, her pulse echoing through her body in rapid time with her footsteps. Each thought of Katrine—dripping water, bare skin, the soft cotton of a towel drying off her wet body—drove her legs faster.

It wasn’t desire, not entirely. It was energy. Pressure. Momentum.

Everything had cracked open—her career, her hunger, her sense of identity—and now Katrine had stepped into that opening like a spark in dry wood.

She kept running.

The sound reached Lydia faintly at first — a warm, steady humming floating through the air as she wiped sweat from her brow and slowed the treadmill from a run to a walk.

It was coming from the kitchen. A melody — something vaguely classical but hummed casually, lazily, like the tail end of a forgotten dream. Lydia recognized it vaguely, something French. Satie, maybe?

The voice caught her attention before the melody did. Low, for a woman. Velvety. Soft-edged but carrying something grounded underneath. A rare sort of voice that immediately commanded your ear — not with volume, but tone. Resonance. Music in its own right.

Lydia’s legs finally stopped. She stepped off the treadmill, chest still rising and falling from exertion, and made her way out into the main space.

Katrine stood at the stove, the early morning light spilling across the wood floors and illuminating her like some carefully arranged painting. She was dressed now — beautifully, of course — in a tailored forest green pantsuit, the fabric hugging her tall frame just enough to catch the eye without shouting. A striped silk shirt — white with subtle brown lines — was tucked neatly beneath, the top two buttons undone. Her hair, still damp from her shower, was swept into a loose low bun at the nape of her neck.

She looked like she belonged on the cover of a design magazine. Effortless. Untouchable.

The kitchen smelled of something fresh — roasted tomatoes, maybe? Olive oil, something leafy. Lydia sat at the breakfast bar, feeling suddenly very aware of her slightly damp running clothes and the disheveled state of her post-exercise self.

Katrine noticed her and smiled softly. “Perfect timing,” she said. “You survived the treadmill.”

“I did,” Lydia said, trying to keep her voice calm, neutral — like she wasn’t watching every move Katrine made. “And it smells incredible.”

“It’s nothing,” Katrine replied. “Just something light — I hope its okay”

Lydia blinked. “Its perfect.”

Katrine turned, effortlessly graceful, and sat down at the breakfast bar right next to her, not across. The proximity hit Lydia like a second pulse in her chest.

“Coffee?” Katrine asked.

“Always.”

Katrine reached for the carafe and poured Lydia a cup of freshly ground, piping hot coffee into one of the minimalist Scandinavian-style mugs. She handed it over, fingers brushing Lydia’s briefly in a way that made her skin light up with a thousand nerves.

“I’m heading down to the office,” Katrine said after a sip of her own cup. “I like getting a head start before the rest of the world shows up and starts bothering me.”

Lydia chuckled under her breath.

Katrine flashed her a sideways smirk. “You can just come down whenever you’re ready. Use the private staircase — it’s the one by the bookshelf. Alex will be in around eight to walk you through your schedule.”

And just like that, she stood, adjusted the cuffs of her blazer, and walked off — cool and composed.

Chapter Text

Lydia stood in the silence that followed Katrine’s exit, sipping her coffee slowly and letting herself breathe.

This is happening.
She was in Copenhagen. About to start work again. About to conduct a proper orchestra again. She could barely believe it. She was still wearing clothes that whispered of her past — frayed cuffs, tired fabric — but everything else around her screamed newness.

After her second cup of coffee, she went for a quick shower of the morning, letting the hot water ease her tension. She dried off, dressed quickly — another outfit from her former life, worn but clean — and followed Katrine’s instructions to the private staircase, her hand ghosting along the banister.

K.D.’s office was tucked beneath the penthouse in a way that made it feel both close and entirely separate — like a private sanctum.

Katrine sat behind a large desk, its surface covered in carefully stacked papers, a laptop, and a ceramic coffee cup. Morning light has started to flood in through wide windows behind her, silhouetting her frame in clean lines and brightness. 

She didn’t look up right away.

Lydia didn’t interrupt. She walked quietly through the space, exploring the walls — filled with architectural sketches, floor plans, and a few unexpected paintings. She found a leather couch tucked into the side of the office and sank into it with a book she pulled from the nearby shelf.

She opened it — something about Nordic modernism — and let it sit in her lap.

But she wasn’t reading.

Her gaze drifted to Katrine again and again — watching the way she worked. The way her lips pressed lightly as she read through a file. The way she tapped her fingers lightly against her coffee mug when she was thinking. The way she sat, confident in her space.

Katrine D’Arcy was beautiful, yes — painfully so. But there was something sharp beneath it. Something practiced, intelligent, and unsentimental. She wasn’t the type to play coy.

And that…
That was even more dangerous.

Lydia had lost track of how long she’d been watching her.

Katrine, still deeply focused, flipping through pages of a render booklet — long fingers moving with elegance over crisp paper, occasionally lifting a pencil to jot something in the margins. She was utterly immersed. Unaware of the intensity of the gaze fixed on her.

Or so Lydia thought.

Suddenly, Katrine looked up — not with surprise, but with a calm awareness, as if she’d known all along.

Their eyes met.

Lydia blinked and immediately pretended to look back down at her book, the motion so clumsy she might as well have shouted “I’m staring at you.”

But Katrine smiled. “You weren’t really reading that, were you?”

Lydia cleared her throat, caught off guard and flushed. “Not… exactly.”

Katrine rose from her chair slowly, the soft rustle of her silk blouse the only sound in the elegant silence between them. “Come here,” she said gently, walking over to the large design table near the windows. “I want to show you something.”

Lydia followed, still clutching the book awkwardly.

Katrine laid out a series of large format drawings and renders, unfolding one with the flourish of someone who loved the work behind it. “This is the current plan for the maestro residence and orchestra housing,” she explained. “Your future home — or, at least, where you’ll be living once renovations are complete.”

Lydia looked down at the render — the lines of a modernist structure blending beautifully into Copenhagen’s historical fabric. Close to the symphony. Tasteful, airy interiors. A small walled garden. Private. Beautiful.

Too beautiful.

“It’s stunning,” Lydia said, but the words felt hollow in her mouth. Her stomach twisted. She had known, intellectually, that her stay in the penthouse was temporary. But seeing her replacement home on paper made it real.

It would mean leaving this new sanctuary she had just gotten.
Leaving the bookshelves and green marble.
And leaving her.

“You don’t like it?” Katrine asked, her tone neutral but curious.

“No, I do,” Lydia said quickly, forcing a smile. “It’s just…” She hesitated. “It’s hard to imagine moving when it feels like I’ve only just gotten here and not even settled in.”

Katrine studied her for a moment, unreadable. 

But before she could say more, a bright knock on the door interrupted them.

“Good mooorning!” Alex's voice rang out cheerfully as he entered without waiting for a response. “I brought bribes!”

He was carrying a small brown paper bag and three drink carriers. He bounced in like a wind-up toy, grinning.

“Lydia, matcha, you seem like the type” he said, offering her a green cup with a flourish. “Katrine, your usual — chai latte, extra cinnamon,” he added, placing the drink at the edge of her desk like he did it every morning. Then pulled out a frosty iced coffee for himself. “And no, its never too cold for iced coffee, no matter how judgmental your eyebrows get.”

“I’m not judging,” Katrine said dryly, picking up her cup of chai and giving him a patient look. “Just observing your lack of survival instincts.”

“I have a scarf,” Alex said, pointing proudly to the bordeaux colored scarf around his neck.

He handed Lydia a small plate with two flaky, buttery Danish pastries, and then checked his watch dramatically.

“We gotta get moving,” he said. “Meeting room, same one as yesterday. Your real welcome to the grind. I’ve scheduled about seven introductions, five briefings, and one semi-formal schmoozing.”

Lydia glanced at Katrine reluctantly.

Katrine offered her a soft look and nodded once. “Go. We’ll catch up later.”

Lydia felt like she was being peeled away — from warmth, from comfort, from something delicate and tender that had only just begun to form. She took a sip of matcha and followed Alex toward the door, casting a final glance back as Katrine returned to her desk and her work.

Chapter Text

Katrine’s POV

Katrine sat back slightly in her chair, fingers pausing over the trackpad. The hum of her office was constant: subtle mechanical noises, the occasional faint wind brushing the windows, and somewhere in the distance, the lingering echo of Lydia’s voice still in her ears. She hadn’t meant to watch her so closely — and yet, she had.

Lydia Tár.

Katrine let the name settle like dust on the surface of her mind. She was still as striking as the first time Katrine had seen her — years ago, in Berlin. A business associate had insisted they go to a concert at the Philharmonie, and Katrine, exhausted from negotiations, had reluctantly agreed. But then Lydia had walked on stage and commanded the space with impossible gravity. The way she conducted — sharp, elegant, with a kind of violent grace — had stayed with Katrine far longer than she'd admitted to anyone. She hadn’t even known her name then.

Now that same woman just moments ago been sitting on the couch in her office, pretending to read a book but clearly watching her.

Katrine wasn’t naïve.

She had read the press. The scandal. The whispering behind Lydia’s name. She knew reputations were fragile things — especially for women — and doubly so when power, attraction, and pride tangled together. Lydia’s fall had been swift and public. And still, Katrine had chosen take her from grip of where she had been sent to be forgotten and bought her here.

She took a long sip of her chai and tapped her fingers rhythmically against the ceramic cup.

Bringing Lydia into her personal space had been a calculated risk. The guest suite had always belonged to her grandfather — the only person she’d ever felt fully herself around. He had died just last year, and since then, the room had sat untouched, as if waiting. When the idea came to let Lydia stay there temporarily, it had felt strangely right. Strategic, even. A chance to observe.

But now... now Lydia’s presence hummed in the penthouse like a tuning fork.

Katrine hated that. She hated that Lydia’s voice, low and thoughtful, lingered. That her eyes — those ridiculously clear blue eyes — caught too much, and that Katrine had already begun adjusting her posture, her language, her movements.

It was subtle, but Katrine noticed it. And Katrine noticed everything.

She could understand how the stories about Lydia had so easily unfolded, it was not hard to imagine anyone not easily falling under her charm. Reminding herself of the reason for the conduct agreement that Lydia had signed. The weekly briefings. These weren’t just about professionalism — they were safeguards. KDS was her world. Her legacy. She had no intention of letting anyone, no matter how magnetic, disrupt it.

But still...

She allowed herself one small glance toward the closed door of her office.

There was something unpredictable about Lydia. Something dangerous in a way that wasn’t always bad. Katrine didn’t trust easily — and certainly not quickly — but she respected talent. Vision. Complexity.

And Lydia was all of those things.

Katrine sat back again, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

She would finish the renovations. Lydia would have her new housing. Boundaries with her private space would be reinstated.

But until then?

She would watch. She would listen. And she would learn exactly what kind of woman Lydia Tár truly was — under the surface, beneath the fall, behind the charm.

Chapter Text

Lydia sat perched on the edge of the leather chair in the glass-walled meeting room, a half-eaten salad in a compostable bowl before her, barely touched. Her fingers tapped lightly on the table’s surface, her mind not entirely on the spreadsheet Alex had projected onto the screen. Or the names and audition dates they were sorting through. Or the conversations earlier that morning. Her mind kept drifting.

What’s she doing now?
Katrine. That maddening, elegant figure. Somewhere down the hall, surely immersed in her world of plans, renderings, blueprints — and entirely unaware of the effect she was having.

A bright, cheerful voice pulled Lydia back.

“So! PR loved you,” Alex said, finishing the last bite of his lunch and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “They’re absolutely thrilled to have a real public figure to work with that isn’t a struggling and tortured painter. I think they’re already brainstorming cover stories and press angles.”

Lydia gave a crooked smile, “As long as it’s not a redemption narrative. I’m not here for pity.”

Alex rolled his eyes playfully. “Please. You’re here because you’re good. They’ll highlight that. And... yes, they did ask if you’d be up for a portrait shoot. Something minimalist. Black and white. Very ‘maestro reborn.’” He grinned. “Could be chic.”

She leaned back and raised a brow, “Only if they don’t put me in front of a crumpled canvas backdrop. I’m done being draped in metaphors.”

Alex let out a delighted laugh. “Noted.”

The day had been full already — a blur of new faces, introductions, rapid explanations and names Lydia tried hard to remember. The PR team. The design group, including a precise woman with steel-framed glasses who guided her through samples of book covers and score layouts.

Lydia had pointed toward a sleek, matte black design. “That one,” she’d said with quiet certainty. “No more green fabric binding. This needs to feel like now. Clean. Intentional.”

Then came the conversation about her baton. A custom one — light, long, with a handle shaped to her grip. She still had her old one, but this felt right. To leave the old one, with all its sorrows, behind where it belonged. 

It felt... strange. To be taken care of like this again.

“Hey,” she asked as Alex packed away the remains of their lunches. “Would it be possible to get some composition paper? The kind with wide spacing? And the red and blue pencils. I don’t know what brand they carry here, but—”

Alex perked up. “Already ordered. We looked at your old Berlin preferences and had them sourced. You should have a stack by tomorrow.”

She blinked at him. “You’re terrifyingly efficient.”

He gave a humble shrug. “Katrine likes being prepared. And I like not being fired.”

Lydia chuckled.

“Oh!” she added suddenly, “Is there anywhere nearby I can buy some clothes? Nothing too expensive. Just... better than this.” She gestured to the worn trousers and faded grey blouse that had seen better days. “Until I get back on my feet and find a real tailor again.”

Alex grinned like a cat about to spill a secret. “That’s actually already in motion. There’s a tailor coming by on Friday to take your measurements and get your input. They’ll build you a starter wardrobe. Basics. High quality. Proper fit.”

Lydia blinked. “That’s a bit too much, isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “Not really, you’re image is important and needs to be curated, it is not just you, but also the symphony’s image. And you will be it’s face to the public.”

Lydia looked away, trying not to let the self satisfied smirk on her face show. She could almost feel the power she once held, back in her hands again. 

The late afternoon sun had turned the upper floors of the KDS building into a golden maze of glass reflections and soft shadows. Lydia followed Alex down the corridor from the meeting room, clutching her notebook, her bag a little fuller now with various welcome packages, brand mockups, and a folder of potential audition schedules. Her head buzzed with information — and caffeine.

Alex, meanwhile, was positively energized, walking with a light bounce in his step and humming some unidentifiable tune as they passed the quiet, now-emptier common spaces of the upper floor.

“You know,” he said mischievously, glancing sideways at her, “I still can’t get over your face the other day.”

Lydia looked over. “What face?”

“That face you made when I told you that K.D. Had been in the meeting and you undoubtedly wondered which of the grey-bearded middle aged men in there had been K.D. Actually, didn’t you sit right next to her in the meeting?”

Lydia let out a groan, already sensing where this was going.

Alex grinned, clearly delighted. “You were probably so sure she was one of the 'stuffy guys,' while she was sitting right next to you doing payroll approvals.”

“She didn’t say a word,” Lydia muttered defensively.

“She usually doesn’t,” Alex shrugged. “Jesper loves the sound of his own voice, and Katrine’s pretty brilliant at multitasking during internal meetings. She thinks of it as quiet surveillance — like playing chess in the background. Doesn’t usually engage unless she has to.”

“I noticed that now,” Lydia muttered, rubbing her forehead. “You could’ve told me at lunch, you know.”

“Oh no no,” Alex said, hand over his chest in mock indignation, “I wanted to. But then I would have robbed you of the joy figuring it out for yourself”

Lydia groaned again and smacked him lightly on the shoulder with her folder. “You’re evil.”

“I’m adorable and entertaining,” he replied with a wink.

They stepped onto the staircase.

“Seriously though,” she said after a moment, “why the mystique? I mean, I had already signed my contract.”

Alex’s face softened slightly. “It’s how she prefers it. Less attention. Keeps the power where it belongs — with the work, not the personality behind it. And it allows her to move around quietly. People underestimate quiet leadership. But she’s involved in everything, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

Lydia nodded slowly. “Still,” she added after a pause, “I felt like an idiot.”

“You weren’t an idiot,” Alex said, patting her arm. “You were just... freshly humbled.”

They walked toward the penthouse door. 

“Oh, and just so you know,” Alex added casually, “Katrine actually was listening during the whole meeting. More than she usually does. I saw her notes on when you started speaking about the vision. The thing about building soul into structure? That got to her.”

Lydia slowed her steps slightly, her pulse quickening. “It did?”

Alex just smiled again, too smug to confirm it out loud and walked off. Leaving Lydia alone at the penthouse door.

Chapter Text

As Lydia stepped into the penthouse, she was greeted by the warm glow of amber light spilling softly from the open living space. The sun had dipped below the Copenhagen skyline, casting a rich twilight over the city. But what caught her attention wasn’t the view — it was the gentle crackle of an LP spinning on the record player and the low, velvet voice of a woman singing in French. Slow jazz. Dusky and intimate.

Édith Piaf, she realized after a beat. A lesser-known live recording. The voice wasn’t just from the record, though.

From the direction of Katrine’s open suite door came a soft echo of her singing along — not word for word, but following the rhythm, humming low in a tone that sent a surprising ripple down Lydia’s spine. The timbre of Katrine’s voice was warm and dusky, almost smoky, textured with something untrained but honest.

Lydia walked silently to her own suite and placed her notebook and folders neatly on the desk, smoothing out the corners, but her attention remained pulled to the sound beyond the cracked doorway.

Then Katrine came into view in her doorframe.

“There you are,” she said cheerfully, eyes sparkling in the low light. “I thought I heard someone come in. Want a drink?”

Lydia turned, surprised, and took in the sight of her. Katrine was dressed in a simple yet stunning black dress — classic cut, clean lines, the kind that didn’t shout but spoke with elegance. Her hair was pinned up, a few loose strands artfully escaping at the nape of her neck. She looked both powerful and impossibly womanly, like something from another era.

“I—sure,” Lydia said, recovering quickly. “I’d love one.”

She followed Katrine into the open living space. The record spun on behind them, Piaf still whispering nostalgia and longing into the air.

Katrine moved behind the minibar with quiet ease, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and a bowl of fresh lemons. She began mixing with practiced familiarity — the shake of a cocktail tin, the gentle clink of glass on wood.

“Whiskey sour?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Perfect,” Lydia replied, then paused as she watched Katrine add a final touch — a dark, glistening cherry.

She handed Lydia the glass and held up her own in a soft clink. “Skål.”

They both took a sip. The balance was perfect — smooth, tangy, with that little hit of sweetness right at the bottom. Lydia wasn’t sure if it was the drink or the moment making her warm.

“I’m heading to a gallery opening tonight,” Katrine said casually, turning to lean against the counter. “One of the artists we’ve sponsored through the KDS foundation has a new show. I promised her I’d stop by.”

Lydia felt a flicker of disappointment she couldn’t fully hide. She’d spent the entire day orbiting around thoughts of Katrine. Now that they were finally alone again, she didn’t want the night to end in solitude.

“You’re welcome to come, if you’re curious,” Katrine added, as though reading her mind. “Could be a good way to dip a toe into the Copenhagen scene. See the city at night. Plus, free wine.”

Lydia blinked. “Seriously?”

“Of course. If you’d like.”

“I—yeah, I would. I just...” She looked down at her clothes, suddenly aware of her plain trousers and worn shirt. “I just don’t knowing I yet have something appropriate to wear for such occasions.”

Katrine tilted her head thoughtfully, then smiled.

“You can borrow something from me,” she offered. “I have a few options that might work. We’re not too far off in size.”

Lydia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. The idea of slipping into one of Katrine’s carefully chosen pieces, the intimacy of that — was enough to make her heart pick up pace.

“Okay,” she said finally, trying not to sound too eager. “If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I weren’t, follow me.”

Lydia followed Katrine into her private suite. She hadn’t yet stepped inside this part of the penthouse, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate — this was Katrine’s space, not designed to impress but to comfort. It felt lived-in. Personal. Soft.

The large windows overlooked the twilight-drenched skyline of Copenhagen, and silhouetted against them stood a painter’s easel, an unfinished canvas resting on it in bold strokes of color. It surprised Lydia — she’d pegged Katrine as sharp, meticulous, business-minded. But the painting was expressive, emotional, unguarded.

Her eyes traveled next to the bed — vast, covered in soft blankets and layered rich dark green silky linens, neatly made. It wasn’t the size or the luxury that caught Lydia’s attention, though. It was the tall mirror across from it. Freestanding, angled with precise care — the kind of mirror that could, quite effortlessly, catch the full view of the bed. She raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into a small, private smile.

So. Not entirely innocent after all.

Katrine glanced over her shoulder, seemingly unaware of Lydia’s mental detour. “This way.”

They passed a wall lined with built-in shelves, overflowing with books — architecture, art history, design monographs, and some worn novels. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood, old paper and something so Katrine.

Katrine opened a tall, double door and gestured Lydia inside.

The closet was more of a dressing room. Lydia stepped in and audibly exhaled at the sight. One wall was nearly dedicated to dress shirts alone, arranged meticulously by color. There were soft, rich wools and silk blends, minimalistic cuts, and tailored lines. Blazers and trousers hung neatly alongside in matching palettes of deep navy, forest green, ash grey, and classic black.

“You have excellent taste,” Lydia said, running her hand lightly across a row of pressed cotton. “This is dangerously close to what I’d buy for myself.”

Katrine chuckled from behind her. “I’m notoriously picky about shirts. I stopped letting stylists pick for me years ago.”

Lydia plucked out a crisp black dress shirt with a subtle satin trim and a deep-olive tailored jacket. The structure of it, the elegant simplicity — it was exactly the kind of outfit that made her feel centered. Composed. Powerful.

“This,” she said, holding it up to her torso. “This’ll do just fine.” secretly thinking about how  it was a good counterpoint to Katrine’s dress — sharp and clean. Like a matched set.”

“Well,” Katrine said, voice light. “Get dressed. I’ll touch up my makeup and grab my coat. We’ll leave in ten?”

Lydia nodded. “Perfect.”

As Lydia stepped out, she looked back at the room — at the bed, the mirror, the easel still wet with color — and felt the hum of something unsaid under her skin.

Back in her own suite, Lydia carefully dressed in the borrowed outfit. The black shirt slid over her frame with effortless grace, fitting as though it had been tailored for her. The olive jacket hugged her shoulders in just the right way — structured, confident, masculine without feeling heavy. The trousers had a sharp line to them, crisply pressed, giving her that familiar sense of command.

She buttoned the cuffs with a slow, practiced ease and paused to look at herself in the mirror.

There you are, she thought.

This was a version of herself she hadn’t seen in months — maybe years. Composed. Capable. The kind of woman who didn’t just enter a room, but shifted the air when she did.

Gone was the disheveled uncertainty of Berlin’s final weeks. The woman in the mirror was back in the game. Reclaimed.

That confidence carried her all the way to the suite door. Right up until the moment she opened it.

And then — it evaporated.

Because Katrine was waiting.

And her freshly applied perfume hit Lydia like an invisible wave. Complex. Warm. Feminine and completely disarming. Her hair was arranged a bit neater now, lips a soft matte red, eyes outlined just enough to draw attention without demanding it.

Lydia’s breath caught before she could help it.

Katrine glanced up from her phone and smiled. “Ready?”

Lydia nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Yes. I—yeah.”

They stepped out into the hallway, the private penthouse door closing behind them with a soft click. The office space below was dim and quiet, the buzz and energy of the workday long gone. The hush was comforting. Lydia noticed the lack of echo, the soft padded hush of the carpeted corridor, and something in her body relaxed.

This is good, she thought. Quiet. Still. No neighbors yelling. No late-night footsteps overhead. No random sounds drilling into my skull.

The building’s rhythm was something she hadn’t known she needed. Alive with purpose during the day. Restful in its silence at night.

They reached the lobby where the security guard from the sushi delivery was on duty. He looked up from his desk and grinned.

“Good evening Katrine, going out” he said with an ease that made it clear this wasn’t just a polite workplace formality.

“Evening, Peter,” Katrine replied, just as warmly. “Yes, just a gallery opening, probably won’t be out too late”

He dipped his head. “Of course. Have a good time tonight.”

Lydia gave him a polite smile as well, noting the way Katrine always treated staff — warm, friendly, respectful. It was disarming in its own way, that kind of casual authority. And appealing.

Outside, the company car — the same sleek black vehicle that had met Lydia at the airport — was already waiting with its back door open and driver standing at attention.

Katrine gestured smoothly. “After you.”

As Lydia slid into the leather seat, the city lights starting to twinkle outside the windows, she realized she was about to experience Copenhagen through Katrine’s world. Her city, her scene, her influence.

And despite the quiet confidence of her suit and the controlled pace of her breath, Lydia’s heart was absolutely hammering in her chest.

Chapter Text

The car slowed to a stop on a narrow cobbled street lit by warm lamplight. Through the tall windows of the gallery, Lydia could already see people milling about — slim glasses of wine in hand, quiet laughter drifting out every time the door opened.

The driver stepped out and opened the door for them.

Lydia emerged first, then turned just in time to watch Katrine step onto the sidewalk. The city night curved around her like it was painted for the occasion. Her black dress shifted softly as she walked, and Lydia couldn’t help the flush of heat at the base of her spine.

She took a breath, squaring her shoulders, trying to remember who she was. A conductor. A professional. A woman on her way back up. But God… if only this were something else.

If only she were going out with on Katrine on her arm as more.

The wish stung more than she expected.

The gallery was intimate — one of those hidden architectural gems tucked in a historic building, all pale walls and high ceilings and carefully placed lighting. Inside, people moved with the effortless grace of those who knew each other well — collectors, artists, curators, patrons. A refined crowd, quietly exclusive, the kind who didn't ask where you were from — they already knew.

Katrine was immediately greeted with murmured hellos and warm smiles, brief touches on the arm. Lydia followed closely, a step behind, just taking in the atmosphere.

Then it happened.

A woman with dark, shoulder-length curls broke away from a small group and made a beeline toward them. Her face lit up like a firework.

“Kat!”

The nickname was breathless, intimate — and then she was in Katrine’s arms, hugging her.

Lydia froze.

The hug was warm. Familiar. The kind of touch people fall back into when there’s history.

The woman laughed softly against Katrine’s cheek and pulled back, cupping her face for a second like they were still in the middle of something unspoken.

“Ravne,” Katrine smiled warmly, “you’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Flatterer,” the woman replied, brushing her fingers along Katrine’s forearm as she stepped aside.

And Lydia—Lydia’s stomach curled hot with something she didn’t want to name.

You have no claim, she reminded herself harshly. None. She's your boss. A patron. A professional. You don’t get to feel this.

But it didn’t stop the flicker of jealousy as she watched Katrine turn her full attention toward Ravne, the easy way they stood just a little too close. The way Katrine tilted her head with real affection, the softness in her features.

Lydia forced herself to look away.

Katrine, to her credit, didn’t forget her.

She reached gently for Lydia’s wrist, drawing her forward. “This is Lydia Tár, the new conductor at Copenhagen Symphony” she said. Ravne smiled in greeting and held out her hand, “Welcome, I hope you will enjoy it here in Copenhagen” Lydia took her hand and shook it politely. “Thank you, I’m sure I will” Her eyes quickly flickering to Katrine. 

Lydia was swept into a series of conversations — first by a sharp-featured woman in an oversized blazer who apparently ran a cultural magazine, then a quiet couple who collected abstract Nordic pieces and gushed about their love of French romantic composers.

The chatter was flattering. The attention sobering. They genuinely wanted to hear what she had to say — about her vision, about sound, about building the emotional voice of the orchestra. It was everything she should want.

But even as she smiled, answered, charmed — her eyes kept drifting back to Katrine.

To the elegant curve of her hand as she accepted a glass of white wine. To the way she leaned in, laughing low at something Ravne had said, while looking at a painting together.

Stop, Lydia told herself. She is being kind. That’s all. Generous. Professional.

But it didn’t stop the ache. The slow, sweet ache of watching something you wanted, just a breath away, but completely out of reach.

The hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses faded into a softer lull as the evening stretched on. In a quieter corner of the gallery, beneath a wide abstract piece in earthy ochres and blacks, a long wooden tapas bar offered delicate plates of Nordic-fusion finger food.

Katrine stood with one hand resting on the edge of the bar, her body casually angled toward Lydia. Her other hand held a slim plate with a few carefully selected bites — pickled pear on rye crisps, slivers of beet-cured salmon, herbed cheese on toasted brioche. Lydia had never seen anyone make something so simple look so elegant.

She stood beside her with a glass of crisp white wine in hand, sipping slowly, carefully. She was determined not to overdo it. Not with the residual jealousy simmering in her chest, and certainly not with Katrine standing this close in a black dress that made her blood boil every time she moved.

Katrine, on the other hand, had no such hesitation. She sipped her wine with ease, her cheeks slightly rosier now, her shoulders relaxed in a way Lydia hadn’t yet seen in the office. There was a softness to her in this light — not exactly vulnerability, but something looser. Unfenced.

Lydia found herself utterly distracted, barely registering the flavors on her own plate.

She couldn’t stop watching Katrine’s fingers.

The way they moved — elegant, efficient, assured. Picking up a rye crisp, brushing a smear of goat cheese across it with a butter knife, bringing it to her mouth. Her lips, just faintly stained by the wine, parted to take a bite, and Lydia’s pulse skipped traitorously.

Focus, she told herself. But the rhythm of Katrine’s gestures felt like a silent performance, more mesmerizing than anything hanging on the gallery walls.

Trying to ground herself, Lydia leaned slightly closer and asked, casually enough, “So… you and Ravne — have you known each other long?”

Katrine smiled, sipping her wine before answering. “Since university,” she said, brushing a few crumbs from her fingertips onto a napkin. “We took some of the same elective classes. I was obviously studying architecture, but I took a few art classes to unwind.”

That tracked. Katrine didn’t strike her as the type to do anything without some kind of intention.

“Oh?” Lydia tilted her head, trying to sound breezy, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Croquis, mostly. And some sculpture,” Katrine replied with a faint smile, placing her glass down gently on the bar.

Before Lydia could ask more, Ravne appeared beside them like she’d materialized from a shadow.

“She’s being modest,” the artist said, nudging Katrine with her elbow. “Kat even stood as a croquis model for one of my final classes. Best one we had that semester.”

Lydia’s throat went dry.

Croquis. Nude modeling. Katrine.

Lydia tried to keep her face still, her expression calm, but inside her thoughts were in full tilt. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her wine glass as her imagination betrayed her — Katrine, still and composed, lit by studio light, surrounded by charcoal-wielding students. Every line of her body captured in ink. Her posture perfect. Her gaze direct.

God, if I had been in that room—

Katrine, as if sensing something in the air, turned toward her with that slightly amused look she wore when she knew someone was trying to read her but wouldn’t succeed.

“It was nothing,” she said with a casual flick of her fingers. “If you want to be good at capturing a motive, what better way than try being the motive.”

Ravne laughed and gave Katrine a wink before wandering off again, summoned by another admirer of her work.

Chapter Text

Katrine’s POV

Katrine never quite turned off the part of her mind that observed.

Even here, in the softly lit gallery, among familiar faces and safe surroundings, she found herself cataloguing — the angle of bodies in conversation, the tilt of a glass, the shift of expressions in polite laughter. The ability had served her well.

And tonight, it kept returning her attention — again and again — to Lydia.

There was something compelling about watching someone like Lydia navigate a space that wasn’t hers. That faint edge of discomfort under her practiced cool, the deliberate restraint in her posture, the way her eyes tracked the room like she was scanning for meaning. Katrine had always admired conductors. Not just for their technical mastery — but for their control, their contained intensity.

But Lydia? She conducted like someone with fire in her blood. Even standing still, she felt coiled, ready.

Katrine had seen the flicker of jealousy in Lydia’s face the moment Ravne had come into view. She had barely touched Katrine — just a familiar arm around the shoulders, a brief press of cheeks — but Lydia had frozen. Just slightly. Her spine straightened. Eyes narrowed. Then, within a breath, her expression smoothed. Composed. Neutral.

But not before Katrine had already seen it.

Later, at the tapas bar, Lydia had made an elegant attempt to fish for more. Sliding into the topic of art with that subtle, professional ease of someone who didn’t want to seem interested — but was. Katrine hadn’t minded. In fact, she found it... entertaining.

And then Ravne had dropped the croquis comment.

It was meant playfully, of course, obvious to the underlying silent conversation that was taking place. And Katrine had laughed it off with the same kind of ease she'd taught herself to use when needed to defuse a conversation. But even then, she noticed Lydia’s reaction.

Not dramatic. Not scandalized.

But a shift.

Her breath — a slight catch. Her lips — a faint, almost imperceptible purse. And then the glance.

That discreet, charged elevator of a look — up, and down, and back up again, lingering in an imaginary space just beneath the surface of Katrine’s neckline. Lydia had kept her expression calm, even disinterested. But her eyes? Her eyes had undressed her more thoroughly than Ravne ever had with a charcoal stick.

And Katrine had felt it.

There was something addictive in the way Lydia tried not to look too long. In the way she behaved — for now — as if she were content to observe, to study, to gather. But Katrine recognized hunger when she saw it. She saw how Lydia watched her fingers when she ate. Saw the way she measured the distance between them. Saw the little tics of control Lydia deployed like armor.

The irony, of course, was that Lydia wasn’t hiding a thing from her.

Katrine finished her wine slowly, letting the cool, citrusy taste linger on her tongue. She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something across the room, but her attention remained anchored to the woman beside her.

She thinks she’s studying me, Katrine mused.

There was something undeniably thrilling about being seen — truly seen — by someone who wasn’t supposed to look.

It was… dangerous.

And Katrine was not someone who liked danger in her private life.

Still, as Ravne rejoined another group and Lydia reached for another glass of wine — only to pause, thinking better of it — Katrine allowed herself a small, private smile.

Yes. She’d noticed everything.

Chapter Text

The city rolled past them in a wash of muted lights and nighttime stillness. In the back seat of the quiet company car, Katrine leaned comfortably into the soft leather upholstery, one leg casually crossed over the other, her head gently tilted toward Lydia.

She was smiling to herself — that lazy, satisfied kind of smile that only came when wine had loosened the spine and the night had gone smoothly.

Lydia, sitting beside her, observed discreetly. She was trying not to. But the way Katrine’s posture had lost just a bit of its usual elegance and precision — how her laugh was softer, more unguarded, how she’d hummed along to the jazz filtering faintly through the car speakers — it was a different version of her.

“Mm,” Katrine sighed, eyes still half-lidded, “that was actually more fun than I expected.”

Lydia smiled faintly. “Do you usually expect not to enjoy social gatherings?”

Katrine’s gave a tiny shrug and smiled humorously “with my friends, you can never be too sure what to expect.”

When the car pulled up to the quiet street outside the KDS building, the city felt hushed. The air was cooler now, tinged with salt and streetlight.

Inside the sleek marble foyer, a different security guard was on duty — younger, broad-shouldered, with a friendly face.

“Evening, Tommy,” Katrine chirped, just a touch of a slur softening the consonants and thickening her accent. She gave him a sideways grin as they passed through the security doors. “Hopefully we are the worst of your troubles tonight.”

Tommy chuckled good-naturedly, clearly charmed by her warmth. “I think I’ll survive then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

They reached the staircase, quiet and dim under the soft architectural lighting.

That’s when Katrine’s heel caught the edge of a step and she leaned, just slightly, off-balance.

Without thinking, Lydia reached out — steadying Katrine with a firm hand at her waist.

Her hand met warm silk and soft curves, and for a second she almost forgot to breathe.

Katrine didn’t respond — not in words. Just kept climbing, and Lydia followed, heart thudding like a timpani roll beneath her ribs.

The penthouse welcomed them back with warm, low lighting. Lydia followed Katrine in, her pulse still erratic.

Katrine crossed the open living area with the kind of confident sway that Lydia couldn’t help hungrily follow with her eyes. She reached the couch and let herself fall back onto it with a sigh, limbs loosening in the plush cushions, a careless elegance to the way she sprawled, letting the black fabric of her dress shift along her legs.

Lydia hovered awkwardly at first, not sure if she should retreat to her suite or say something — but Katrine didn’t even glance her way, just patted the space beside her in a lazy, half-hearted gesture of invitation.

Lydia sat down.

Not as close as she wanted to. Just close enough that she could still feel the gravity of Katrine’s presence. The warmth of her.

Then Katrine shifted, turning a bit to face Lydia and—without warning—slid her legs across the couch, resting her feet in Lydia’s lap.

Lydia went completely still.

Katrine, voice low and casual, teased, “Please, could you help me with these straps? My feet are absolutely killing me. Heels and concrete aren’t the best of friends.”

Lydia stared at the sleek black heels, the delicate strap wrapped just above the slim arch of Katrine’s foot. Her fingers were not ready for this. Her nerves definitely were not.

But she nodded, wordless.

Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for the clasp, unclipping the first heel with practiced precision. The heel slipped off with a whisper. She repeated the same slow, reverent motion with the other, trying not to linger, trying not to stare at Katrine’s slender ankles and calves, now bare and exquisite in the soft light.

Katrine watched her with a faint smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice velvety with the softness of the hour.

Then, without fanfare, she stood — barefoot now.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said, her voice light but carrying an undertone of exhaustion and wine-sweet warmth. “Sleep well”

“Goodnight,” Lydia replied, breath thinner than she wanted it to be.

Katrine walked away without a backward glance, disappearing into her suite — the door left open a few inches.

Lydia sat there for a long moment, heels still in her lap, heart still pounding.

She closed her eyes, leaned back into the sofa and whispered into the quiet: “What are you doing to me?”

Chapter Text

Lydia had stretched out on the couch after Katrine disappeared into her suite. Her mind had spun—unraveled, rewound, looped endlessly on the memory of unwrapping Katrine’s bare feet in her lap, the faint pressure of her waist under Lydia’s hand on the staircase, the soft sigh of her voice saying “Sleep well.”

And somehow, in the lull of those thoughts, Lydia had dozed off there on the couch.

It was a rare, unguarded kind of sleep. Deep. Dreamless.

When her eyes blinked open, the light filtering through the penthouse windows was brighter than it should be. She sat up abruptly.

The clock on the wall read 09:26.

“Shit.”

She scrambled up, brushing sleep from her eyes. The penthouse was empty, no sound anyone else occupying the space. Instead, from the private stairwell, came the clack-clack-clack of a keyboard.

Lydia, still groggy, followed the sound down to Katrine’s office, expecting—hoping, maybe—to find her there.

But instead—

Alex.

He was lounging behind Katrine’s impressive desk, typing rapidly with an iced coffee beside him and a mischievous smirk on his face as he noticed her lurking at the top of the stairs.

“Well, well, good morning” he said, grinning. “I was starting to think you’d gone into a post late night out and wine coma.”

Lydia blinked at him, a hand through her messy hair. “What time is it?”

“Almost 9:30,” Alex replied, standing up and stretching. “You overslept. For someone who’ve lived in Germany for as many years as you, that’s not very German of you.”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

Alex just laughed. “Advice for next time; Trying to keep pace with Danes is a rookie mistake. Trust me—there’s a reason we invented the Friday bar.”

“Friday bar?” she asked, still foggy.

“You’ll see. Danish tradition. Once a month on a Friday, drinks in the breakroom, people overshare and forget who they’re pretending to be during business hours. But hey—sounds like you got a head start.”

She gave him a flat look, but her lips twitched.

He grabbed his coat and a folder off the desk. “Katrine left early. Had meetings. Site inspections, development stuff. She said to let you sleep—something about you crashed out on the couch.’”

“Anyway,” Alex added, already heading for the door, “we’ve got a stacked schedule today, so get your impressive self together, and let’s grab some breakfast on the way. There’s a place nearby that does great coffee and ridiculous rye bread. Trust me.”

Lydia hesitated for a moment, glanced around the empty office, then followed him out of the office door.

The Danish January wind hit Lydia like a slap the moment they stepped outside.

Sharp. Biting. Unforgiving.

She tugged her thin wool coat tighter around herself, but it was laughably inadequate. The sleeves were short. The fabric was tired. And her scarf—more decorative than functional—was no match for the icy gusts tunneling through the narrow streets of the city.

Beside her, Alex was entirely unbothered, bouncing along in a thick camel overcoat and dark scarf, sipping from his iced coffee like the cold was just background noise.

“You okay?” he asked, eyeing her with amused sympathy.

“I’m fine,” Lydia managed, her teeth nearly chattering. “Just… did not account for northern winters when I left the Philippines.”

Alex laughed. “Yeah, you look like you’re trying to survive a snowstorm in a Berlin spring.”

She shot him a mock glare as they turned down a side street. “You’re loving this.”

“A little,” he admitted with a grin. “But don’t worry. We’ll sort you out. After breakfast, we’re heading to the Danish Symphony building so you can see the place properly—and on the way, we’re swinging by Salling. I need to pick up a few things for Katrine anyway, and you,” he gestured to her, “need gloves. And a coat. And a scarf that doesn’t belong in a magazine spread from 2006.”

Despite the cold, Lydia laughed.

They rounded the corner to a cozy-looking café tucked between two bookshops, its windows slightly fogged from the warmth inside. The smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh bread drifted toward them as Alex pushed the door open and ushered her in.

Inside was heaven.

The warmth hit her skin instantly, and Lydia exhaled, grateful. The café was all soft lighting, amber wood, and quiet clinks of porcelain. Locals were scattered at tables reading papers or chatting softly over steaming mugs.

They settled into a corner by the window, and Alex ordered for both of them before Lydia could even look at the board: filter coffee, rye bread with soft cheese and apple slices, and something sweet with cardamom.

“You’re going to love this,” he promised, sitting back. “Best rye bread in the city.”

They ate in easy rhythm, Lydia slowly thawing. As the coffee settled into her bloodstream and the food calmed her stomach, she found herself almost relaxed.

The warm indoor air of Salling wrapped around Lydia like a soft blanket, contrasting sharply with the winter frost that still prickled her cheeks from outside. She trailed behind Alex through the gleaming floors, her boots squeaking faintly on the polished tiles. The shopping center buzzed gently around them — a weekday hum of casual shoppers, well-dressed pensioners, and smartly clad Danes moving with quiet purpose.

Alex had darted off to pick up the errands he'd come for, disappearing toward counter with an airy “Back in a sec!” tossed over his shoulder.

Left to her own devices, Lydia wandered, her steps eventually leading her — almost magnetically — to the perfume department. She moved among the sleek displays with curiosity, stopping at a section featuring a clean, minimalistic brand: ZarkoPerfume.

Her fingers closed around a green-tinted glass bottle labeled Cloud Collection 3. She brought it to her wrist and gently spritzed. The scent bloomed softly — cool citrus lifted by crushed herbs, a breath of forest after rain.

She closed her eyes, taking it in.

Clean. Sharp. Natural. A little androgynous. Exactly her.

“You’re smelling like Denmark already,” came Alex’s voice from behind.

She turned with a smile, holding the bottle loosely in one hand. “I like it. Fresh. Like a forest clearing.”

“That one’s unisex,” he said, stepping closer and pointing. “Cloud Collection 3. Inspired by Danish landscapes. You’d wear it well.” He grinned.

“I haven’t worn perfume in months,” she admitted. “Used up my old bottle in Manila. Couldn’t find it there. Eventually stopped trying.” A shrug. “Just got used to smelling like salt and sweat.”

Alex reached out and gently plucked the bottle from her hand, already flagging down a sales assistant. “Well, welcome back to civilization.”

Alex clapped his hands together. “Alright! Now that we’ve addressed your scent problem, it’s time for phase two.”

She gave him a wary look. “Phase two?”

“We’re going to dress you up like a proper Copenhagener. Or at least someone who won’t freeze to death in the Copenhagen weather.” He started walking backwards toward the escalators. “Coat. Gloves. Scarf. Let’s get you dressed a little more handsome.”

She groaned, but followed, secretly pleased.

Lydia stood awkwardly in front of a full-length mirror as Alex rifled through a rack of wool coats behind her. He held up a long, double-breasted charcoal coat against her back and squinted. “Okay, this one. Put your arms in.”

She sighed, complying as he slipped the coat onto her. It fit—surprisingly well. Structured shoulders, narrow through the waist, just the right amount of dramatic collar. She looked like a film noir detective with an expensive secret.

“Damn,” Alex muttered, circling her. “You clean up.”

Lydia gave him a crooked smirk. “You just like playing dress-up.”

“Absolutely. And I’ve got excellent taste,” he declared, grabbing a soft brown scarf and looping it around her neck before she could protest and said “You're a KDS investment now. Consider it wardrobe maintenance.”

Lydia chuckled under her breath, then glanced at him sideways as he adjusted the scarf once more, fussing like a designer on a shoot.

“So how did you end up working for Katrine anyway?” she asked. “Seems like you two go way back.”

Alex paused for half a second, then grinned wryly. “Ah. That story.”

He took a step back and folded his arms. “Once upon a time, I had this beautiful, pretentious boyfriend. Architect student. You know the type—black turtlenecks, always quoting Le Corbusier like gospel.”

Lydia made a face. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It was,” Alex said, laughing. “Anyway, he was in Katrine’s program. They studied together. We all hung out sometimes. Katrine was still just sketching dream buildings in notebooks and arguing with professors back then.”

He shook his head fondly, then continued with a dry tone. “Long story short, my architect dumped me. For an Italian exchange student. With cheekbones like a Roman statue and probably better espresso.”

“Ouch,” Lydia said, genuinely.

“Mm. Crushed me,” Alex admitted, but with a little smile of someone who’d healed. “I stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Katrine basically picked me up off the floor. Gave me a job doing admin stuff when she was starting her firm. She barely had a desk back then. But she paid me out of her own pocket.”

Lydia turned to him, surprised. “She hired you? Just like that?”

“Yep. Said she needed someone who wasn’t scared of chaos and had an eye for schedules. And I needed someone to remind me how to function.”

He met Lydia’s eyes, more sincere now. “She saved me, honestly. Gave me something to focus on.”

“That’s…” Lydia trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Yeah,” Alex said softly. “She’s a fortress, that woman. Doesn’t let many people in. But when she does… she’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met.”

Lydia looked at her reflection, the tailored coat, the elegant scarf. Her heartbeat a little heavier. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I can see that.”

Alex suddenly clapped his hands. “Alright! Gloves, then we’re out. And no arguing about the cashmere ones, because we’re already here and they feel like hugging a baby goat.”

Lydia rolled her eyes but followed him anyway.

Chapter Text

The Danish Symphony’s headquarters loomed modern and elegant against the pale sky, all sharp lines and massive glass panes that reflected the soft grey clouds. It was at once commanding and serene, like a frozen wave of sound ready to break open.

Inside, it only grew more magnificent.

The main concert hall opened up before her like something out of a waking dream. Even empty, it held presence. The hush of it. The echoing silence of a place that remembered music.

Lydia walked down the center aisle without a word, her boots soft against the carpet. Her eyes drifted upward to the acoustical panels floating above like sails. She’d seen images of the hall, read reviews, even watched one or two recordings online—but being here in person was different. The energy was real. Palpable.

She reached the front and climbed the short steps onto the conductor’s podium.

For a long moment, she just stood there.

Her fingers gently touched the handrail. Her eyes scanned out into the vast space of the hall. The empty seats watched her like an audience of ghosts. She inhaled deeply, letting her breath settle in her chest.

It was more stunning than she remembered Berlin’s Philharmonie had ever been. Warmer. Intimate. Bolder in its simplicity.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this. The altitude of it. The sense of command from a podium of this magnitude. The absolute, humming silence of a hall built for the purity of sound.

Why hadn’t she ever tried to guest conduct here? She shook her head slightly. Perhaps it had always felt too out of reach—too removed from her chaotic career. Or maybe she’d been too wrapped up in Berlin, in trying to belong there.

But this? This felt like possibility.

She closed her eyes for just a second and imagined a full orchestra in front of her—bows rising, woodwinds poised, percussion tense and waiting.

Her fingers twitched unconsciously, the echo of an imagined downbeat.

Behind her, she heard Alex’s faint voice, tapping on his phone, murmuring something to himself. He wasn’t watching her, and she was glad. She didn’t want to explain the rush she felt in her chest. The vertigo of standing where she belonged.

This was hers. Again.

And soon, the music would be real.

Alex had been quiet for a few minutes as Lydia descended from the podium, her hands brushing her coat as if smoothing invisible dust. She looked energized—flushed in that very specific way she got after immersing herself in a space that belonged to music.

They walked out together through the quiet hallways, her boots echoing softly on the polished floor.

Outside, the wind nipped sharper than earlier. Alex stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, checking his phone again, then looked up at her.

“So,” he said lightly, “we could walk over to the orchestra housing. It’s just across the plaza. I thought you might want to see the maestro’s residence—your future home, technically. It’s really coming along.”

He was smiling, enthusiastic, helpful as always.

Lydia hesitated—too long.

She turned her face slightly away to cover it, pretending to look toward the direction he’d indicated. The reminder hit her in a way she didn’t expect—sharp and unwelcome.

Her future home.

A distance from Katrine. Away from the penthouse. From the undercurrent of intimacy that pulsed beneath every exchange. The soft domesticity. The echo of Katrine’s soft singing voice. The scent of her perfume clinging in the air hours after she’d left.

And why did that matter so much?

Lydia could feel the sour twinge creep up behind her ribs. She folded her arms tight.

She shouldn't feel this way.

She was not supposed to feel possessive over a woman who wasn’t hers, especially not Katrine—young, and not hers to have. She shouldn't even be allowing herself to think in these terms. She had promised herself.

She forced a polite shrug, looking back at Alex. “I think I’d rather wait to see it once it's finished,” she said, mustering a neutral tone.

Alex raised an eyebrow slightly. “You sure? It’s not too dusty anymore.”

Lydia smiled, just barely. “I’m a little noise-sensitive. Renovation work and drills and hammering—gives me a headache before I even get inside the door.”

Alex nodded in understanding, his tone still cheerful. “Fair enough. It’s chaos in there half the time anyway. But it’ll be stunning once it’s done. Classic structure with some seriously modern details. Katrine had a very specific vision for the maestro wing.”

Lydia let the words drift past her. Katrine’s vision.

The idea of being moved out—settled elsewhere—felt too final. Too far. It felt like an ending that has ended before even starting. 

They started walking again, but Lydia kept her gaze ahead, the cold biting her cheeks, guilt nipping harder just beneath her skin.

The wind had picked up, slicing between buildings with a sharpness that made Lydia pull her new scarf a little tighter. But wrapped in the new winter coat, and with gloves warming her fingers, she felt oddly more grounded—like someone stepping into a new version of herself.

They were walking back toward the KDS building, their shoes crunching softly over the salt-sprinkled pavement. Alex, ever the multitasker, was chatting breezily while checking something on his phone.

“So,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket, “I’ve booked some preliminary blocks next week for the auditions and interviews—musicians, assistant conductors, some admin staff. But it still needs a lot of planning. We’re going to be busy.”

Lydia exhaled a small puff of condensation and nodded. “That’s good. I’d rather get a sense of who I’m working with sooner rather than later.”

“Exactly. And we can start reviewing portfolios this weekend, maybe.” Alex looked at her sidelong. “By the way, have you thought about what the opening piece should be for the symphony’s relaunch?”

Lydia blinked, letting the thought sink into her bones. It was thrilling and daunting. A musical rebirth.

“I have,” she said after a beat. “Maybe something Russian. I’ve been thinking of Rachmaninov lately. Something sweeping. Romantic. A bit... melancholy.”

Alex grinned. “Intensity and longing, a bit dramatic. I like it.”

Lydia gave him a dry sideways look. “I could also do a Brahms. But no one ever got a new audience hooked with subtle restraint.”

“I want to make them feel,” she said, with a shrug that felt bigger than the words.

Alex pushed open the door to the KDS building with his elbow and held it for Lydia. “Come on. We’ve got a few more meetings to burn through before they let us go.”

The sun had dipped low behind the buildings, casting long golden beams across the polished floors of the KDS workspace. Most staff had trickled out for the day, and the building had taken on that satisfying hush Lydia was growing to love—alive by day, but gently asleep by evening.

Lydia was seated at the meeting room table, going over some notes from the last meeting of the day and trying to push through her mounting fatigue. The adrenaline of the day had worn off, leaving her brain fogged but her fingers restless.

Just then, Alex popped his head through the doorway with a bright grin. “Almost forgot—wait here!”

Before she could respond, he vanished in a blur of movement, the clatter of his shoes echoing off the marble. Lydia blinked, bemused, and leaned back in her chair.

Minutes later, Alex returned, slightly out of breath, juggling a few sleek items in his arms.

“Special delivery,” he announced.

He placed a beautiful cognac brown leather briefcase on the desk first, unzipping it just enough to reveal a MacBook laptop nestled inside. “Work laptop, all configured. Email, calendar, composer software, the whole shebang.”

He then handed her an iPhone—shiny, newest generation, in a minimalist Danish-designed case. “Also fully set up. Danish number, local data plan, and all relevant contacts preloaded. You can keep your old phone for private stuff, but this one’s now officially your professional lifeline.”

Lydia took the phone, a little stunned taken back.

Alex smiled, already reaching into a paper bag. “And, not to forget the most important.”

Out came a small stack of blank music notebooks, a bundle of red and blue pencils, and a set of freshly printed music sheets.

“You mentioned needing these,” he said, placing them gently beside her. “Figured I’d surprise you before you had to ask again. If you run out of anything just let me know.”

Lydia let out a rare, genuine laugh and nodded. “Thanks, Alex. Really.”

He gave a small, theatrical bow. “At your service.”

Then he glanced at the shopping bags in the corner of the room. “I should bring these up before they get squished.” He gestured to the boutique bags holding Katrine’s things and lifted them effortlessly.

Lydia followed him upstairs to the penthouse, their footsteps quiet on the staircase, the office below already settling into silence for the night.

Alex dropped the bags by the small console table near the kitchen. “And voilà. Deliveries made. I’ll leave you to your evening. Same time tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Lydia said softly. “See you tomorrow.”

He gave her a warm smile, already halfway out the door. “Don’t stay up all night composing dramatic Russian overtures. I mean it. The Danish work-life balance is sacred unless I say otherwise.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Lydia alone to her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

The glow from the streetlights below painted faint golden lines across the dark wood floors of the penthouse. Lydia had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, the soft piano bench familiar under her as she eagerly settled in front of the piano. Her new notebook lay open, pencils lined neatly beside her like old friends returning to her side after too long.

She cracked her knuckles lightly, placed her fingers on the keys… and paused.

A sudden impulse made her reach for her new phone, resting silently on the edge of the piano.

She opened it. The interface was sleek, clean. She tapped into the contacts, scrolling down curiously. The first name made her huff out a soft laugh.

Alex — FAVORITE — “Call me before doing anything stupid so I don’t miss out on the fun 🚔”

Of course. Typical Alex.

She scrolled past familiar names: Jesper, a few of the members she had barely nodded at in the meeting on her first day. Then her thumb froze.

K.D.

No title. No surname. Just those two initials. Sitting there quietly in her contacts, as though they hadn’t already become the gravitational pull around which her thoughts orbited all day.

Lydia swallowed hard. A flicker of warmth rose in her chest — quickly followed by a cold swoop in her stomach.

She stared at the name a moment longer, thumb hovering. Then, she put the phone down, took out her old phone, and opened her contacts again.

She scrolled until she found Sharon.

There was no message history anymore. Just the name. The number. No response. No typing bubbles. Nothing for months.

She tapped the contact. Her finger lingered over the “Call” button.

But she didn’t press it.

She just stared, her eyes unfocused, the memory surfacing on its own — Sharon, standing in the hallway of their old apartment in Berlin, calm and cold as ice, watching Lydia pack her bags.

And then there was Britta — the quiet war criminal of her personal life, she had once called her — with her bitter smile and ever-watchful eyes on the Berlin Orchestra Board. Always watching. Always whispering in Sharon’s ear.

The betrayal had stung. Britta had secretly wanted Sharon, and when Lydia had spiraled, it had given her the perfect opening. Sharon had fallen right into it.

And then Petra.

Lydia closed her eyes.

The last time she had seen her daughter had been outside the school gates. Petra had run to her, hugging her, but before Lydia could finish asking Petra if she wanted to go to the park, Sharon had appeared — sharp, composed — and pulled Petra away like Lydia was a stranger.

There had been no calls since. No visits allowed. Just... silence.

The keys under Lydia’s fingers suddenly felt like foreign objects.

She sat there, frozen for a long time, the warm light of the penthouse around her doing nothing to melt the cold ache in her chest.

After a moment, she quietly turned off her old phone and pushed it aside. Then picked up the red pencil and opened a fresh page in her notebook.

She drew a single note.

A low, aching E.
Dark. Grounded. Echoing in solitude.

Then another.

And another.

The soft sound of pencil against music paper mingled with a quiet string of piano notes. Lydia sat hunched over the piano, caught in the rhythmic trance of composing, red and blue pencils alternating in her hand as she layered in the melodic texture.

She had almost forgotten where she was — until the door opened with a clumsy shove.

Katrine came stumbling in, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, bundled in a heavy navy-blue and yellow reflective construction jacket smeared with dust and dried mud. She was balancing two bulging grocery bags, a black leather binder under one arm, and a bright orange safety helmet tucked under the other. Her hair was slightly mussed beneath a wool cap, and a strand stuck to her lips with condensation from the cold.

“God, I’ve been freezing my balls off all day,” she announced, bumping the door closed with her hip. “Site inspections at three different construction lots. I can't feel my face.”

Lydia stood, slowly and a bit stiff from sitting too long at the piano. She blinked a few times at Katrine, stunned — partly by the vision of her dressed down and scruffy, partly by how cute she looked with her flushed nose and dirty boots.

“You look like you wrestled a building,” Lydia said dryly, already walking toward her.

Katrine smirked, letting out a tired laugh as she dumped everything on the kitchen counter in one, unceremonious pile. “More like a building wrestled me. And then I lost.”

She peeled off her gloves and cap, revealing more of her tousled blonde hair. Lydia stepped forward, instinctively reaching for one of the grocery bags.

“Let me help,” she offered. “You look like a walking disaster.”

Katrine raised an eyebrow. “Flattered.”

“I meant it in the nicest possible way,” Lydia murmured, smirking.

Katrine shook her head, clearly amused, then unzipped the top of her thick jacket. Underneath, she wore a fitted thermal long-sleeve and dusty utility pants. Somehow, even covered in dirt, she looked... stunning.

“I’m going to change real quick,” Katrine said, grabbing the binder and helmet again. “Then I’ll make dinner. Tomato soup. I need something hot and comforting before I turn into an icicle.”

“Sounds good,” Lydia said, turning toward the bags. “I’ll unpack these.”

Katrine gave her a grateful glance before disappearing into her suite with a trail of muddy boot prints.

Lydia stood at the counter, pulling out groceries — tomatoes, fresh basil, cream, onions, a baguette — and lining them up neatly. She found a gentle satisfaction in the task. It was oddly domestic. Intimate. But not forced. Just… quietly warm.

Her eyes flicked toward the door where Katrine had gone.

She found herself smiling.

The soft shuffle of slippered feet echoed on the polished floor as Katrine emerged from her suite, transformed. The dirty construction clothes were gone, replaced by sleek black lounge pants and a slate-grey cashmere sweater with a subtle V-neck that hugged her in all the right places — casual, but still immaculately put together. Her hair had been loosely braided, slightly damp from a quick shower, a few wisps escaping the braid. She looked effortless.

Lydia, halfway through unpacking the last grocery bag, watched her with an unreadable expression.

Katrine moved past Lydia toward the kitchen counter, smiling a cheeky smile “This is strictly ‘chef’s territory’ now.”

Lydia arched a brow. “You’re kicking me out of the kitchen?”

“With affection,” Katrine replied, already reaching for a chopping board. “I have a rule: if I’m cooking, I cook. No backseat chopping. No hovering. But—” she pointed toward the sideboard with her knife in hand, playfully, “—you can be useful and open the wine. Glasses are on the middle shelf.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lydia replied dryly, hiding her amusement at the audacity of being bossed around by the young woman.

She moved across the open living space, pulling two glasses from the cupboard and uncorking a bottle of Chianti. She poured two generous servings and returned to the kitchen, offering one to Katrine with a quiet, “For the chef.”

Katrine accepted it with a warm little smile and took a sip, exhaling happily as she leaned into the rhythm of chopping onions and sautéing garlic.

Lydia took her own glass and returned to the piano, placing it carefully on the lid as she sat again. She glanced at the sheet she’d been working on earlier, but her eyes lingered instead on Katrine — sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hands moving confidently over the ingredients, the subtle sway of her hips as she stirred at the stove, her voice occasionally humming something low and tuneless.

It was domestic in a way Lydia hadn’t known she’d missed — hadn’t realized she’d never really had.

For a full year she had lived in sun-beaten solitude in the Philippines, spiraling into silence, eating meals alone, letting her world shrink into the size of a memory. And before that, even in her marriage, Sharon’s presence had never been comfortable. There was always tension. Always judgment. Always needing to tiptoe.

But now — now there was background noise that didn’t grate against her mind. Katrine’s movement. Her soft humming. The sizzle of onions. The occasional muttered curse when something splashed or rolled off the counter. All of it comforting. Like a quiet duet.

She picked up her pencil again, something fluttering in her chest, and added a new phrase to the score. The melody shifted slightly — softer now, more open.

She sipped her wine, then scribbled another bar.

In this unfamiliar penthouse, surrounded by a city she didn’t yet know, Lydia was writing again. Composing. Breathing.

And she knew, with a sudden clarity, that it had nothing to do with the wine.

It was the background music of Katrine's presence that made it possible.

The long oak table between them had been set casually — no placemats or formality, just two steaming bowls of rich, aromatic tomato soup, a chunk of fresh bread each on small plates, and their wine glasses, now slightly smudged with fingerprints. The lights overhead had been dimmed, warm and low, casting a golden glow across Katrine’s cheekbones as she leaned back in her chair.

Lydia took a spoonful of the soup and hummed a quiet note of approval. “This is really good.”

Katrine grinned, ladling a final swirl of crème fraîche into her own bowl. “It’s my own recipe — I add a little roasted red pepper and smoked paprika”

“It’s perfect.” Lydia murmured.

They ate in companionable quiet for a few moments — the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled — until Katrine spoke, gently curious:

“So, what did you think of the symphony building? You finally got to see it in person.”

Lydia looked up from her spoon, eyes a little lit from the wine and the residual reverie of her earlier visit. “It was more than I expected. The hall’s architecture—acoustically and visually—it has something rare. Something that lets the music take center stage without losing its own personality.” She sipped her wine. “It made me… ache to conduct again. Properly.”

Katrine smiled softly into her glass.

Lydia leaned an elbow on the table, her tone casual but probing. “And what about you? What was your day like today — aside from freezing ‘your balls off’ on a construction site?”

Katrine shrugged, picking a bit of bread apart. “Meetings. A site inspection in Nordhavn. Trying to keep the municipality happy, as usual. A lot of paper-pushing, mostly. Not glamorous.”

Lydia raised a brow, skeptical. “You don’t strike me as someone who spends entire days doing ‘not glamorous’ things.”

Katrine laughed at that. “You’d be surprised. Glamour is usually a byproduct of other people doing the filming and packaging. Most of my work is rather dull in practice.”

Lydia didn’t buy it. She studied Katrine carefully — the way she didn’t elaborate, how she shifted the conversation just enough to deflect without lying.

Katrine’s grin widened slightly at Lydia’s barely contained annoyance, and Lydia could only shake her head and chuckle softly in resignation. She had gotten nothing from her attempts — no juicy detail, no accidental slip, not even the name of a client — and it both intrigued and frustrated her to no end.

She took another bite of the soup and changed the subject, letting the frustration melt behind her eyes. But something had been confirmed: Katrine was exceptionally skilled at drawing others out, while revealing just enough of herself to keep them wanting more.

Chapter Text

The clink of plates and the soft swish of running water faded into the background behind Lydia’s focused world at the grand piano. Katrine had waved Lydia off with a dish towel in hand, insisting on cleaning up the kitchen herself.

Now, the warm lights from the kitchen still glowed in the background, but the living space had otherwise hushed into a pocket of peace. Lydia, seated with perfect posture and hands hovering over the keys, had sunk into a different state of being. Notes fluttered out into the air — not a full piece yet, just fragments, sharp flourishes, soft chords that curled into each other like smoke, thoughtful and seductive and driven by something more primal than discipline.

She was aware — painfully so — of the way Katrine moved in the periphery.

She heard her carry the shopping bags into her suite. The soft padding of her feet. Then the quiet reemergence into the room: the sound of the couch cushion giving beneath her as she laid down. The subtle, nearly inaudible crackle of a book spine being bent slightly back. And then… silence. Katrine reading.

Lydia didn’t dare glance immediately.

She poured herself into the piano, her fingers trilling over high notes before plunging deep into resonant minor chords, her whole body tightening and releasing with each phrase. She felt herself chasing something — a form of musical dominance, yes, but something less innocent too. Something utterly physical.

She wanted to own the space.

Own Katrine’s attention.

Finally, she allowed herself a quick glance.

Katrine lay curled on the couch, long legs tucked partially beneath her, sweater sloping off one shoulder, her book held lazily with one hand propped under her cheek. Her eyes scanned the page — but Lydia couldn’t tell if she was really reading anymore, or simply listening.

The sight made Lydia’s stomach twist deliciously.

Her gaze dropped to Katrine’s feet, one of them dangling slightly off the couch. That tiny, relaxed motion. The casual confidence of someone completely at home — and utterly unaware of how devastating she looked. Or maybe too aware.

Lydia turned back to the piano, swallowing thickly.

The next chord she played was bold and rich, slightly too loud. She corrected it, forcing herself into smoother territory, but the heat had already risen in her chest. She felt almost predatory, watching Katrine like that, imagining ridiculous, feverish things.

Katrine turned a page.

“Don’t stop,” she said lazily, voice low from wine and the late hour. “I like hearing you play. It’s... beautiful.”

Lydia exhaled like she'd been struck.

She nodded, silently, but didn’t trust her voice.

She returned to the piano, but her hands were shaking slightly now, and the music became slower, sultrier. She leaned into it, into the spell she was casting, drawing out notes that felt like fingertips brushing skin.

She wanted to impress.
She wanted to be adored.
She wanted to be wanted.

And in that moment, with Katrine draped on the couch and her own breath unsteady, Lydia felt completely consumed by a creative and sensual hunger that felt terrifyingly close to a high.

The music trailed off on a soft, unresolved chord — not because Lydia intended to end the piece there, but because she was startled by a sudden thud.

She turned, heart hitching slightly, only to see Katrine’s book lying face-down on the floor, a splayed soft landing between the couch and rug.

Katrine hadn’t stirred.

She had fallen asleep — curled slightly on her side, arm still draped loosely where the book had been, one cheek pressed into the couch cushion, hair slightly mussed, a soft, unconscious pout resting on her lips.

Lydia slowly stood from the piano bench, a tremor in her hands that had nothing to do with fatigue from playing.

She stepped soundlessly across the room, moving closer like one might approach a wild animal — reverent, cautious, as though the moment could dissolve into air if she dared move too quickly.

And then she was there, standing over Katrine’s sleeping form.

God, she was beautiful like this — stripped of all the sharp elegance she wore during the day. No curated looks, no dry wit, no firm voice giving strategic direction — just soft skin, parted lips, lashes resting like ink against her cheeks, her breath steady and warm.

Lydia crouched down beside the couch, eyes scanning Katrine’s face, heart hammering traitorously. Her fingers twitched, then gave in.

She reached forward — slowly — and let her index finger trace the delicate curve of Katrine’s cheekbone. Feather-light. Reverent.

Down to the edge of her jaw. The curve of her chin.

Then she paused.

She shouldn’t.

She mustn't.

But she did — her fingertip brushed the center of Katrine’s bottom lip, so gently it barely made contact. The softness of it nearly undid her. Her breath hitched, her thighs pressed together instinctively as a flush of heat surged through her body, low and deep and aching.

She froze, as if caught mid-thought by her own conscience.

Her eyes widened with sudden clarity — with the weight of what the hell she was doing.

Pulling back, she cursed herself under her breath and pressed a hand hard against her chest like she could steady the treacherous rhythm inside. For a long second she just knelt there, grounding herself in the guilt and the want — two things woven so tightly together inside her they felt indistinguishable.

Then, gently, she reached out and touched Katrine’s shoulder.

“Katrine,” she whispered, voice low and warm. “You fell asleep.”

Katrine stirred with a small sigh, eyes fluttering open, disoriented for a moment before focusing on Lydia’s face.

A sleepy smile tugged at her lips.
“Mm… Sorry. I didn’t mean to — your music was so relaxing.”

Lydia gave a quiet smile back, but her voice felt stuck in her throat. She forced something casual.

“It’s alright. You had a long day.”

Katrine sat up slowly, blinking herself back to the present. She yawned — unabashed and utterly disarming.

“I’m gonna crawl into bed before I pass out right here again,” she mumbled.

She stood, and Lydia immediately stepped back, giving her space, but not before catching the scent of her perfume — musky, dark, and unmistakably Katrine — hitting her like a trigger to all the wrong places.

“Goodnight, Lydia,” Katrine said with a little lilt in her voice as she turned toward her suite.

“Goodnight,” Lydia replied — a little too softly — and stood rooted in place as she watched Katrine disappear behind her door.

Only when she was alone again in the golden hush of the penthouse did Lydia let herself exhale — slow and ragged — and press trembling fingers to her own lips, almost in disbelief.

The silence buzzed around her.

God help her, she was in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

The gentle creak of Katrine’s suite door closing had long faded into silence.

Lydia stood alone in the living room, the soft lighting casting long shadows over the floor, her body wound tight with want she couldn’t shake — not with reason, not with guilt, not even with shame.

She paced once, then turned on her heel and went straight to her own suite. The silence felt deafening now — the echo of her near-mistake roaring in her chest. She stripped off her shirt on the way to the bathroom, flicked the shower knobs with jerky movements.

Ice cold.

The first hit of the freezing water made her gasp — the kind of involuntary, raw noise dragged out from deep inside. She stood still under the punishing freezing temperature, hands braced on the tiled wall, trying to breathe the heat out of her body.

It didn’t help.
It only made it worse.
The want wasn’t skin deep — it was in her, in the marrow, in the places where loneliness had carved too many rooms that now echoed with the sound of Katrine’s laugh and the ghost of her sleeping face.

She dried off carelessly, threw on a clean shirt, tried again to settle in bed. The sheets felt too warm. Her body too alive.

And then…
She turned.
Faced the ceiling.
Closed her eyes.
Saw her.

Katrine, dozing on the couch.
The vulnerable rise of her chest.
The perfect softness of her lip under Lydia’s fingertip.

A tortured breath left her lips.
Her hand wandered under the sheets — slow, hesitant, guilty.
She tried to chase the memory away, but it only made her need it more.

And when she touched herself, it wasn’t her body she was thinking of — it was Katrine’s.

The gasp that escaped her was muffled into her pillow. Her hips arched off the bed, mouth open and silent, a kind of desperate reverence in how she moved.

It didn’t last long. It never did when the ache was this strong. Her body tensed, trembling around the need that had nowhere safe to land. She came with a quiet, broken sound and then… nothing.

No relief.
No peace.
Just a deeper, aching guilt and the same old empty silence.

She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come. It never would tonight.

By 4:13 a.m., she gave up.

She threw on her running clothes, and headed off to the fitness room.

Lydia pounded her feet onto the treadmill belt, setting the incline to just punishing enough that her lungs began to burn within five minutes.

Sweat ran down her back. Her legs ached. Her heart pumped.

She ran like she was chasing sanity.

The floor-to-ceiling windows were dark, her reflection in the glass was hard-eyed, jaw tight, focused.

But beneath it — a storm.

Running wasn’t helping either.

But at least it gave her something to do with her body.
Something to silence the memory of how soft her lips had felt.

The steady thud-thud-thud of Lydia’s feet on the treadmill was the only sound in the dimly lit room, the soft amber glow from overhead lights casting faint shadows. Her skin gleamed with sweat, her breath was shallow but measured, and her mind was a quiet chaos—numb now, just motion and exhaustion.

The door opened quietly behind her.

A rustle of movement.

Lydia didn’t stop—but she glanced at the mirrored wall and caught the unmistakable reflection.

Katrine.

Still half-dreamlike in the early morning hush. Her hair still in a loose braid, strands falling around her cheeks.

Without ceremony, she stepped up onto the stairmaster beside Lydia’s treadmill, tapping at the console.

“Godmorgen” Katrine said softly, eyes still bleary but warm. “You’ve been up long?”

Lydia hit the incline button again—more out of reflex than sense. “Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, breath hitching faintly from exertion. “So I figured I’d wear myself out a bit.”

Katrine smiled at that, starting her own rhythm on the machine, “Mm. I know the feeling. The brain doesn’t always switch off, does it?”

“No,” Lydia said, her voice low, dry. “Some nights it’s like I am the noise.”

Katrine gave a knowing little hum, not pushing further, just syncing herself into the rhythm of her own pace. For a few moments, the two women moved in parallel—one breathless with exertion, the other finding her pace.

The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, Lydia found it pleasant.

Outside, a faint silver hue was creeping into the Copenhagen sky.

Steam curled from Lydia’s skin as she stepped out of the bathroom, her limbs loose and heavy from the punishing run and the long, scalding shower that followed. She rubbed a towel through her damp hair as she crossed into the penthouse kitchen—and paused.

Katrine was already there, dressed for the day in soft tailored trousers and a crisp blouse, pouring coffee into two mugs.

On the counter, there was a plate of fresh fruit: figs, sliced apple, some berries, and pieces of soft brie and rye crispbread.

Lydia’s heart did a strange little skip, watching her move so easily in the space, sleeves rolled, pouring with that quiet grace of hers, completely unaware—or unbothered—by how intimate it all felt.

She handed Lydia the mug of coffee.

Lydia accepted it gratefully, fingers brushing Katrine’s in the exchange. The jolt from the touch was too subtle to show, but it was there. Electric. Lurking.

“I figured something light for breakfast,” Katrine continued, opening the fridge and peeking in for something else. “My schedule’s a bit brutal today.”

“Oh?” Lydia asked, settling on a stool at the counter, coffee warming her palms.

“Design reviews with two client committees. Long, messy meetings with too many opinions and too few good ones.” Katrine made a face, then took a slice of fig and popped it into her mouth. “Which means I’ll be stuck in the meeting room all day, but—” she took a sip of her own coffee— “you and Alex can use my office as your workspace.”

Katrine glanced at the sleek watch around her wrist and suddenly straightened. “Shit, I’m running late,” she muttered, already crossing the kitchen. She swept up a slim leather binder and the half-eaten slice of crispbread with brie in one practiced motion.

And with that, she disappeared down the staircase.

Lydia remained at the counter, letting out a slow exhale. The penthouse was quiet again, flooded with the pale morning light that pooled across the floor. She lingered there, sipping her coffee with no urgency. The fruit was sweet. The quiet was a balm.

Eventually, the pull of the piano proved too strong. She padded back over and sat, letting her fingers drift lightly over the keys. A few slow arpeggios, soft and minor, barely a whisper through the space. There was something delicious about playing alone in the morning silence, nothing to do yet but be inside the music. Just for herself.

Then—

“I brought matcha!” came the sing-song call from below the staircase, cheerful and unmistakably Alex’s.

Lydia’s hands pausing on the keys. She could hear his footsteps in the office below, the sound of a paper bag rustling.

“Get that genius brain of yours down here! We’ve got a day’s worth of auditions to prep for and spreadsheets that want your soul!”

Another day had begun.

Chapter Text

The day moved with a quiet rhythm. Lydia and Alex sat at opposite ends of Katrine’s wide oak desk, both hunched over their laptops. Piles of folders, color-coded printouts, and sticky notes were spread between them like a quiet battlefield of organization.

Alex, multitasking with alarming ease, managed both calendar logistics and trading quips about half the names on their shortlist.

“It’s a mix,” he said without looking up, typing rapidly. “Some are old-timers from before the takeover. Others are ambitious little prodigies who’ve been dying for a shake-up in the symphony’s structure.”

Lydia offered a distracted hum of agreement, reviewing a piece of sheet music. The sun moved slowly across the floor, warming the office and casting soft shadows on the shelves stacked with architectural books and framed sketches.

Their conversation moved in and out of light banter and task-focused coordination, until—

The door opened.

Katrine stepped in, moving quickly but with her usual unbothered elegance, a rolled blueprint in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked effortlessly sharp—tailored black slacks, a slate-gray silk blouse tucked in just right, her hair pinned up with a pen. Lydia’s pulse jumped the moment she looked up and met her eyes.

“Just grabbing a set of drawings,” Katrine said, breezing past them to the drawing cabinet. She pulled it open with practiced ease and scanned the folders.

“You two still alive in here?” she added with a smirk. “It’s past noon—don’t forget to get some lunch.”

Alex perked up. “You joining us?”

Katrine shook her head as she pulled out a thick folder. “Nope. Working through lunch with good old Jesper.” She waved the folder slightly. “Endless arguments about roof angles awaits me.”

Lydia looked up, unable to hide the flicker of disappointment across her face. “Sounds… thrilling.”

Katrine gave her a playful glance. “Mm, someone’s never had the joy of hearing Jesper argue about cladding material for forty-five minutes straight.”

Alex made a dramatic gagging noise. “Enjoy. We’ll be over here eating carbs and judging trombonists.”

Katrine grinned at them both, then turned to leave. “Enjoy some lunch on my behalf. I’ll try not to starve.”

As the door shut behind her, Lydia stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to.

Alex didn’t miss it.

“Aw,” he said in a mock-sympathetic tone, already standing to stretch. “Abandoned to endure my excellent company.”

Lydia gave him a dry look.

They gathered their things and headed to lunch, but Lydia felt a strange tightness under her ribs—the ache of longing without permission to express it. Of wanting someone who always seemed just out of reach.

The soft winter light had begun its slow retreat, turning the office windows into pale mirrors as the city’s glow started to flicker to life outside. Lydia sat cross-legged on one of the armchairs, the last notes of a productive day spread across the desk in color-coded piles. Instrument sections, date proposals—all neatly slotted into Alex’s digital calendar with practiced ease.

Alex stretched his arms overhead and groaned theatrically. “If I hear the word harpist one more time today, I’m throwing myself into Nyhavn.”

Lydia smirked but said nothing, still scanning an email on her laptop. The comfortable lull of late-day focus wrapped the room in a soft cocoon, until—

Her phone lit up.

K.D.

Her heart dropped, stopped, then restarted in one tight thud. She blinked at the screen, trying to stay still, casual. But her fingers betrayed her, too quick to snatch up the phone, too eager to swipe open the message before Alex could even glance her way.

K.D.:
Is Alex being a good boy or is he still torturing you with his color coding system? 

Lydia bit her lip, trying to smother a laugh.

The heat crept up her neck, not from embarrassment, but from something… thrilling. The electric buzz of Katrine texting her directly. Her, not through Alex. No subject line, no pretense of business. Just… teasing.

She tapped back quickly, composing and deleting the first draft twice to make it sound less eager.

Lydia:
He is. Where is the turn off button on him? 

Immediately the answering message pinged in.

K.D.:
Haha, I might be able to help. Jesper and I are heading out for dinner since it’s gotten late. Want to come with us? You and Alex?

She looked up at Alex. “Are you free for dinner? Katrine just texted if we wanted to join her and Jesper.”

Alex leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head and with mock thoughtfulness, he said, “Well, you can text back that I’m in… if it’s somewhere nice. And on her.”

Lydia smiled down at her screen, her fingers moving before she could second-guess the thrill she felt. She kept it simple.

Lydia:
We’re in—on the condition that it’s somewhere nice and on you.

She watched the screen, waiting, eyes flicking back to her laptop to feign productivity. When Katrine’s three little typing dots appeared, Lydia’s heart fluttered.

The typing dots were there—bobbing like bait—and then, nothing.

The dots disappeared.

No reply.

She held the phone loosely, trying not to let the small thud of disappointment show. Maybe Katrine had been interrupt—

The door to the office opened suddenly with a dramatic swoosh.

Katrine leaned against the doorframe with mischief. Her grin was confident and lazy in that effortless way of hers.

"Get your coats," she said. "We’re going to Kong Hans Kælder."

Katrine smirked. “Hopefully the choice lives up the conditions without offending your delicate aesthetic sensibilities, Alex.”

He laughed, mock wounded.

Lydia got up from her chair a little too fast. “I’ll just grab my coat.”

Rushing up the private staircase to the penthouse, her soft scarf in hand before she even reached the coat rack. She threw it around her shoulders with a grin, smoothing her hair in the hallway mirror and checking her reflection over an extra time. 

Downstairs, she could already hear Katrine and Alex bantering, voices overlapping with that familiar ease.

Chapter Text

The four of them walked down the cobbled street, footsteps clicking rhythmically over stone.

Jesper, ever the polished old architect, offered his arm to Katrine with an easy, elegant motion. She accepted it with a fond smile and tucked her gloved hand through the crook of his arm. Their steps were perfectly in sync—two people who had worked together for a long time and worn that familiarity like a favorite coat. The way they leaned slightly toward each other while talking—comfortably, not intimately—suggested an enduring closeness built over years, professional but deeply respectful.

Katrine laughed at something Jesper said, the sound rising light and effortless into the winter air.

Behind them, Lydia walked alongside Alex.

"That one—Sankt Petri Hotel," Alex said, pointing at a sleek glass-and-brick building across the square. “Used to be a university building. Now? One of the most expensive places in town. Don’t let the minimalism fool you.”

Lydia forced a nod, eyes flickering toward the hotel and then—immediately—back ahead.

Katrine’s coat was a tailored wool number, cinched neatly at the waist. Jesper was talking with one hand gesturing, and Katrine tilted her head toward him, listening with a soft smile on her lips.

“They say King Hans himself dined at Kong Hans’ Kælder,” Alex continued, completely undeterred by Lydia’s wandering attention. “Like—actual medieval banquets down in that old cellar. And they say the original cellar wall still stands, behind the wine room.”

“That’s… charming,” Lydia said absently, her voice trailing.

Her gaze drifted again—Katrine’s gloved hand resting lightly on Jesper’s coat sleeve, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the laugh, the ease of it all. There was no flirtation between them. That much Lydia could see. But that only made the casual intimacy of it worse. It was earned—rooted in time, trust, and equal footing.

Lydia’s chest tightened, inexplicably.

She should’ve been the one offering her arm. Or even just walking beside her. Not two paces behind.

“And that—” Alex pointed across the street again “—was Kierkegaard’s favorite café. Before he decided to get very serious about anxiety and the meaning of life.”

Lydia blinked and turned. “Sorry. What?”

Alex gave her a sidelong look and smirked. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

Lydia hesitated. “Of course I have.”

“Kierkegaard, philosopher, coffee addiction, crushing Lutheran doubt. Classic stuff.”

She sighed, a faint laugh escaping her lips. “I’m sorry. I’m… distracted.”

Alex glanced ahead toward Katrine and Jesper and gave a quiet, knowing hum, his tone light. “You don’t say.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes slightly, but Alex only gave her a cheeky smile and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Don’t worry,” he added, voice lower and less teasing. “Jesper’s practically her godfather. You’re not missing out on any romantic scandal.”

Lydia arched a brow, momentarily thrown off. “That obvious?”

He grinned. “Only to someone who knows the signs.”

She felt a faint rush of heat rise to her cheeks but said nothing, focusing instead on the glowing sign just visible now at the end of the street: Kong Hans Kælder.

The ancient cellar restaurant waited like a storybook tucked under the city.

The others had reached the entrance—Jesper holding the door with a courtly hand and Katrine laughing at something he said about noblemen and cellar stairs.

Alex hung back with Lydia for a second, letting the moment breathe after his last comment.

She glanced at him, just enough tension in her eyes to betray what she wasn’t saying. “Don’t… mention anything. Please. Not to Katrine. Not to anyone. It’s nothing. It can’t be anything.”

The edge of her voice was more pleading than she intended. Too much emotion forced into too few syllables.

Alex’s face softened instantly. Gone was the teasing. He shifted slightly, so they stood shoulder to shoulder in the glow of the restaurant’s entrance light. “Hey,” he said quietly, almost conspiratorially, “your secret is mine.”

Lydia let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Alex continued, his tone gentle now.

“I may not have lived through your exact… situation,” he said carefully, “but I’ve been on the wrong side of want. Timing. Proximity. Sometimes it’s not about logic. Or plans. Sometimes it’s just... there. Whether you want it to be or not.”

He leaned in slightly, playful but sincere underneath. “I’m not here to judge. Just—if you need someone to talk to who won’t screw it up or make it a thing… I’m not just good for coffee runs and scheduling.”

Lydia finally looked him in the eye and gave the smallest, grateful nod.

Alex bumped his shoulder gently against hers. “Come on. Let’s not keep the queen of the cellar waiting! And by queen, I mean Jesper.”

The table was beautifully set beneath the low vaulted ceilings of the cellar restaurant, candlelight glinting off polished glasses and brushed silver. Velvet shadows pooled along the brick walls, and a low murmur of refined conversation filled the air, muffled by white tablecloths and well-trained staff.

Lydia sat across from Katrine.

Jesper had claimed the seat beside Katrine with a practiced ease that only years of closeness could produce, and Alex sat cheerfully beside Lydia, already skimming the menu like a man on a mission.

The warmth of the room and the good wine made Lydia’s bones feel more fluid than usual, but her nerves betrayed her. She was too aware of the woman across from her.

Jesper turned his affable attention on her. “So, Lydia,” he began in his warm, Danish-laced English, “how are you settling in?.”

Lydia smiled, but her eyes flitted toward Katrine for the briefest moment before locking back on Jesper. “Still finding my feet,” she admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But we’ve been preparing the audition schedules and reviewing the orchestra’s current roster. I’m... hopeful.”

Jesper gave a satisfied nod. “That’s what we need. Someone with both ears sharp and a spine. And perhaps,” he added, swirling his wine, “someone who dares to shake it all a little.”

Katrine hadn’t spoken, but Lydia could feel her gaze. Every time Lydia glanced over, she found Katrine already watching her—eyes calm, curious, the corners of her mouth almost teasing.

Lydia shifted her legs beneath the table, adjusting her posture in the antique chair. She stretched out her long limbs, not fully thinking—

Her shin brushed against something. Firm, warm, unyielding.

Not something.

Katrine.

Lydia froze imperceptibly, her thigh suddenly hyperaware, her nerves firing like tiny sparks. Katrine didn’t move. Didn’t flinch or pull away. Their legs stayed gently touching beneath the table like some quiet dare.

Lydia’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass, masking the sudden throb of heat that unfurled in her belly. She tried to keep speaking to Jesper—something about repertoire lists, Rachmaninov, maybe—but her mind was unmoored, floating somewhere below the table where leg met leg.

Then Katrine shifted slightly. Not away—just enough to drag the hem of her black trousers softly against Lydia’s calf in a subtle slide that sent goosebumps up her leg.

Lydia looked up sharply.

Katrine was sipping her wine. Calm. Composed. Her attention on Jesper.

Jesper was saying something about the Danish audience being “brutally honest but never cruel,” and Lydia forced herself to nod, responding on autopilot.

The rest of the dinner was filled with elegant courses and polished conversation, but Lydia’s senses were too tangled in the constant awareness of every accidental glance, every slow sip of wine, every moment when her legs brushed Katrine’s again.

The night had turned quieter. The streets of Copenhagen shimmered under a soft, cold glow — a mix of old streetlamps and freshly fallen snow, painting the cobblestones in amber and pearl.

Outside Kong Hans Kælder, the four paused to say their goodbyes.

Jesper pulled on his gloves with stiff-fingered dignity. “A pleasure, as always,” he said warmly, shaking Lydia’s hand.

Alex yawned with a dramatic stretch. “I’m heading home before I turn into a very chic icicle. See you two tomorrow.”

And then it was just the two of them.

Katrine turned slightly to Lydia, adjusting the scarf at her throat, her cheeks pink from the cold. “You warm enough?”

Lydia nodded. Too warm, actually — at least everywhere Katrine’s leg had accidentally touched her under the table.

Before she could overthink it to death, Lydia blurted softly, “May I?” and held out her arm, aiming for casual courtesy, as if she’d done this a thousand times and wasn’t panicking inside.

Katrine looked at her for a beat — unreadable, as always — then smiled and slipped her hand through Lydia’s elbow.

The snow whispered beneath their steps, and Lydia was sure she could hear her heartbeat echoing in her coat.

The pressure of Katrine’s hand, the brush of their sides as they walked too close to avoid it, the scent of her perfume mingled with the winter air — it all flooded Lydia’s senses. Every nerve felt like it was tuned to her companion.

She tried to focus on the surroundings, on the streets and turns, but the reality hit her with a thud: she had no idea where they were going.

She’d been too busy obsessing over Katrine and Jesper’s chemistry on the way there — staring at their linked arms, their ease — to notice a single landmark.

Now, Katrine was casually guiding them, their pace slow, measured. Lydia was too proud to admit she was letting herself be led like a tourist on a private tour.

“Don’t worry, you’ll quickly learn your way around” Katrine’s voice was low and a little amused.

They kept walking, silence stretching comfortably between them now — the kind of silence Lydia had only ever known with lovers, or people she’d once thought she could love.

Their steps synchronized. Their breaths clouded together.

Katrine didn’t let go of her arm until they were walking through the KDS building’s front doors and heading upstairs — and even then, she held on a moment longer than necessary before slipping her hand free.

“Thanks for the escort,” Katrine said as she unlocked the penthouse door. “You’re surprisingly steady for someone who got tipsy two nights ago on two glasses of wine.”

Lydia scoffed. “I was jetlagged.”

“Mm. Sure you were.”

They stepped into the warm quiet of the penthouse.

Katrine went to shrug off her coat and boots, already half-smiling to herself.

Lydia lingered by the door, glowing inside, head spinning, heart loud.

Something between them had shifted.

Not quite crossed. But tilted, leaning closer.

Lydia lay in the dim warmth of her room, covers drawn loosely around her, her body turned toward the cold side of the bed — the side untouched, unused. She had told herself she was tired. That she would sleep quickly, deeply.

But sleep didn’t come, as usual.

She was wide awake, pulse thrumming low and steady in her stomach. The images were too vivid — replaying over and over with no mercy.

Katrine’s leg brushing hers under the table. Just a slight accidental graze — or had it been? Soft, warm through the wool of her trousers, maddeningly casual.

And then the walk back.

Katrine’s gloved hand on her arm. Her side so close against Lydia’s that every step had felt like a private little spark. The occasional brush of their coats, a tangle of proximity and restraint. That scent — rich, dark — curling around Lydia like silk ribbon.

Lydia exhaled sharply into the dark.

She slipped her hand beneath the covers, tentatively at first, but her fingers knew what they wanted.

She let herself imagine the weight of Katrine’s hand not on her arm, but sliding along her side… the curve of her waist. Her bare hip. How it would feel to press her mouth against those soft lips she’d nearly kissed just nights ago. To feel the warmth of her breath. The press of her body.

Her breath hitched. Her thighs tensed.

She pressed her fingers faster and deeper into herself, letting the pleasure control her movements. When the current of a deep orgasm rippled over her, she let head fall back on the pillow, stifling her moan into the darkness. 

Afterward, her breath slowing, Lydia stared up at the ceiling.

The guilt crept in.

Not for the act, but for the emotion underneath it — the raw, messy desire. The longing for something she had no right to want. Not with someone so young. So seemingly untouched. So infuriatingly kind and distant and mysterious.

She rolled over, curling inward.

Sleep, when it finally took her, was thin and haunted by the scent of dark perfume and the memory of a hand that had lingered just a second too long on her arm.

Chapter Text

Lydia descended the private staircase with her laptop tucked under her arm. Her body still hummed with a lingering, satisfied energy — sleep-flushed and quietly elated from the night before. She hadn’t expected to wake feeling so light, so present in her body again.

She heard it before she saw it — the muted rustling of papers, a soft clink of ceramic on the desk. Katrine’s voice, speaking low into her phone for a moment before pausing.

When Lydia entered the room, she found Katrine an her desk. Looking extremely casual— hair tousled, wearing a dark wool cardigan over a slim black tank and jeans. Her bare feet were curled under her on the leather desk chair, a breakfast plate of fruit and rye crispbread to one side, and a still-steaming coffee within reach.

Katrine looked up, her eyes sleep-soft and voice still slightly raspy.

“Godmorgen,” she said, the Danish curling out naturally. Lydia replied with a quiet smile, walking further in. “It felt like a good morning to work. If you don’t mind the company.”

Katrine gestured loosely at the seat across from her — the one Alex usually claimed — and Lydia sat down, setting up her laptop and notebook, mirroring Katrine’s quiet presence. There was something unexpectedly tender about this simple moment. No curated energy, no formal tone. Just two women in soft silence, the hum of morning filling the room.

Katrine read over a draft on her screen, absently popping a piece of apple into her mouth.

After a moment, without breaking her gaze from the screen, she reached for her coffee, then paused halfway and extended the mug across the desk.

“Coffee?” she offered, her tone casual — like it was second nature.

Lydia blinked, slightly surprised by the intimacy of the gesture. She reached out, their fingers brushing lightly on the ceramic as she took it. The mug was warm, worn in — the kind of personal object that tasted like daily ritual.

She sipped. Katrine liked her coffee bold and clean, with a hint of cardamom.

“I like how you drink it,” Lydia murmured, returning the mug after a beat too long. “Strong. No nonsense.”

Katrine finally looked up at that, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I can’t stand the fluffy kinds. Coffee should taste like something,” she said. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

Lydia gave a soft laugh, easing into her seat, letting her fingers dance over her keyboard.

They worked like that for a while — quiet, close, and deeply companionable. The shared silence was not awkward but intimate. The shuffle of papers, the faint clack of keys, the rustle of wind against glass.

She let herself steal one glance — quick and quiet — across the desk. Katrine’s brow was furrowed in thought, her bottom lip caught lightly between her teeth. A few strands of hair fell forward as she leaned in over her plans.

Lydia looked back at her screen, heart tightening — not with urgency, but with want so patient it hurt.

The soft background sounds of keys clicking and an occasional page turning filled the room. Lydia had sunk into a focused rhythm of morning productivity, typing in a controlled tempo.

The moment was still — almost meditative — until a name she knew all too well caught her eye.

Lydia blinked and re-read the name to make sure she had read correct: 1 New Email – From: Andris Davis.

She froze. Her pulse picked up.

Subject: Heard the news — Copenhagen!

The mail hit her like a slap to the cheek. She hadn’t thought of him for a very long time — tried not to — though his shadow lingered in so many painful memories of Berlin.

Andris.
Friend.
Mentor.
Complicit traitor.

A man who had once told her she had the finest musical instincts he’d ever witnessed. A man who had invited her into the old boys’ circle at the Berlin Conservatory and then, when the rumors started—when the campaign to destroy her gained momentum—had quietly withdrawn. No public words, no private texts. Not even a whisper of defense. He had ghosted her, then sided with the board.

Swallowing tightly, she clicked the email open.

Lydia!

Just heard through the grapevine that you’ve taken on Copenhagen symphony’s restructuring. What exciting news!

It’s been too long. Would love to catch up sometime, feel welcome to reach out.

All best,
—Andris

Lydia stared at the screen.

There it was — the gloss-over. The neatly manicured amnesia. No mention of Berlin. No apology. No explanation. As if she had just taken a long vacation and now they might meet up for lunch and reminisce like nothing had happened.

Her jaw tensed. A flush of heat rose up her neck.
He had dropped her.
Let her be slaughtered publicly without lifting a finger.

And now?
Now that she had resurfaced in another city's power circles — now he remembered her.

She closed the email without responding, her fingers clenched over the trackpad. The silence in the room returned, but it no longer felt comforting. She was no longer in the quiet morning with Katrine — she was back in Berlin, in the venomous conference rooms, with whispered betrayals and weaponized silences.

A bitter taste coated the back of her tongue.

She looked toward Katrine across the desk — still calmly working in her own world, entirely unaware of the crack that had just reopened across Lydia’s skin.

Lydia drew in a breath, slow and measured.
She wasn’t going back.
Not to Berlin.
Not to Andris.
Not to begging for scraps of the career that had once been handed to her in smiles and taken back in cowardice.

She reached for the coffee. It was cold now. But she drank it anyway.

Berlin would not follow her here.
Not if she could help it.

Alex breezed into the office, iced coffee in hand, scarf askew, cheeks flushed from the cold and radiating cheer like he’d swallowed sunlight. He didn’t pause before announcing himself with his usual teasing lilt. “I see it's a casual kinda Friday today” he said, over exaggerating checking out Katrine sitting at her desk.

Katrine, without looking up from her work, replied dryly, almost warmly.
“Keep your commentary to yourself unless you want your schedule doubled.”

Alex gave her an exaggerated salute and turned his attention immediately to Lydia. “Get your ass moving, we have a busy day and a tailor appointment to get to." he turned around and gestured towards the door with dramatic flair.

Lydia blinked, then leaned back slightly in her chair looking at him, amused. Watching him grow even more impatient and petulant.

“Unless you want me to start designing your wardrobe myself. And I warn you, I have a fondness for velvet and shoulder pads, you should already be on your way out the door by now. ”

Lydia rose, grabbing her coat and scarf from the back of the chair, giving Katrine one last glance before following Alex out the door. 

The tailor’s studio was tucked down a quiet street just off Kongens Nytorv, behind an unmarked brass-handled door and up a creaking staircase that opened into soft-spoken luxury. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood, pressed wool, and old-world care. Bolts of fabric stood like sentinels along the walls, rich textures folded in solemn ranks — slate greys, hunter greens, midnight navies, and blood-deep burgundies.

Lydia stood on the small fitting pedestal, surrounded by mirrors and good lighting. Her posture was straighter than usual, her chin lifted subtly — the old bearing slipping back into her spine with ease.

Her blouse half-unbuttoned to accommodate the measuring tape. A chalk line was being sketched with reverent precision along the curve of her shoulder. A soft rustle of fine fabric followed her as the tailor — a dignified man with silver-streaked hair and the kind of hands that had never fumbled a stitch — moved around her with focused attention.

Alex sat nearby on a leather stool, legs crossed, a small tablet resting on his thigh. He was sipping on his iced coffee, watching the process with an expert eye and a casual ease that didn’t undercut the care behind it.

“I’d go with the broader collar on this one” he offered, tilting his head, appraising. “It balances the shoulder line better. And the double vent in the back. You’ll want movement when you conduct. Structure, not constraint.”

Lydia gave him a sidelong glance in the mirror, a small smirk curving her lips.

“You’re quite the fashion executive.”

Alex smiled innocently.
“Please. I was raised by gay theatre men and dated a costume designer once. My taste is forged in silk and trauma.”

That made her laugh — a soft, rare sound that rang a little brighter in the quiet studio than it should have.

The tailor murmured something about waist length, pinning fabric with elegant precision. Lydia let him fuss. She liked it — the silent choreography, the hands adjusting lapels, the subtle reverence paid to her shape and presence. She had missed this: the sensation of being fitted not just in body, but in stature — being dressed in authority. In sharp angles and fine wool.

Her fingers brushed over a swatch of deep forest green suiting wool and then navy cashmere. She was drawn to the textures, to the quiet power in restraint and cut.

Alex stood and came closer, holding up a bolt of suiting fabric in slate with a fine charcoal pinstripe.
“This one. It’s elegant without trying too hard. It says: I’m not here to entertain you — but I will destroy you.”

Lydia arched a brow at him. “How poetic.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “You’re in the business of drama. Let the seams speak it too.”

And for a moment, she let herself enjoy it — the deliberate curating of presence, the aesthetic construction of command. Her body, clothed with purpose again.

A pang of memory struck her. It reminded her too closely of Francesca.

Lydia looked back at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back was sharper than the one who’d arrived in Copenhagen just a few days ago. A little more put together. A little more dangerous.

And she liked what she saw.

They stepped through the front doors of the KDS building, the hum of laughter and music drifting through the halls — soft jazz playing somewhere over the sound of clinking bottles and low conversations. She paused instinctively, caught off guard.

The atmosphere had shifted. What had earlier in the day been an industrious current of work hustle and quiet purpose had now loosened into something distinctly social. The office space, normally crisp and minimal in tone, was buzzing with warm, informal energy. Coats were off, sleeves rolled up, wine glasses and bottles of cold beer in hand. People were talking, leaning casually against desks and counters, laughing in the way only coworkers who had endured a long week could.

Alex, already loosening his scarf, glanced back at Lydia with a smirk, reading her stiffness before she could speak.

“Welcome to Danish Friday bar” He gestured with a sweeping arm like a ringmaster introducing an act. “It’s part of our cultural work infrastructure.”

Lydia blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching with a kind of disbelief.
“In the office? During office hours?”

Alex chuckled, clearly entertained.
“of course, anything else would be boring."

She looked around, still slightly stunned. A cluster of people were gathered near the central printer, wine glasses perched on top of it like a tray. Two men she recognized from the meeting on her first day, were leaning against the wall talking with beers in hand. It was, frankly, a little disorienting. Not unpleasant — just unfamiliar. Germany, particularly Berlin, had never tolerated this kind of looseness in professional spaces. Everything had been formality, rank, glass partitions, and invisible rules she’d once worn like second skin.

“So, Lydia, if you had free will of choice — and not some Stockholm syndrome from being raised on Bach and black coffee — would you say you're more of a ‘wine lesbienne’ or a ‘beer dyke’?”

The question caught her off guard and she turned slowly, giving Alex a withering glance that didn’t quite conceal the ghost of amusement.

“Wine, never managed to appreciate beer. Too... coarse.”

Alex raised a brow in mock scandal.
“And yet you lived in Berlin — city of Weisse and pretension — and now Copenhagen, land of Carlsberg and bad decisions. You really are a tragedy”

“So I’ve been told,” she replied dryly, shrugging off her coat and letting her shoulders relax, just a bit.

Alex disappeared into the crowd and returned moments later with a glass of red for her and a cold beer for himself.

He handed her the glass with an exaggerated bow.
“For the wine lesbienne of refined taste. May Friday bars forever traumatic memory.”

She took the wine, still absorbing the swirl of this new rhythm. The lighting had grown warmer as the evening crept in. Laughter rose from the back where someone was trying to make the coffee machine serve as a bottle opener.

Lydia allowed herself a tentative sip. She wasn’t quite at ease — but the sharp edges were softening.

And just beyond the glass of red, the clink of bottles, and Alex’s chatter, she was already scanning the space for Katrine.

There was an eruption of laughter to the far end of the open-plan office, where two desks had been pushed together to create a makeshift game table. A small crowd had gathered, spilling into the walkways and leaning against cabinets, drinks in hand, attention fixed on the impromptu centerpiece: a game of office beer pong.

And there — amidst them — was Katrine.

Still dressed as cassual as she had been this morning, sleeves pushed to her elbows, her hair tied back with the kind of careless precision Lydia now associated only with her. She was standing near the edge of the crowd, glass of white wine in hand, cheeks faintly flushed from drink or laughter — maybe both.

Lydia felt something flutter low in her chest.

Katrine was smiling, genuinely, the lines of her face animated in a way Lydia had rarely seen during their brief days of structured cohabitation. It was unguarded — her attention fixed on the game — and then, as though sensing Lydia’s eyes before seeing her, she turned.

The smile widened.

“Hey you” Katrine said, raising her glass a touch in greeting, her voice teasing, friendly, warm.

Lydia moved through the small crowd, weaving between people, before slipping beside Katrine. Their shoulders nearly touched.

“Jesper’s attempting to reclaim his lost honor,” Katrine said, leaning in slightly to explain, wine glass tipping toward the game in progress. “He lost at last Friday’s match — to that guy.” She pointed with her glass toward a grinning young man wearing a company fleece. “One of the engineers. Apparently, it’s now a matter of proffesional pride between the architects and the engineers.”

Lydia glanced toward Jesper and stifled a laugh. The older man, who she was used to seeing in blazers and dry wit, now stood in his shirt sleeves, intensely focused on the toss of a ping pong ball, jaw set like a general in campaign.

“I wasn’t prepared to see Jesper in a competitive drinking game,” Lydia murmured, smiling.

“You should see him at the Christmas party,” Katrine whispered back, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. “He nearly broke his hip during a failed cartwheel once. We still talk about it.”

Another burst of cheers — the engineer landed a perfect shot, and Jesper groaned, waving off the teasing jeers of the crowd with mock solemnity. Katrine tipped her glass back, sipping, the movement elegant and casual all at once.

Lydia stood beside her, soaking in the softness of the moment — Katrine’s closeness, the joy in her voice, the way her laugh seemed to draw a little light around her. And Lydia was undone by all of it.

She hadn’t known, when she arrived in Copenhagen, that something as simple as a woman smiling at beer pong could feel like a home opening its door.

Chapter Text

The lights had dimmed slightly, though Lydia wasn’t sure if it was just the wine warming her cheeks or the gathering’s natural winding down. The crowd had thinned, voices fading into quiet goodbyes and laughter echoing faintly. The scent of beer clung softly to the air.

She sat back on the office couch tucked by the small tea kitchen, a half-full glass of wine in her hand, letting the mellow quiet wash over her. Her posture was relaxed, ankle crossed over knee, eyes scanning the edges of the room like a voyeur of calm.

Alex had been sitting beside her only moments ago, legs sprawled and head thrown back in laughter, before he tapped her shoulder and stood.

“A'ight, I have a hot date waiting for me and a shameful playlist to set the mood. You enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?”

Lydia raised her glass in mock salute, smirking. “Sounds just like your kinda evening”

Alex winked cheeky before leaving Lydia cocooned in the warm afterglow of a Friday bar settling into its final notes.

She barely had time to take another sip before a weight thudded beside her.

Katrine.

She dropped onto the couch with the gracelessness of someone too comfortable or too tipsy to care, wine glass still miraculously upright in her hand, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed from the evening. She settled beside Lydia without noticing — or without caring — how close she had landed. Thigh pressed to thigh. Shoulder brushing Lydia’s arm.

“I am...” Katrine sighed, stretching her legs out in front of her like a cat, “...absolutely done in. And you—” She turned her head, glass tilting dangerously, “—you survived your first Danish Friday bar.”

Lydia felt her pulse kick up a notch, but hid it behind a lazy smile. She let her arm slide across the back of the couch, draping it with an ease that was only partly calculated. Her fingers stopped just shy of Katrine’s far shoulder.

“You’re drunk,” Lydia said, amused. Katrine laughed, head tipping back slightly. “Absolutely” she replied, learning her head back against the couch cushion with a sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, drunkenly smiling.

Lydia watched her in silence, the flicker of office light warming the lines of her cheek and the curve of her neck. And then she exhaled quietly, turning her gaze forward again, letting the closeness simmer rather than boil over.

She could be patient. She had waited this long.

Lydia moved gently, setting down her own glass and straightening her posture with an almost feline control. Then, with a low voice and a tone more coaxing and amused than commanding, she spoke.

“Alright you little drunk, time to get you upstairs. We need to put something in you that isn’t just wine.”

Katrine stirred, blinking herself out of whatever warm haze she'd momentarily slipped into. “Mmh—you're starting to sound just as bossy as Alex on one of his good days” Her laugh was husky and loose with exhaustion and alcohol.

Lydia stood and offered a hand to help her up from the couch. Katrine took it with mock dignity, trying to rise—only to sway a little as her heels betrayed her balance. Lydia caught her, smoothly and without hesitation, arms slipping instinctively around Katrine’s waist. Their bodies aligned in that moment, close, molded through fabric and wine-heavy heat.

Katrine laughed softly, the sound warm against Lydia’s ear.

Lydia didn’t let go.

She steadied Katrine with a touch both firm and deliberate. Her hand splayed at the small of Katrine’s waist, fingers brushing the edge of her blouse, her other hand closing gently over her wrist.

“Let’s get you upstairs before you declare war on gravity.” Her voice was low. Smooth. A note of indulgence in every syllable.

Katrine snorted. “I’m perfectly fine. I just... stood up too fast.”

“Of course. And I’m the Pope.”

They moved together toward the staircase. Each step up the staircase felt like trespassing further into something forbidden, something heated and sweetly dangerous.

Katrine leaned slightly into her as they climbed, her arm slung loosely around Lydia’s shoulders, head ducked just enough to let Lydia feel the warmth of her breath on her skin. It was nothing overt. Nothing spoken. But Lydia felt her own pulse like a drumline.

A flicker of triumph curled behind her ribs — not cruel, but thrilling. Power, proximity, permission. She was helping. She was steadying. But oh, she was also indulging.

And she loved the feel of it.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the warm light of the penthouse, Lydia’s senses were lit like kindling. She guided Katrine to the kitchen island, settling her against the high stool with a touch that lingered a little longer than strictly necessary.

“Sit. I’ll get you some water.”

Katrine sat perched on the barstool now, legs casually crossed, her elbow braced on the kitchen island as she watched Lydia with a lazily focused look — part wine, part amusement. The soft overhead lights cast her face in a warm glow, her blouse slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up from earlier, her hair even more disheveled from the day and drink.

Lydia was halfway through filling up a glass of water, when Katrine piped up with drunk enthusiasm.

“You know what?” Her voice was dreamy, tipsy and warm, like honey rolling off velvet. “There’s this tiny, criminally underrated Italian place—” she hiccuped lightly, then laughed, waving it off “—down in Nørrebro. They make this potato pesto pizza with a ridiculous amount of burrata. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted it. I’m ordering us one. Non-negotiable.”

She was already sliding her phone out of her pocket, squinting at the screen and poking it with minor coordination struggles.

Lydia leaned a hip against the counter, and watched her with a quiet kind of amusement. The unfiltered, slightly unguarded Katrine — a little drunk, a little flushed, and full of strong opinions about pizza — was, Lydia had to admit, devastatingly charming.

Her lips curled at the corner, her mind very much not on pizza.

“If it's non-negotiable, who am I to resist” Her voice was low, almost teasing.

Katrine grinned, triumphant. “Exactly. You’re catching on. No resisting burrata. That’s a rule.”

Lydia’s gaze lingered. The way Katrine sat, relaxed now, legs tucked and one arm sprawled across the countertop as she concentrated hard on placing the order — it was all so endearingly real. And it stirred something deeper in Lydia than she was prepared to name.

Still, her inner voice was far less poetic.

The only thing I want to taste right now is definitely not a potato pizza.

She shifted her weight, trying to ground herself.

Katrine looked up at her then, smiling with victory as she clicked her phone off and dropped it beside her glass of water. “Done. Forty minutes. You’re going to love it. It’ll ruin you for every other pizza.”

Lydia’s fingers curled into the edge of the counter. She chuckled lightly, playing along, but the weight in her chest had grown hot and aching, all thoughts of bread and cheese forgotten.

The knock on the door came just as Katrine was halfway through an exaggerated complaint about the torture of waiting for delivery.

“Finally!!” she announced dramatically, pushing herself off the barstool too quickly and teetering slightly before catching herself on the edge of the kitchen island.

Lydia half-rose to follow, but Katrine tossed a hand over her shoulder, grinning. “No, no. I’m still capable of answering a door. Pobably.”

The lock disengaged with a soft mechanical click, and Peter, the security guard, stepped in holding a warm pizza box like it was a diplomatic offering.

“Evening, your emergency carb bomb have arrived.”

“You’re a hero, Peter. You’ll be in my next award speech.”

Peter handed over the box and smiled entertained by the drunk Katrine. “Weekend shift takes over in half an hour. You two have a good evening-and try not to drink the entire wine collection.”

Katrine gave a scandalized gasp. "Who, me? i would never"

Peter backed toward the door, and laughed good humored before it clicked shut behind him.

Katrine, humming some half-remembered tune under her breath, already had her head in the wine fridge. "Peter is right, you now. we definetly should drink some more wine" She pulled a bottle out, squinting at the label like it was a trick question.

“This one should pair well.”

She uncorked it with only the mildest difficulty and filled two glasses without ceremony. Lydia chuckled, accept the glass when Katrine offered it to her, watching Katrine move—elegant, fluid, but softened by wine and lack of formality.

As Katrine plopped down into the couch with the pizza box in her lap like it was a beloved pet, Lydia stepped over to the wall where the LP collection lived. Rows of vinyl sleves, soft and time-worn edges like a tactile memory. She let her fingers trail across them. It was a beautiful mess. A lifetime of acquisitions—catalogued in some idiosyncratic system known only to Katrine. But Lydia’s fingers found what she wanted quickly: Maurice Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte, the Boulez recording on Deutsche Grammophon.

Elegant, restrained, hauntingly sensual.

She slipped the record from its sleeve and set the needle with care. The soft, melancholic melody floated through the penthouse—a music of veiled longing, of ghosts with grace.

She sat down beside Katrine on the couch - not with caution, but intention. Close enough that their knees touched, and Lydia could feel the heat coming off her. Katrine let her head fall back with a sigh. “God, this pizza’s everything. I forgot how good it is when you’re just drunk enough. Have some.”

Lydia took the offered slice but barely nibbled at it. Her attention wasn’t on food. Not really.

Her wine glass cradled between her fingers, the music humming like a spell, she let herself sink deeper into the couch, one arm resting easily along the backrest behind Katrine.

It wasn’t overt. But it was a claim. A suggestion.

And Katrine—content, wine-warm—seemed unaware of just how much Lydia was watching. How carefully. How hungrily.

Lydia leaned in slightly, voice low, teasing. “Is this what Danish professional working culture is all about?”

Katrine laughed, tilting her head toward her. “Yep, now you're practically native.”

“Do I get a medal?”

“You get pizza. And wine. That’s better.”

Lydia smiled, letting the music fold over them, every note like silk on skin. She didn't need to say it. Her body said enough: poised, confident, enjoying the quiet power of proximity.

Tonight, Katrine was soft. Loose. Open.

Gauging the timing, watching Katrine sip her wine. Then, in a low voice laced with casual curiosity:
“You've mentioned your grandfarther.” She let the thought hang, it was the only time Katrine had mentioned family. “Are you two close?”

Katrine blinked slowly, eyes glassy with a drink-heavy glow. She nodded, smile faltering just a hair.
“Very. He was… everything.” Her voice was soft now, her words slower, more fragile than before. “My parents died when I was seven. Car crash. It was… winter. Black ice. They were coming back from a weekend in Oslo.”

Lydia’s posture didn’t shift, but inwardly something stilled.
“I’m sorry.” she said, and meant it.

Katrine offered a small shrug, as if brushing it off, but her throat moved with the effort of swallowing something back.
“He took me in. Raised me in this little cottage. Tiny place, filled with books and tools and things he insisted could be ‘fixed with enough logic.’” She smiled faintly. “He passed away last year. Cancer. Quietly. The way he wanted.”

The air felt heavier for a moment.

Lydia’s hand twitched slightly, resisting the pull to reach for her. Instead, she softened her voice.

“That’s a lot of loss for one person.”

Katrine shook her head, not to dismiss the grief—but to dismiss the pity.

Wanting to ease the air, Lydia offered a little of her own.

“I have a brother. Tony” she said, letting the words settle in. “And a mother. We haven’t been close in years. I always felt like I belonged to a different species, not just a different family. They think the symphony is noise, and that conducting is some kind of… upper-class pantomime.”

Katrine turned to look at her, an empathetic little frown between her brows.
“That sounds lonely.”

“It was.” Lydia said, “But it also made me precise. There’s a silence in not being understood that teaches you to choose your notes carefully.”

Katrine smiled at that. Lydia grinned faintly and took a sip of wine, then tilted her head, switching registers just slightly—lighter, teasing.
“It must be something… working in a field that male-dominated as then one you have found yourself in. The construction world doesn’t exactly scream gender equality.”

Katrine let out a short breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff.
“You’re not wrong. I think the last construction meeting I was at, I was one of two women in a room of twenty.”

“Charming.”

“Yeah. It’s exhausting.” Katrine leaned forward, setting her empty glass on the coffee table. “But when I get the chance to hire, and there’s a qualified woman in the mix—I don’t hesitate. Every woman I’ve ever hired has had to fight twice as hard just to be considered. They don’t waste time. They know how to lead, how to listen, how to solve problems without chest-beating. And they’re never trying to impress me with blueprints printed on ego.”

Lydia smiled at that. She could hear the steel in Katrine’s voice, the weight of experience.

“Still… can’t imagine the men aren’t falling all over themselves. Must be a nightmare—surrounded by rough-handed construction types desperate to impress the woman in charge.”

Katrine didn’t turn immediately. She was quiet for a second longer than expected, then gave a dry, amused exhale as she reached for the wine bottle.

“Mm. They all sort of blur together.” she said, pouring herself another half-glass. “The haircuts, the polos, the overcompensating… It’s like they’re printed from the same template.”

“So no favourites?” Lydia asked, feigning lightness, but there was a sharper curiosity in her tone now, a razor tucked behind the velvet.

Katrine sipped her wine slowly before glancing sideways at her.

“No..."  

She tilted her glass back, draining the last of the wine in one long, easy motion. She lowered it with a soft clink to the table’s edge, her fingers barely releasing it before her head lolled slightly against the back of the couch. Her eyes blinked slower now, the weight of the alcohol settling over her like a velvet curtain. "I've never found myself favoring a man.”

Lydia watched, her breath barely audible, her body still as she took in the soft, slackened expression on Katrine’s face. The flush of wine had settled high on her cheeks, her lashes casting shadows against the delicate skin beneath her eyes. A strand of hair fell across her forehead and she made no move to brush it away.

Lydia shifted closer, quietly, like not to disturb the balance of the scene. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and gently authoritative.
“Alright… I think that’s it for you, pet.”

Katrine didn’t protest—didn’t move, not really. She murmured something unintelligible that ended in a lazy half-smile, her head tipping toward Lydia like gravity had grown personal.

Lydia rose, a little too quickly. The floor swayed beneath her, her vision lurching a moment before she caught herself on the edge of the table.
“…Okay,” she muttered, amused under her breath, “Maybe i also had a bit too much myself.”

She reached forward and lifted the empty pizza carton carefully from Katrine’s lap, tossing it aside onto the coffee table. Then she bent at the waist, sliding one arm around Katrine’s shoulders, the other bracing beneath her hand. “Let’s get you to bed before you pass out here and I have to carry you.”

Katrine laughed—a slow, muzzy thing—and leaned heavily into Lydia’s side as she let herself be pulled up. They swayed together for a moment like two drunk sailors before Lydia found their shared center of gravity and began to guide them both across the darkened penthouse. Their footsteps were uneven. Lydia’s palm rested firm and protective at Katrine’s lower back, steering her. Katrine’s fingers had curled instinctively at Lydia’s hip for balance. Somewhere in the middle of it, Lydia became hyper-aware of that hand.

“Left,” Lydia said, gently, as they approached the suite door. She reached out and pushed it open, and they staggered in like conspirators in a comedy, muffled giggles escaping both of them as Lydia half-wrestled Katrine to the bed.

But it wasn’t precise or choreographed—it was chaotic and human and soft. Lydia meant to guide her to sit down, but instead Katrine dropped like gravity had claimed her all at once, pulling Lydia down with her onto the bed. The soft thud of the mattress absorbing both their weight seemed to seal them in—a private cocoon where the world outside no longer applied.

Katrine rolled onto her side, facing Lydia with eyes barely open and cheeks flushed from wine and warmth. Her hair had come completely loose, soft waves now falling across her brow and onto the pillow.

She blinked slowly, a dopey smile tugging at her lips as her hand fumbled to tug the edge of the duvet up over them.

“G’naht,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep—and then, after a beat, she attempted again with a sloppy little laugh, “‘Goodni—ght’…” the word dragging out in a lilted, charmingly accented English, every syllable weighed down with exhaustion and a drowsy musicality that betrayed how deeply drunk she truly was.

Lydia’s chest warmed, amused and a little disarmed. There was something deeply endearing about Katrine like this—unguarded, blurred at the edges. “Goodnight,” Lydia echoed softly, her voice barely audible.

She turned onto her back, her arm brushing against the edge of Katrine’s side beneath the covers. The scent of Katrine’s perfume lingered between the sheets—earthy, warm, faintly floral with the sharpness of something expensive and womanly. It enveloped Lydia like a net, dizzying and inescapable.

Her own thoughts fuzzed at the edges from the wine. She felt the heat radiating off Katrine’s body beside her. The slight rustle of fabric. The steady, slow breath of someone surrendering fully to sleep.

Lydia’s eyes fluttered closed, the room tilting slightly as if it were swaying in rhythm with her thoughts.

She had imagined this—fantasized about this—but not like this. Not with both of them half-drunk and tangled in clothes, no grand seduction, just two bodies softened by the day, sinking into a shared silence.

The last thing Lydia was aware of was the slow rise and fall of the covers with Katrine’s breath… and the scent of her perfume lingering like a secret.

Sleep claimed her, velvet and deep.

Chapter Text

Lydia surfaced slowly, consciousness seeping in through the cracks. Somewhere distantly, she registered a voice, hushed and teasing, and then a hand on her shoulder—gently, but insistent.

A whisper followed.

“Lydia”

The voice was unmistakable—Alex. Amused. Too amused.

She opened one eye, and there he was, crouched beside the bed like a smug little gremlin, his face lit with the kind of grin that meant he’d been holding back commentary for at least five full minutes.

“Come on,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Time to detangle yourself from your situation.”

Lydia groaned softly. Her head ached. Not sharply, but with a low, pulsing throb that reminded her—unforgivingly—that she was no longer thirty. Not even close. Her bones felt heavier, her mouth dry. The wine from last night lingered like a fog behind her eyes.

Definitely too old to be drinking like that.

She shifted slightly, and that’s when she felt it: a soft hand on her lower stomach where her shirt had ridden up during the night. fingers resting on her bare skin, just above the waistband of Lydia’s pants in a way that made Lydia’s blood hum despite the headache.

Katrine.

Still deeply asleep, lips parted faintly, a loose strand of hair splayed across her cheek. She looked even younger like this—almost girlish. And dangerously beautiful.

Lydia didn’t move right away. Her gaze lingered on the hand. The weight of it. The ease.

Well. That happened.

Alex cleared his throat, not unkindly. “Portfolios are waiting in the living room. So’s breakfast. You got ten minutes, but if you’re not out by then, I’m coming back in with a camera”

Lydia rolled her eyes without looking at him, lips twitching in something that could almost be called a smirk. Carefully, she lifted Katrine’s hand off of her and settling it gently back against the sheets.

Katrine barely stirred, murmuring something soft and nonsensical before nestling deeper into the pillows.

Lydia sat up slowly. Her head thudded once in protest, and the room tilted just slightly off-kilter. She exhaled through her nose, pushed her hair back, and glanced once more down at Katrine, still lost in sleep, peaceful and unaware of the quiet storm she left in her wake.

Alex had already backed off, giving her the dignity of pretending not to be watching her every move. Lydia padded barefoot out into the living area, her steps quiet on the wooden floor.

The scent of fresh coffee hit her first. On the table: a mug of steaming coffee, a stack of neatly arranged portfolios, and an array of still-warm pastries in a paper bag. Alex stood at the kitchen counter, sipping his own iced coffee, eyebrows lifted in greeting.

He gestured toward the coffee without a word.

Lydia took the mug and sat down.

“So” Alex asked after a beat of silence, eyebrows lifted in mischief. “Slept well?”

Lydia just gave him a withering look and reached for the coffee.

The soft scuff of bare feet was their only warning. Lydia glanced up from a portfolio just in time to see Katrine descend, visibly hungover but newly changed into a pale heather-grey lounge pants and loose t-shirt—simple, soft, and devastatingly casual. Her hair wasswept into a loose knot that was already threatening to come undone.

Lydia’s heart thudded once, too loud in her chest.

There was something almost indecent about how good Katrine looked in that state—no make-up, skin slightly flushed, eyes puffy from sleep, with an air of chaotic ease that Lydia found absolutely, irrationally sexy. As if the more undone she was, the more magnetic she became.

Katrine didn’t bother with greetings. She simply made her way to the couch and, with an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, dropped herself heavily into the narrow space between Lydia and Alex—shoulder brushing Lydia’s, thigh pressing lightly into hers.

Lydia stilled.

Before she could react, Katrine reached across and, with casual boldness, plucked the mug of coffee right out of Lydia’s hand.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking a long sip without so much as a glance.

Lydia’s pulse sparked. The audacity.

There was something so domestic—so claimed—in the gesture that it sent a dark thrill through her. Not flirtation. Not seduction. Just casual possession, as if Lydia belonged to her. As if Katrine had been doing this for years.

Mine.

It roared silently through her body, low and primal and hard to swallow.

“Working on a weekend?” Katrine croaked, blinking blearily at the folders strewn across the table.  Leaned her head back against the couch, groaning dramatically. “You two are unnatural. I feel like I’ve been hit by a cement mixer full of Syrah.”

“You were drinking Pinot,” Lydia corrected automatically, voice soft and teasing.

Katrine turned her head lazily toward her, lids half-closed. “Last thing i remeber is loosing in beer-pong to a fucking intern”

Alex laughingly reached for a pastry “There’s a croissant here with your name on it you poor soul.”

“God bless you,” Katrine murmured, reaching for it without moving otherwise, her body still warm against Lydia’s side.

Lydia didn’t move away.

She just took her coffee back, sipping from the same place Katrine’s lips had touched.

Alex drained the last of his iced coffee and set the cup down decisively. “Alright, enough lounging. We’re on a tight schedule. These portfolios aren’t going to annotate themselves, and next week’s auditions and interviews are looming. We need to get a move on.”

Lydia massaged her temples, feeling the dull throb of her hangover deepen. “You’re such a taskmaster, Alex.”

Katrine’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she stretched out on the couch, propping her head on one hand. “Seriously, Alex, you need to get a boyfriend or a life—at least on your weekends. This work obsession of yours is exhausting just to watch.”

Alex smirked but said nothing, glancing between the two women.

The late morning passed in a haze of productive calm, the low murmur of conversation drifting over the piles of thick portfolios Alex had triumphantly dumped on them like a proud menace.

Lydia sat comfortably with one leg tucked beneath her, cradling a second cup of coffee, savoring the weight of the quiet intimacy surrounding them. Katrine was close—deliciously, maddeningly close—curled into the corner of the couch beside her. Katrine was now deferring to Lydia’s opinion, asking her about this candidate or that one, leaning in to show her something she was unsure of.

Lydia relished every instance. The thrill of power—guidance, mentorship, a subtle command of the moment that made her spine straighten with purpose.

But it was impossible not to be distracted. Every time Katrine leaned forward, brushing arms or shifting her posture to stretch toward a portfolio, the loose neckline of her shirt would open just enough for Lydia’s eyes to drift. The hint of a lacy bra hugging the upper swell of Katrine’s breasts would catch Lydia’s gaze like a snare. She told herself to look away. She didn’t.

When Katrine stretched across her to fetch a folder, her arm grazing Lydia’s, Lydia let her eyes dip—just for a second—down that open neckline. And when she looked up again, she found Alex staring at her over the top of his portfolio.

He didn’t say a word.

He only raised one brow—so faintly smug, so effortlessly smug—and then turned a page as if nothing had happened.

She returned to her portfolio and pretended to read, her ears hot.

Katrine, oblivious, reached over again, brushing Lydia’s knee with her thigh as she twisted to grab the coffee, and Lydia barely heard the question she asked next—something about a flutist’s —because she was suddenly all too aware of the heat building low in her abdomen, and the delicate curve of Katrine’s neck just inches away.

Focus, she scolded herself.

Alex was quietly grinning trying to hide it behind a folder, seeing everything, saying nothing.

And Lydia... Lydia wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to kill him or thank him.

Beside her, Katrine gave a little sigh as she nudged another folder her way. “This one has a Berlin conservatory background—thought you’d want to look.”

Lydia glanced down at the page, but didn’t register a single word.

Alex’s stomach broke the silence before his voice did—a low, unmistakable grumble that made Katrine glance over with a tired, lopsided smile.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he groaned, stretching theatrically. “I’m going to go get us something real for lunch.” He stood, brushing crumbs off his sweater. He disappeared out the penthouse door, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like Cher.

Lydia exhaled slowly into the new quiet.

The portfolio in her hands bore a name that hadn’t crossed her mind in some time—Jana Voss. Brilliant violinist. Arrogant. Precise. And absolutely loyal to the court of whispers in Berlin that had eventually exiled Lydia. Seeing her name felt like someone tossing a shard of ice into her coffee.

She stared at the printed profile for a long moment, thumb slowly rubbing the corner.

But she didn’t stay in that place long. Movement caught her attention—Katrine, unfolding from her seat beside her like a cat stretching out of sunlight.

“I’ll go fetch my pen and a notepad,” she murmured, pushing her hair out of her face as she rose. Her voice was still rough from sleep and hangover, the vowels soft and consonants a little lazy. But her stride had its usual surety.

Lydia watched her go—watched the sway of her hips, the softness of the lounge pants that did little to disguise the firm lines of her young body—and a remarkably fine backside. She tilted her head just slightly as she watched her cross the room. A little indulgent. A little wolfish.

Katrine disappeared down the stairs to her office.

And Lydia let herself smile. Just slightly. Just to herself.

Then she looked back at the Berlin portfolio.

Still there. Still cold in her lap. But already fading beneath the warm trace of something more immediate. More real. Something walking around this very building with sleepy eyes and bare feet and the instinct to reach for Lydia’s coffee like it was hers to take.

By the time Katrine padded softly back up the stairs, notepad and pen in hand, Lydia had put aside the Berlin portfolio. It lay closed beside her, a black mark on an otherwise promising afternoon. Her fingers had hovered over the name a dozen times, uncertain whether to bury it at the bottom of the pile or light it on fire.

She was still staring at the portfolio’s closed cover, her jaw tight, when Katrine’s voice cut gently through her storm.

“Okay,” Katrine said, settling back into the couch beside her. “What do you want noted?”

Lydia leaned in, the way a mentor might—casual, authoritative—but she let her thigh press to Katrine’s as she did.

“Name and instrument at the top,” Lydia said, voice low but steady. “Then notation on tone, phrasing, and posture under performance observations. Keep it consistent.”

Katrine nodded, scribbling. “And what about technical background?”

Lydia reached over, placing her hand on Katrine’s knee to steady herself as she leaned across and tapped a particular section of the CV.

“Here,” she said, her fingers brushing against her, “you’ll usually find their academic background—conservatory training, guest seats, apprenticeships. If they’ve been with orchestras before, I want to know where, for how long, and whether they stayed long enough to make a mark.”

Katrine’s breath hitched just slightly at the contact, or maybe Lydia imagined it. But she didn’t pull away, and Lydia didn’t remove her hand until she’d finished explaining.

“Got it,” Katrine said, almost under her breath.

Lydia finally sat back, satisfied—and unhurried in withdrawing her hand from Katrine’s knee. The moment lingered, wordless and charged, before Katrine blinked and resumed writing.

If Lydia had felt out of control earlier with that cursed Berlin portfolio, the universe had swiftly righted itself. She was in command now, shaping Katrine’s understanding, guiding her hand—it thrilled her in a way no performance ever quite had.

She reached for the next portfolio, her thigh still pressed against Katrine’s.

And Lydia, heart thudding low and slow in her chest, knew she was already losing the battle she hadn’t meant to fight.

Chapter Text

Katrine's POV

Katrine didn’t open her eyes right away.

She lay still under the soft weight of her duvet, cocooned in sleep-heavy warmth, her head only gently throbbing with the kind of hangover she didn’t mind—more a dull reminder of wine and laughter than something to regret. Her limbs felt boneless. Her body sluggish and sunk into the mattress.

She inhaled deeply, intending to ground herself—but stilled as the scent in the air registered.

Familiar, but her aftermarth-of-too-much-wine brain struggled to place it.

It was subtle—earthy and clean, like rain-soaked wood. A layered clarity. Sharp without being masculine, soft without being sweet.

Then, it struck her.

She'd noticed it the first time when Lydia had woken her up, after falling asleep on the couch listening to her play the piano. Katrine hadn’t even realized she’d tilted her head slightly—drawn toward it like prey caught off guard. There was something about the way it clung to Lydia’s skin, something so complex and maddeningly. It had unarmed her completely.

She turned her head to the side, just slightly, and exhaled again. The scent was stronger there. Not perfumed—present. Like it had soaked into the pillow.

But why did she smell it here in her bed?

Her brows furrowed faintly. She could vaguely remember Lydia helping her into bed the night before—half a blur of too much wine. Katrine had probably stumbled. That would track. She remembered arms catching her, a voice low with something teasing but steady. Lydia’s voice. Confident. Guiding. Then dark again.

She didn’t think much of it. Just… one of those things.

Lydia had been surprisingly good at holding her liquor that night, or at least better than Katrine had managed. No doubt she’d just helped Katrine like anyone might a tipsy friend or colleague. Professional courtesy. Nothing more.

Still, the scent in the bed lingered stronger than a passing touch. It clung to the pillow in a way that made her throat tighten with something she didn’t name.

Katrine ran a hand through her hair, sighing as the ache behind her eyes shifted into the duller weight of a manageable hangover.

She really should mind all this more than she did.

It had been… oddly comforting, actually—having Lydia around the penthouse. It had broken the quiet of the place. But it hadn’t felt like an intrusion.

Not quite.

She hadn’t realized how loud her solitude had become until it was broken.

Katrine blinked, and the thought landed heavier than she liked.

Lydia would be moving into her permanent housing soon. Her official residence in Copenhagen. The one the board was renovating for her maestro appointment. With the penthouse just a temporary arrangement.

Katrine had told herself from the start that she was counting the days. That her sanctuary would be hers again. That she’d reclaim her silence, her kitchen, her solitude.

But now... now the thought of the rooms going quiet again gave her a strange, hollow twist in her chest.

Katrine groaned softly, rubbing her face with the back of her hand. Her body felt heavier than usual, slow to rejoin the day. She was still wrapped in that same odd comfort she couldn’t name, anchored by a scent that shouldn’t have been where it was but somehow felt fitting.

She should probably get up. Coffee would help.

She could hear faint conversation—muffled, somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Probably Alex already dragging Lydia through half a workday.

A half-smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. She should go tease him for being the only person in Denmark who made people work on a Saturday morning after a friday bar.

Still, she lingered a little longer, head tipped toward that faint, familiar perfume. Letting it disarm her once more.

Chapter Text

Lydia sat squarely at the center of the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched toward the low table blanketed in portfolios. Her fingers moved with practiced certainty over the heavy paper as she explained the structural logic of a score extract to Katrine, who sat close beside her, not quite touching, but near enough for Lydia to feel the warmth of her.

Katrine, armed now with a notepad and pen, was listening with a sort of casual intensity Lydia relished—head slightly cocked, pen at the ready, gaze flicking between Lydia’s hands and her mouth as she spoke. Every time Katrine leaned forward to reference a section, Lydia leaned with her—using the excuse of instruction to steal proximity, a hand on Katrine’s thigh here, her shoulder there, pointing out a measure, a cue, a detail.

Katrine yielded to her guidance with little resistance, her usual authority softened by the relaxed setting. Lydia could feel it, the shift—Katrine not in control but willing, open, curious. It was intoxicating. Lydia wasn’t just in her element; she was reigning in it, with Katrine willingly under her tutelage.

Then the door opened with Alex’s familiar sing-song:
“Lunch from Andersen & Maillard, praise me.”

He entered a paper bag in hand like a triumphant jester. Lydia straightened slightly but not without letting her hand linger half a second longer on Katrine’s thigh before withdrawing it.

Alex tossed a wrapped sandwich toward her, which she caught one-handed. 

They fell into an easy pause. The work gave way to chewing, and the brief silence of three people too hungry to talk. Lydia’s wine-dulled edge from the night before had lifted, replaced by a possessive clarity.

And then Alex looked at Katrine mid-chew. “Did you remember to pack for London?”

“Shit.” Katrine swallowed hard and wiped her fingers. “No. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll do it tonight—flight’s early tomorrow.”

Lydia went still, sandwich halfway to her mouth.

“London?” Lydia asked before she could stop herself.

Katrine, wiping the corner of her mouth, before answering. “Conference in London. I’m flying out tomorrow morning, so I figured I’d just stay over Sunday night and be rested for the meetings. I’ll be back Tuesday.”

The falafel in her mouth turned dry as dust. Her stomach twisted with something far more unpleasant than hunger.

She forced a nod, a noncommittal “ah,” It was perfectly reasonable, professional. Nothing unusual. But the thought of Katrine going somewhere without her—gone for two full days, in a hotel, surrounded by other people—lodged like a shard in Lydia’s side.

Her mood shifted so fast it almost startled her. She felt the curl of bitterness, irrational and intrusive, followed by a familiar shame. She had no right to it. No claim.

But the jealousy simmered all the same. She hated how quickly her mind filled in the blanks. Hated even more the sting of hypocrisy.

Her mind unspooling memories with brutal efficiency: how easily she used to slip away from Sharon on her own work trips. Young, eager women. Anonymous hotel bars. The thrill of detachment. Calls from Sharon she’d ignore without a second thought.

She’d learned the choreography of infidelity early: the long silences over time zones, the deliberate unread messages, the blurred boundaries with soft-eyed admirers who knew exactly who she was and didn’t care that she belonged to someone else—because, in truth, she rarely behaved like she did.

And now here she was.

Feeling that same distance open up in reverse. 

She looked at Katrine, who was chatting with Alex, entirely unbothered, casually licking a bit of cream cheese off her thumb.

She could do the same, Lydia thought with a pang. London. Hotel rooms. Attention. And she wouldn't even owe me an explanation.

Because she didn’t. Lydia wasn’t her partner. Wasn’t anything.

She took a sip of coffee to steady herself and forced a composed smile, though she could feel the bitter edge behind her teeth.

Whatever else this was, whatever she wanted it to be—she was still on the outside looking in.

And it was a terrible place to stand.

Alex brushed some crumbs from his lap “Is Jesper going too?” he asked, mouth still half-full.

Katrine nodded, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “Yeah. We’re traveling together—meeting at the company jet tomorrow morning.”

“I hope he’s packed something decent this time,” Alex said. “Last trip he looked like a middle-aged geography teacher on a field trip.”

Katrine grinned. “He is a middle-aged geography teacher. He just draw buildings on the side.”

Even Lydia smiled at that. She felt the tightness in her gut lessen a degree—not disappear, but settle. Jesper was a buffer. 

Chapter Text

The light outside the penthouse was muted—flat, grey, typical for a Copenhagen Sunday. Lydia sat hunched on the floor by the living room table, a half-full cup of coffee gone cold at her side. Portfolios lay scattered like defeated cards between her and Alex. The last pile. They were close to the bottom, but her mood had sunk deeper.

She kept tapping the edge of her pen against the portfolio in front of her, not reading, not absorbing. Just there. Irritated. Sour.

Alex, cross-legged on the other side, flipped a page and didn’t look up. “You know,” he said, voice maddeningly light, “she’ll be back Tuesday.”

Lydia didn't answer at first. Her jaw ticked. Then, finally: “That’s not what this is.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”

She set the pen down too hard. “It’s not,” she said again, sharper. “It can’t be. You know it. I know it. It's not even a matter of… logistics. It would be wildly inappropriate. On every level.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at her without lifting his head. “You mean inappropriate like… sneaking glances at her tits at every oppotunity presented?"

Lydia shot him a look. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think.”

He grinned, smug, but relented, letting the joke settle. After a beat, he closed the folder in his lap. “You want to know something?”

Lydia didn't answer, but he pressed on anyway.

“In all the time I’ve known Katrine—and it’s been years—I’ve never once seen her date anyone. Never seen her bring someone around.”

Lydia’s spine straightened subtly. “No one?”

Alex shook his head. “No. And believe me, I have tried setting her up before. Nothing took, except for threats on my life if I ever dared doing it again.” He paused, watching her more carefully now. “You have probably spent more time in her bed already, than anyone has managed for years, and you accomplished that feat just within a week....Even if it did look as a rather pathetic half-assed drunk accident”

Lydia tried to keep her face impassive, but the flicker of something traitorous passed through her—something warm, unbidden. Hope. Possibility.

Alex smirked again, as if he saw it and was privately pleased with himself.

“She’s far too pent up,” he said lightly. “Needs to let her hair down. Kiss someone wildly inappropriate.”

Lydia huffed, but it wasn’t dismissive. “That’s not exactly a responsible HR-approved recommendation, Alex.”

“Lucky for me,” he said, opening the next portfolio, “I’m not in HR.”

Lydia shifted the portfolio on her lap, her mouth pressing into a thin, dismissive line. “Regardless,” she said coolly, “there’s the age difference to consider. Not to mention the fact that this is a working environment and relationship. None of it would be appropriate. It shouldn't even be a thought.”

Alex didn’t look up immediately, just methodically peeled the tape from a file. “Sure,” he said. “If you’re actually convincing yourself of that, I’ll let you have it.”

Lydia gave him a sharp look.

He finally glanced up, meeting her gaze evenly. “But for the record? I couldn’t care less about an age gap. We’re not in a Jane Austen novel. And Katrine certainly isn’t some ingénue in need of supervision — she’s a grown woman. It’s no one’s business but hers if she chooses to accept your advances.”

Lydia’s stare stayed hard, but something subtle in her jaw tightened — defensiveness, maybe. Or guilt.

Alex’s tone softened slightly, but there was a steel edge beneath it. “That said… if you are entertaining any thoughts about her, Lydia — and I mean this sincerely — don’t toy with her.”

Lydia blinked once, slow.

“I’m serious,” he went on. “She’s not some trophy to add to your list of conquests. She’s got enough to carry without becoming the collateral damage of someone’s unfinished chaos. So if there’s even a shred of truth to the things people say about your past — you’d better make sure that part of you’s buried.”

The silence after that was dense, humming.

Lydia sat still, her spine stiff. Her eyes locked on the portfolio, but she wasn’t reading a word of it.

Finally, in a voice cool enough to pass as calm, she said, “I don’t want to toy with people anymore, Alex.”

Alex gave her a look that wasn’t unkind — but wasn’t naïve either.

“No,” he said evenly. “But sometimes people forget to think about what happens after touching someone for their own desire.”

That landed somewhere deep and uncomfortably honest.

Lydia sat back in the chair as Alex turned his attention back to the stack of portfolios, the moment between them still lingering in the quiet.

She hadn’t responded — not because she couldn’t, but because the words would have only betrayed her further. Everything about this felt too exposed, too close. And yet, as she studied the line of Alex’s shoulders bent over a folder, his movements easy and unbothered, she felt the sting of being seen — and strangely, the comfort of it too.

How quickly, she thought, he had inserted himself into this new chapter of her life — not just as an assistant or colleague, but as something more intimate than that. A fixture. A counterbalance. A friend.

She hadn’t been looking for one. Hadn’t planned on needing one. She’d arrived here prepared to operate the same way she always had: solitary, sharp-edged, aloof and untouchable. A singular orbit around which everyone else had to adjust.

But Alex hadn’t adjusted. He’d just… met her, where she was. With a wit that disarmed and a candor that defused, and a way of calling her out that didn’t feel like a challenge but an invitation. He didn’t flatter, didn’t fawn. He teased and tested, and when she pushed, he pushed back — but never unkindly.

And somehow, without her permission, without even noticing it at first, she had come to trust him.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it had settled in her. Quietly. A rare thing: a person she didn’t feel the need to control.

And perhaps that was why his warning just now had landed so heavily. Not because he’d said anything cruel — but because she knew, deep down, he wasn’t wrong.

She ran her thumb along the edge of a portfolio and exhaled slowly.

She wasn’t used to being cautioned. She wasn’t used to someone daring to.

And for that alone, she owed him more than silence.

But still, she said nothing. Only glanced at him with something softer — the faintest trace of gratitude unspoken — and turned back to the next name in the stack.

Chapter Text

The last portfolio had long been closed, and the penthouse had fallen into the sort of silence Lydia had once craved like oxygen. But tonight, it was suffocating.

She sat at the piano, hands resting on the keys, coaxing out nothing but unresolved fragments. Every measure she attempted collapsed in on itself — brittle, aimless. The melody refused to surface, and the empty note sheet beside her felt like a dare she couldn't meet.

She let her fingers fall from the keys and rubbed her temples with a frustrated groan. The room, echoing faintly with the hollow resonance of aborted chords, felt like it had been emptied of something vital.

She stood abruptly, the piano bench scraping slightly beneath her, and stalked to the minibar. She poured herself two fingers of cognac with a practiced hand, the amber liquid catching the soft city lights bleeding through the windows. She lifted the glass to her lips and drank slowly, the burn offering too little clarity.

Her new phone was on the coffee table.

It hadn't left her peripheral vision all evening.

She stared at it now, then reached for it with a decisiveness she didn’t feel. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment before she opened a new message.

How's London?

The words looked innocuous. Stupid, even. But they cost her more than she would admit.

She hit send before she could think better of it. The message sent with a soft whoosh, the status immediately marked “Delivered.” Then — nothing.

She stared. Waiting.

The screen didn’t change. No read receipt. No typing bubbles. Just blank, impassive silence.

Lydia clenched her jaw and pocketed the phone, annoyed with herself.
Needy. That’s what it felt like.
Clingy, even.

She took another sip of cognac, sharper this time, and moved toward the wide windows. The lights of Copenhagen blinked below in quiet constellations. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, eyes unfocused.

This was ridiculous.

Here she was — irritated, restless, distracted — because a woman had rolled a suitcase out of this apartment hours ago and said she’d be back Tuesday.

She glanced around the penthouse, her eyes landing on the door to Katrine’s suite.

Still.

Closed.

Lydia stood there for a moment, the pulse in her temple steady and insistent.

Then she moved.

She crossed the room without allowing herself to think, bare feet soundless on the polished floor. Her fingers wrapped around the doorknob and, after the briefest pause, she turned it. The door wasn’t locked. Of course it wasn’t.

She stepped inside.

The suite was dim, lit only by the city glow filtering through the high windows. It still held the trace of Katrine’s presence — a faint warmth, an echo of scent.

It was just a room. But it pulsed with the intimacy of the woman who had claimed it.

She stood there for a moment, alone, chastising herself — for the text message, for the intrusion, for the longing in her chest that felt disproportionate and completely out of character.

Lydia stepped further into the suite, reaching for the dimmer switch by the door. A warm amber glow filled the space — soft, diffused light that brought out the quiet elegance of Katrine’s personal sanctuary.

She moved slowly at first, taking in the room not as a guest, but as someone acutely aware of the intimacy of being where she should not be. Katrine’s presence lingered in every corner — a folded scarf on the arm of a chair, a half-finished mug of coffee forgotten.

Against one wall stood tall, built-in shelves, filled with books arranged without pretense. Practical titles on design theory and architectural history sat beside weathered novels, dog-eared and softened from being read more than once. Lydia trailed a finger along the spines, noticing titles in both Danish, English and French. There was something telling in the mix — discipline and dream.

Leaning near the shelves were several canvases, stacked and half-hidden. She pulled one forward, gently. The paintings were abstract but evocative — bold, layered brushstrokes in deep, with curves that spiraled inward like sound pulled through space. One, in particular, caught her breath.

It looked like music.

Not literally — but in the way it moved. In the rhythm of the strokes and the unapologetic fluidity of its composition, Lydia saw something familiar. Something she had felt in her bones when conducting Mahler or shaping a phrase on the piano.

Her pulse picked up as she stepped toward the standing easel near the window, where a work-in-progress was held in place. It was unfinished — just outlines and underpainting — but already she could see the suggestion of form emerging from the chaos. A body, maybe. Or a memory. The brushstrokes were looser here, more emotional. Less restrained. She found herself transfixed.

A part of her wanted to touch the paint, to feel the texture. But she didn’t. Instead, she stepped back, letting a rush of quiet admiration — and something else — settle in her chest.

Fascination. Envy. Desire.

She recognized the mixture far too well. She had lived in it, fed on it. It was the same fire that once burned for the young women she’d mentored, whose artistry had captivated her — a dangerous line she had once blurred too often. But this felt different. Deeper. She wasn’t just watching Katrine's hands shape beauty — she was slipping into the gravity of her world.

She moved into the adjoining dressing room, curiosity overcoming guilt. The scent met her before she even reached for anything — The captivating, slightly dangerous, dark and seductive smell that always lingered in the air of a space she'd been occupying. She brushed her fingers along the hanging garments — linen shirts, dark sweaters, tailored trousers. Classic, timeless, like Katrine herself.

She pulled out a shirt, one she remembered Katrine wearing earlier that week. She hesitated, then brought it to her face, inhaling the trace of skin and perfume still woven into the fabric.

Lydia’s eyes fluttered closed.

The scent was deeply grounding. And yet — intoxicating.

She exhaled, letting the shirt fall gently back into place.

She stepped inside the bathroom.

It was more minimal than she’d expected, but not cold. Katrine’s toiletries were neatly arranged on the counter — a few well-chosen products, glass bottles and ceramic jars. Everything intentional. Nothing excessive. She went over to pick some of the products up, turning them over, inspecting them. Her eyes caught on a perfume bottle, Chanel Noir. Lydia scoffed, of course she would go for something like that. She took the black glass topper off and lifted it to her nose, inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. Yes. This was it. 

And then — the tub.

The vintage clawfoot bathtub stood elegantly near the wide window, its porcelain surface gleaming in the low light. Lydia paused, a sudden stillness taking hold of her as she pictured it occupied — bubbles clinging to naked wet porcelaine skin, flushed from heat, the sound of water lapping gently as a leg shifted beneath the surface.

How exquisite it would feel to run her hands up those long naked legs. 

The image slipped into Lydia’s mind with disarming ease. She could almost smell the warm water, hear the faint drip from the faucet. Her fingers twitched slightly at her side.

She swallowed hard, her thoughts dragging low in her belly. Her body responded — quickly, shamefully — and she turned away from the tub as if caught in something private.

This was madness.

She gripped the edge of the marble sink, grounding herself. The coolness of it steadied her. But only a little.

She moved slowly back into the bedroom again, the plush silence of the suite absorbing the sound of her footsteps. The bed stood as it had before — large, unmade, the pillows slightly uneven on one side where Katrine had last slept. Lydia stared at it for a long moment.

Her hand brushed the edge of the duvet as if drawn by memory alone. Two nights ago, she had stumbled into this bed, half-drunk and laughing, with Katrine’s warm body sleepily next to hers, their shared exhaustion dissolving boundaries. She remembered Katrine’s fingers — heavy with sleep, unconscious — resting low on her stomach in the early morning, the quiet weight of that touch leaving a phantom imprint even now.

She’d slipped out of the bed with a sense of guilt and thrill still humming in her spine, just as Alex had found her and raised a knowing brow. She hadn’t looked back. She hadn’t dared.

But now the bed was empty, inviting in a way it shouldn't be. She tore her eyes away from it and turned her attention to the bedside table instead, needing something — anything — to anchor her spinning thoughts.

On Katrine’s side, a small stack of books lay neatly on the surface. Lydia crouched slightly to read the spines.

“The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir.
“The Hours” by Michael Cunningham, its pages clearly worn, the spine softened.
“A Room of One’s Own.” Woolf, of course — sharp and inevitable.
A Danish novel she didn’t recognize.

The bookmark halfway through made her wonder what Katrine had thought of it — if she read slowly, or in stolen moments before bed. Lydia smiled faintly. Of course she read this kind of thing. Thoughtful. Cerebral. A little melancholy.

Beside the stack of books was a small, beautifully bound journal — dark brown leather, worn soft around the edges, with a brass clasp half-closing its cover. Lydia hesitated, every instinct tugging her in two directions. She shouldn’t.

But curiosity is a feral thing.

She reached out, unlatched the clasp, and opened the cover carefully, flipping through a few pages. Neat, dense handwriting green ink filled each one — Katrine’s, clearly. Intimate. Quietly elegant.

All in Danish.

Lydia’s brow furrowed in annoyance. She traced a few lines with her eyes, the flow of the language familiar in sound but elusive in meaning. Whatever secrets Katrine had written here — reflections, dreams, private anchors of thought — they remained hidden from Lydia.

With a sharp exhale through her nose, Lydia closed the journal gently and placed it back exactly where it had been.

Her fingers hovered, and then she opened the drawer beneath it.

This time, what she found made her pause entirely.

Inside, arranged with a careful discretion that only made it more deliberate, were a few unmistakable objects: a sleek black rabbit vibrator, its smooth curve gleaming faintly in the low light; a pair of black leather cuffs coiled neatly; a blindfold of soft black fabric; and beneath them, silk ropes — perfectly folded, like something sacred.

Lydia’s breath caught — part amusement, part arousal, and part something else she couldn’t quite name.

There had always been something just beneath the surface with Katrine — control wrapped in softness, quiet poise hiding a private fire. It thrilled her. It complicated her. And it made Lydia lean against the edge of the nightstand and let out a low, incredulous chuckle.

“Of course,” she murmured to no one, shaking her head.

She closed the drawer slowly, as if sealing away a truth she hadn’t meant to discover — one that might haunt her now that she had.

A faint bip of her phone echoed through the stillness of Katrine’s suite.

She startled slightly, pulling the phone from her pocket with a sudden, nervous flick of her thumb.

K.D.

Her heart skipped in that ridiculous, annoying way she had no control over. The crystal glass in her other hand—now emptied of its two fingers of cognac—was hastily set down on the bedside table, landing with a soft clink on top of Katrine’s neat stack of books.

Lydia sat slowly, almost cautiously, on the edge of the bed, the cool fabric beneath her palm grounding her as she opened the message.

"London needs to get more snobby about coffee and not just tea. It's horrible 🙄"

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it—quiet, indulgent. 

Lydia exhaled, letting her body relax, the edge of her hip sinking deeper into the mattress as she began typing a reply.

"I'll make sure there's coffee for you that isn't horrible when you return then"

She pressed send and immediately stared at the message status.
Read. Instantly.

The corner of her mouth lifted.
So Katrine had the phone open. Waiting.

That little detail—so inconsequential and yet so satisfyingly telling—made something low in Lydia’s stomach pull tight. A kind of smug, quiet thrill.

Almost immediately, another message came in:

"Already looking forward to getting back home then 😏 Sleep well, I’ll try to get some rest so i can make it through a whole day of Jesper's company and a dry conference. Not sure which is gonna be the hardest to survive."

Lydia read it twice, committing the phrasing to memory, letting herself indulge in the intimacy of it: the casual gettin back home. Back home to her. 

Still, the absence that followed hit with a whisper of disappointment.

That was it. The conversation was winding down. 

But Lydia—foolishly, brazenly—wanted more. A moment more. A word. Something that might stretch the thread between them just a little further.

She hesitated for a beat too long. Then she typed carefully, deliberately. Something light, but not without intention.

"Sweet dreams"

She hit send before she could regret it.

Again—Read. Quickly.
But no reply followed.

Lydia was still staring at the now-still phone screen, the faint glow fading to black, when the tiny vibration startled her again.

She tapped it back to life.

A small red heart hovered beneath her last message.

Katrine had reacted.

Lydia’s breath caught—far too sharply for such a small gesture.

But it wasn’t small. Not to her.

It landed in her chest like a shot of adrenaline. A signal. A hook. A thread pulled taut between them.

Lydia set the phone down beside her on the bed, but the thrum of that moment lingered in her fingertips.

She leaned back against the pillows slowly, her body heavy with the weight of her own anticipation. Turning her head, she burried her face into the pillow Katrine had been sleeping on. Breathing it in.

She shouldn’t be here. She knew it.

And yet she didn’t move.

That sensation from earlier—of hunting, stalking something slow and quiet—crept back over her. The text messages, the heart, the knowledge of the drawer she had no business opening. It was all circling around her now in this quiet darkened suite. She felt like she was drifting in some strange, seductive fog.

She wasn’t in control of the way Katrine unspooled in her mind—how the gentle weight of her hand had felt on Lydia’s stomach. That had lodged itself somewhere deeper than she wanted to admit.

There was no music. No one watching. Just the silent hum of her breath and the ache beneath her skin.

Lydia closed her eyes, fingers curling lightly over the fabric of Katrine’s pillow, letting herself sink—just for a moment—into the gravity of her own longing.

Her body felt strung tight, every breath sharp with tension.

She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to analyze.

Lydia exhaled shakily, her fingers drifting low, brushing absently along the hem of her shirt. She could still feel that restlessness in her—like something wild pacing the edges of her.

The memory of Katrine’s drawer flashed through her. The blindfold. The silk rope. That startling revelation of what lay just beneath her calm and professional surface.

She swallowed.

Her hand moved lower, slowly. An instinct more than intention. The fabric of her pants was soft beneath her palm, the heat of her own body meeting her fingers as she imagined—not herself—but Katrine’s young hand there. 

A low sound escaped her throat. Her body humming with a restless, feral heat. Sprawled across Katrine’s unmade bed, the sheets still warm with her lingering scent—dark, spiced, like a dirty promise—she felt her control slipping.

The air in the suite was thick, wrapping around her like a second skin, and every breath pulled Katrine deeper into her veins.
Her fingers slid beneath her knickers, no hesitation, no pretense. Her pussy was already wet, slick with need, and a low growl escaped her as her fingertips brushed her swollen clit, sending a sharp jolt through her core. “Fuck,” she muttered, the word rough and raw in the quiet room. But it wasn’t just her own touch driving her wild—it was the image of Katrine, bound and helpless, at her mercy.

Her mind seized on the drawer she’d found earlier. The sleek black vibrator, the soft blindfold, the coiled silk ropes.

Lydia’s pulse pounded as she pictured using them on Katrine.

Her hand moved faster, circling her clit, the wet heat of her cunt pulsing as she imagined Katrine spread out on this bed, wrists tied tight to the headboard, black fabric over her eyes, her body bare and trembling.
“Shit” Lydia breathed, her hips twitching as she rubbed herself harder, her fingers slick with her own arousal.

She saw herself leaning over Katrine, the silk ropes biting into her wrists just enough to make her gasp, her lithe young body arching under Lydia’s control. She imagined trailing the vibrator along Katrine’s inner thighs, teasing, letting it hum just close enough to her dripping pussy to make her squirm, but not enough to satisfy. Katrine’s lips parting, a soft moan escaping—fuck, that sound would undo her.
Lydia’s other hand gripped the soft duvet, nails digging in as she sank deeper into the fantasy.

She pictured Katrine’s flushed skin, her chest rising and falling, her thighs spreading wider, begging without words. Lydia would tease her clit with the vibrator, slow at first, watching her writhe, her bound hands straining against the ropes. “You want it, don’t you?” Lydia whispered to the empty room, her voice low and filthy, her fingers mimicking the rhythm she imagined—hard, relentless, circling her own clit as she envisioned Katrine’s pussy clenching, wet and desperate.

Her breaths came in sharp, uneven pants, her hips bucking into her hand.

She saw herself sliding the vibrator inside Katrine, slow and deep, watching her head tip back, her blindfolded face a mix of surrender and need.

Lydia’s fingers moved faster, slick and messy, her cunt throbbing as she imagined Katrine’s moans turning into pleas, her body shaking under Lydia’s control, every thrust of the toy pushing her closer to the edge.

“Katrine,” she groaned, the name spilling out like a curse.

Her fingers worked her clit with frantic precision, her thighs trembling as the heat coiled tighter in her core.

In her mind, she was pinning Katrine down, the blindfold keeping her in the dark, the ropes holding her still as Lydia fucked her with the vibrator, drawing out every shudder, every filthy sound.

Katrine’s pussy would be dripping, her body begging for release, and Lydia would hold it just out of reach, savoring the power.

The orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her pussy pulsing hard as she came, a raw, guttural moan ripping from her throat. Her hips jerked, her fingers still moving, dragging out the pleasure until her body went limp, slumping back against Katrine’s pillows, chest heaving, her cunt still throbbing with the aftershocks.

Lydia lay still, breath slowly calming, her body spent and heavy with release, her hand still between her thighs, slick and hot, her breath slowing as the guilt tried to creep in.

She turned her face into Katrine’s pillow, inhaling that scent, letting it anchor her to this moment—this twisted, perfect fantasy.

Her phone sat quiet on the bed, that red heart from Katrine’s message burning in her mind. 

She didn’t think. Not anymore. The ache that had haunted her all evening—restlessness, frustration, a gnawing edge of want—had softened into something looser, deeper. Not gone. Just momentarily quiet.

Lydia turned slightly, curling on her side, one hand under her cheek, the other now resting against the bed where Katrine had once lain beside her just nights ago.

Her mind drifted, floating on the remnants of sensation and heat and imagined closeness, blurring the lines of memory and desire. She didn't even notice the moment her body gave up its tension entirely and sleep pulled her under gently.

Chapter Text

Lydia stirred to the sound of someone laughing. Her body tensed immediately, a lifetime of sharp awakenings in unfamiliar places jolting her back to consciousness. But it wasn’t danger that waited for her, only Alex, standing in the doorway with a raised eyebrow and his usual too-knowing smirk.

“Really?” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “We’re doing full U-Haul lesbian now? You moved into her bed without her even knowing it? She’s not even in the country.”

Lydia blinked, shielding her eyes from the soft spill of morning light filtering in from the window. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he continued, stepping fully inside, a garment bag hooked over one arm and a takeaway coffee cup in the other. “I started wondering if you’d defected.”

She sat up slowly, running a hand through her hair, her brain still sluggish from the heavy sleep — and perhaps, the emotional chaos of the night before. Her eyes fell on the coffee. “Is that for me?”

He held it out. “You’re lucky I’m a good assistant even when you’re being completely unmanageable.”

She took the cup, letting the heat of it anchor her. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely,” Alex grinned. “But I’m also here to remind you that we have auditions to run and you're currently wrapped in someone else's sheets. Get dressed.”

He tossed the garment bag onto the bed beside her. “Tailor just dropped it off. Try not to wrinkle it too much.”

Lydia gave him a flat look, though some of the tension was melting behind her eyes. She wasn’t used to anyone having this level of ease with her — not since Francesca. But Alex had a way of cutting through the artifice without pressing too hard. 

As she sipped the coffee, she glanced briefly at Katrine’s pillow beside her. A pang moved through Lydia’s chest, not sharp exactly, but disquieting. It was becoming far too easy to imagine things — things that had not happened, things she had no right to wish for.

Lydia exhaled slowly, letting the steam from the coffee curl up into her face before setting the cup down on the bedside table — right next to the spine of one of Katrine’s books. Her fingers lingered a moment on one of the covers, then she turned, rising from the bed in a fluid, deliberate motion.

She tugged the clothing bag toward her, the hanger clinking against the metal zipper as she opened it. Inside was the dark, elegantly tailored outfit Alex had been nagging the tailor about rushing — crisp lines, intentional structure. A conductor’s silhouette.

Behind her, Alex leaned casually in the doorway, arms folded and foot tapping softly against the wood floor. “You know,” he said, watching her with a half-smile, “any slower and Katrine might even make it back from London to see you mopping around in her bed.”

Lydia shot him a sharp look over her shoulder. “Are you always this 'patient' in the mornings?”

“Only when I have to babysit internationally disgraced conductors crawling out of other people’s beds,” he replied, perfectly deadpan.

She rolled her eyes and walked past him and into her own suite to change. There was a rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper sliding, and then a beat of silence as Lydia stared down at herself in the mirror for a breath — watching how the clothes settled onto her. She looked like herself again, or the version she was rebuilding. 

She emerged and adjusted the cuffs, brushing a hand through her hair. “Satisfied?” she asked.

Alex offered her a mock bow. “Let’s get this over with,” Lydia muttered, with a hint of lingering irritation.

The familiar hush of the symphony hall swallowed Lydia the moment she stepped through the side entrance, Alex walking a half-step ahead with his usual clipped pace and his hands full — the leather folder of notes and the clipboard that would carry her scores through the long day ahead.

It was a space built for reverence. Sound reverberated here in a way that demanded your full attention — and yet, Lydia’s thoughts drifted.

They entered from the wings and made their way to the front row, just below the stage. The towering curtain of the privacy screen had already been set up at center, cutting off the musicians auditioning from their view. It was protocol. Necessary. Fair.

Lydia sat in her chair with the spine-straight discipline of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Her fingers brushed lightly over the scorecard laid out on the clipboard. 

Alex leaned in, voice lowered. “We’re starting with second violins. You’ll hear fifteen in a random order before lunch. I’ll match your scores to their files after each audition.”

Lydia nodded and crossed her legs, settling into the kind of focus she could usually hold without effort. But not today.

The first note rang out — a delicate, well-controlled vibrato, a subtle bend that spoke of years of training — and still her thoughts betrayed her.

Is she already at the conference hall? Has she had her morning coffee? Did she get any sleep at all, or did she lie awake after my sweet dreams text?

The player behind the screen shifted into the more demanding passage. Lydia blinked hard, tuning back in and letting her trained ear dissect the interpretation. Technically clean, emotionally reserved. She wrote a score: 7.5.

Without a word, she passed it sideways to Alex, who took it, glanced down, and clipped it to the proper portfolio — his eyes darting across his coded master list. He gave a tiny nod, and they waited for the next to enter.

Lydia shifted in her seat. The wooden arms of the chair creaked softly under her hands.

Another audition. A richer tone this time. A little too romantic in phrasing for her taste. She jotted down 6.8.

Her hand hovered a moment before passing it to Alex again.

Katrine’s laugh suddenly echoed in her mind, uninvited — that bright, slightly husky sound she'd heard the night they'd been drinking. Is she sitting now, taking notes? Is someone offering to refill her coffee? Are they standing too close?

She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. 

Another candidate entered. Big sound. Great risk-taking. Lydia sat up straighter, finally finding a point of contact between her body and the music. She wrote 8.4.

“Someone promising?” Alex murmured as he took the page.

“We’ll see,” Lydia said under her breath, trying not to bristle.

By mid-afternoon, the lines between the music and her wandering thoughts had begun to blur. She kept hearing snippets of violin and imagining Katrine in a crowded room of gray suits and stale coffee. Jesper beside her — thank god — but even that image didn’t still the restless edge inside Lydia.

Alex passed her a granola bar without asking, and she realized she hadn’t touched the water next to her chair in hours.

“You’re distracted,” he said quietly, not judging. Just noting.

“Just tired,” she muttered.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, unconvinced. 

Lydia gave him a flat look.

The next musician walked out onto the stage — heels echoing over the wood, the soft thud of a chair being drawn into place.

She tried to center herself. Focus. Be present.

But the bow lifted, and all she could think of was Katrine's hand resting lightly on her stomach two mornings ago.

She wrote 8.1. Handed it off. And let her eyes drift toward the exit, where the late afternoon light slipped through the doors.

The final bow lifted off the strings and silence settled across the stage like a slow exhale. Lydia stared at the privacy screen, her fingers still wrapped loosely around the last score sheet. The music was done. At least for today.

Alex stood up next to her, stretching his arms behind his back with a faint groan. “That was the last. Not bad, all things considered.”

Lydia nodded distantly. She hadn’t looked at the clock in hours.

She handed the final score to Alex and gathered her notes while he packed up the portfolios into his canvas bag, then glanced sideways at her. “You heading straight back?”

Lydia hesitated.

“No,” she said slowly. “Not yet. I think I’ll… walk for a bit. Explore.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, surprised but not displeased. “Look at you. Becoming a local.”

“I’ve been a local for one week,” she muttered.

He smiled and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Well, go be one, then. Take a canal detour if you feel romantic. Or morose.”

She didn’t answer, just gathered her coat and followed him out into the corridor. 

As they reached the main entrance, Alex turned to her, squinting in the warm spill of sunlight. “Enjoy your urban wanderings, Try not to get in too much trouble.”

“I don’t get in trouble,” Lydia replied dryly.

Alex chuckled. “Sure.”

He gave her a two-finger salute and headed off down the front steps into the street, disappearing into the soft bustle of the city.

Lydia stood still for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the light. The golden-hour sun spilled over Copenhagen like a warm wash — quiet but alive. She breathed it in, her senses sharp, restless, tethered to something she couldn’t name.

Her boots clicked along the cobbled sidewalk as she moved into the city’s heart, where bicycles wove between cars and the scent of cardamom and warm pastry floated from cafés just starting their evening wind-down.

It wasn’t direction she followed — it was instinct. Movement. Anything but stillness.

It was nothing like Berlin. Nothing like New York. Copenhagen had a restraint to it — an elegant stillness beneath its aesthetic polish — that she was only now beginning to understand. It didn’t demand your attention. It invited you to pay attention.

Lydia slowed when she reached Amager Boulevard, watching locals cycle past her with studied ease. No one looked twice at her — the famous, or rather, infamousMaestro — as she stood still at the corner, taking in the world as if for the first time. She realized she liked that.

Turning into a quieter side street, she let her eyes drift upward toward the tightly packed townhouses, their facades washed in dusty ochres and deep blues. A little farther on, she passed a secondhand bookshop tucked into the base of an old building, its window display cluttered with translated philosophy and worn poetry collections. She stopped for a moment, then kept walking, unsure why she hadn’t stepped inside.

There would be time for that. Time to collect rituals again.

Her feet eventually brought her to a small square, tucked between old cobbled streets in Indre By, where café tables clung to the edge of the sidewalk under the umbrellas with electric warmers and blankets slung over the chairs. A few people sat with half-finished coffee cups. She slid onto an empty bench nearby and exhaled slowly, watching the scene in front of her unfold.

This was her life now.

Not the chaos of reputation management. 

She reached into her coat pocket and took out her phone. No new messages. She wasn’t expecting any. But still, she looked.

Katrine’s last text lingered in the thread, the little heart on Lydia’s sweet-dreams message glowing faintly under the screen’s soft light.

Lydia tucked the phone away and leaned back on the bench, letting her head fall back for a moment to look up at the Scandinavian sky — pale, nearly translucent, tinged with late-day silver.

For the first time since she had landed in Copenhagen, she didn’t feel like she was performing the act of being settled.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the same symphony hall felt different.

Still steeped in the deep hush of polished acoustics and soft, artificially neutral lighting — but to Lydia, it now held a lighter energy. Or maybe she did.

She sat again in the same row, the screen that obscured the auditioning musicians from view, flanked by Alex.

But Lydia was listening today.

Not with the obsessive, soul-scouring scrutiny she was known for, but with a quiet, sharp clarity. Her head nodded ever so slightly as she registered the phrasing in the Brahms. Her pencil tapped absently against her scorecard during a promising Dvořák excerpt. She even gave a rare, brief smile — not to anyone in particular, just to herself — after one especially daring auditionee took an interpretive risk with the cadenza and, miraculously, landed it.

She handed each score sheet to Alex with efficient, near-impatient timing, barely waiting for the next number to be called. The pace had quickened, and she wasn’t entirely hiding it.

Alex gave her a side-glance at one point between players and quirked an eyebrow knowingly. “You’re in a much better mood today,” he muttered under his breath, without looking up from his laptop.

Lydia didn’t answer, just hummed in response — a short, dry note of acknowledgment. But he wasn’t wrong.

Katrine was coming home today.

She had checked her phone four times already, subtly in the folds of her coat, to see if a message had come through about her arrival. Nothing yet.

Still, just the knowledge of it — the fact that Katrine would walk through the penthouse doors later, perhaps still rumpled from travel, her quiet presence returning to the shared space — was enough to tilt Lydia’s entire axis into something that almost resembled optimism.

But the way she kept flicking her wrist to check the time, the way her toe bounced impatiently during a particularly slow-paced audition, it was clear she wasn’t completely in the present. She wanted to be, she should be — but her mind kept drifting forward to the moment she’d walk into the penthouse and see Katrine there. Posessively within her grasp and where she could be sure that no one else was touching her. 

She caught herself smiling again at nothing.

Alex, catching another one of those moments, leaned over and whispered with amusement, “Should we just tell them all to pack up early and go home? Clearly, Maestro Tár has somewhere else she'd rather be.”

She gave him a withering side glance. “Play the next damn candidate, Alex.”

He chuckled but said nothing more, flipping to the next audition number with a soft click of his pen and a knowing shake of his head.

The rest of the auditions flew by — not because they weren’t worthy, but because Lydia’s focus had shifted from evaluating each performance in isolation to powering through the process entirely. Every bow stroke, every articulation, every breath behind the screen was filtered through a lens of urgency.

She was getting through the day. That was the goal.

Because after today, the quiet would return. The kind of quiet that had come to include the sound of Katrine humming lightly while cooking, or simply moving through the apartment with her quiet, intense self-possession.

And that, Lydia had realized, was a noise she had already grown used to.

Lydia stepped into the penthouse with the quiet click of the door behind her. The faint crackle of an old LP greeted her — soft, dusky vocals in French drifting through the space like perfume. She didn’t need to check which record it was. Charles Aznavour. La Bohème. Of course.

The sound had become inseparable from Katrine in Lydia’s mind — old-world charm wrapped in something deeply personal. It stirred something low in her chest. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed that particular presence in the apartment until the record had greeted her before Katrine even did.

She slipped her shoes off and padded quietly into the penthouse, the subtle clink of glass and the occasional stir of something in a pan pulling her toward the kitchen.

And there she was.

Back turned, barefoot, dressed in a pair of soft black slacks and a dark, worn-in sweater with sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms, Katrine moved with easy domesticity. She had a glass of red wine in one hand and was stirring a pan with the other. Something fragrant and herbaceous wafted through the room — garlic, olive oil, maybe thyme. There was a bowl of roasted vegetables resting on the counter. Next to that, a block of feta, some olives, a pile of fresh herbs. It looked like some sort of Mediterranean mezze plate was coming together.

Lydia stopped a few steps short of the kitchen, simply watching.

The music, the food, the woman — it all had the glow of something unreasonably domestic, and Lydia was surprised by the way her chest ached with the want of it. Not in the lewd, hungry way that had caught hold of her the night before — this was different. This was worse. This was longing.

When Katrine finally turned and saw her, there was no surprised start. Just a soft smile and an upward tip of her wineglass in greeting.

“You’re back,” Lydia said, and it came out far too softly, too plainly vulnerable.

“I am.” Katrine leaned back against the counter.

Lydia let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. She walked into the kitchen, eyes lingering on Katrine for a moment longer than she probably should have. But Katrine didn’t comment. She just gestured toward the bottle.

“Want a glass?”

Lydia hesitated, then nodded. “I’d love one.”

And as Katrine reached for another glass and began pouring, Lydia stood there, grateful for the simple hum of a moment that felt too close to belonging. She was home — or, at least, she was somewhere that felt like it could be.

“Plates?” Lydia asked, already stepping toward the cabinet.

“Second shelf,” Katrine said, not even glancing over. “Auditions going well?”

Lydia reached up, the cupboard door swinging open with a soft clack. “They’re going,” she said, a bit drier than intended. “Some decent players. A few surprises.”

Katrine hummed thoughtfully, nodding.

Lydia placed the plates one by one on the counter. She reached to grab the cutlery drawer — her glass of wine held in her left hand, still half-full — and brushed past Katrine as she moved to set the table.

And then it happened — her right hand moved without thinking, without hesitation, without permission from her conscious mind. It settled gently along the small of Katrine’s back, fingers grazing just briefly across her hip and lower curve of her butt.

Just a simple, casual, domestic touch.

Familiar. Thoughtless.

Something she’d done a thousand times in another kitchen, with another woman.

But this wasn’t Sharon. And Katrine wasn’t hers.

The moment passed in a second — Lydia’s hand had moved on, back to holding the wine, her mouth suddenly dry.

She could feel the warmth rising in her neck. Her mind scrambled to erase the mistake, to smooth it over, to distract.

“How was the conference?” she asked quickly, her voice a touch higher than usual. She didn’t dare look up.

Katrine gave a soft little exhale — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Boring mostly.”

Lydia let out a faint, relieved breath, hiding it behind a sip of her wine. No shift in Katrine’s tone, no glance, no pause in her cooking. Either Katrine hadn’t noticed, or she’d decided not to mention it.

Lydia took the escape and clung to it. She placed the last fork with the careful precision of someone forcing her focus back into line, one plate at a time.

Chapter Text

Lydia sat at the grand piano, her fingers gliding over the keys with a precision that felt like a lifeline. A storm outside battered the penthouse windows—rain hammering, a restless pulse that mirrored the quiet unease coiled deep within her.

Yet the music was a balm, weaving delicate threads of melody that steadied her. 

Across the room, Katrine lay curled on the couch, a book resting in her hands. Her eyes flicked over the pages, but every so often they drifted—to the windows, and the storm outside.

The quiet turn of a page was the only sound besides the piano’s gentle cadence and the storm’s distant growl.

Then, without a word, Katrine closed her book, set it aside, and rose with a slow, deliberate grace, her wine glass glinting faintly in her hand. She crossed the room, her presence pulling Lydia’s attention like a magnet, and rested her fingers lightly on Lydia’s shoulder—a casual touch, warm and effortless, but it sent a shiver racing down Lydia’s spine, sharp and electric.

Lydia’s fingers never faltered, though the melody softened, as if the music itself leaned into the heat of Katrine’s hand.

Her pulse quickened, and beneath the steady rhythm of her playing, a different rhythm stirred—low, insistent, pooling warmth in her core.

Katrine’s fingers, slender and graceful, lingered on her shoulder, and Lydia’s mind wandered, unbidden, to how those fingers might feel elsewhere—trailing, teasing, deliberate. The thought was fleeting but vivid, and she felt a flush of heat, a sudden dampness between her thighs that made her shift slightly on the bench.

“It’s beautiful,” Katrine murmured, her voice low, threaded with a wistful longing that made Lydia’s breath catch. “I wish I could play like that.”

Lydia turned her head just enough to meet Katrine’s gaze, a quiet invitation in her smile. “Come sit,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter she was feeling in her chest, patting the empty space next to her on the bench.

Katrine set her wine glass carefully on the piano’s polished surface, the faint clink swallowed by the storm’s rumble. She lowered herself beside Lydia, close enough that their thighs brushed, the shared warmth sending another jolt through Lydia’s already heightened senses. Lydia’s heart thudded as she reached for Katrine’s hands, guiding them to the keys with a gentleness that belied the heat curling through her.

Lydia reached for Katrine’s hands, her own fingers trembling slightly as she guided them to the keys. Katrine’s skin was warm, soft, and Lydia’s mind fixated on the delicate strength of those fingers, imagining them parting her, pressing into her, slick with her own wetness. The thought made her clit throb, her panties soaked as she fought to keep her breathing even— she swallowed hard, her body responding with a rush that left her dizzy.

“Like this,” Lydia said, her voice low, husky, as she shaped Katrine’s hands over the keys, her touch lingering longer than necessary. “Keep them curved. Gentle, but firm.”

She positioned Katrine’s fingers with careful precision, her own brushing lightly over Katrine’s knuckles, each contact a deliberate tease under the guise of teaching.

Her heart pounded as she watched those fingers move, hesitant but eager, and her mind flooded with images—Katrine’s fingers sliding between her thighs, stroking her, fucking her slow and deep. The fantasy was so potent she felt a fresh rush of wetness, her pussy slick and aching, begging for touch.

Together, they played a small, hesitant interlude. Katrine’s fingers stumbled at first, uncertain but eager, and Lydia’s heart ached at the vulnerability laid bare in those tentative notes. The melody bloomed under her quiet guidance, simple but sweet, and Lydia found herself hyper-aware of every point of contact—the brush of Katrine’s arm, the warmth of her breath, the way her fingers moved under Lydia’s own.

Each touch sent a pulse of heat through her, her thoughts spiraling to places she barely dared acknowledge, her cunt throbbing with a need so intense it was almost painful. She wanted to grab those hands, guide them to her, feel them inside her, but she clung to the pretense of the lesson, her touches innocent yet charged with intent.

Lydia’s gaze flicked to the window, where the storm had grown fiercer. The wind howled, a restless force that seemed to echo the tension inside her.

“The storm’s getting worse,” Katrine observed softly, her eyes on the tempest, her voice calm but attentive, as if she sensed the undercurrent in the room.

Lydia nodded, her fingers resting on the keys for a moment. “I don’t like storms,” she admitted quietly. “They make me feel… uneasy. Like something’s coming.”

Katrine looked at Lydia, a trace of curiosity in her eyes, but said nothing, letting the music and the storm fill the room between them.

The storm outside had not softened—it had grown feral, its rain lashing the penthouse windows in relentless sheets, each gust of wind snarling like a beast testing the walls with its claws. Inside, Lydia lay in bed, her body still but her mind a restless machine, grinding against the sheets’ futile offer of comfort. Sleep was a distant adversary, mocking her with its absence, the storm’s ferocity mirroring the churn within her—restless, insatiable.

With a sigh that cut through her impatience, Lydia rose, her bare feet meeting the cool hardwood with deliberate precision and walked out to the kitchen.

She filled the kettle with ritualistic focus, her movements crisp, ceremonial, as if tea could impose order on the storm within and without.

The kettle’s hiss pierced the silence as she poured steaming water over a chamomile teabag, the scent rising in delicate curls, promising calm it couldn’t deliver. Her hands wrapped around the ceramic mug, its heat biting her palms, grounding her. Leaning against the counter, her eyes drifted, restless, until they caught a sliver of golden light spilling from Katrine’s suite. The door was ajar—just enough to beckon.

Lydia froze, her pulse quickening, her face betraying nothing. The mug warmed her hands as she stood motionless, the storm’s howl fading to a hum in her mind. Lydia had no reason to intrude. No reason to cross that threshold.

And yet.

Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She paused at the door, a flicker of self-awareness prickling—how foolish, this knot in her chest, this electric hum in her veins. She knocked softly, a gesture for her own conscience, and eased the door open.

Katrine looked up, her eyes catching the lamplight like polished amber, warm, unguarded. Propped against pillows, a book balanced in one hand, the other resting on the blanket, she wore a black sleep top, lace and shadow clinging to her form with dangerous subtlety. Lydia’s gaze lingered too long before she forced it away, her grip tightening on the mug.

“Can’t sleep either?” Katrine’s voice, soft and smoothed by the late hour, tugged at something deep in Lydia’s chest.

“The storm’s... persistent,” Lydia replied. She lifted the mug, the tea too hot, a convenient distraction.

Katrine’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “It’s like it’s trying to get inside.” She shifted, the lamplight playing across her collarbone, casting shadows through the lace. “I gave up on sleep hours ago.”

Lydia nodded, her expression unreadable, her mind anything but still. Katrine patted the bed beside her, a casual invitation. “Come sit and keep me with company then, the storm is not gonna end by you standing there”

Lydia hesitated, her composure a mask. She crossed the threshold with slow, deliberate grace. She perched on the bed’s edge, sipping her tea with theatrical focus, before easing back against the headboard, close enough to feel Katrine’s warmth.

Katrine returned to her book, pages rustling softly, blending with the storm’s growl.

Lydia sipped her tea, her eyes tracing not the window but Katrine’s reflection in it—her profile softened by flickering light, shadows chasing the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat. A quiet thrill stirred in Lydia.

The minutes stretched, languid and charged. Lydia’s gaze followed Katrine’s fingers as they turned a page, the fall of her hair, the rise and fall of her breath.

She leaned back further, her shoulder brushing Katrine’s—a calculated accident. Lydia’s pulse quickened, her face a study in control, her lips curving faintly.

Katrine’s book dipped slightly in her hand. Lydia watched as her eyes blinked slower, longer. The storm hadn’t let up, but inside this small shared cocoon, its edge dulled.

Eventually, Katrine shifted down beneath the covers, murmuring something unintelligible, and Lydia allowed herself to stay, her tea half-finished, cooling on the bedside table.

She didn’t remember closing her eyes. Only the storm, and the warmth beside her, and the sound of Katrine’s breathing evening out.

Lydia stirred before fully waking, the dull grey of morning dim behind the curtains, but not enough to mask the faint pull of awareness. The steady rhythm of another person’s breath. Her nose buried in soft hair.

The realization came slowly, a gentle tide rather than a jolt. Katrine’s body nestled in her arms, Lydia’s chest pressed to her back, their forms curved in a spooning embrace. Lydia inhaled, deliberate and slow, drinking in the scent. The closeness was overwhelming. Comforting. Perilous.

She didn’t dare shift her body. But her hand moved, tentative and light, fingers trailing softly over the curve of Katrine’s hip. Katrine remained still, her breathing deep and even, lost in sleep. Lydia’s touch was careful, reverent, gliding along the gentle dip of Katrine’s waist, then across the soft plane of her stomach, her fingers trembling slightly with the intimacy of it. Slowly, they traced upward, brushing just over the tip of Katrine’s breasts, her delicate nipples stiffening under the thin silk fabrick of her top, a fleeting, delicate contact that sent a quiet thrill through Lydia’s chest. The act was bold yet hushed, a secret in the predawn stillness.The intimacy of it thrummed in her chest, a delicate balance of risk and longing.

Then—a subtle shift. Katrine’s breath caught, the faintest change in rhythm. Lydia’s hand froze, resting lightly against Katrine’s waist, her own breathing steadied to mimic sleep, every muscle held loose but alert. She needed to know what Katrine would do. Would she stir? Pull away from the closeness and unspoken line they’d crossed?

But Katrine didn’t. Instead, Lydia felt her reaching gently for her phone, without leaving her arms, its faint blue glow briefly illuminating the space before fading, and then vanishing just as quickly. A pause. A decision. And then—

Katrine turned.

Still close, now face to face, though Lydia kept her eyes shut. She could feel Katrine’s breath, warm and slow, could sense her gaze—curious, quiet, contemplative. Lydia resisted the urge to shift, to open her eyes and meet it. There was something sacred in this fragile space, this illusion of not-knowing.

And then—so light it felt almost imagined—Katrine’s fingers ghosted along Lydia’s jawline. A tender carress.

Lydia’s pulse quickened, but she held her composure, face still, as if lost in sleep. The moment lingered in the hush between them.

Then, slowly, Katrine moved. Careful not to wake her—thinking her asleep—she slipped from the bed, her movements quiet. Lydia remained still, listening. The soft rustle of fabric from the dressing room. The faint sounds of running water. The click of the bathroom door opening and the familiar rhythm of feet padding toward the kitchen.

Only then did Lydia finally open her eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

She exhaled—long, slow, and unsure.

The feeling Katrine had left in her wake wasn’t easily named. It sat low and quiet in Lydia’s chest. Warmth, yes. A strange kind of triumph too—subtle, not boastful. But beneath that, a trembling fragility. As if the ground beneath this new territory could give way at any moment.

Lydia pulled the covers up slightly, the scent of Katrine still clinging to the sheets. For now, she stayed there, letting herself feel the weight of what had just passed. Not a touch or a word exchanged in the light. But something had shifted.

She finally rose.

Crossing Katrine's suite, Lydia smoothed her hair back with one hand, trying to steel herself. She had no idea what she was walking into. What did Katrine make of the night? Of waking up in her arms? Would there be a sidelong glance, a half-joking comment? Or worse, a discomfort neither of them knew how to address?

But the kitchen was filled only with the scent of toasted bread, strong coffee, and something altogether less fraught—Katrine, standing at the counter, stirring oat milk into a steaming cup. She looked entirely at ease, like mornings like this were just a thing they did.

She glanced over as Lydia stepped into the room—and smiled. No hesitation, no flicker of awkwardness. Just warmth.

“Morning,” Katrine said lightly, already reaching for another mug. “I made coffee.”

Lydia hesitated for only a breath before nodding and stepping closer. “Thanks,” she said, her voice a little rough around the edges from sleep. Her fingers curled around the cup Katrine handed her, its surface warming her palms. Katrine slid a plate toward her across the counter—avocado toast, elegantly simple, topped with a hint of lemon and a soft crumble of feta.

“I hope you like it,” Katrine said, casual, already taking a bite of her own. “It’s the one thing I can make without second-guessing myself.”

Lydia let out the smallest breath of laughter, grateful—profoundly—for the grace of this unspoken choice: to not speak of it. 

She took a sip of coffee, then a bite of toast, nodding. “It’s good,” she said. “Really good.”

“So,” Katrine said between sips, “another long day with the auditions?”

Lydia gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Probably.”

Katrine looked at her, her tone still light, but her eyes quietly focused. “Maybe I’ll stop by then. Bringing you guys some lunch if I have the time.”

Lydia’s heart gave a small, involuntary lurch at the offer. She covered it with another sip of coffee. “You’d be more than welcome.”

Katrine just smiled again, leaning back against the counter. She wasn’t performing intimacy, Lydia realized—she simply was.

Chapter Text

Katrine’s POV

Katrine stirred awake slowly, the world still wrapped in the hush of the storm’s remnants. The light was faint through the curtains—gray and silvery, like a morning not yet decided. For a moment, she didn’t move. There was warmth at her back, the distinct curve of a body pressed close—Lydia’s body. Long, still, steady in sleep.

It surprised her how natural it felt.

Lydia’s arm rested lightly over her waist possessively. Like it had always belonged there. Like Katrine belonged there. And maybe that was the most dangerous thing—that she didn’t want to move.

She reached quietly for her phone, trying not to disturb the stillness. 06:48. Earlier than she wanted, especially after having traveled. Her thumb hovered over the screen, reluctant. She should get up, start the day, break whatever spell had been cast in the night. But her body didn’t want to move. Her mind didn’t either.

It had been a long time since she’d woken up in someone’s arms. Years, if she were honest. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability—it had become foreign to her. And yet, here she was, cradled into Lydia’s elegant slender frame, feeling something she really shouldn't be feeling. There was an unmistakeable wetness between her legs, her nipples were stiff and sensitive. 

Just a minute more to soak it in, she thought guilty.

Carefully, she shifted, turning slowly so she could see Lydia’s face. She was still asleep, her breathing soft, her mouth relaxed in a way it never was when she was awake. Her features—so often composed and commanding—were unguarded now. Regal still, but gentled by rest. 

Katrine studied her. She shouldn’t have, but she did. Her eyes traced the small wrinkles by her eyes, few for a woman of her age, almost non existen in her relaxed state. Her beautifully sculpted cheekbones. The sharp line of Lydia’s jaw. Without thinking, her fingers moved—light as air—brushing the line of Lydia’s jaw with the backs of her knuckles. The artist in her stirred. The desire to paint this moment. It was too much, too tempting.

She let her hand fall away. Enough.

Katrine pulled herself carefully out of bed, alert to every shift of the mattress beneath her. Lydia didn’t stir. Once out of bed, she moved through the motions—selecting soft clothes, pulling her hair back, washing her face with slow, grounding movements. She didn’t know what the morning would bring, didn’t know if Lydia would meet her eyes or avoid them. But she wasn’t going to let awkwardness win. She wouldn’t let the moment lose its grace.

Lydia stepped into the kitchen, visibly uncertain, shoulders drawn a little tight, Katrine had coffee brewing and breakfast underway.

She caught the flicker of tension in Lydia’s eyes—the need to say something and the fear of saying the wrong thing.

Katrine smiled softly, warmly, without comment. “Coffee?” she offered, lifting a second mug without waiting for an answer.

Lydia nodded, accepting it with careful hands. Katrine slid a plate of avocado toast toward her across the island. “I hope you like it, It’s the one thing I can make without second-guessing myself.”

Lydia gave the smallest laugh, the sound barely there but real.

“So, another long day with the auditions?” Katrine asked, turning slightly, leaning her hip against the counter, casual.

“Probably,” Lydia replied, her voice still marked by sleep. 

Katrine hesitated, then added lightly, “Maybe I’ll stop by then. Bringing you guys some lunch if I have the time.”

She didn’t say she just wanted to see Lydia again. To see her fully awake, fully in command, to understand the way others looked at her—brilliant and composed and slightly out of reach. Katrine just smiled again, sipping her own coffee, letting the morning carry them gently forward.

Beside, she didn't want to admit it to herself. But she had missed Lydia while she had been away. More than she should.

Chapter Text

The doors to the symphony hall echoed behind her with a low, satisfying hush as Lydia stepped inside. The steps of Lydia’s boots echoed through the hall, steady and composed, though there was something undeniably lighter in her step this morning. Not hurried, not exactly buoyant—just... quietly self-satisfied. 

She held a pale green matcha in one hand, the steam curling upward like a slow breath. It was still warm, still smooth. Still perfect. Like the morning itself.

Behind her calm exterior, her mind replayed the sensation of waking—Katrine’s body pressed flush against her own, the gentle weight of her in Lydia’s arms, and that exquisite, impossible softness of her hair against Lydia’s nose. The scent of her. The sensuous and electrifying feeling of her warm sleeping body under her fingers. But it wasn’t just that. It was Katrine’s quiet acceptance of the intimacy. The way she hadn’t pulled away when she woke up, hadn’t stiffened or shifted to reclaim space. Instead, she had reached for her phone, checked the time like it was any other morning, and returned not just to the bed—but to Lydia’s arms.

That was the part Lydia couldn’t stop turning over in her mind. The part that curled through her like a slow flame.

Alex was already in the atrium just outside the rehearsal hall, sorting through folders and notes with his usual kinetic energy—head down, hands too quick, brow slightly furrowed in a way that always made Lydia feel both fond and faintly exasperated.

He looked up as she approached, his gaze flicking from her face to the cup in her hand and taking in the whole picture of Lydia striding towards him. And then, predictably, the grin.

“Well, well, someone’s looking well rested today” His tone was sing-song, teasing. “What are the chances of that rest coming from being in your own bed?”

Lydia didn’t respond at first, only took a slow, deliberate sip of her matcha. The heat bloomed against her lips, and she let the pause stretch just long enough to make Alex fidget.

Then—just barely—she smiled. Not wide, not indulgent, but sharp-edged and unmistakably smug.

“Shut up,” she said, the words delivered in that clipped, familiar cadence. 

Alex barked a soft laugh, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Lydia moved past him without another word, her spine straight, the cool gleam of polished floors reflecting the confident line of her stride.

Inside the audition hall, the overhead lights cast their usual glow. The stage was set, the privacy screen positioned, every inch of it designed to strip personality away and leave only sound.

Lydia took her seat, folding her coat carefully over the back of the chair. She placed her matcha beside the score sheets. Everything exactly where it should be.

And still, beneath that rigid order, something warmer pulsed in her chest. Not chaotic. Not intrusive. Just… different. She could feel the imprint of Katrine’s finger along her jaw—like a secret mark only she knew was there.

She glanced at her phone, thought for a moment of texting, of some small message. But no. Not yet. The day demanded her attention, and she was nothing if not disciplined in that.

Still… the smile lingered.

By midday, the rehearsals had become a rhythm Lydia didn’t mind being caught in. The anonymity of the privacy screen, the reverent silence after a final note faded—it all gave the illusion of control, a clean grid of choices and judgments, ordered and precise. It should have been exhausting by now. And yet she felt… uncharacteristically content.

She caught herself tapping her pen lightly against her lips as the last cellist’s final bow fell into hush. The score was solid. Balanced tone. Confident phrasing. She jotted her final note and passed the page to Alex with a flick of her fingers, barely looking up.

Across the table, Alex had been watching her for a while now—understated, but not subtle. He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes with an expression she knew too well: the beginnings of mischief.

“What?” she said flatly, without looking up.

He handed her a fresh sheet, lips twitching. “Nothing. Just wondering when your soul got replaced with something vaguely human.”

Lydia didn’t dignify that with an answer. She made a show of reviewing the form in front of her, ignoring the smirk spreading across his face. But it was true—she hadn’t snapped once all morning. Not even when a trumpet player had flubbed, which normally would have made her hiss with irritation. The part of her that normally carried tension like a second spine had gone... quiet.

Her phone buzzed gently beside her. She flipped it over with a flick of her thumb.

K.D: On my way with lunch, see you in 20.

A smile broke across her lips before she could stop it—too quick, too open. She tried to tame it as she typed back a short perfect, but the slip hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Alex leaned in over the table with the exaggerated patience of someone dying to pounce. “You know, if you keep smiling like that, i might start becoming worried for your mental state.”

Lydia tucked the phone beneath her hand, smoothing her features. “Katrine’s bringing us lunch.”

“Bringing us lunch?” His brows rose. “As in taking time out of her very busy day? To personally deliver us two pheasants food. To this very room.”

Lydia made a show of ignoring him by pulling the new sheet toward her, instead of waiting for him to hand it to her like usual. 

Alex grinned, folding his hands under his chin like a student being very, very smug. “God, you’re glowing. I didn’t even know your face could do that.”

Lydia crumpled the sheet without ceremony, and lobbed at him. It bounced off his shoulder and fell to the floor without impact, but he laughed like she’d just gifted him a diamond.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, but she couldn’t quite suppress the curve of her mouth. She smoothed the edge of her collar, straightened the papers in front of her with unnecessary precision.

Lydia was barely hearing the final notes of the cello echoing off the curved wooden panels of the audition hall, the performance precise, competent—but Lydia’s mind had already drifted far from the scoring sheet in her lap.

The door at the back of the hall clicked open, and Lydia looked up—too quickly.

Katrine.

She stepped into the hall like a quiet current of fresh air, wrapped in a long, dark leather coat, a green knit dress beneath clung elegantly to her frame and knee high boots clicking softly as she walked. Her grey scarf had been loosened, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, and the red curve of her smile as she spotted them—spotted Lydia—undid something in her.

Katrine carried a crinkled brown paper bag in one hand, a thermos tucked in the crook of her arm. Effortless. Thoughtful. A little devastating.

Lydia’s pen hovered over the paper. Her eyes didn’t leave Katrine. Not even when the musician finished their phrase with a slight flourish.

Alex leaned toward her without looking up from his own notes. “Should I ask them to start over?” he said dryly, pen poised.

Lydia didn’t dignify that with more than a tight-lipped smile. She made one final mark on the scoring sheet, passed it to Alex with a quiet “Seven,” and then turned her gaze back to Katrine, who was already halfway down the aisle.

Alex accepted the page, flipped it into the folder, and followed her gaze. “Mmhmm,” he said, under his breath. “Lunch delivery in heels. That’s not nothing.”

Lydia tore her eyes away just long enough to crumple another page of blank scoring paper and toss it with perfect aim into Alex’s lap.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “I’ll shut up.”

Lydia sat with her arm lazily stretched along the back of Katrine's seat. Her fingers brushing some of her long hair that was hanging loosely over it, with casual ownership. She knew how it looked—perhaps even intended it to look that way. It wasn’t conscious, but it wasn’t unconscious either.

Her legs stretched out comfortably in front of her, ankles crossed. She was far more relaxed than the formality of the setting suggested, but she didn’t care. Not with Katrine here. Not with Katrine leaning slightly toward her every now and then, asking questions in hushed tones about an audition and musical technique, and nodding thoughtfully at Lydia’s equally quiet answers.

It was intoxicating, this small stage of control and admiration.

Alex glanced over from where he was sorting scores and portfolios, catching Lydia’s posture and the inner satisfaction, clearly mirrored on her face. He raised an eyebrow and gave a barely suppressed smirk. Lydia ignored it with the grace of someone who had decided long ago that teasing only worked if you let it. She handed him her final score sheet for the day with a glance so dry it could’ve evaporated water.

Katrine stood, stretching her arms behind her slightly, “Do you want to go for a walk before we head home?” she asked, absentmindedly while putting on her coat.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her slacks and buttoning her coat slowly “A walk sounds good,” she said simply, glancing briefly at Katrine, then away again. “I could use some fresh air.”

She offered her arm, rejoicing in the feeling of Katrine's gloved hand curl around it, and led her out of the concert hall.

Ignoring Alex’s indignant “I’ll just see myself out” 

They turned a corner onto Strøget, and the sound reached them first—a saxophone, smooth and playful, bending a jazzy tune loose, punctuated with little improvisational flairs that made Lydia’s ears twitch with amused approval. A street musician stood beneath a lamp, his coat dark, his posture easy, lost in his own rhythm.

Lydia slowed without thinking. The sound curled around her, threaded something through her chest that felt like memory and motion and maybe joy—real joy, rare and unfamiliar in its weightlessness.

She glanced at Katrine. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her hair slightly wind-tossed, and her smile—small, soft, almost private—lit gently at the corners of her mouth as she listened to the music.

And Lydia—before her mind could catch up to her body—turned toward her and, with a quick movement, slipped one arm firmly around Katrine’s waist and grabbed her hand with the other.

Katrine blinked, caught off-guard. “Lydia—what are you—?”

“Dancing,” Lydia said simply, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a rare, cheeky grin. “Come on, follow my lead.”

Katrine let herself be drawn into it, “this is ridiculous” she laughed, glancing around.

“It is if you decide it is,” Lydia countered. Katrine let out an actual giggle—unrestrained. “You’re mad.”

“Yes” Lydia stated, lifting her chin as if daring anyone nearby to challenge the scene. 

They spun in a slow, wobbly half-circle. Katrine stumbled on a crack in the pavement and Lydia caught her with a steady hand on the small of her back. It wasn’t graceful, and Lydia didn’t care. Her laugh came out a bit too loud, too sharp, but it was genuine—real.

The musician gave them a wink mid-phrase, not missing a beat.

Katrine’s face was pink from the cold and from laughing. She leaned in as they moved, dropping her voice low. “You do know people are watching.”

“They should be so lucky,” Lydia replied, raising an eyebrow dramatically as she twirled Katrine—badly.

It was absurd, really. Two grown women spinning awkwardly in the middle of a cobblestoned street while a stranger played jazz for loose change. But for a few bright moments, Lydia didn’t care about how she looked or who was watching.

When the song finally faded out, Lydia gave a little bow, not letting go of Katrine’s hand.

“Thank you for indulging me,” she said, her voice quieter now, touched with something more honest.

Katrine gave a mock curtsy in return, still grinning. “That was... remarkably silly.”

Lydia’s smile deepened.

Their walk resumed, the mood light and without urgency, the sky slowly deepening to velvet above the crooked rooftops, city lights beginning to shimmer in puddles on the stone-paved street.

They passed a narrow façade where warm amber light spilled out from behind tall, paned windows. A French bistro—small tables dressed in white linen, the hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery barely audible over the music playing softly inside. Lydia paused, gaze catching on the reflection of candlelight dancing on wine glasses. She didn’t realize she’d stopped until she felt Katrine looking at her, curious.

“This place looks promising,” Lydia said, casual, as though she hadn’t already decided. “Shall we?”

Katrine nodded with a soft smile, and Lydia stepped ahead to open the door, the little brass bell chiming softly as they entered.

The warmth inside the bistro enveloped her the moment they stepped through the door—candlelight dancing on brass sconces, the low hum of relaxed music twining through murmured conversation. A mirror behind the bar caught them as they entered—Katrine’s dark green dress, the fall of her hair playing around her slender waist, and Lydia just behind her, straight-backed and self-possessed. She took quiet pleasure in how they looked together. Striking, she thought, almost indulgently. Balanced.

She helped Katrine off with her coat, careful and practiced, her fingers brushing the soft leather as if it were second nature. Lydia’s own coat followed, both hung in the small cloak alcove with something almost ceremonial in the gesture. 

Lydia took in the space quickly—small, intimate, mostly couples, not a tourist trap. Good. Exactly right. “A table for two,” she told the host without hesitation, her voice low, clear. She didn’t need to glance at Katrine to know she was watching her.

The server—young, attentive—led them through the narrow corridor between tables. Lydia rested her hand lightly at the small of Katrine’s back as they walked. It wasn’t just polite—it was intention, old-world and deliberate, the way her mentors in Berlin or Vienna might have guided a soprano into a gala. She could feel Katrine’s warmth beneath the fabric of her dress.

When they reached the table, Lydia pulled out Katrine’s chair first before sitting across from her. The candle between them flickered gently, throwing soft shadows on Katrine’s face, catching the faint glimmer of gold at her earlobes.

Lydia allowed herself a brief, swelling moment of satisfaction. Let them look, she thought, glancing around the room. Older couples, businessmen, well-dressed women. She saw the glances, the subtle appraisals. Let them wonder who she is to me. A thrill of clearly being admired and envied, of being seen with someone like Katrine. A young and beautiful woman, laughing easily across a table.

The server returned with menus, but Lydia barely glanced at hers. She already had a sense of the place. The offerings were classic, unfussy—exactly what she wanted.

She leaned in slightly as the server reached for his notepad, “She’ll have the warm goat cheese salad to start,” her tone unhurried but resolute. “Then the roasted root vegetable cassoulet.”

The server started to write the order down. “And for you, madame?”

“The wild mushroom ragout. And a bottle of the Chinon.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval before vanishing with the menus. Katrine tilted her head, smiling in amusement. Not mocking—pleased.

When the wine arrived, the server approached her side of the table with the practiced elegance of someone who understood roles. He uncorked the bottle with quiet deference, and when it came time to pour the taste, it was Lydia he turned to—Lydia he addressed with a subtle, “Shall we?”

The acknowledgment hit her in a place she didn’t like to admit needed affirming. She took the glass, swirled it lightly, and inhaled.

It was a good bottle—light, earthy, a whisper of cherries. She nodded once, and the server poured for Katrine next, then her.

The light between them catching in the wine. The moment stretched—quiet, private. Perfect.

Chapter Text

The last two days had been a kind of tunnel—clean-lined, controlled, every moment accounted for with a satisfying kind of rigor. Thursday had started with coffee strong enough to wake a corpse and the final round of assistant conductor interviews, one after another in tight, efficient slots that left little room for flair or indulgence. Just the facts. Just the skill.

Alex, ever lounging somewhere between charming and insolent, sat perched beside her at the table in Lydias new office on the second floor of the symphony building, flipping through candidate portfolios like they were menus at a too-casual café. “You’re going to miss me,” he said without looking up, tone light and obnoxiously smug.

Lydia didn’t glance at him. “I’ll try to manage without your running commentary."

Alex snorted, pleased with himself. “Let's go out for a nice lunch next week to celebrate it, before I get back to being only Katrines personal nightmare during working hours, and just yours in your sparetime.”

Lydia’s eyes lifted just briefly. “Only if you don’t talk through it.”

“Fine,” he said, grinning, “I’ll mime.”

They went back to work—quiet now. Just the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional rustle of paper. Lydia marked a few more scores, made a note about tonal range and ensemble dynamics, and caught herself enjoying it. The decisions had a weight, but not the kind that unmoored her. They had shape. Boundaries.

Her eyes lingered on the list of names for a moment too long—especially the young women. The sopranos. The second violins. She could already feel the tightening in her spine. The watchfulness she’d have to wear like a second skin.

But for now, the decisions were hers. And they were clean.

They were close. Everything was aligning: musicians, chairs, tempo, chemistry. What had started as an unruly collection of names and auditions now hummed into place, like a machine just beginning to find its rhythm.

The assistant conductor they eventually settled on—a young Norwegian man named Mathias—hadn’t smiled once during the entire interview, which Lydia found oddly reassuring. He was sharp, efficient, and didn’t try to impress her with overblown metaphors about music and soul. He answered her tempo questions with metronomic certainty and referenced obscure 20th-century recordings without flinching.

Alex had whispered afterward, “That one looks like he eats metronomes for breakfast.”

“Good,” Lydia muttered, already marking him as her top choice.

Friday had passed in a blur of callbacks. A long procession of musicians they had already listened to once, now returning for a final look—some shakier under pressure, some inexplicably more certain. The cello section in particular had caused her some trouble—two near-equals with different artistic temperaments, and the rhythm section still had a gap she couldn’t quite resolve. But most of it… most of it had settled. Her notes spoke for themselves. Firm. Undecorated.

She and Alex had gone over everything again that evening—sat in the rehearsal lounge with the sound of muted piano practice bleeding through the wall and a dozen pages of lists in front of them. Names circled. Crossed out. Underlined. Annotations scribbled in margins.

“No sentimental picks,” Lydia had warned him, scanning her list again. “We’re not here to reward effort. Only precision.”

He mock saluted her. “Maestro Tár, cold as ice.”

Lydia didn’t deny it. But her eyes stayed locked on the page.

It had been work—pure, clean, forward-moving. And she'd needed that.

Handing Alex the final decisions. “Send them out,” she said, voice firm. “Final hires.”

He nodded, already pulling out his phone. “Yes, Sir.”

Lydia allowed herself the faintest smile as she gathered the sheets, ready to get home.

Alex leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, and offered her a smug look. “Well, looks like we lived to tell the tale of this week.”

Lydia didn’t look up from packing the last sheets in her bag. “Barely.”

He chuckled and pushed a page across to her. “You’ll have the weekend to recover from your own tyranny.”

She allowed a thin amused smile. “I don't recover. I simply recalibrate.”

He made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “You know, I actually believe you on that.”

The soft click of the door closing behind her was the only sound that greeted Lydia when she entered the penthouse. No music, no movement—just the dim light of a late afternoon, almost early evening, falling over the parquet floor like something deliberate.

Her shoulders ached. Her bag felt heavier than it was. She dropped it onto the kitchen table with a thud she didn’t intend to be that loud. Her hand lingered on the strap for a beat, grounding herself. The week had run her down, and though she would never admit it to anyone but herself—there was something about coming back to this apartment, to Katrine, that uncoiled the tension in her spine in a way nothing else could.

Katrine’s voice floated lazily from the couch. “I think today aged me five years,” she said, her tone dry but softened at the edges with fatigue. ““Yours any better?”

Lydia didn’t answer immediately. She stepped into the living room area, drawn toward the sound of her voice. Katrine was on the couch, a book open in one hand and the other lazily extending a wine glass in Lydia’s direction—offered like an afterthought. She didn’t even glance up, still reading. Her thumb pressed gently along the page’s edge, holding her place.

Lydia crossed the floor and took the glass from her hand silently. Their fingers grazed—absentmindedly on Katrine’s part, not so on Lydia’s. 

She sank into the couch beside her, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel her—her presence, the ease of it. Lydia took a sip, her lips just grazing the rim, and then let the glass rest in her palm.

“It sounds like we’re evenly miserable,” Lydia murmured, her voice quieter than usual.

Her eyes slowly trailed along the long lines of Katrine's legs and slowly up her lounging body. Concentrated on her book she turned a page and Lydia followed the motion of her fingers, "What are you reading?"

Katrine casually drew her feet up and placed them in Lydia’s lap without ceremony, like they had always belonged there, before answering. "Lolita, one of my old favorites I thought would be good to unwind with.” Lydia's body registered the warmth before her mind could shape a thought. A low pull of desire in her stomach, sharp and sudden.

Her fingers rested on the rim of the wine glass, focusing on the feeling of it to ground her. “You chose Nabokov to unwind?” She asked, trying to sound as if she was humored by it.

“It’s beautiful,” Katrine said simply. “Even when it’s wrong, but that's a part of it's beauty”

Lydia turned her face away to hide her expression, pretending to look out the windows. She knew better than to answer that.

She felt the gentle weight in her lap shift—Katrine’s heels pressing into her thighs as she leaned forward, brushing fingertips to the wine glass Lydia still held. She took it back with casual ease, brought it to her lips, and drank. The faintest shimmer of red remained at the edge of her mouth. Lydia couldn’t stop looking.

“I’m pleading exhaustion today, mind if we just order in?" Katrine said lightly, as if she hadn't just uttered a sentence laced in disarmament. Lydia nodded, mouth dry. “Of course,” she said, her voice coming out far too even. The part of her that prized control registered that. Clung to it.

But the rest of her—the raw, coiled part that had been slowly unraveling—was suddenly, vividly aware of her own body. The way desire curled hungry, in a steady, excruciating pull.

Lolita, of all things.

Lydia placed her hand gently against Katrine’s ankle, for a moment longer than necessary, and then stood—dislodging herself before she said or did anything she would later categorize, with bitterness, as a mistake.

“I’ll let you pick,” she said over her shoulder, walking slowly towards her suite door. “Whatever you want. I'll just… go rinse off the day.”

Katrine, already scanning her phone, gave a content hum in in acknowledgement.

Inside her bathroom, she stood for a moment by the sink, hands braced on the edge, staring at her reflection. She could still feel the residual heat where Katrine’s feet had pressed against her legs.

She quickly stripped naked, turned on the water and stepped into the shower, not bothering to wait for it to warm. The cold hit her like discipline. Like absolution. Like a reminder that she was still—barely—choosing to stay in control.

The cold water sluiced over Lydia’s shoulders, sharp and biting, but it did nothing to douse the heat pooling low in her belly.

She tilted her head back, letting the spray hit her face, her neck, her chest—hoping it might shock her system into submission. It didn’t. If anything, the sting of it only sharpened the edge of her need, made her skin feel too tight, too alive.

She braced one hand against the tile, the other hovering at her side, fingers twitching with indecision.

Katrine’s voice, that lazy drawl, echoed in her head. Lolita, one of my old favorites. The way her lips had curled around the words, so casual, so unaware of the fire they’d stoked. Lydia’s mind snagged on the image of her—sprawled on the couch, legs draped over her lap, the faint sheen of wine on her lips. The way her fingers had brushed the glass, deliberate in their carelessness. Lydia’s breath hitched, and she pressed her thighs together, feeling the pulse of want throb harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” she muttered under her breath, the word swallowed by the hiss of the shower.

The water was warming now, steam curling around her, and she let her hand slip lower, trailing over her stomach, hesitating at the edge of where she wanted to go. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. But the ache was relentless, a greedy thing that clawed at her insides, demanding release.

Her fingers slid between her thighs, tentative at first, testing. The first brush against her clit sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric, and she bit her lip to keep from gasping. The water pounded against her back, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse she felt under her fingertips.

She circled slowly, teasing herself, drawing out the sensation until her knees felt weak. Katrine’s face flashed in her mind—those long legs, the curve of her slim neck as she tilted her head back to drink, begging to be kissed.

Lydia’s movements grew faster, more desperate. She pressed harder, her fingers slipping through the slick heat, chasing the edge of relief. Her other hand gripped the tile tighter, nails scraping against the grout as she imagined Katrine’s mouth parting under her own. Imagined pinning her to the couch, spreading her open, tasting her until she was the one unraveling. The thought alone was enough to make Lydia’s breath come in short, ragged bursts.

She was close. Her hips rocked against her hand, the water masking the soft, needy sounds she couldn’t hold back. “Katrine,” she whispered, the name slipping out before she could stop it, raw and filthy in the quiet of the shower. It felt like a confession, like a sin, and it pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm hit hard, a white-hot wave that left her trembling, her fingers still moving, riding out every last shudder until she was spent.

She leaned her forehead against the tile, panting, the water now too hot against her flushed skin. The guilt came quick, slinking in like an uninvited guest, but she shoved it down. This was hers. This moment, this release—it was hers, and she’d take it without apology. For now.

Lydia turned off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the bathroom door, the cool air of the bedroom hitting her like a slap.

She’d go back out there, sit across from her, eat dinner, and pretend her body wasn’t still humming with the aftershocks of what she’d just done to thoughts of her. It was going to be a very long weekend.

Chapter Text

The first sound to breach Lydia’s consciousness monday morning was a flurry of soft but distinctly irritated Danish—low, muttered, clipped at the edges. Not angry, exactly. Just… deeply annoyed.

She blinked, disoriented in the dark, instinctively reaching for the phone on her nightstand. 4:43.

SShe lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting to see if the murmuring might retreat back into silence. Perhaps Katrine would wrestle whatever early-morning demon had found her into submission and return to sleep, and Lydia could—

Another thud. This time closer, joined by the sound of purposeful footsteps—boots, maybe—clicking against the wood flooring.

Lydia sat up in bed, exhaled slowly, and resigned herself to consciousness. She doubted she could fall back asleep now. 

She pulled on her robe, tied it tight, and stepped out of her suite door, just in time for a blur of motion to pass her. Katrine—already in her inspection clothes: dark trousers, boots, a half-zipped navy windbreaker— “Moooooorning” She called out, halfway down the staircase to her office, the words clipped with breath and haste. More Danish followed, drifting up from her office in broken fragments—low, annoyed, directed at an invisible adversary.

She walked slowly to the kitchen, still half-draped in sleep, and found Katrine’s hard hat lying beside a steaming French press. Katrine’s travel mug sat waiting, lid off, half-filled.

Lydia poured herself a cup instead and sank onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Downstairs, a drawer opened, then slammed shut. Another mutter.

It struck her that this was the closest thing to domestic chaos she’d ever willingly shared space with. In Berlin, reigning in every aspect of her environment and the people in it. But this—this messy, early-morning rhythm—was not something she would’ve permitted then. And yet now, she found herself quietly watching it unfold in amused.

She took another sip of coffee, listening to Katrine wrestle with blueprints or contracts or permits, the house alive before the sun was.

Katrine came up the stairs at speed, her boots firm on the hardwood, a stack of papers in one hand, flipping through them with single-minded purpose. Her brow was creased in that exact way Lydia had come to recognize: not distress—but a deep, consuming focus. It had its own kind of elegance.

As she moved past the kitchen, she paused just long enough to glance sideways.

“Sorry if i woke you up, I really didn’t mean to,” she said, slightly breathless, thumb rifling past some misaligned corner in the sheaf of papers.

“You didn’t,” Lydia said calmly, lying with practiced ease. Her voice smooth, measured. “I was already awake.”

Katrine gave her a tight smile, distracted but still genuine, before disappearing into her suite, the door left ajar. Lydia caught a glimpse of her shoulder as she moved, the windbreaker tightening with the motion of flipping another document. Then more Danish, quiet now—frustrated muttering under her breath as she moved around her room.

Katrine reemerged, slinging her work bag over her shoulder with a soft huff, the stack of papers tucked under one arm.

“I have to be on-site in Svendborg by seven,” she said, rolling her eyes half at herself, half at the day ahead. “And I completely forgot Alex isn’t here to prep my packet. Everything’s out of order, and now i can't find my helmet” 

Lydia let her gaze drift to the breakfast bar beside her, where the construction helmet sat exactly where Katrine had forgotten leaving it, caught up in her morning chaos.

Lydia raised the helmet, a dry smile playing at her mouth. “This one?”

Katrine stopped mid-stride, almost at the staircase, her eyes locking onto the helmet, relief showing on her face. “You’re my hero,” she blurted, crossing the space between them without hesitation and taking the helmet out of her hand.

Before Lydia could brace herself—before her expression could fully register anything—Katrine leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. A quick press of her lips, warm and uncalculated, with gratitude.

Lydia didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Katrine was already in motion again—grabbing her half-filled travel mug, helmet under one arm now, feet light with renewed direction. “Have a good day!”

She was out the door a second later, her voice echoing back through the penthouse just as the latch clicked shut.

And Lydia just sat there, the ceramic of her coffee cup cooling rapidly.

The ghost of Katrines kiss burning on her cheek.

She exhaled, a slow controlled breath through her nose. Her posture hadn’t changed, her hand still held out in the air, as if still holding the helmet, frozen.

Lydia Tár did not get flustered. She did not indulge in the sentimental or the cinematic. But she also knew herself well enough to acknowledge the physiological truth of what had just happened.

Her fingers drifted—just once—to the place on her cheek where Katrine’s lips had touched.

The imprint of Katrine’s kiss had not faded. Not even as the sky shifted from that bleached Nordic morning haze into the dim, neutral tones of late afternoon. It stayed with Lydia like the aftertaste of something impossibly rare—bracing and intimate

She had gotten through the last of the details and contract sorting with Alex.

Papers spread across her desk, half-drunk coffees and scribbled lists of names peppering the surface. Alex had his sleeves rolled up and was already halfway into his fourth round of espresso.

“You’ll need to brief Katrine,” he said, not looking up from his notes. “You’ll need to walk her through the shortlist and rationale. She’ll want to sign off before the contracts go out.”

Lydia nodded once. “I'll handle it.”

"Mhm. I bet you'll do" Alex answered with dry sarcasm.

She leaned back a little, ignoring Alex's jib, fingers drumming once on the arm of her chair in contemplation. “Is there anything I should be aware off in regards to Danish work culture traditions? In Berlin, it was a tradition that the conductor took new musicians out for a welcome lunch. Will I need to do something similar?” she asked. 

Alex barked a small laugh. “No ritual goat sacrifice like that needed here, honestly, a Friday bar will do. That’s what we usually do as you've seen. Just beer, some wine, snacks. Say a few words, let people talk and mingle. We’re simple creatures in Denmark, keep it down to earth and informal.”

She leaned back again, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “So all I need to do is let people get drunk”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

“How uncivilized.”

The pencil tapped once against the edge of the score before she pressed it down again and drew a line across the bar. A hesitation corrected, then softened. She let the chord hang a moment beneath her fingers on the Steinway, catching the way it spilled slightly into the next one, as if answering a question she hadn’t meant to ask.

Behind her, in the kitchen, a gentle hiss of simmering garlic could be heard. The low clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Water draining into the sink. Domestic sounds, ordinary and rhythmically imperfect, that folded into her composing like texture in fabric.

Lydia paused, pencil mid-air, listening. The faint scent of truffle oil was beginning to curl through the room. Katrine always used just enough—not more. Never the overcompensation of someone trying to impress. There was restraint in her cooking. Confidence. A knowing of exactly when something was enough.

The same couldn’t be said of Sharon.

Not that Sharon had lacked confidence. But domesticity with Sharon had always felt like something Lydia had to inhabit rather than something she naturally belonged to. The house in Berlin—tastefully curated, full of curated silences—had always belonged more to Sharon than to her. Even their daughter’s laughter had felt like it rang off of Sharon’s walls, not theirs.

And so, she’d escaped whenever she could. To her old flat. Traveling at every opportunity. Between the legs of young women.

She blinked and adjusted her hand on the keys. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried. But there’d been something about that life she could never quite wear fully. Like a jacket tailored just slightly too tight in the shoulders—enough to keep her slightly uncomfortable at every move.

This—whatever this was now—felt entirely different. Not suffocating.

A soft touch landed on her shoulder.

She hadn’t heard Katrine walk over.

“Dinner’s ready,” Katrine said, her voice calm, as if it was a routine they’d been having for years—her cooking, Lydia composing, the evening unfolding without a script.

Lydia turned slightly, instinctively looking up. Katrine’s hand stayed a beat longer than it needed to, and then slid away.

She marked her place on the score with a torn scrap of staff paper, closed the lid over the keys, and followed the scent of garlic and truffle.

The chair gave a soft sigh beneath her as she lowered herself into it, the wood smooth under her hand. She folded one leg over the other, straightened her back, and let the familiar click of the stemware on the table pull her more fully into the moment.

Katrine approached with quiet assurance, a plate in each hand. The scent arrived first—earthy, delicate, precise—then the vision of it: truffle spaghetti, the pasta plated in elegant coils, touched with golden oil and fine truffle shavings that had been measured rather than scattered. 

Katrine placed the plate before her with ease, then without asking, she reached for the wine bottle. Lydia watched the arc of her arm as she leaned in slightly, hand steady on the neck of the bottle as she poured, the white catching the light like liquid silk.

Lydia’s hand rose, seemingly of its own volition, and rested lightly on Katrine’s waist. A soft press of thanks. Subtle. Not enough to break the moment—but enough to feel the heat of her through the fabrick of the shirt she was wearing.

“Thank you,” Lydia said, her voice lower than intended, her eyes still on the wine filling the glass.

Katrine only gave a small smile, eyes still on the wine, then straightened and walked around the table with her own plate, slipping into her seat with the same quiet grace.

She watched as Katrine poured her own glass, the delicate clink of the bottle’s mouth against the rim giving Lydia a beat to study her across the table.

“I meant to tell you earlier,” Lydia said, swirling the wine in her glass with absent precision, “Alex and I have finalized the candidate lists. Everyone’s been placed—ready for contracts just pending your signature.”

Katrine looked up, chewing softly, then nodded once and swallowed. “Of Course. How about tomorrow afternoon? You can just swing by my office” she said, her tone casual. “I finish for the day around sixteen-thirty, does that fit with you?”

Lydia gave a small nod. “Sound's good to me.”

She took another sip of wine and let the silence settle comfortably between them again—just the clink of cutlery.

Chapter Text

The soft hush of the electrical toothbrush over her teeth, she spat, rinsed, and placed the brush back in its porcelain tumbler, aligning it just so with the edge of the sink. The reflection in the mirror offered her nothing tonight: just the coolness of her own face, composed to the point of vanishing.

She stepped out of the bathroom, the faint rustle of her pajamas the only sound in the suite. The floor was cool beneath her feet. She unstrapped her watch—vintage leather, the one she always wore—and placed it face-down on the small table beside her bed. A small private ritual. Like tuning an instrument no one else could hear.

The bed waited, sheets turned down. She hovered beside it for a moment, hand on the duvet, body bent slightly as though about to climb in—but paused.

She had forgotten her glass of water.

So she turned around from the bed and stepped out into the penthouse, cloaked now in silence and shadows. Only the faint, diffused city light pressed gently against the large windows, silvering the outlines of furniture and doorframes. 

She turned toward the kitchen only to stop in her tracks.

A glow, barely there, slipped across the floorboards to her left—Katrine’s suite. The door was ajar, spilling out the warm light. It caught her eye like a held breath.

Lydia stood motionless for a small second. Then, her feet shifted of their own accord, not loud enough to make a sound, just enough to steer her slightly off the course to the kitchen.

She moved quietly toward the open door, the soft creak of the wood under her step absorbed into the hush of the night. Her fingers barely touched the frame as she came closer, and the light inside pulled her like gravity.

The door remained half-open. Lydia didn't push it further. She didn’t need to.

She pressed herself into the shadowed edge of the doorframe, her breath shallow, barely daring to stir the air. The warm glow from Katrine’s suite spilled out, painting the floor in soft amber, and Lydia’s eyes adjusted, sharpening on the scene within. Her heart thudded, a traitor in her chest, as she peered through the narrow gap.

Katrine lay sprawled across her bed, the sheets a tangled mess with her on top of them. Her silky negligé pulled up around her waist. Her skin glistened faintly, catching the lamplight, head tilted back against the pillows, lips parted. One hand gripped the headboard, fingers curling tight, while the other guided the sleek, black rabbit vibrator between her thighs.

The low hum of the toy cut through the silence, a filthy, electric pulse that made Lydia’s pulse spike in response. Katrine’s hips rocked, slow and deliberate, her cunt slick and glistening as the toy slid in and out, the rabbit’s smaller arm teasing her clit with relentless precision. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, her chest heaving, nipples hard and straining against the thin silk of the negligé.

Lydia’s own breath caught, a tight knot in her throat. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Katrine’s thighs trembled, spreading wider, her body arching as she chased the edge. The wet, obscene sounds of the vibrator working her pussy filled the room, mingling with the soft, desperate whimpers spilling from Katrine’s lips.

Lydia’s fingers dug into the doorframe, her nails biting into the wood. Heat pooled low in her belly, her own cunt throbbing, slickness gathering between her legs, soaking through the thin fabric of her pajamas.

She pressed her thighs together, trying to quell the ache, but it only sharpened, a hungry pulse that matched Katrine’s rhythm.

Katrine’s movements grew frantic, her hand twisting the toy, fucking herself deeper, her moans rising, sharp and needy.

Her body tensed, every muscle taut, and then—her head snapped back, mouth open in a near-silent, breathless moan, a sound so raw it sent a shiver down Lydia’s spine. Katrine’s orgasm hit hard, her hips bucking, the vibrator buried deep as her pussy clenched around it, her whole body shuddering through the waves of pleasure.

Lydia’s chest burned, her breath trapped, her own arousal a slick, pulsing weight between her thighs. She wanted to stay, to watch Katrine come undone again, to let her own fingers slip down and ease the ache while watching—but panic flickered at the edges of her mind.

She couldn’t be caught. Not like this.

Silently, she pulled back, her bare feet ghosting across the floorboards, retreating into the cool darkness of the penthouse. Her heart pounded as she slipped back to her own suite, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound that felt too loud in the stillness.

She leaned against it, her breath coming fast. The image of Katrine—her body arched, thighs slick, the black rabbit vibrator buried deep in her glistening cunt—clung to Lydia’s mind, vivid and unrelenting. Her own pussy throbbed, wet and aching, the damp cotton of her pajamas clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

She stumbled toward the bed, her legs unsteady, as if possessed by some reckless, primal need. Her fingers, trembling with urgency, hooked into the waistband of her pajama pants and knickers, yanking them down in one frantic motion. The fabric pooled at her ankles, and she kicked it away, the cool air hitting her bare skin, raising goosebumps that did nothing to dull the fire between her thighs.

She collapsed onto the bed, her body already moving before her mind could catch up.

Lydia’s hand slid down, fingers slipping through the slickness of her own arousal, her cunt so wet it was almost obscene. She gasped, the sound swallowed by the quiet of her suite, as her fingertips grazed her swollen clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her core. Her other hand fisted the sheets, knuckles white, as she spread her legs wide, mirroring Katrine’s abandon.

The memory of Katrine’s breathless moan, the way her hips bucked against the vibrator, drove Lydia’s movements, her fingers circling her clit with desperate, sloppy precision.

“Fuck,” she whispered, the word slipping out, raw and unbidden. Her hips rocked upward, chasing the pressure, her fingers sliding lower to dip into her dripping pussy, then back to her clit, smearing wetness in frantic, needy strokes. Her breath hitched, ragged and loud in the stillness, her body trembling as she pushed herself closer to the edge. The ache was unbearable, a tight coil of heat that demanded release, and she was too far gone to care about anything but the need consuming her.

Her fingers moved faster, rubbing her clit in tight, relentless circles, her hips grinding against her own hand. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the room, filthy and intoxicating, echoing the memory of Katrine’s pleasure.

Lydia’s mind replayed it over and over—Katrine’s parted lips, her shuddering orgasm, the slick hum of the toy—and it pushed her higher, her body tensing, thighs quaking. “Oh, God,” she gasped, her voice breaking as the pressure snapped, her orgasm crashing through her like a wave. Her cunt clenched, pulsing around nothing, her fingers still working her clit as she rode out the spasms, her body arching off the bed, a low, desperate moan spilling from her lips.

She collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, her hand still resting between her thighs, slick and trembling. The room spun faintly, the aftershocks of her climax rippling through her, leaving her breathless and spent. 

Lydia woke to the faint glow of dawn seeping through the heavy curtains, her body heavy, limbs tangled in the sheets as if they’d fought a battle in her sleep.

Her hand reached instinctively for the glass of water on the bedside table, fingers brushing the empty surface, finding only the cool wood and the face-down watch she’d left there the night before. A flicker of irritation sparked in her chest, followed by the sharp sting of memory—last night, Katrine’s door ajar, the amber glow, the hum of the vibrator, the sight of her body arched in abandon.

Lydia groaned, low and guttural, rubbing her face with both hands, trying to scrub away the images that clung like damp heat to her skin.

She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist, and reached for her watch. The vintage leather strap felt familiar, grounding, as she fastened it to her wrist with deliberate care, each movement a small act of control. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool against her bare feet, and stood, her body stiff but resolute.

Dressing was methodical—tailored trousers, chrisp white shirt and a gray wool sweater. The mirror offered her nothing but the sharp lines of her face, composed to a fault, betraying none of the chaos beneath.

The penthouse was silent as she stepped into the kitchen, the city’s muted pulse pressing against the windows. She moved with purpose, grinding beans, filling the machine, setting it to brew a coffee strong enough to cut through the fog in her mind. The hiss of the machine was a small comfort, the scent of dark roast curling through the air. She needed this today.

Katrine’s humming broke the stillness, bright and untroubled. Lydia’s shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening around the countertop’s edge as Katrine appeared, her presence a burst of warmth in the sterile kitchen, her hair catching the morning light as she opened the fridge.

“Godmorgen” she said, her voice light, oblivious to Lydia's inner turmoil.

She pulled out eggs and half an avocado, her movements easy, unguarded. “Sleep well?” she asked. The question hit like a misplaced cue in an orchestral rehearsal—one moment of inattention and everything collapsed.

Lydia inhaled at the wrong time. The coffee caught in her throat, scalding and sudden. She coughed violently, hand to her chest, shoulders spasming as the liquid fought for the wrong passage.

Katrine’s smile vanished, replaced by a flash of concern as she hurried over, her hand landing softly on Lydia’s back, rubbing gentle circles. “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” she asked, her voice worried.

Lydia gasped, waving a hand, her throat raw. “I’m fine,” she managed, the words rough, her eyes fixed on the countertop, unable to meet Katrine’s gaze. The warmth of Katrine’s hand burned through her shirt, a spark that twisted her stomach, igniting a mix of shame and pleasure.

Her pulse thrummed, betraying her, and she stepped back, breaking the contact, her breath shallow. Katrine’s hand hovered for a moment before falling away, her brow furrowed. “You sure?” she asked, her voice searching, softer now.

Lydia nodded, too quickly, her fingers curling around the mug like a lifeline. “Yes. Just—went down wrong.” She forced a tight smile, her eyes still averted, focusing on the dark swirl of coffee.

The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick. The memory of what she witnessed last night pulsed at the edges of her mind, and her body betrayed her again, a faint heat stirring low in her belly.

She cleared her throat, straightening, her voice clipped as she regained her composure.

“I’m fine,” she said again, sharper, as if repetition could make it true. Katrine hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to the fridge, her humming resuming while she prepared breakfast.

The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of Katrine’s office, softening the sharp edges of its modern minimalism.

Lydia sat in the chair across from Katrine’s desk, spine erect despite the exhaustion weighing on her bones. A meticulously organized folder open before her—pages flagged, scores annotated, bios and references lined in tight script. The final orchestra selections. Every choice measured.

The clock on the desk clicked to 16:32. She’d arrived early, too restless to linger in her own mind, and now sat composed, as if stillness alone could tether her focus.

The day had been productive by any practical measure. The rehearsal scheduling puzzle—usually a welcome challenge—solved by noon. But Lydia couldn’t recall how any of it had happened. Her mind had been adrift in loops on last night.

The office door opened and closed. Lydia turned slightly, watching as Katrine crossed the room. Lydia’s stomach gave a small, traitorous pull. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Katrine said, setting her own folder on the desk.

“You’re not late.” Lydia’s voice was smoother than she felt. She held up the folder lightly. “I’ve brought what we need.”

“Good.” Katrine dropped into her chair, “Let’s get it over with.”

Lydia opened the folder, and they began. Names, positions, callback notes.

But as they moved down the list—first violins, percussion, a new second cellist—Lydia felt the weight of her own breath thickening in her chest. The anxiety had been dormant until now, buried under work and structure and forward motion. But now, sitting across from Katrine, having to speak each decision out loud, justify it—especially the names of the younger women on the list—The anxiety stirred beneath her ribs.

Katrine was poised, reading intently, pen tapping gently against her lip in thought. Lydia watched her eyes move across the page and felt the dread pool in her throat every time a female name surfaced—young, ambitious, brilliant. And chosen by her.

She cleared her throat. “The new first oboist, Thérèse Lavigne—she’s coming out of Paris. Recently graduated but already sat in with the Orchestra of the Finnish National Opera last winter. She’s sharp. Nervous temperament, but she’ll settle once she has structure.”

Katrine only nodded, still reading. She didn’t look up. Didn’t question it.

And Lydia felt her jaw tighten slightly, resisting the urge to defend herself—to explain why it wasn’t what it might look like. Why it wasn’t that again.

She turned the page. “Viola section—Miriam Rohde. You heard her the day you sat in on the auditions”

Katrine smiled faintly, still marking her notes. “Of course.”

Lydia exhaled, slow and controlled. But her fingers betrayed her, drumming softly against her knee. Would she one day turn and look at these choices through a different lens, through the prism of old headlines?

There had been no accusations here. No inappropriate glances. Lydia had kept herself taut and distanced, professional to a fault. Still, the guilt wasn’t about action anymore. It was memory. History. Shadows that no longer moved but still followed.

She couldn’t help but look at Katrine then—really look.

Katrine glanced up, sensing the shift in air. “Lydia?” she asked, voice soft but alert.

Lydia blinked once. “Do you trust my judgement?”

The words were quiet. Too quiet. Almost careless in tone, but her spine was rigid with waiting.

Katrine tilted her head slightly, pen still in hand. “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I do. You have not given me a reason not to”

Simple. Undramatic. No interrogation. Just trust. Lydia made a faint sound, almost dismissive, but the calm it brought stayed with her. She didn’t know if she deserved it.

“Tomorrow, I’ll circulate the offer letters,” she said.

“Good,” Katrine replied, stacking the paperwork with finality. “I’ll just get them the signed off now and bring them to you when i'm done. I will also need to write the PR team so we can get the announcement out” her tone light and efficient. 

Chapter Text

Katrines POV

The warm amber glow of the bedside lamp spilled across the room, casting it in a soft and warm light. Katrine sank onto the mattress, the plush sheets yielding beneath her, cradling her. She let her body relax, legs stretching out and sprawled back against the pillows.

It had been a long day, and she really could use some de-stressing, the type of de-stressing just reading a book in bed couldn't provide. So instead of reaching for the book that was waiting for her on the nightstand, she reached for the sleek, black rabbit vibrator in the drawer.

Its familiar weight in her hand felt like a promise of relief. Lying back, she propped herself against the pillows, head tilting as her fingers grazed the hem of her negligé, pulling it higher until it bunched at her waist. Her skin caught the lamplight, glistening faintly, her nipples already hardening against the thin silk.

One hand gripped the headboard, fingers curling tight, anchoring her as she switched on the toy.

The low, filthy hum sliced through the quiet, sending a shiver through her core. She guided it between her thighs, the first touch against her cunt—already slick, already wanting—drew a sharp gasp, her hips rocking instinctively to meet it. The rabbit’s smaller arm teased her clit, relentless and precise, as she eased the toy deeper, her pussy yielding with a wet, obscene sound that made her pulse spike.

A faint creak snagged her attention, so soft it could’ve been nothing. But then—a shift, a shadow in the doorway, barely perceptible.

Katrine’s eyes flicked toward the half-open door, her heart thudding, not with alarm but with a sudden, wicked thrill. Lydia. The silhouette was unmistakable, pressed against the doorframe, silent and watching.

The realization sent a jolt through Katrine, her cunt clenching around the vibrator, the sensation sharp and overwhelming, her arousal surging at the thought of those crystal blue eyes fixed on her.

She didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Instead, she leaned into it, her hips rocking slow and deliberate, matching the vibrator’s rhythm. “Fuck” she groaned. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the room, mingling with her ragged breaths, each one louder, bolder, as if daring Lydia to keep watching. 

Let her see, Katrine thought, the idea of Lydia’s gaze searing into her, spurring her on.

She fucked herself deeper, the toy’s hum a filthy pulse that matched the frantic beat of her heart. Lydia was still there—Katrine could feel her gaze, heavy and unyielding, drinking in every twitch, every slick thrust. It pushed her closer, the coil in her belly tightening, unbearable.

Her head snapped back, eyes fluttering shut, but not before she caught another glimpse of Lydia’s silhouette, tense and unmoving. The knowledge that Lydia was witnessing her—sprawled, wanton, lost in pleasure—sent Katrine over the edge.

Her orgasm hit like a shock to her system, her pussy clenching hard around the vibrator, hips jerking, thighs quaking as pleasure tore through her, raw and unrelenting.

She rode it out, moaning breathlessly, the toy buried deep as her body shuddered through the aftershocks.

As her breathing slowed, Katrine’s gaze drifted back to the door. The shadow of Lydia was gone, but the thrill of being watched lingered, a delicious heat that curled her lips into a faint, satisfied smile.

She eased the vibrator out, her cunt still twitching, and sank deeper into the sheets, her body spent but alive with the memory of Lydia’s eyes on her skin. She really should feel more guilty about it, but in this moment she couldn't find it in her.

Chapter Text

The hum of voices swirled around her, laced with bursts of laughter and the faint pulse of a string quartet leaking from a Bluetooth speaker—too soft to truly irritate, but present enough to remind Lydia that she was no longer in Berlin. There, a late Friday afternoon would never had been spent this way. There had always been rigid professional distance — a conductor’s distance, meticulously maintained — the orchestra having their own circles among themselves.

But here, in the warm, makeshift glow of the a Copenhagen Symphony rehearsing room-turned-Friday-bar, a glass of crisp white wine in one hand and a rye crispbread flecked with sea salt in the other, Lydia felt included as one of them.

Rehearsals had gone well. Better than she’d dared herself to hope in those first weeks, when every step into the hall felt like walking a tightrope over her own history. Berlin’s shadow had loomed large—her fall, her shame, the whispers that had chased her across borders.

She’d braced for cold shoulders, for skeptical glances from the Copenhagen players, for the weight of her name to curdle the air. But it hadn’t. They’d met her with focus, with a kind of professional hunger that bordered on warmth.

Still, she had watched them — the younger players, especially — with the haunted corner of her gaze. Expecting a flicker of doubt. A look exchanged. A whisper trailing behind her after a pointed critique. It hadn’t come.

Today’s rehearsal had been a breakthrough. The symphony’s grand reopening loomed, and the orchestra was starting to breathe as one. Her gestures on the podium—sharper now, surer—had drawn out colors she hadn’t heard in years. The strings had sung with a clarity that made her chest ache; the brass had found a balance between fire and restraint. Even the woodwinds, notoriously finicky, had leaned into her direction. She’d felt it again: that quiet command, not of force but of precision. Of sound shaped by her will.

Her fingers still thrummed with the ghost of her baton, her spine held taut from hours of standing, shaping, urging. A good ache. The kind that reminded her who she was. Not the caricature of Berlin’s headlines, but the woman who could still make an orchestra sing. Who could still find the pulse of a score and draw it out, note by note.

“Maestro,” a young cellist called as he passed, raising his beer in a quick, warm salute. No edge in his voice. No fear. Just respect, unadorned.

She nodded back, small and controlled. Her name carried less weight here. She’d feared that at first—feared being stripped of the myth she’d built. But now it felt like a gift.

The room’s chatter washed over her again. She let her thumb trace the rim of her glass, her mind drifting. She thought of the fall—how far, how fast. She thought of the climb back, quieter, less visible. Not in headlines or scandals, but in the daily rhythm of rehearsals, in the slow rebuilding of trust. In the way the orchestra looked at her now, not as a legend or a pariah, but as their conductor.

She sipped her wine and leaned her shoulder slightly against the wall. She had no desire to insert herself into the jovial chaos. But she liked watching it.

She saw the door open and Katrine stepping into the room, her dark sweater and tailored coat cutting a clean and stylish line. Her eyes found Lydia’s immediately, and her smile—subtle, deliberate, just for her—landed like a perfectly timed rest in a score. Lydia felt her breath catch.

Katrine moved through the crowd with quiet purpose, her gaze steady on her, ignoring the brief looks she drew as she moved past clustered musicians on their second or third round of drinks.

“I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to come by,” she said lightly when she reached Lydia's side. “And to see if you're surving or in need of saving”, her voice low, almost teasing. 

Lydia raised an eyebrow in faint mockery, her smirk faint but real. “Barely,” she said. “You’re late to the rescue.”

Katrine’s laugh was soft, a sound that settled into Lydia like a chord resolving.

“You want something?” Lydia asked, already turning toward the cluttered table of bottles, her hands seeking the familiar rhythm of action. “A glass of whatever you’re having is perfect.” Katrine replied, her tone easy, trusting.

Lydia poured with care, and handed her the glass. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Katrine’s eyes flicked up, holding Lydia’s for a moment longer than necessary. She took a sip, nodded her approval, and they stood together, side by side, the room’s energy swirling around them.

At first, Lydia held her usual distance, content to let the musicians’ laughter and stories fill the space. But Katrine’s presence—steady, warm, her shoulder just grazing Lydia’s—made the edges of her restraint soften. She felt herself lean in, just a fraction, as if testing the weight of this new ease.

Søren, the second violin, wandered over, his tie loosened, his grin widened by beer. “Welcome, I'm Søren” he said to Katrine, his tone friendly but not probing. Katrine — deliberately, effortlessly — shook his and and introduced herself. “Katrine, I just came to see how Lydia was doing” Nothing more. No titles. No “head of the department,” no “director of the administrative council.” No “K.D.” Just Katrine who had come to see her.

The surrounding musicians who had listened in on the exchange with the newcomer nodded, some offering small talk, others praising Lydia on the week’s rehearsals with a kind of earnestness that still surprised Lydia.

As the evening unfolded, she noticed the glances—subtle, unspoken. The way the musicians’ eyes moved from her to Katrine, then back again. It was clear — wordlessly — that they assumed Katrine was her partner. The woman who arrived just for her. Who stood at her side. Who Lydia poured wine for, who laughed softly at her dry remarks and moved close when the room filled in around them.

Lydia let it stand, without any effort to correct them.

There was a quiet thrill in it, a private victory. She felt smugly, deliciously in possession of the moment, the assumption, the unspoken narrative. And Katrine—if she caught the musicians’ glances, the way their questions stayed carefully neutral—didn’t correct it either.

She stayed close, her presence a counterpoint to Lydia’s carefully held control, her hand brushing Lydia’s arm once as she laughed at a stray comment about the playlist’s latest crime. The touch lingered, a quiet spark Lydia carried through the night. She let herself move deeper into the room’s rhythm. She joined a conversation with the principal flutist, her wit sharp but less guarded, her laughter low but real. Katrine stayed by her side, adding a quip here, a nod there, her ease drawing Lydia out further.

The musicians accepted her presence without question, their warmth enveloping them both.

As the friday bar was coming to it's end and they were walking toward the exit — Lydia, out of the corner of her eye, saw the violinist. She was standing across the loosened lines of people still laughing in half-circles of conversation. Hanne — the name swept over her like a cold draft.

Hanne of the precise vibrato, steady bow arm, and curious, too-knowing eyes. The Berlin transplant.

And those curious eyes were on her. On her and Katrine

Katrine was saying something — something quiet, light — about finding dinner on their way back home. Lydia responded automatically, a low affirmative hum.

She didn't let her face change. She’d long ago mastered the art of letting her nerves flicker and die inside her ribs, never making it to her expression. She made eye contact, and Hanne didn’t even have the decency to look away.

She would not have recognized Katrine by name. But the dynamic. It was obvious. Even more so in a room where Lydia hadn’t corrected the illusion of Katrine being there with her as her partner.

And Hanne? Hanne had been friendly with Sharon.

Old dinners. Berlin Sunday brunches. The ones Lydia had always avoided. The ones where Sharon would laugh with the other musicians and Lydia would politely excuse herself from it.

Yes. If Hanne had noticed — and she had — then Sharon would hear of it, and everyone else in Berlin by extend.

A new and obviously young woman. 

She could almost hear Sharon’s judgemental voice.

And yet, Lydia found that she couldn’t summon the dread she was supposed to feel. Couldn’t conjure the reflexive panic or guilt. That part of her had quieted lately — softened beneath something more constant, more present.

Katrine beside her.

Katrine, who had just comfortably slipped her hand lightly through the crook of Lydia’s arm as they stepped outside. The wind lifted against them, the night leaning forward.

Lydia let out a long, unguarded breath and let her shoulders fall, just slightly.

“Starving,” Katrine declared, shooting Lydia a mischievous sidelong glance. “Want to hit that falafel cart by Gothersgade? It’s probably still open. You know—the one with the tahini you secretly love.”

Lydia tilted her head, feigning indecision. “What, the place with that aggressively pickled red cabbage?” Lydia said, her voice dry, one eyebrow arched. Katrine’s smile was unbothered, bright with humor. “You gripe every time and still polish off the whole wrap. And that pickled red cabbage is rødkål” her grin quick and warm, her gloved fingers grazing Lydia’s wrist in a fleeting, careless touch as they stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

“Come on,” Katrine said, teasing. "You’ll pretend the falafel’s beneath you, then steal my fries. I’m braced for it.”  and with an indulgent slightly exasperated "Fine" she stepped off the curb with Katrine, toward the promise of spice, grease.

Chapter Text

The brunch at Vækst had been Alex’s idea — framed as a break, though Lydia knew it was his gentle, but very insisting, way of making sure she didn’t completely disappear into pre-premiere mania.

The restaurant was quiet, soft clinks of cutlery and hushed conversations. He glanced up from the dessert menu he was still perusing, “So. Are you ready for the big night?”

Lydia took a breath, rolling her thumb along the lip of her glass of water. “I feel… cautiously optimistic,” she said. Then with a wry smile, “Ask me again twenty minutes before curtain and you’ll get a more honest answer.”

Alex chuckled, folding his menu. “We’ll be there. Me and my current… well, whatever he is.” He made a vague gesture with his hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “Don’t worry, we’ll clap loudly and pretend we understand what you do.”

Lydia huffed through her nose, half amused. “That’s generous. Most people don’t pretend.”

Their food arrived — a delicate stack of beet tartare for Alex, grilled fennel and wild mushrooms for her, the table suddenly fragrant with garlic and earth and something faintly citrus.

Alex leaned back slightly, letting the plates settle, then tilted his head toward her, casual but probing. “So… when are you moving into the maestro residence?”

Lydia looked up mid-sip, frowning. “The what?”

“The Copenhagen symphony’s maestro residence. The one that comes with the job” Alex clarified, brow lifting. “You know, the one KDS renovated together with the other musician housings. It's been finished for over a month now. I thought you knew.”

She blinked. “No. I didn’t.”

He paused, fork midway to his mouth. “Seriously? I assumed Katrine told you.”

“No, she—” Lydia cut herself off, setting down her glass a touch too carefully. “She hasn’t mentioned anything.”

Alex looked honestly puzzled. “That’s odd. The musicians in need of housing, locating to Copenhagen or coming from abroad moved in weeks ago. Most of the other units were filled pretty quickly, conservatory students, a couple of visiting faculty.”

Lydia stared at her plate, but the shape of the mushrooms had stopped registering. A slow thrum of tension moved along her spine, barely perceptible, but present — that low hum of uncertainty she knew too well.

She nodded once, curtly, enough to signal she’d heard. But her mind was elsewhere now — unmoored from the clatter of the lunch crowd. Katrine hadn’t said a word. Not about the apartment. Not even an offhand mention.

The thought twisted something uncomfortable in her chest. Was she being gently pushed out? 

She tried not to let it show. That wasn’t how she operated. Not with Alex. Not with anyone.

Alex, unaware of the shift behind her expression, shrugged lightly. “I’m sure she’s just giving you space. You’ve had enough to focus on with the opening. She propaply just doesn't want to add to your load with moving arrangements in the middle of it all, she'll probably talk to you about it after the opening. You know how she is.”

Lydia offered him a thin smile, the kind that passed for agreement. She knew how Katrine was. Except when she didn’t.

She picked up her fork, careful not to look too long at anything. “Probably,” she said, voice even.

But the tightness in her chest remained. And somehow, even with all the warmth of the restaurant, even with Alex sitting across from her — a rare, true friend — she suddenly felt very far from home.

Alex, mercifully oblivious to the spiral tightening behind her composed expression, had shifted the conversation with the ease only someone entirely unburdened by it could. He speared another piece of beet onto his fork, looking far too pleased with himself.

“So,” he said, voice lilting with mischief, “how’s the Danish coming along?”

Lydia blinked, took a breath. A welcomed detour.

“It’s… manageable,” she said, pausing with careful consideration. “Structurally, there are similarities to German, so following a conversation isn’t impossible. But the pronunciation—” she shook her head, allowing the faintest smile, “that’s something else entirely. It’s like trying to speak with a mouth full of marbles while underwater.”

Alex let out a delighted laugh. “People always assume Danish will be charming and lyrical — and then you hear someone try to say rødgrød med fløde and it’s just chaos.”

“It’s a trap,” Lydia agreed dryly. “And Katrine, of course, is no help at all. She just watches me butcher it. Tears in her eyes. On the verge of laughter. Every time.”

Alex nearly snorted, shaking his head. “Gosh, I can see that. She’s got that wicked sense of humor—like she’s always one moment away from some private joke.”

Lydia gave a small nod, something warmer curling beneath the surface now, unbidden but familiar. The image of Katrine sitting accross from her at dinner — head tilted, biting her lip, shoulders shaking quietly as Lydia tried to repeat “hvidløgsbrød” — surfaced with a clarity that made her throat catch. She never corrected, but she never made it feel like failure either, only amusement.

Lydia sipped her water again, letting the glass shield her face for a beat too long. Because underneath the teasing, the jokes, and this pleasant lunch, something had lodged deep and tight in her chest — the silence about the residence. The quiet way Katrine hadn’t mentioned it. Hadn’t brought it up once, even in passing.

And that absence — that gap — suddenly felt enormous.

Alex leaned back, sighing in satisfaction over his food, utterly unaware. “Well, if you ever need a pronunciation coach, I’m here,” he said. “Though I charge in pastries.”

Lydia managed a laugh. Automatic. Practiced.

“Noted.”

But her mind had already drifted. Back to the newly renovated apartment. To the unopened door of that empty residence. To the idea of packing up her things, quietly, in silence. 

The door clicked shut behind her with the soft finality of an exhausted breath.

Lydia didn’t even bother to remove her coat at first, just stood in the quiet of the penthouse, one hand still on the handle, the other wrapped tightly around the strap of her bag. Her mind was heavy—overloaded, unfocused, distracted in the way that made practicing or planning feel impossible, irrelevant. The residue of the lunch with Alex clung to her, a low-grade static behind her temples. By mid-afternoon, her office at the Copenhagen symphony had felt like a cage—scores blurred on the page, her baton heavy in her hand, the orchestra’s rehearsal a distant hum she couldn’t fully hear. She’d left early, murmuring some vague excuse to her assistant conductor about correspondence, her voice clipped, her composure a fragile mask.

Why hadn’t Katrine said anything?

She'd smiled this morning. They’d passed each other in the kitchen, shared an inside joke about Alex’s taste in socks, and Katrine had reached for the coffee canister like nothing was amiss in the world. As if Lydia wasn’t on borrowed time in a home that had slowly begun to feel like sanctuary.

She let the bag slide to the floor, and moved directly to the bar and poured herself a heavy glass of Cognac. The liquid catching the dim light as it swirled. No ritual, no hesitation—just the blunt necessity of its warmth to numb the sharp edges of her thoughts. She took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in her chest, and felt her shoulders loosen, if only slightly.

As the glass warmed in her hand, her gaze wandered, at first aimless, then deliberate, as if seeking evidence to counter the uncertainty gnawing at her. The penthouse was no longer just Katrine’s—it was a palimpsest of their shared existence, layered with traces of both their lives.

The bookshelves, once a fortress of Katrine’s eclectic taste—Danish novels, dog-eared poetry collections, architecture books with a cracked spine—now held Lydia’s scores, their stark, elegant black bindings standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Katrine's, a combined chaos.

Mahler’s Fifth leaned against a worn copy of The Waves, its edges frayed from her own restless fingers. A stray metronome sat on the console table next to a ceramic dish with one of Katrine's green inked MontBlanc fountain pens and a few of Lydia's red and blue pencils, the objects coexisting with an ease that felt almost defiant.

These were not the curated traces of a guest. These were layers.

She moved through the living space slowly, letting the cognac loosen her breath, her steps slow, almost reverent. The evidence was everywhere, small but undeniable: her black silk scarf draped over the reading chair, its folds catching the lamplight; a stack of Schubert lieder on the piano bench, pages splayed from late-night practice; a grocery list pinned on the fridge with both their handwritings—hers sharp and spidery, Katrine’s rounded and quick, a testament to hurried mornings and shared errands. A half-empty bottle of Riesling sat on the counter, a relic of a quiet dinner two nights ago, when Katrine had laughed too loudly at one of Lydia’s dry remarks.

These weren’t the sterile traces of a guest, tolerated and temporary. They were the sediment of a life, proof that Lydia was no longer just passing through.

It didn’t feel like she was imposing. It felt like she was here. Like she belonged.

The realization didn’t erase the ache, but it softened it, like a cadence resolving into a gentler key. She took another sip of Cognac, the warmth spreading, and let herself linger on the thought. This space, cluttered and imperfect, was theirs. Not just Katrine’s, not just hers, but a fragile, living thing they’d built without naming it. And yet, the silence about the residence lingered, a dissonant note she couldn’t ignore. Was Katrine waiting for her to ask? Or was there something else, some hesitation Lydia couldn’t yet parse?

She crossed to the piano, her movements slower now, as if testing the room’s permission to hold her. The instrument's black lacquer catching the faint glow of the city through the windows. She set the now empty Cognac glass on the ledge beside the metronome, the glass clinking softly against the wood, and lowered herself onto the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant, then settled. She began to play—something soft, minor, a fragment of Mahler’s Adagietto bleeding into something unwritten, unformed. Not for rehearsal, not for the orchestra, not for anyone but herself. The notes were a lifeline, a way to drown the questions, the fear, the nagging doubt about what Katrine’s silence meant.

Her hands weren’t as steady as she wanted. A faint tremor ran through her fingers, betraying the tension she’d carried all day. But the sound was hers—raw, imperfect, grounding. The chords filled the room, curling around the traces of their shared life: the scarf, the scores, the grocery list, the cheramic dish.

For a moment, the noise in her mind receded, replaced by the music’s quiet insistence. She played on, letting the notes carry her, not toward answers, but toward a fragile kind of peace. 

She didn’t know what Katrine was thinking. She didn’t know why she hadn’t said anything about the residence. But right now, in this dimly lit apartment filled with two people’s lives tangled quietly together, Lydia could cling to the physical truth of presence. The slow integration of her world into Katrine’s.

For now, she played. Because it was the only thing that made her feel steady.

Lydia didn’t register the sound of Katrine's footsteps until they were already halfway up the stairs from her office. Her focus had narrowed in the way it often did when she played—not into the music exactly, but into the muted distance that opened up just behind it. Still, the soft shift of the apartment's air, the click of her heels against oak, drew her eyes up as Katrine appeared at the top of the stairs.

She had a folder tucked under one arm, and a stack of loose papers balanced precariously in the other hand. She dropped both on the low table by the couch, then made her way over.

“You’re home early” Katrine said, voice low and a little surprised, but pleased.

Lydia shifted slightly on the bench, letting her fingers come to rest on the keys. She gave a small smile over her shoulder. “Rehearsals were cut short today. We hit the limit of what could be wrung out of the brass section without risking a mutiny.”

Katrine huffed out a laugh—an amused exhale more than a sound—then crossed the space between them without hesitation. She placed her hands softly on Lydia’s shoulders, thumbs finding her trapezius with the kind of instinct only someone paying attention could develop. She began to knead gently, her thumbs pressing in circles that made Lydia’s breath catch. She hadn’t realized how sore her shoulders had become—how tightly the day had wrapped itself around her posture.

“You’re tense,” she said, matter-of-fact. Her hands began to knead gently. “Are you okay?”

Lydia tilted her head slightly, allowing her hair to fall to one side, giving Katrine better access.

“It’s just the usual nerves,” she murmured,deflecting with the truth. “Pre-performance tension. It always coils in my shoulders like this. Ridiculous really, considering I’ve done this a thousand times.”

She left the rest unsaid. That the performance jitters had been eclipsed all afternoon by the quiet fear coiling beneath her ribs. That she had spent hours with her mind stuck between shelves of rehearsal notes, wondering whether the place she had come to think of as their space might never have been hers at all.

Katrine’s hands, however, had a way of making all of that scatter. Her thumbs worked in careful circles, firm but attentive, as if she was listening with them. Lydia hadn’t realized how sore her muscles actually were until they began to soften beneath the pressure. 

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Lydia, needing to shift the energy, tilted her head to the side and asked, a little too casually, “Was the piano disturbing you?”

Katrine stilled her hands for just a moment, then resumed the massage with an affectionate press of her palms. “No,” she said, voice softening further. “Actually I could hear you from downstairs and decided to bring the last bit of paperwork up here to finish, just so I could keep listening.”

Lydia gave a soft snort, more grateful for the moment than she let show. “Well, I suppose we all serve a function.”

Katrine’s hand grazed the empty Cognac glass beside the metronome. She lifted it without comment, then caught Lydia’s gaze. “Want a glass of wine?”

Lydia nodded, slower than usual. “Yes, thank you.”

She felt the absence of Katrine’s hands the moment they left her shoulders, a sudden coolness in their wake. It was silly, but it was there—a faint mourning for something small and undramatic. A touch that had managed, without permission, to peel away the sharp edges of her fear.

She watched Katrine disappear to the kitchen with the glass in hand, humming something under her breath again. Lydia didn’t move. She stared straight ahead at the piano keys, breathing just a little easier than she had all day.

Lydia had barely drifted into the first bars of the Adagio

when she sensed Katrine nearing again—her presence always subtle, yet distinct, like a change in pressure before a storm. She didn’t look up immediately, letting the chord in her left hand stretch just a second longer than needed, listening for the clicks of heels on the hardwood.

Then she heard the movement stop.

Not beside her, but a few paces back.

She paused, letting the sound decay into silence, and turned slightly on the bench. Katrine stood there, wine glasses in hand, halted just at the edge of the frame of Lydia’s peripheral vision. Her head tilted in a way that meant she was studying something carefully, quietly, and for longer than was strictly necessary.

Lydia lifted an eyebrow. “What’s the diagnosis?” she asked dryly. “Do I need to sit differently?”

Katrine blinked, then gave a breath of a laugh, stepping forward at last and placing the two glasses down gently on the closed end of the grand piano. One of them—Katrine’s—already had a smudge of red lipstick at the rim, imperfect and personal, like a thumbprint on glass.

“It’s just…” she gestured toward the large windows behind Lydia, where the sky had turned that honey-gold hue Copenhagen sometimes managed to get exactly right at the tail end of a day. “It’s beautiful. The light. You—there, at the piano—with the skyline behind you. You look... Just—stay there, I'll take a picture. It’s too good not to show you. Go on, play again.”

Lydia gave a skeptical glance, lips pursed slightly. “So I’m the scenery now?”

But Katrine was already fishing her phone out of the back pocket of her pants, unbothered. “Just play, Lydia,” she said, almost affectionately. “Humor me.”

Lydia returned her fingers to the keys with a small smile. There was a soft click—then another. Katrine shifted back a little, probably trying to fit the whole frame of her into one of the shots.

After a moment, Katrine’s footsteps returned. She knelt lightly beside the bench and turned the phone toward her.

Lydia stopped playing and looked down at the screen.

The image was, annoyingly, beautiful.

The light from the early sunset cut a golden wash across the apartment, catching the crown of her hair, lighting her shoulders in warm contrast against the polished black lacquer of the piano. The skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was gently blurred, a painter’s wash of pink and amber behind her, like some long-forgotten oil painting. The wine glasses were visible too, the rim of one delicately smudged in red.

Katrine was watching her face now, gauging the reaction.

“Will you send it to me?” she asked, still looking at the image. “PR has been gently harassing me to be more ‘visible’ on my socials before the opening night. Apparently, silence isn't good optics.”

Katrine smiled as her thumbs moved over the screen. “Just posted it to your messages. You look like someone people would pay to listen to.”

Lydia gave a soft huff of laughter. “Well, with any luck…”

She reached for her wine, deliberately choosing the glass without the lipstick stain, letting the stem rest delicately between her fingers, watching as Katrine drifted toward the couch with her wine and paperwork, moving in that unselfconscious, grounded way Lydia had always admired—like someone who had nothing to prove and therefore, somehow, proved everything.

She settled in, curling one leg beneath her, the other foot gently swaying in the air as she began flipping through pages with quiet, efficient focus. The pen twitched between her fingers; a line scratched here, a small circle there. Lydia could just make out the rhythm of it under the low hum of the room.

Her hands dropped gently back to the keys. She played—not from discipline or obligation, but to fill the quiet with something weightless and beautiful. A way to stay anchored in the moment rather than drift toward the question that had pressed against her mind ever since that lunch.

The maestro residence.

She could still hear Alex’s voice, puzzled, “Katrine hasn’t mentioned it?”—and her own uneasy, mumbled response. The doubt had followed her home like an unwelcome shadow, sharpening each moment into a question mark. But as the music settled into the room and Katrine’s presence grounded it, Lydia made a quiet decision.

She wouldn’t ask.

Not tonight.

There was a softness to this evening she didn’t want to rupture. An unspoken rhythm between them she didn’t want to disturb. Whatever Katrine’s reason for not bringing it up—oversight, intention, timing—it didn’t need to be confronted now. Not with the first performance looming. Not with this calm, fragile equilibrium cradling them both.

Lydia let the thought slip to the edges of her mind and focused instead on the movement of her fingers, the warmth of the wine still lingering in her chest, and the quiet rustle of Katrine turning a page behind her.

That night Lydia lay awake, the familiar tension coiled in her chest, neither sharp nor panicked, but persistent—like a low, sustained dissonance under a melody that refused to resolve.

The reopening concert loomed now, close enough to touch. Her body knew it even if her mind pretended composure—shoulders taut, pulse fluttering just under the skin. But that wasn’t the only thing curling itself around her nerves tonight.

Alex’s voice echoed back to her, unbothered, almost amused: “Wait—you didn’t know the maestro residence was already finished?”
A simple question. Delivered lightly. And yet—

Lydia exhaled, quietly, and slipped out of bed.

She reached into the nightstand drawer, finding the old phone by feel. She turned it on and watched the screen flickered to life, bright in the dim room, and then the notifications flooded in like a tide she hadn’t prepared for.

There he was—Eliot Kaplan. The graceless opportunist. Pretending nothing had happened. “Congratulations with Copenhagen.”
As if he hadn’t paraded around in her ashes, clutching her Mahler, her tempo markings, her breath. As if he hadn’t profited from her collapse, and now that she has risen again, trying to come crawling back.

She didn’t open the message. Just stared at the preview until it blinked out.

Then Sharon.

The name stilled her for a moment. And then, a familiar weight: a hollow pressure in the chest, half grief, half disdain.

“Heard about your new post. Denmark, of all places.”
Another.
“Hanne told me about some young woman. Who is she?”

No greeting. No warmth. Just the efficient tone of someone taking inventory.

Lydia locked the screen and placed the phone down beside her, as if it had scorched her.

Lydia didn’t answer. Wouldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she reached for her other phone—the one she had gotten when she first arrived, that held her new life. She pulled up the photo Katrine had taken earlier, the one with her at the piano, bathed in amber light, shoulders loose, mid-movement. The fading sun had rimmed her in gold, and in the foreground, on the polished wood of the piano, two wine glasses—hers still half-full, and Katrine’s with a distinct, unmistakable smudge of red lipstick.

A quiet, unmistakable intimacy. She’d noticed it even then, that small silent announcement of shared domesticity. But lying there in the dark, alone beneath covers that held only her body’s shape, Lydia couldn’t help the sharp edge of something else that cut through her: jealousy.

Not of anyone else. No, it wasn’t that.

It was of the image itself. The illusion. The implication.

Because while the photo told one story, the reality was different. That glass of wine with lipstick—yes, it was Katrine’s. Yes, Katrine had taken the photo. But Katrine wasn’t in the bed beside her now like Lydia craved with an intensity. She was only ever halfway in.

She had her routines with Katrine. Her books on Katrine’s shelves. Her presence beside Katrine’s, threaded gently through the space.

But she didn’t have Katrine.

Not fully.

Not in the way that image suggested—effortless, shared, unguarded.

There was always a line. Sometimes thin, sometimes glaring. But always there.

And tonight, that line pressed itself against her more than usual.

With a flick of her thumb, she opened her twitter profile she'd been avoiding ever since the scandal. The accounts had been scrubbed, sanitized, rebranded—PR’s handiwork giving her a blank slate. A second life.

She uploaded the photo with no caption.

No explanations. No statements.

Just the image.

A woman at the piano. In warm light. In a home. With two wine glasses. One bearing a mark that wasn’t hers.

Let them wonder.

A slow, smug satisfaction settled into her, curling in the space where the anxiety had festered. Let them interpret the photo however they pleased. Let Sharon see it. Let Eliot see it. Let them all scroll past it, pause, look again.

And know they were seeing a version of Lydia Tár that none of them owned anymore.

The slow trickle of notifications quickly started pulsing in. A like. A comment. Then another. Reposts. Mentions.

She watched them with breath caught in her throat.

The Copenhagen Symphony’s official account had reshared it with a quote about the reopening night—clean, corporate, harmless. Then a few musicians she recognized by name liked the post. Some even commented. There was warmth in their tone. Familiarity. Camaraderie. Lydia hadn’t expected that to matter to her, but it did.

And then came the others.

Names she hadn’t seen in over a year. A second violinist from the Berlin Philharmonic. One of the brass players.

Retweets. Likes. The subtle, sharp smell of curiosity mingled with surveillance.

They would be talking by morning, Lydia knew. 
“Did you see?”
“She posted.”
“Who’s the other glass for?”

Then, the final breath-catcher.

Katrine’s name appearing in the likes.

Lydia blinked once, then stared.

It wasn’t the like itself—it was the comment that followed. Casual. Almost too casual.
“Still can’t decide which was more beautiful: the music you played or the picture I took of you playing it 😉”

There it was.

Anyone reading the comments would know.

Anyone from Berlin would read it and know.

And Sharon—Sharon especially—would know that the "young woman" she had asked about was Katrine. It was right there. Uncoded, but clear that they spent their evening's together in a home. Lydia could feel the confirmation ripple outward like a dropped pebble in still water.

She tapped Katrine’s profile.

It was unassuming, tasteful. Sparse in the way only deliberately curated profiles were. There was no mention of K.D. No affiliation with KDS. Nothing that signaled power or position. The people who needed to know, knew. That had always been Katrine’s style—measured invisibility until the moment she chose not to be.

Lydia scrolled.

There was a photo of her and Jesper outside a conference hall in London, Katrine’s hair slightly wind-blown, both of them grinning, Jesper’s caption tagging a foundation she vaguely remembered KDS sponsoring. Another post, a silly selfie with Alex at a wine bar, both mid-laugh, a glass of something chilled between them.

Then one in her construction gear, high-vis vest and helmet, perched on some scaffolding with a surveyor’s tablet in hand. That same wry smile. The calm command in her eyes.

Lydia felt a warmth creep up her neck, a strange fondness mixed with… what was it?

Jealousy again—but this time not sharp. Something softer, more internal. An ache, perhaps, to be a part of those images. To be in them, not just the implied intimacy behind them.

Katrine had a whole self—robust, private, unadorned. Entire spaces and networks Lydia was not woven into. Not fully.

But tonight… Katrine had left a mark. Not just the lipstick stain on the rim of the glass, but a public acknowledgment. One sentence that had carved open a truth for anyone curious enough to look.

Lydia set the phone down gently beside her pillow.

She didn’t know what Sharon would say, or Kaplan, or any of the others.

But she knew Katrine had known exactly what she was doing.

And that—somehow—steadied her.

The anxiety didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Lowered its pitch. Blended into something quieter.

She turned off the bedside light and lay in the dark, the quiet no longer entirely cold.

Chapter Text

Sleep was a foreign country tonight.

Lydia sat cross-legged on the edge of the low armchair near the piano, her score laid open in front of her like a sacred text.

She had rehearsed the orchestra to precision that day—every cue, every suspension, the most delicate decrescendos drawn like breath between ribs. And yet, even in that perfection, she could not rest.

Her eyes kept falling on measure 86 in the second movement. Something about the phrasing still felt imbalanced. Or perhaps it was her—imbalanced.

She heard the soft creak of floorboards, barefoot steps, slow and easy. She didn’t look up at first—didn’t need to. She knew that rhythm now as well as she knew any movement in Mahler.

Then she glanced up—and lost all focus on her score.

Katrine, sleep-soft and blinking against the light. Her hair was a loose mess, as if she'd only halfway woken up. She wore a pair of indecently small pajama shorts—barely clinging to her hips—and a camisole that left almost nothing to the imagination. Her skin still carried the warmth of sleep, and her voice, when it came, was low and rough around the edges.

“Lydia, it’s three in the morning.”

Lydia blinked slowly, trying and failing not to trace the curve of Katrine’s collarbone where it disappeared under the thin black strap.

“I know,” she said, her voice more hoarse than intended.

Katrine padded over to her, the gentle thud of her footsteps loud in the silence. “You need to sleep. At least try.” She leaned slightly to glance at the open score, then looked at Lydia again. “You’ll drive yourself mad.”

Lydia smiled faintly, shifting in the chair. “I never sleep the night before a performance. Never have. Ask anyone.”

Katrine’s gaze softened. “I’m not asking you to sleep like a baby. I’m asking you to stop torturing yourself.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Come on.”

Lydia hesitated, but Katrine's hand remained open, patient. She let her fingers slide into Katrine’s without thinking, the warmth of her skin grounding her in a way no marking in a score ever could.

“You can at least lie still,” Katrine murmured.

She turned, tugging Lydia along, and Lydia followed, unable to tear her eyes away from the sway of her hips and her young tight ass under those maddening shorts. She was too distracted by the rhythm of it, the smell of warm skin and sleep, the utter surrealness of being led like this—like a child and a lover all at once—to formulate any argument.

She didn’t even protest when Katrine pulled back the covers of her bed and nodded toward the space beside her. The sheets still held her warmth.

Katrine slid in first and patted the mattress once. Lydia sighed and lay down beside her, staring at the ceiling for a long moment.

The anxiety didn’t vanish. It hovered still, a low, whispering presence in the back of her thoughts. But Katrine’s breathing beside her, steady and close, dulled the edges of it.

Lydia turned her head to watch the way Katrine had already let her eyelids drift closed again, face half-buried in the pillow, arms loosely curled.

Katrine had already drifted back—she always fell asleep so easily, like her body remembered how to trust the dark. Lydia lay still beside her, eyes adjusting to the faint citylight that crept in around the edges of the curtains. The room had settled into quiet again, broken only by the slow, steady rhythm of Katrine’s breathing.

Then, with the unconscious logic of the half-asleep, Katrine shifted—turned toward her, one leg tangling slightly over Lydia’s, arm settling over her stomach in a loose drape. The warmth of her skin soaked into Lydia’s side, immediate and grounding. Her face was pressed into Lydia’s neck, nose just below her jaw, her breath ghosting softly against skin.

And then, in a low, slurred murmur—more breath than voice—Katrine spoke.

"Mhhhmm du dufter altid så godt."

The words unspooled inside her mind with surprising ease. She hadn’t realized until just now how far she'd acrually come—how Danish was no longer a blur of harsh consonants and swallowed vowels she struggled to keep up with even when spoken slowly. She’d heard the sentence clearly. You always smell so nice.

A slow smile curled at the edge of her mouth.

Adorable. Completely, utterly disarming. There was a kind of innocence to it, a softness Lydia knew Katrine would likely deny in the harsh light of morning. But here, in the dark—unguarded, half-asleep—it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just endearing. It was true. Real. Honest in a way few things in her life had been in the past years.

Lydia let her hand drift lightly to the small of Katrine’s back, her fingers tracing the delicate curve where skin met the edge of those impossibly small sleeping shorts. The fabric was thin, barely a barrier, and it clung to Katrine’s form in a way that stirred something deep and primal in Lydia’s chest.

She let her touch glide lower, a slow, deliberate sweep over the firm curve of Katrine’s ass—tight, soft, and impossibly inviting. The motion both reverent and teasing, savoring the warmth and the faint give of flesh beneath her palm. A quiet hum of satisfaction escaped her lips, unbidden, as she marveled at how effortlessly Katrine’s body seemed to fit against her own, like they’d been carved to interlock.

Her hand didn’t stop. She let her touch wander, slow and unhurried, savoring the way Katrine’s body felt under her palm—supple, yielding, yet taut with youth. Her fingers traced upward, slipping beneath the hem of Katrine’s thin camisole, fingers brushing the smooth, naked expanse of her slender back. The skin was soft, almost too soft, like something untouched by the world’s sharper edges. Lydia’s touch was light but intentional, mapping the subtle ridges of Katrine’s spine, the faint dip where her waist curved inward. Her hand moving with a reverence that bordered on worship, memorizing the planes and contours. Each inch felt like a discovery and made Lydia’s pulse hum a little louder.

Katrine stirred faintly, her breath hitching for a moment before settling back into that slow, steady rhythm. She didn’t wake—her body still heavy with sleep, trusting in its surrender. Lydia’s lips curved into a softer smile, and she drew Katrine closer, her arm curling possessively around her waist, pulling her tighter into the cradle of her embrace. The weight of her, the warmth, the way Katrine’s leg stayed tangled with her own.

She let her hand rest there, splayed across ned naked skin of Katrine’s back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The citylight still flickered at the edges of the room, but it felt distant now, unimportant. Lydia closed her eyes, letting the moment seep into her bones—the quiet, the closeness, the unspoken trust. Happiness, that rare and fragile thing, curled tighter in her chest.

And then, with Katrine’s warmth pressed against her, Lydia let herself fall, drifting into sleep as the world beyond them faded entirely.

Lydia woke not with the abrupt start of a restless sleep, but with the disorienting softness of being truly at ease. She felt the shift of weight before her mind could fully catch up—a gentle, languid slipping away from her arms, the warmth beside her receding.

Her hand, still half-curled from sleep, registered first. It had been resting—no, cradling—the soft fullness of Katrine’s breast, fitted perfectly in her palm.

There was a moment, suspended in that private space between waking and wakefulness, where embarrassment threatened to rise. But it was dulled by the fact that Katrine made no move to comment or correct.

Just a soft whisper, brushing against the morning like the light filtering through the curtains.

“I’ll go make us some coffee.”

Her voice was low, still cloaked in sleep. And then she was gone—slipping out of bed, bare legs and tousled hair moving through the half-light like a figure from a half-remembered dream. Lydia turned her face into the pillow, breathing in the scent that Katrine had left behind, the coolness where her body had been already beginning to settle into the sheets.

She didn’t move. Not yet. Her limbs were heavy in that unfamiliar way—not with tension, but the vestiges of actual sleep.

She had slept.

Not just tossed or turned or paced through the witching hours in obsessive circuits around her score. She had slept. Not long, not deeply, but for a few hours. A pocket of rest carved out in a lifetime of pre-concert insomnia.

She was still marveling at that when she heard Katrine’s return—barefoot steps, the gentle clink of a coffee mug on the bedside table. Lydia let her eyes remain closed, savoring the hush a few moments longer.

A touch came to her shoulder—soft and anchoring.

“I have to get to work,” Katrine whispered, close to her ear, “but I’ll be in the publikum tonight.”

Lydia blinked her eyes open. The light was soft enough not to sting. Katrine looked down at her with a kind of quiet fondness, her black camisole strap slipping off one shoulder, sleep still clinging to her in places.

And then she was gone again.

Lydia remained still for another long minute, her hand drifting toward the spot where Katrine had sat moments before. She looked at the cup left on her bedside—steam still curling from it—and then allowed herself a slow, private smile.

Her mind would begin to turn soon, spiraling into tempo markings, phrasing, bowings, entrances. But for now, there was just this: the hum of quiet, the strange weight of actual rest in her body… and the knowledge that—for the first time in years—she had managed to sleep the night before a performance.

Chapter Text

The walls of the artist lounge were a soft, anonymous cream—neither warm nor cold, just neutral enough to contain nerves without amplifying them. Lydia sat motionless on the edge of the low couch, her spine held in perfect alignment, one ankle crossed over the other in an effort to pin herself to the ground. She could hear the sound of bodies arriving: heels striking marble, coats being shrugged off, laughter. That low anticipatory hum of an audience—alive, impatient.

The air in the lounge was too still. Too contained.

She glanced down at her hands, resting on her lap, and was quietly surprised to see them steady. Her heart, on the other hand, was another story—pounding so hard in her chest it made her ribs feel tender, bruised from the inside.

She told herself it was routine. It always came, this sensation—the dizzying split between being too aware and not aware at all. Too real and completely vaporous. She was a woman on the cusp of disappearing into sound.

In Thailand, she’d stopped taking the pills. Just decided one day. She hadn’t felt fully herself on them—numbed, maybe, or dipped in a viscous silence she couldn’t bear. But now, without it, the inside of her chest was too loud. The white noise of nerves and old ghosts and the familiar echo chamber of her own mind.

The final rehearsal earlier had been immaculate. The orchestra had risen with her, note for note, breath for breath. They had responded with a kind of quiet reverence she hadn’t dared expect from them when she first arrived. And now, everything waited. The overture of expectation.

The door to the lounge clicked open.

Her assistant conductor Mathias stepped in briskly, eyes alert, posture as precise as always. In his arms was a bouquet so vibrant it almost looked out of place—long-stemmed red roses, dramatic and unapologetically traditional.

“These just arrived for you, Maestro,” he said, offering them out. No flourish, just that soft efficiency she’d grown to rely on.

She took them without speaking. The stems cool against her palm. The scent hit her a moment later—lush and immediate, like something alive in her hands.

“That will be all, Mathias,” she said quietly, her eyes still on the flowers.

He nodded, already turning. “Fifteen minutes until you need to be backstage.”

And then he was gone.

Lydia sat with the bouquet cradled lightly in her lap, her fingers finding the little envelope tucked between two blooms. She opened it, slowly, deliberately.

Just one line, in Katrine’s handwriting.

Good luck. Love, Katrine.

That was all. No elaborate message. No overthought encouragement.

Just Love, Katrine.

Her breath left her—not a dramatic exhale, just a small, imperceptible shift internally. Her pulse didn’t stop its rhythm, but it did ease. Slightly. Enough.

How absurd, she thought, that a word so casual, written in green ink on a little card, could do more than the pills had ever managed. Ground her. Center her. Remind her that the world beyond the podium was not entirely hostile terrain.

The roses smelled like memory. Like something unnameable but utterly hers. She pressed her fingers against the card for a moment longer, then tucked it into her pocket without ceremony.

The buzz of the house beyond the lounge was growing louder now. Time sliding toward her.

She rose as if on cue—slow, deliberate. There was no ceremony to the act, but her body remembered every motion, every ritual, as if it were choreography etched deep into her fascia.

First: the exhale. A single, grounding breath pushed forcefully out through her nose, like she was trying to clear out the static that still clung faintly to her ribs. Then, the quick brush of her hands down her blazer, fingers flicking invisible lint from her shoulders—a gesture part superstition, part muscle memory. She’d been doing it since Juilliard, long before the podium became her altar.

It was absurd, really. That these tics—these tiny, private compulsions—held such gravitational weight. But she never went on stage without them. Not once. They were a kind of spell, she supposed. Something to summon the version of herself who belonged in that light.

Her fingers flexed slightly at her sides as she turned toward the door.

The hallway backstage was dimmer, cooler. The hum here was different: not the audience’s excited murmur, but the quiet, low-focus intensity of musicians tuning, adjusting, murmuring in half-whispers. The orchestra was already gathered near the stage wings, dressed in black, the crisp symmetry of their formalwear forming a subtle visual rhythm of its own.

Lydia walked slowly, purposefully through them. Several nodded to her in acknowledgment—not deference, exactly, but something close to recognition. Mutual readiness. Mutual demand.

She didn’t speak. She never did, not here. Words felt clumsy now, unnecessary. Her presence, sharp in its silence, said everything it needed to.

One of the violinists was rosinning his bow with almost meditative care. A cellist leaned forward, adjusting the curve of her endpin into the floor with the reverence of someone planting a flag.

Mathias stood by the stage entrance, headset coiled at his neck. He didn’t say anything as she approached. He simply gave her the same short, efficient nod, stepping aside.

She paused just before the entrance to the stage. From here, she could see the shimmering edge of the audience beyond the proscenium—rows of expectant silhouettes, faces turned toward where she would stand in a matter of seconds.

Her hands were steady now.

The card from Katrine was folded neatly in the inner pocket of her blazer. She didn’t need to touch it to feel it. It was there, in the background hum behind her ribs. Quiet, sure.

Lydia Tár lifted her chin, adjusted her cuffs with slow precision.

She was ready.

She was still in it. The notes, the swell, the silence at the end that rang louder than the music ever could. It hummed in her veins like voltage. She wasn’t fully inside her body—she never was after a performance. Not for a while. Not until something, or someone, brought her down to the ground again.

The atrium was bright and echoing, lacquered with conversation and champagne. A slow tide of sound and fabric and heat. The musicians had already begun to dissolve into the crowd—black suits among the opulence of patrons in silks and jewel tones. Someone said her name. Another hand reached toward her arm. She offered a vague nod, a smile, a brief murmur of thanks. None of it registered. 

And then—there.

It was as if something inside her spine adjusted, subtly, like a compass needle aligning with magnetic north. Her eyes found Katrine.

She stood by one of the wide marble pillars, flushed in the honey-gold lighting of the atrium, as if it had been rigged that way on purpose. The coppery rust of her silk dress clung to her body like it had been painted on. The color—startling, rich, deliberate—rendered her skin almost iridescent, pale and impossibly smooth. The dark honey of her hair spilled in soft waves over her shoulders, down her back, catching the light in strands of molten gold.

And that mouth. That damned red mouth.

Smiling. Polite. Tilted ever so slightly in the direction of a young man whose posture gave away everything—eager, leaning forward, the kind of man who hadn’t yet learned how transparent desire made him.

Something primal—ancient and ridiculous—tightened in Lydia’s chest.

Possession wasn’t love. She knew that. But the line between the two had never been fixed, not in the language she spoke, not in the ones she composed.

She intercepted a passing server with the precision of a conductor cueing a downbeat, lifting two champagne flutes from the tray. Cold glass between her fingers, thin stems balanced delicately in her hands. She didn’t rush. But she didn’t pause either.

The crowd blurred. Someone called her name again, another congratulation, another flash of a camera. None of it mattered.

Every step she took narrowed the space between herself and that image: Katrine, radiant and impossibly distant despite standing only a few strides away, smiling at someone who hadn’t stood in front of an orchestra and bled themselves dry for the sake of something that would disappear into air the moment it was over.

Lydia reached them without a word, the din of the atrium falling to a dull static around her. She didn’t bother with small talk or pleasantries—there was no need. She simply stepped into place at Katrine’s side, as though the space had always been waiting for her to fill it, and held out one of the champagne flutes. Katrine took it without hesitation, without even looking. Her fingers brushed Lydia’s for the briefest moment, like it was routine—like she’d known Lydia would bring it to her all along.

That quiet, fluid familiarity—the unspoken understanding of rhythm between them—made something ease deep in Lydia’s chest. She let her hand drift behind Katrine, fingers slipping with a practiced subtlety to the small of her back, then resting lightly on her hip. Not intrusive. Not overt. But unmistakable.

It wasn’t for Katrine.

The young man was still speaking, something about phrasing, but his words had begun to fragment the moment Lydia’s hand found its resting place. She felt the flicker of his gaze—downward, registering. A flicker of confusion, then resignation, like watching someone realize they’d missed a crucial cue in a performance already halfway through.

Lydia took a slow sip from her glass to mask the satisfied smirk, letting the champagne settle like a cool ribbon down her throat.

Katrine smiled then. That smile. The one she kept tucked away for rare occasions—soft and sure and touched with something more honest than charm. It was worlds away from the one she’d offered the young man moments before, that one all social tact and public grace. This one was private. Deliberate. For Lydia.

She turned slightly toward her. “Lydia, this is Kasper,” she said, her voice light. “He was just telling me about one of his orchestration seminars at the conservatory.”

Kasper was already pivoting, his body language folding inward under the weight of Lydia’s presence. Still, to his credit, he offered his hand. “Maestro Tár,” he said, voice a touch breathless. “Your performance tonight was… unforgettable. Truly.”

Lydia inclined her head, ignoring his outstretched hand completely, keeping her hand resting on Katrine's hip. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low, even.

Kasper glanced once more at her hand on Katrine’s hip—her thumb now lightly circling against the silk of Katrine’s dress—then smiled thinly. “I should—let you two celebrate.”

It wasn’t a retreat so much as a surrender.

He disappeared into the crowd, the back of his neck already flushed red.

Lydia turned to Katrine, raising an eyebrow. “Orchestration seminars?”

Katrine chuckled quietly. Her gaze catching the light, her eyes carrying that same unguarded warmth “That was an extraordinary performance,” she said, her voice low, deliberate, laced with that quiet conviction Lydia had come to crave. “You were… mesmerizing.”

The words hit Lydia like a struck chord, reverberating through the adrenaline still coursing through her body. Her pulse thrummed, electric, alive, but Katrine’s praise was something sharper, more visceral. It wasn’t just the high of the stage—commanding the orchestra, bending sound to her will. It was Katrine, standing there in that copper dress that hugged her like a second skin, her presence a flame Lydia couldn’t look away from. Immortal. That’s what she felt. Fucking immortal.

But it wasn’t enough. That moment in the atrium—her hand on Katrine’s hip, the subtle flex of power that sent the young man scurrying—had been a thrill, a public claim that made her blood sing. Yet it left her hungry, ravenous for something more intimate, more undeniable. She didn’t want witnesses. She wanted Katrine. All of her.

Lydia leaned closer, her voice a quiet command. “Come with me.”

Katrine’s eyes flickered with surprise, but she didn’t hesitate, didn’t question. She nodded, and they set their empty champagne flutes on a tray table, the clink of glass swallowed by the hum of the crowd. Lydia moved with purpose, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she led Katrine out of the atrium, through the labyrinth of the symphony’s corridors. The chatter faded behind them, replaced by the hollow quiet of marble and shadow.

They rounded a corner, the world shrinking to just the two of them. No eyes, no stage, no pretense. Lydia stopped, turned, and let instinct take over.

She grabbed Katrine, her hands firm on her waist, and pulled her close. Their bodies pressed together, and Lydia kissed her—hard, unapologetic, her lips claiming Katrine’s with the urgency of months spent wanting. She tasted her, finally, the faint sweetness of champagne and something deeper, something distinctly Katrine.

For a split second, Katrine stiffened, caught off guard by the suddenness, her breath catching in a sharp inhale. Lydia felt it—the brief tension, the shock—but then Katrine surrendered. A low sound escaped her, half-sigh, half-moan, raw and unguarded, as she melted into the kiss. 

Lydia was drowning, drunk on the taste of Katrine’s lips, the heat of her mouth, the way she yielded so completely it felt like a surrender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was possession, a claiming that burned through every nerve in her body. She needed more, needed to consume her, to erase any distance left between them. Her hands tightened, one gripping Katrine’s waist, the other threading into her hair, and with a surge of hunger, Lydia pushed her back, pinning her against the cold marble wall of the corridor.

Her leg slid between Katrine’s, pressing closer, anchoring them together as she deepened the kiss, her tongue tracing the edge of Katrine’s lips, chasing that low, trembling sound she’d made moments before. It was reckless, raw, a crescendo Lydia couldn’t—wouldn’t—control. Katrine was hers in this moment, every breath, every shudder, and Lydia was lost in it, in the power of having her, of finally crossing the line she’d toed for so long. The world was nothing but Katrine’s warmth, her scent, the soft give of her young body under Lydia’s hands.

Then, abruptly, Katrine froze. Her hands, which had been clutching Lydia’s shoulders, went rigid, and she pulled back, breaking the kiss with a sharp gasp. Lydia’s eyes snapped open, and she saw it—panic, stark and unguarded, flooding Katrine’s gaze. Her lips, still flushed from the kiss, parted as she whispered, “No... we... I... I can’t.”

The words were a blade, slicing through the haze of Lydia’s desire. Before she could respond, could reach for her, Katrine slipped out from under her, her footsteps quick and uneven as she rushed down the corridor. The soft click of her heels echoed, then faded, leaving only silence in their wake.

Lydia stood rooted in the empty corridor, the cold marble walls a stark contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin. Katrine’s whispered “I can’t” echoed in her mind, sharp and jagged, cutting through the haze of desire. Uncertainty coiled in her chest, tight and unfamiliar, twined with a fear. What did this mean? The panic in Katrine’s eyes, the way she’d fled—had Lydia misread her? Pushed too far? The thought lodged like a splinter, and with it came a flood of memories she’d fought to bury.

Berlin. The unraveling. The whispers that grew into accusations, the trust she’d shattered, the life she’d built crumbling under the weight of her own ambition, her own reckless need. Sharon’s face, taut with betrayal, flashed in her mind, and for a moment, Katrine’s panicked expression overlaid it, blurring the two into a single, gutting fear: was this the same? Another mistake, another loss, another piece of herself she’d never claw back? Her hands trembled faintly, and she pressed them against the wall to steady herself, her breath shallow, her mind racing to outrun the dread creeping in.

She couldn’t stay here, frozen in this silent hallway, unraveling alone. Lydia pushed off the wall, her strides deliberate but heavy, and made her way back to the atrium. The hum of voices grew louder as she approached, the clink of glasses and laughter spilling into the air. She scanned the room, her eyes darting over the crowd, searching for a glimpse of copper fabric, a flash of Katrine’s golden hair. Nothing. Katrine was gone.

“Maestro Tár, phenomenal performance!” A man in a tailored suit approached, his smile wide, his hand extended. Lydia took it, her own smile automatic, polished, a mask she’d perfected long ago. “Truly breathtaking,” another voice chimed in, a woman with a champagne flute, her eyes bright with admiration. Lydia nodded, murmured thanks, her voice steady even as her mind churned. The praise washed over her, hollow, meaningless. It was noise, nothing more, unable to touch the emptiness gnawing at her core.

All she could think of was Katrine. The taste of her lips—champagne and something sweeter, something that felt like surrender—clung to her, vivid and torturous. The memory of her body pressed close, the soft moan that had undone Lydia, now twisted with the image of her fleeing, her eyes wide with fear. What had she done? The question pulsed with every heartbeat, and beneath it, a deeper dread: losing her. Losing Katrine, the one person who’d seen her—really seen her—and hadn’t turned away. Until now.

Lydia moved through the crowd, shaking hands, accepting compliments, her face a study in composure. But inside, she was still in that corridor, still tasting Katrine's lips, still hearing the echo of her refusal. And for all her precision, her control, her ability to command a room or an orchestra, Lydia felt the ground shifting beneath her, threatening to crack open and swallow her whole.

The silence of the penthouse was almost surgical in its precision—too clean, too deliberate. The air still held a trace of Katrine's perfume, faint and elusive, like the final shimmer of a cymbal’s resonance before the hall turns dark.

Lydia closed the door behind her with the same care she gave to the piano lid. Every sound seemed heightened now. The clink of her keys on the marble console. The whisper of her coat sliding from her shoulders. Her steps carried the remnants of applause still echoing in her chest, their rhythm misaligned now with the stillness around her.

And then she saw it.

Katrine’s suite door. Fully shut. Not slightly ajar like it usually was in the evenings, cracked just enough to invite or suggest the option of closeness. Tonight it was closed like a sentence. And from underneath the door, a slim band of light.

She’s home.

The revelation didn’t bring relief. Only a lurch in her stomach.

Lydia approached, quietly, the weight of her own heartbeat pressing behind her ribs. She lifted her hand—hesitant, hovering inches from the wood, ready to knock.

But she didn’t.

Instead, the breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled back into her palm. A sudden cold wave of dread bloomed in her chest, sharp and unkind. The image of Katrine’s face after the kiss—the panic in her eyes, the way she had pulled back and left Lydia standing in the quiet hallway like some lovesick adolescent—played back with perfect cruelty.

She lowered her hand. Turned. Walked away.

Her own suite felt like an exile.

She undressed on autopilot, her concert clothes sliding off like a shed skin, replaced by her burgundy pyjamas, garments that felt foreign against her still-charged skin. Her body was buzzing, still running on the chemical storm of the performance, of the kiss, of the aftershocks that hadn’t settled. She ran a hand through her hair and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror: A flush still on her cheeks. Not from champagne. From rejection.

Or was it shame?

She sat on the edge of the bed, back hunched, elbows on her knees, head heavy in her hands. Her temples pulsed.

She should never have kissed her. She knew better. She knows better. But it had felt inevitable. Like gravity—undeniable and stupid and true. And now Katrine, silent behind her closed door, hadn’t said a word since. And Lydia, once so certain of her own power and presence, now sat stripped of that armor.

She crawled into bed, the sheets cool against her skin. The applause was still ringing in her ears. She should have been glowing. This should’ve been one of those nights where she lay back and felt the ecstasy of triumph in her bones.

Instead, her stomach was in knots.

Every possibility unfurled like a dark fugue: Katrine avoiding her. Katrine telling her she had crossed a line. Katrine asking her—kindly, maybe even regretfully—to move into the maestro residence now that it was ready. Lydia knew that if it came to that, she would have no counterargument, no defense.

Only her own loneliness.

She turned on her side and curled slightly, eyes wide open. Trying to find a way to make peace with the dread. Trying to brace herself for the morning—for the brightness of it. For the conversation she couldn’t rehearse her way out of.

And still—despite everything, despite the fear and self-disgust—part of her remained suspended in the kiss. The warmth of Katrine’s mouth. The way she had, for a heartbeat, leaned into her. The sound of her breath when she'd yielded.

She heard it before she saw it.

The faintest sound—too soft to register at first, just the murmured rhythm of footfalls on the floor outside her door. Lydia held still, every muscle braced beneath the sheets. The sound stopped. A heartbeat passed, maybe two.

Then—the quiet mechanical sigh of the door easing open.

Her chest constricted. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe too loudly. The air in her suite shifted, filled now with another presence. Lydia's eyes, long adjusted to the dark, caught the slender silhouette stepping through the doorway. Katrine.

She didn’t say a word.

Lydia watched her cross the room—measured, unhurried, barefoot. Katrine paused by the edge of the bed. Lydia's body tensed with a fragile hope wrapped in dread. Her mind scrambled to prepare itself for either kindness or cutting clarity. But Katrine just stood there, still, as if trying to decide something.

And then—delicately, almost cautiously—Katrine pulled back the corner of the duvet and climbed in.

The mattress shifted. Warmth filled the space between them. Lydia turned slightly, slowly, to fully face her. They were so close now their breath mingled in the narrow silence, humid and intimate. Lydia could just make out the shimmer of Katrine’s eyes, open and steady, watching her.

No accusations. No anger.

Then Katrine’s hand rose, fingertips featherlight against Lydia’s jaw, a faint caress—the same touch as that morning, the one Lydia had pretended to be asleep. Only this time, she didn’t have to pretend. She let her eyes stay open, watching Katrine’s face soften in the dark. That same quiet affection, that unspoken familiarity—now tinged with something more certain. Less tentative.

And then, with a slowness that made the moment feel infinite, Katrine leaned in.

Lydia didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her breath caught.

Their mouths met.

It was not the hungry kiss of earlier—the sudden, adrenaline-fueled claim made in a hallway. This was something else. Slower. Filled with devotion. 

Katrine's lips were soft, warm, unhurried against hers. As if she was granting Lydia a second chance—this time not taken, but given. And Lydia received it with the reverence of a long-denied truth.

Lydia’s hands moved with deliberate intent, her fingers trailing a slow, teasing path up Katrine’s trembling body, the softness of her touch contrasting the fierce hunger burning in her chest. The silk negligee clinging to Katrine’s curves was impossibly thin, a delicate whisper of fabric under Lydia’s exploring hands. It was the same negligee that Katrine had worn that night Lydia had stood frozen in the doorway, watching Katrine’s lithe form writhe in the throes of solitary pleasure, her breathy moans etching themselves into Lydia’s memory. The recollection sent a white-hot pulse of arousal through Lydia’s veins, her skin prickling with want as her fingers lingered on the smooth plane of Katrine’s waist, tracing the dip just above her hips.

Their lips now locked in a searing kiss, a clash of heat and desperation, tongues sliding against each other in a slick, hungry dance. Lydia pressed herself closer, her body molding to Katrine’s, their curves fitting together with a delicious intimacy that made Lydia’s head spin. The softness of Katrine’s breasts pressed against her own, the silk negligee doing little to hide the hardened peaks that grazed Lydia’s chest through her thin sleep shirt. Lydia’s hands roamed higher, fingers splaying across Katrine’s back, pulling her impossibly closer until there was no space left between them, only the electric friction of skin and silk. The kiss deepened, growing ravenous, Lydia’s tongue plunging deeper, tasting the sweet heat of Katrine’s mouth, a low groan vibrating in her throat as Katrine matched her fervor, lips parted and eager.

Katrine’s slender leg shifted, sliding over Lydia’s waist with a slow, deliberate grace that made Lydia’s breath catch. The bare skin of Katrine’s thigh was warm, impossibly smooth, and the weight of it draped across Lydia’s body sent a jolt of raw desire straight to her core. The negligee had ridden up slightly, exposing the long, lean line of Katrine’s leg, and Lydia’s hands itched to explore further, to feel every inch of that silken skin. Her fingers tightened on Katrine’s hips, possessive and firm, as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss even further, her lips bruising, her teeth grazing Katrine’s lower lip in a fleeting, teasing nip that drew a soft whimper from Katrine’s throat.

With a surge of need, Lydia’s hands gripped Katrine’s hips more firmly, her nails digging faintly into soft flesh as she moved. In one fluid, commanding motion, Lydia rolled onto her back, pulling Katrine with her. Katrine gasped into the kiss, her body yielding to the movement, and when the motion settled, she was straddling Lydia’s waist, her thighs bracketing Lydia’s hips in a way that made Lydia’s pulse pound in her ears. The negligee had slipped higher now, the hem bunching around Katrine’s hips, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs and the tantalizing curve where her legs met her body. Lydia’s hands slid down, fingers grazing the exposed skin, savoring the heat and softness as Katrine shifted atop her, the subtle roll of her hips sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in Lydia’s belly.

The shift in position, with Katrine now straddling Lydia’s waist, sent a surge of electricity through the air, the mood thickening with an almost palpable intensity. Neither dared to speak, their silence a fragile thread holding the spell of the moment intact, words unnecessary in the face of the raw desire pulsing between them. Their breaths mingled, quick and uneven, as their eyes locked—Katrine’s gaze dark with want, Lydia’s burning with a hunger that bordered on desperation. The heat of Katrine’s thighs bracketing Lydia’s hips, the subtle grind of her body, only stoked the fire higher, each movement a silent promise of what was to come.

Lydia’s hands, trembling with barely restrained need, began a slow, deliberate ascent up Katrine’s thighs. Her fingers glided over the smooth, warm skin, tracing the lean muscle with a touch that was both reverent and possessive. She savored every inch, her palms spreading wide as she gently coaxed Katrine’s legs further apart, widening the straddle until Katrine’s weight settled more firmly against her. The motion drew a soft gasp from Katrine, her hips twitching instinctively, and Lydia’s pulse quickened at the sight of Katrine’s body opening to her, young, vulnerable and breathtaking under the faint glow of the room.

Lydia’s fingers found the hem of the negligee, the silk cool and slippery beneath her touch. With agonizing slowness, she dragged the fabric upward, her eyes drinking in every newly revealed inch of Katrine’s skin. The negligee slid over Katrine’s hips, exposing the gentle curve of her waist, then higher still, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the rosy peaks hardened in the cool air. Lydia’s breath hitched as she lifted the garment over Katrine’s head, tossing it aside to let it pool forgotten on the floor. Katrine’s body was a vision—lithe, flushed, and gloriously bare, her skin glowing with a sheen of arousal that made Lydia’s mouth water. She wanted to touch, to taste, to claim every part of her.

She trace the soft curve of Katrine’s hip, her touch deliberate, teasing, as they slide downward, grazing the delicate edge of Katrine’s knickers. Her breath hitches, a low hum of anticipation vibrating in her throat as her fingertips catch the thin, lacy waistband. The fabric is warm, clinging to Katrine’s skin, and Lydia’s pulse quickens at the promise of what lies beneath. She pauses for a heartbeat, savoring the tension, her eyes locked on Katrine’s flushed face, the way her lips part with a shaky exhale.

Then, with a slow, purposeful tug, Lydia slips her fingers under the waistband, the lace stretching slightly as her hand breaches the barrier. The heat radiating from Katrine’s core is immediate, electric, and Lydia’s groan rumbles low as her fingers find Katrine’s slick, dripping folds. Katrine is soaked, her arousal coating Lydia’s fingertips, slick and warm, a testament to how desperately she wants this. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” Lydia growls against her skin, her voice low and rough, dripping with hunger. Without any warning her fingers thrust deep and fast into her tight heat, curling just right to hit that spot that makes Katrine’s hips buck wildly against her hand. Katrine’s hands claw at Lydia’s shoulders, nails digging in, leaving crescent-shaped marks as she tries to anchor herself against the onslaught of pleasure. “You want this, don’t you?” Lydia rasps “You want me to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

Katrine’s response is a broken, “Please...” her voice trembling with need, her body arching into every brutal thrust of Lydia’s fingers. Her pussy clenches tight around them, slick and greedy, pulling Lydia in deeper as if she could swallow her whole. The heat of her, the way she drips down Lydia’s wrist, drives Lydia wild, her own arousal pooling low in her belly, a throbbing ache that matches the rhythm of her fingers fucking into Katrine’s cunt.

She adds a third finger, stretching Katrine’s tight heat, and the choked moan that rips from Katrine’s throat is so raw, so filthy, it sends a jolt straight to Lydia’s core. “That’s it,” Lydia murmurs, her voice a dark, velvet promise. “Take it. Take everything I give you.” Her thumb finds Katrine’s clit, circling it with ruthless precision, each swipe drawing a fresh wave of tremors through Katrine’s body.

Lydia plunges deeper into Katrine’s slick, pulsing cunt, each thrust a relentless rhythm that drives Katrine’s body to the edge of surrender. The wet, obscene sounds of her fingers fucking into Katrine’s tight heat fill the air, a filthy symphony that mixes with Katrine’s ragged whimpers and the harsh pant of Lydia’s breath. She can feel Katrine’s inner walls starting to flutter, the first telltale spasms of her impending orgasm clamping down around Lydia’s fingers, gripping them like a vice. The sensation sends a jolt of raw, possessive hunger through Lydia’s core, her own arousal soaking through her pyjamas, a damp heat pressing against the fabric.

Katrine’s hips buck wildly, grinding against Lydia’s hand, chasing the crest of pleasure with desperate, uncoordinated thrusts. Lydia’s free hand shoots up, tangling in Katrine’s hair, her grip tight and unyielding as she yanks Katrine’s face down to meet her own. Their breaths mingling in hot, frantic gasps, and Lydia’s lips brush against Katrine’s ear, her voice low and deep, dripping with desire. “You’re mine,” she hisses, the words sharp and possessive, each syllable laced with the weight of her need. “This cunt, this body, every fucking part of you belongs to me.”

Katrine’s response is a broken, shuddering gasp, her voice trembling on the brink of collapse as her pussy clenches tighter around Lydia’s fingers, the spasms growing stronger, more insistent. “Yours,” she chokes out, the words spilling from her lips like a prayer, raw and fervent, her eyes glassy with need as she stares into Lydia’s. A desperate sob of surrender, and the sound ignites something feral in Lydia. A low, possessive purr rumbles in her chest, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she presses her mouth to Katrine’s ear again. “That’s my good girl,” she murmurs, her voice a dark, velvet caress, thick with approval and hunger. “My perfect fucking girl.”

Lydia’s thumb finds Katrine’s clit, swollen and slick, and she presses down hard, circling it with ruthless precision as her fingers curl inside Katrine’s cunt. The effect is immediate—Katrine’s body seizes, her back arching, thighs trembling as the first wave of her orgasm crashes through her. Her pussy clamps down so tightly around Lydia’s fingers it cuts off the blood flow, the pressure so intense it makes Lydia groan, her own arousal spiking at the feeling of Katrine’s cunt milking her fingers. Katrine’s cries turn sharp, keening, her voice breaking into a wordless scream as her orgasm tears through her, her body shaking uncontrollably in Lydia’s arms.

Hot, slick juices flood from Katrine’s pulsing cunt, coating Lydia’s hand, dripping down her wrist, and soaking into the waistband of Lydia’s pyjamas. The wet heat seeps through the fabric, slicking Lydia’s skin, and the sensation of Katrine’s release marking her sends a primal thrill through Lydia’s veins. She keeps fucking Katrine through it, her fingers relentless, drawing out every shudder, every spasm, as Katrine’s body writhes against her, utterly undone. Katrine’s head falls forward, her face buried in the crook of Lydia’s neck, her breaths coming in short, sobbing gasps.

Lydia slows her movements but doesn’t stop, her fingers still curling gently inside Katrine’s oversensitive cunt, coaxing out the last trembling aftershocks. She presses a kiss to the damp skin of Katrine’s temple, her lips lingering as she murmurs, “That’s it, baby girl. Give me everything.” Her voice is softer now, but still thick with possession, her hand in Katrine’s hair loosening to stroke gently through the tangled strands. Katrine whimpers, her body limp and pliant against Lydia’s, her pussy still twitching faintly around Lydia’s fingers, now trapped in the tight, wet heat of her release.

The air is heavy with the scent of sex, the room filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing and the faint, slick noises as Lydia finally eases her fingers out, Katrine’s cunt reluctantly letting go. Lydia lifts her hand, glistening with Katrine’s juices, and brings it to her lips, her eyes locked on Katrine’s as she licks her fingers clean, savoring the taste of her. “Mine,” she repeats, her voice a low, satisfied purr, and Katrine shudders.

Katrine's sweet, tangy release flooding her senses, a heady mix that makes her head spin and her core throb with renewed desperation. The slick warmth of Katrine’s juices coats her lips, and she sucks her fingers deeper, a low, guttural moan vibrating in her throat as she savors every drop. Her eyes stay locked on Katrine’s face, drinking in the way her pupils dilate, her cheeks flush deeper, her lips part in a soft, dazed gasp. The sight of Katrine watching her, so undone, so utterly hers, sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through Lydia, her own cunt clenching painfull.

Katrine’s hands move suddenly, trembling but sure, as she grabs Lydia’s face, her fingers digging into her jaw with a desperate edge. She pulls Lydia in, crashing their mouths together in a kiss so deep, so raw, it feels like it could unravel them both. Katrine’s tongue dives into Lydia’s mouth, chasing the taste of herself, licking hungrily at the remnants of her own release. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, a clash of need and possession, and Lydia groans into it, her hands fisting in Katrine’s hair as she kisses her back just as fiercely. Katrine’s moan vibrates against Lydia’s lips, the sound of her tasting herself—knowing it’s her own slick essence on Lydia’s tongue—driving Lydia’s arousal to an unbearable peak.

Katrine breaks the kiss, her breath hot and ragged against Lydia’s lips, and begins to trail her mouth downward, her full lips brushing along the sharp line of Lydia’s jaw. Each kiss is deliberate, a soft scrape of teeth followed by the warm sweep of her tongue, leaving a tingling path in its wake. Lydia’s head tips back, a low moan spilling from her as Katrine’s lips find the sensitive pulse point at her throat, sucking gently, then harder, marking her in return. The sensation sends sparks down Lydia’s spine, her skin prickling with heat as Katrine’s hands move to the buttons of her pyjama top, deft fingers working them open one by one.

As each button gives way, Katrine’s lips follow, kissing the newly exposed skin with reverence, her breath hot against Lydia’s collarbone, then lower, grazing the swell of her breasts. The fabric parts, revealing the pale curve of Lydia’s chest, her nipples already hard and aching under Katrine’s gaze. Katrine’s tongue flicks out, teasing the edge of one nipple through the thin fabric of her open pyjama top, and Lydia’s back arches, a deep, throaty moan tearing from her as Katrine’s lips close over the sensitive peak, sucking gently through the cotton before moving to the other. “Fuck” Lydia gasps, her hands tangling in Katrine’s hair, urging her closer, needing more of that warm, worshipful mouth on her skin.

Katrine’s hands slide lower, her fingers hooking into the waistband of Lydia’s pyjama pants and the damp, clinging knickers beneath. With a single, fluid motion, she tugs them both down, the fabric sliding over Lydia’s hips and pooling at her ankles before Katrine tosses them aside, the soft thud of them hitting the floor echoing in the charged silence. They join Katrine’s discarded negligee, a tangled heap of fabric that tells the story of their unraveling. Katrine’s hands return immediately, her palms gliding up the smooth length of Lydia’s legs, her touch firm yet tender, like she’s mapping every inch of her. Her lips follow, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the inside of Lydia’s calves, her knees, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, each kiss a slow, deliberate claim that makes Lydia’s breath hitch and her body tremble.

Lydia’s legs part instinctively, spreading wide to make room for Katrine between them, her cunt glistening with arousal under Katrine’s heated gaze. The air feels cool against her slick folds, a stark contrast to the burning heat of her core, and Lydia’s hips shift restlessly, a silent plea for Katrine to close the distance. Katrine’s hands caress higher, fingers tracing the crease where thigh meets hip, teasing so close to where Lydia needs her most that it’s almost torture. Her lips follow, kissing the tender skin just above Lydia’s mound, her breath warm and teasing, and Lydia’s hands fist in the sheets, her moan deep and desperate as Katrine’s mouth hovers maddeningly close.

Lydia’s body quivers, every inch of her skin alight with electric anticipation as Katrine’s tongue traces the slick, swollen seam of her cunt, parting her folds with a slow, deliberate sweep that feels like a sacred undoing. The tip of Katrine’s tongue is maddeningly precise, teasing Lydia open with a languid, torturous glide that sends a jolt of raw pleasure straight to her core. Lydia’s hips twitch, a sharp, involuntary shudder, her breath catching in a ragged, desperate gasp that reverberates in the heavy air. “That’s it, kitten,” she groans, her voice low and molten, thick with a hunger so fierce it threatens to consume her. “Make your daddy come with your sweet young mouth.” Her hands find Katrine’s head, fingers weaving tightly into the soft, tangled strands of her hair, pulling with a possessive edge as she presses Katrine’s mouth harder against her throbbing, dripping pussy. Lydia’s hips buck, grinding against Katrine’s face, her body chasing the searing heat of that wicked tongue as it delves deeper, lapping at her arousal.

Katrine’s moan hums against Lydia’s clit, a low, filthy vibration that ripples through her, nearly shattering her control in a single, devastating moment. Lydia’s moan tears free, raw and trembling, “Fuck… so good…” Her voice fractures, her body teetering on the precipice as Katrine’s lips close around her clit, sucking with a perfect, torturous pressure that makes Lydia’s vision blur and her thighs tremble. Then, in a movement so seamless it feels predestined, Katrine slides two fingers into Lydia’s slick, pulsing cunt, her touch unerring, as if guided by some primal, carnal knowledge crafted solely for Lydia’s pleasure. The moment those fingers curl inside her, they find that sweet, magical spot— that hidden cluster of nerves that sends a white-hot surge of ecstasy through her entire being. It’s as if Katrine was born knowing exactly how to unravel her, each subtle twist and press of her fingers hitting that sacred place with devastating precision, as though her hands were molded by the universe itself to fit the contours of Lydia’s desire.

Lydia’s back arches, a deep, guttural moan ripping from her throat as Katrine’s fingers work that spot with relentless, intuitive skill, stroking and curling with a rhythm that feels like it was written into Katrine’s very being. “Right there, don’t stop,” Lydia growls, her voice a dark, velvet command laced with awe, her hands tightening in Katrine’s hair as she grounds herself against the onslaught of pleasure. Katrine’s fingers fuck into her with a steady, unyielding pace, each thrust a deliberate claim, stretching Lydia’s tight, soaking heat while her tongue flicks and swirls over her clit, sucking with a fervor that makes Lydia’s entire body quake. The wet, obscene sounds of Katrine’s fingers plunging into her cunt, the slick lapping of her tongue against Lydia’s swollen clit, fill the room together with Lydia’s desperate moans and the creak of the bed as her hips grind harder, chasing the edge of oblivion.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” Lydia gasps, her voice rough and pleading, her body trembling under the weight of Katrine’s touch. That sweet spot inside her sings under Katrine’s fingers, each curl and press sending shockwaves of pleasure that coil tighter and tighter in her core. Her fingers made for this, for her, every movement a testament to some divine understanding of Lydia’s body, her needs, her deepest desires. Katrine’s eyes flick up, dark and gleaming with intent, a wicked smile curving her lips as she presses a third finger into Lydia’s cunt, stretching her further, the added pressure making Lydia’s moan break into a sob of raw need.

When Katrine’s tongue flicks just right, her lips closing around Lydia’s clit with a hard, sucking pull, and her fingers curl deep inside, stroking that magical spot with unerring accuracy, Lydia shatters. Her orgasm crashes through her with a force that feels like it could split the world apart, a wave of ecstasy that rips a deep and grutal moan from her throat, her cunt pulsing wildly around Katrine’s fingers, clamping down so tightly it steals her breath. Her body shakes, her vision whites out, and she holds Katrine’s face tight against her pussy, her hips grinding as Katrine drinks in her cum, her tongue lapping greedily at the flood of juices that spill from Lydia’s trembling core, coating her lips, her chin, her fingers in a slick, glistening claim. The pleasure so intense it feels like it might unravel her completely, her body quaking with each wave of release that Katrine coaxes from her.

Completely spent, Lydia collapses back against the pillow, her body heavy with exhaustion that pulls at her like gravity. The day’s weight, the intensity of finally claiming Katrine, and the overwhelming satisfaction of her release drain every ounce of her strength. Her cunt still twitches with the fading ripples of her orgasm, faint spasms of pleasure pulsing through her as Katrine’s tongue slows, gently lapping at the last of her juices with a tenderness.

Her eyes flutter closed, her chest heaving as a profound, satiated calm washes over her, sinking into her bones. She dimly registers the ghost of Katrine’s lips, slick with the taste of Lydia’s release, brushing against her own in a soft, lingering kiss, the flavor of her own cum mingling with Katrine’s breath. The weight of Katrine’s body settles into her arms, warm and solid, fitting perfectly against her. Lydia sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep, her heart pounding with the quiet certainty of possession, her body and soul utterly fulfilled, wrapped in the warmth of Katrine’s embrace.

Chapter Text

Katrine's POV

From the very first moment Lydia turned to her, eyes blazing with something just beneath the surface—possession, perhaps, or longing finely disguised as casual confidence—she’d known exactly where they were going. And what might happen if she followed.

And she followed anyway.

It wasn’t stupidity. She wasn’t young enough for that excuse anymore. Nor was it naivety. She was far too practiced at reading the space between people, the pauses in their words, the weight behind their gestures. That had always been her talent: sensing the unspoken, navigating it like second nature.

No, she’d known. When Lydia offered her the champagne glass without a word. When the conductor’s hand slipped low along her back, fingers resting with effortless certainty at the curve of her hip, drawing slow circles into the silk of her dress. When Lydia’s body ever so slightly angled toward her in a silent act of claiming, communicating to that poor young man that this conversation, this woman, was not his to have.

It had undone her. Absolutely and without mercy.

She’d watched Lydia on that podium earlier, standing like something elemental—every motion of her baton not just commanding, but speaking in a language that bypassed logic entirely. The way Lydia shaped silence and breath into sound.

And so when Lydia reached for her, gently—"Come with me" ringing clear between them—Katrine didn’t hesitate. Not visibly.

But there had been a voice. Quiet, rational. The part of her that had always weighed risk and consequence with careful precision. It had whispered that following Lydia down the corridor would mean stepping across a line neither of them could uncross. That whatever happened, however gentle or brief or selfishly electric—it would matter. And it would complicate everything.

She silenced that voice. Or rather, she let desire speak louder.

Because she needed to know.

She needed to know what Lydia would look like up close, when the world fell away and they weren’t surrounded by patrons and politics, or hiding in early morning coffees and shared silences across their strange domestic perimeter. She needed to know if the weight of Lydia’s longing matched the weight of her own.

The kiss had caught her off guard. Not the fact of it—no, she had known it would come, had followed Lydia down that corridor with the full understanding of what waited in the hush of those marble halls. But the intensity of it—that was what stole her breath.

Lydia kissed like it was the only way she knew how to speak. No prelude, no soft testing of boundaries—just a rush of want, contained but potent, spilling over the moment their mouths met. It was like being consumed.

She should have pushed her away. She should have said wait. Stop. Think.

Instead, she kissed her back.

Because Lydia’s mouth on hers was drugging—warm and greedy and real, and it tasted of champagne and sin, something forbidden and too long craved. Her hands found Lydia’s shoulders without meaning to, steadying herself in the sudden current of it. The hallway spun. Lydia pressed closer, fingers digging into the silk at Katrine’s waist, her thigh—God—her thigh slipping between Katrine’s legs making heat pull deeply between them.

And then—then the wall.

Cold marble against her back as Lydia pressed her in, the chill of it biting through the fabric of her dress in stark contrast to the heat everywhere else. And that contrast—that was what shattered the trance.

And just like that, Katrine couldn’t breathe.

The walls didn’t just feel cold now—they felt close. Too close. The whole world seemed to tilt, too much pressure in her chest and not enough air, and the realization struck sharp and cruel: This is happening. It’s already happened.

And what came next?

What came next would not be private. It would not be quiet. It would not be something she could contain with a whispered conversation or a look across the table. This wasn’t a mistake you could fold back into silence. Not with who Lydia was. Not with who she was.

K.D.

The initials seemed to burn against her chest like a brand. Her job. Her role. Her power.

And Lydia’s.

The hierarchy between them, blurred in the dark like this, would snap into unforgiving clarity in the daylight. And she would be the one who let it happen. Who followed. Who kissed back.

Panic surged. Her hands—so recently clinging—shoved softly, then harder. Lydia stepped back, startled, mouth still parted in confusion or maybe hurt, but Katrine couldn’t look at her long enough to tell.

She just had to get away. From the heat of Lydia’s intense blue eyes. From the kiss still burning on her lips. From her own lack of resistance. Her own betrayal of caution.

“I can’t—” she choked, and she wasn’t even sure Lydia heard her.

She turned and walked. No—fled.

Away from the hall. Away from the atrium. Away from Lydia.

Her own footsteps felt too loud in the empty corridor. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts.

The cold met her like a slap—sharp, bracing, cleansing.

Copenhagen’s night air cut straight through the thin silk of her dress, wrapping around her legs and crawling up her spine. She didn’t mind. If anything, it was welcome. The shock of it against her flushed skin helped her breathe, helped her think. Each breath she dragged in was colder than the last, slicing through the cloud of adrenaline and heat and panic still coursing through her.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, uneven. She barely noticed the stares from lingering symphony guests out on the street or Peter's startled glance as she passed through the doors of the KDS building. She didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. The adrenaline now had purpose, form—she let it drive her up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

Her office was dark when she pushed the door open, the faint green glow of her computer’s sleep light blinking in the silence. It felt like a sanctuary. A place where everything still made sense.

She crossed to the desk and flicked on the light. The warm halo pooled around the documents she hadn’t yet filed—the acquisitions papers, the internal memos, the oversight clauses that had, until this very moment, defined her role within the KDS Cultural Division.

Her hands didn’t shake as she found the right folder. She laid out the documents with deliberate care, scanning through until she found the ones that mattered—the ones that tied her name to the Copenhagen Symphony, to Lydia.

To all of it.

She sat down, opened her laptop, and started drafting.

The document was short. Precise. A formal restructure of the oversight branch she had been leading, separating the symphony acquisition into its own independent entity, effective immediately. She relinquished her role. She cited transparency, best practices, streamlined integrity.

It was written in the clean, careful language of someone used to navigating consequences with elegance.

But beneath that—beneath every sentence—was her decision.

She hit print. The hum of the machine started up behind her. She rose and walked to it, standing there barefoot now, heels discarded somewhere by the door, as the single page slid into the tray.

The quiet weight of it in her hand felt like clarity.

She took out her phone, her fingers hovered over the phone screen a second longer before she tapped Alex’s name. The call rang only twice before he picked up, his voice still tinged with the buzz of the evening.

“Katrine?”

She exhaled softly. “Hey. Are you still at the symphony?”

“Yeah, I just congratulated Lydia a bit ago—she, uh, looked... good. Preoccupied. Kind of like she was somewhere else. Where are you?”

“I already went home,” Katrine lied smoothly, wiping a bit of toner dust from her fingers. “Some emergency work thing came up. I had to deal with it right away.”

“Everything okay?” he asked, the familiar note of concern threading into his voice.

She hesitated, then softened. “Yeah, nothing dramatic. Just one of those things that couldn’t wait.”

He was quiet a beat, as if trying to read what she wasn’t saying.

Then: “You need me to come in?”

She smiled faintly. “No. You should enjoy the evening. But... can you come in whenever you’re up tomorrow?”

“Alright,” he said, still sounding uncertain. “See you in the morning, then.”

“Night, Alex.”

The penthouse was quiet when Katrine stepped from the office staircase. Her heart still hadn’t slowed—Lydia’s kiss still humming like electricity beneath her skin. Her fingers twitched slightly as she crossed the room into her suite, closing the door with a careful click.

The rustle of silk as she paced made her feel absurdly loud, the dress whispering around her thighs as if it too carried the weight of what had passed. The adrenaline hadn’t dissipated; it had only changed shape. Her mind was spinning, a cyclone of consequences and questions, her body still echoing with the press of Lydia’s hands and the way her thigh had pressed up between her legs.

She kept hearing it—Lydia’s voice low in her ear, the subtle command, the possessive curve of her palm at her hip. And that look. That steady, confident gaze Lydia gave her right before kissing her like it was inevitable. As if Katrine had already been hers all along.

It terrified her.

Because somewhere beneath the thrill was the fear she couldn’t shake—the deep, cold fear that this wasn’t love or something close to it. That this was just another one of Lydia’s obsessions. That she would be devoured by the heat of it, only to be left out in the cold once Lydia had satisfied her curiosity.

Would she be enough to keep Lydia’s gaze from drifting, once the chase was over? Once Katrine was no longer mysterious or untouched?

Lydia had that look about her—the kind of woman who always reached for what shimmered just out of reach. Katrine knew the type. Brilliant. Magnetic. Restless. Always looking for the next beautiful thing to touch. To own. To conquer.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling Lydia there.

What if she was just… a temporary need? A complication Lydia had convinced herself she needed, until something younger, more elusive came along?

The thoughts swirled like stormclouds. She could feel them tightening around her chest.

She looked at the document in her hand again, her name above the signature, the clean language of separation. She had made a choice. She’d drawn a line between them and the institution—between her position and the possibility of something personal. She had taken the risk.

The click of the front door open—then shut. She froze, mid-pace, blood roaring in her ears. Lydia’s footsteps. Measured, familiar.

Then stopping. Right outside her door.

Katrine held her breath.

She didn’t know what she was bracing for more—the knock, or the impulse to throw the door open before it could come. She stared at the door like it might speak.

But it didn’t.

The steps moved away.

Relief and disappointment surged in equal measure. She let herself breathe, finally, a soft exhale that didn’t calm her. Her insides were still a riot. She turned, the paper still clenched in her hand.

It was done.

And she had to believe it had been for the right reason. Now she to heal the rift she had caused by fleeing.

Crossing to her dressing room, she undid the zip at the side of her dress with practiced hands. The silk pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it, reaching for the black negligee hanging on the side rail. The same one she’d worn that night—when she’d caught Lydia in the shadows watching her pleasure herself.

The memory stirred something warm, something foolish. Something brave.

She slipped into the negligee, adjusted the strap with a decisive little tug, and walked barefoot back out into the penthouse.

Each step toward Lydia’s suite felt heavier than the last—both with doubt and meaning.

What if Lydia only wanted her because she was close, because it was forbidden, because it was easy to want someone whose entire life was orbiting hers for now?

What if this meant everything to Katrine—and nothing at all to Lydia once the applause faded?

She reached Lydia’s door.

Her fingers trembled around the handle.

Still, she opened it.

The room was dim, the faint spill of the city casting long shadows across the bed. Lydia was there, lying still, not asleep. Katrine could feel her watching, feel the tension in the air like a string pulled taut.

She crossed the room, slow and quiet, and stood by the bed. Then she hesitated, her throat tight. She wanted to speak. Wanted to ask. But fear tangled around her tongue, and pride swallowed the words whole.

So instead, she let her choice—her silent, fragile, courageous choice—speak for her.

She reached for the edge of the duvet, and with the surety of a choice already made, slipped beneath it.

Chapter Text

Lydia stirred before the sun had fully claimed the room, the early grey light filtering softly through the sheer curtains. She stretched and felt the soreness in her body, as if she had been running a marathon yesterday. 

A body pressed into hers, skin to skin.

Katrine.

Her breath caught, suddenly very much awake.

They had shared a bed before, that was not new, but this time, they were naked—that was new.

And Lydia, despite herself, despite all her analytical rigor and her instinct to intellectualize experience was briefly paralyzed by the terrifying, exhilarating rush of memory that came flooding in, now fully breaking over her consciousness.

It hadn’t been a dream.

The hallway. That kiss.

Katrine coming into her bed, hesitating—but not stopping.

The trembling hands reaching for her.

The urgency of it, the unraveling of restraint.

She had touched her. All of her. claimed her. And Katrine had let her.

No—Katrine had wanted her to.

A low pulse of pure triumph hummed in Lydia’s chest—like the final movement of a symphony she had rewritten a thousand times in her head finally crashing into perfect resolution.

Her hand, already resting on the curve of Katrine’s waist, drifted slowly, reverently, her fingertips brushing the soft skin just above her hipbone. The shape of her was no longer imagined or secret stolen caresses, no longer the abstract of longing. She was here. She was completely hers.

Lydia’s heart thundered, a wild rhythm that drowned out the quiet of the early morning. The air felt thick, charged, as desire washed over her like a tsunami of lust, obliterating any shred of restraint she might have had. Katrine’s sleeping body, warm and pliant against her own, was a revelation—an invitation she couldn't resist.

Her hand, trembling with the weight of want, traveled down, skimming the soft plane of Katrine’s stomach, lower, until her fingers brushed the heat between her thighs.
A stifled moan caught in Lydia’s throat as she felt how wet Katrine already was, how ready for her even in sleep. The slick warmth beneath her fingertips sent a jolt through her, electric and primal, her own body tightening in response.

Katrine shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and Lydia’s pulse spiked, her senses narrowing to the point of contact. She spooned in tighter, molding herself to Katrine’s back, the arm that had been cradling her head curling around to grip Katrine’s slender neck. Her hold was firm, possessive, but careful—not constricting, just enough to feel the pulse beneath her palm.

Lydia’s fingers moved with deliberate slowness, parting Katrine’s folds, exploring the tight, wet heat of her. She slid one finger inside, then another, marveling at the way Katrine’s body yielded to her, clenching around her in a way that made Lydia’s breath hitch. She started fucking her slowly, languidly, each movement measured.

Lydia’s lips curved into a satisfied smile, a quiet thrill humming through her as she felt Katrine’s hips begin to rock back and forth, a slow, instinctive rhythm that matched the pulse of her own desire. The soft sleepy moans spilling from Katrine’s lips were a melody, each one a confession of surrender, of need, and Lydia drank them in, her chest swelling with something fierce and possessive.

The heat of Katrine’s body, the slick glide of her against Lydia’s fingers, was a revelation—every movement, every sound, a testament to the unspoken truth that had simmered between them for so long. Katrine was hers, and the realization burned through Lydia like wildfire, consuming every doubt, every hesitation.

“Morning, pet,” Lydia murmured, her voice rough from sleep, a low growl that vibrated against the shell of Katrine’s ear. The words felt intimate, weighted, a claim as much as a greeting. She let her fingers tightened around Katrine’s slender neck, lightly cutting off enough airflow that it would make her the perfect amount of dizzy in her state between sleep and wakefulness. It made Katrine’s breath hitch, her body arching back into Lydia’s with a need that mirrored her own.

Emboldened, she doubled her efforts, her fingers plunging deeper into Katrine’s tight, wet pussy, curling just so to find that spot that made Katrine’s moans grow sharper, more desperate. The slick heat enveloped her, pulling her in, and Lydia’s own arousal surged, a low ache pooling between her thighs. She pressed her groin harder against Katrine’s ass, the contact sending a jolt through her, the friction of skin on skin amplifying the hunger that roared in her veins. Every thrust of her fingers was deliberate, relentless, a rhythm that spoke of possession and devotion in equal measure.

Lydia swung her leg over Katrine’s hip, hooking it firmly to pin her down even further. The shift gave her leverage, her thigh pressing against Katrine’s, holding her in place as she plundered her pussy with a fervor that bordered on obsessive. Katrine’s rocking grew more urgent, her moans breaking into gasps, and Lydia’s heart pounded with the raw power of it—of knowing she was the one unraveling her, the one coaxing these sounds from her lips. She leaned in, her breath hot against Katrine’s skin, and sank her teeth into the tender spot between the shoulder and neck, not hard enough to break skin but enough to mark, to claim. The sharp intake of Katrine’s breath, the way her body shuddered under the bite, only fueled Lydia’s fire.

Her fingers moved faster now, slick with Katrine’s arousal, each thrust deeper, more insistent, as she chased the crescendo she could feel building. Katrine’s body was a live wire, trembling, arching, her hips grinding against Lydia’s hand with a desperation that made Lydia’s own breath come in ragged bursts. She could feel it—the tightening, the subtle ripples in Katrine’s core, the way her pussy clenched around her fingers like a vice. Lydia’s teeth grazed Katrine’s neck again, her tongue soothing the spot she’d bitten, and whispered, “That’s it, pet. Let go for me.”

The words seemed to tip Katrine over the edge. Her moans fractured into a keening cry, her body seizing as the first wave of her orgasm hit. Lydia felt it—the rhythmic clamp of Katrine’s pussy around her fingers, the shudder that rolled through her entire frame, the way her hips bucked and her breath came in broken, gasping sobs. Lydia didn’t stop, didn’t slow, her fingers working Katrine through every pulse, every ripple, drawing out the pleasure until Katrine was trembling, spent, her body sagging against Lydia’s in a boneless surrender.

Lydia’s grip on Katrine’s neck softened, her thumb brushing gently over the pulse point as she eased her fingers from Katrine’s warmth, slick and glistening cunt. She pressed a tender kiss to the bite mark, her lips lingering there as she savored the aftershocks of Katrine’s climax, the way her body still twitched with the echoes of release. “You’re mine,” she said, not a question, not a demand, but a statement of truth. The morning light, still soft and grey, spilled through the sheer curtains, casting a gentle glow across her skin, illuminating the flush that painted her cheeks and the delicate sheen of sweat along her collarbone.

Lydia watched her, mesmerized, her own pulse still racing, her body thrumming with the heady satisfaction of having brought Katrine to such a shattering peak. The air between them was thick with the raw intimacy of what had just transpired, and Lydia’s heart pounded with a mix of triumph and yearning, her own arousal a steady, insistent ache that pulsed in time with Katrine’s slowing breaths.

Katrine stirred, her body shifting in Lydia’s embrace, and then, with a slow, deliberate grace, she turned to face her. The movement was fluid, almost feline, her curves sliding against Lydia’s, their legs still tangled, their bodies close enough that Lydia could feel the heat radiating from her.

Katrine’s eyes, wide and fully awake now, locked onto Lydia’s with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs. Those hazel eyes, held Lydia captive, pinning her in place as surely as her earlier grip on Katrine’s neck had. There was no hesitation in Katrine’s gaze, no trace of shy uncertainty. Instead, there was fire, a bold, unapologetic want that made Lydia’s stomach twist with fresh desire.

Katrine’s lips parted, still swollen from their kisses last night and puffy with sleep, and her breath came in soft, uneven pants, a testament to the pleasure Lydia had wrung from her. Without breaking eye contact, Katrine reached for Lydia’s hand—the one that had been inside her, still glistening with the evidence of her release. The sight of it, slick and shining in the dim light, sent a jolt through Lydia, a visceral reminder of how deeply she’d claimed her.

Katrine’s fingers curled around Lydia’s wrist, her touch light but deliberate, and she brought Lydia’s hand to her lips, her eyes never wavering from Lydia’s. The intensity of that gaze was almost too much, a silent challenge, a promise, a surrender all at once, and Lydia felt her throat tighten, her body humming with anticipation.

Slowly, almost reverently, Katrine drew Lydia’s fingers into her mouth. The first touch of her tongue against Lydia’s skin was electric, a warm, wet caress that sent a shiver racing down Lydia’s spine. Katrine’s eyes fluttered half-closed for a moment, but she forced them open, holding Lydia’s gaze as she licked her fingers clean, her tongue swirling over each digit with a slow, deliberate care that was both worshipful and provocative.

The sensation was overwhelming—the slick heat of Katrine’s mouth, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sucked gently, her tongue teasing the sensitive pads of Lydia’s fingertips. The act was brazen, unashamed, and Lydia felt a rush of heat flood her core, her thighs pressing together instinctively as her body responded to the sight, the feel, the sheer audacity of it. Katrine’s eyes burned into hers, like molten gold, and Lydia saw everything in them—desire, trust, a hunger that mirrored her own. And Lydia, caught in the intensity of that gaze, felt her heart stutter, her chest swelling with something too vast to name, something that went beyond lust and into the realm of devotion.

Katrine took her time, her tongue lingering on each finger, her lips brushing against Lydia’s knuckles as she worked her way from one to the next. The slow, deliberate pace was maddening, each stroke of her tongue a deliberate tease, unhurried, purposeful, drawing out every sensation. Lydia’s free hand twitched, itching to touch her, to pull her closer, but she held still, captivated by the sight of Katrine’s lips wrapped around her fingers, the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the soft hum of satisfaction that vibrated against Lydia’s skin.

When Katrine finally released Lydia’s hand, her lips were glossy, her breath still uneven, and she leaned forward, closing the small distance between them. Her hand slid up to cup Lydia’s cheek, her thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, and Lydia felt the weight of that touch settle deep in her, tethering her to this moment. “And you're mine” Katrine whispered, her voice soft but fierce, three words that carried the weight of everything they were becoming.

Lydia’s lips parted, but no words came—none were needed. She leaned in, capturing Katrine’s mouth anew.

The kiss unraveled slowly between them—soft, languid, and unhurried—as if the world outside the sheets didn’t exist.

Then the sound of a voice shattered it.

“Katrine? You here?”

Alex’s voice echoed through the penthouse, sharp and far too awake for the hour.

Katrine froze, eyes wide in sudden panic, her body tensing against Lydia’s.

“Fuck!” she whispered, scrambling out of the bed. “I told Alex to be here when he got up this morning.”

Lydia blinked, momentarily dazed, before letting out a short, quiet laugh—part amused, part astonished, and tinged with that half-hungover buzz of emotional whiplash.

“Now why,” she asked dryly, watching Katrine naked dart across the floor like a deer in soft panic, “would you go and do something like that?”

Katrine, bent over, scooped up the first piece of clothing she could find—Lydia’s sleep shirt. The hem flirted dangerously high on her thighs, barely concealing the fact that there was nothing else underneath.

“Because,” Katrine replied breathlessly, buttoning the shirt and quickly smoothing it down with both hands, “I made him executive of the Symphony yesterday when i got home. After I left you.”

She said it like it was just a minor detail. Something simple and just logistical. But Lydia stilled.

She made him executive right after only a kiss.

Before crawling into her bed.

Katrine stepped closer and leaned down, planting a kiss—sweet, unapologetic—on Lydia’s mouth. Then she turned and padded toward the suite door, hair tousled and bare legs.

Lydia remained motionless, lips parted. The kiss lingered less in sensation than in meaning. Her mind raced to catch up.

Katrine had not just given in to desire—she had restructured the very architecture that made this impossible. Quietly. Decisively. She hadn’t told her last night. She hadn’t demanded any promises before doing it. She had made the choice for herself.

A sacrifice.

Or something more terrifying—an act of belief.

The sound of Alex’s laughter could be heard, distant but unmistakably very amused by something. Lydia blinked herself out of thought, the atmosphere of the room cracking open with reality’s return. She slipped out of bed, her body still arching and sore in the best kind of way.

She found a white t-shirt—plain, one of the dozens she would usually travel with—and tugged it on, followed by a pair of tailored black slacks. No time for further reflection on Katrine's actions and what had happened last night. That would come later. Right now, she had to see what was unfolding.

She followed the sound of laughter—Alex’s unmistakable cackling echoing from the kitchen—and moved through the open space, barefoot, running a hand through her hair, hair still tangled from sleep.

Katrine stood there already, arms crossed, face flat with mock disapproval, but Lydia could sense the taut hum of restrained amusement just beneath her skin. She was holding herself in place, barely.

Alex was doubled over at the kitchen counter, one hand braced on the marble like he might fall down entirely.

When he caught sight of Lydia entering the kitchen, his laughter intensified.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed, pointing toward both of them. “How old are you?! The both of you? Really, Katrine? A hickey?” He gasped again, blinking through tears. “Is that—wait, is that a bite mark?”

Lydia came to stand beside Katrine, folding her own arms, but not quite suppressing the self-satisfied proud smug twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Alex, still red-faced, shook his head. “I come in early on a saturday—extra early—because of your mysterious little call last night, thinking something badly had happened." He gestured broadly to them both. “And I walk into this—you two, barely dressed, looking like two rumpled up teenagers.”

Katrine tried to cut in, “Well—” but Alex just laughed harder.

“No, no—sorry. I cannot take you seriously when you’re standing there in that”—he gestured vaguely toward the sleep shirt hanging on Katrine’s frame—“still smelling like last night’s... symphony.”

He grinned wickedly, wiping at his eyes. “Go. Shower. Get dressed. After that you can fire me and anoint me King of the Symphony—whatever it is you two decided in your post-coital cultural reform meeting. I'll get the breakfast I bought with me set out in the meantime, you two disgustingly looks like you need the calories”

He turned to Lydia now, smirking. “You too. Shower.”

Katrine huffed, rolling her eyes and pivoting wordlessly on her heel, stalking off toward her suite. Lydia didn’t move at first. She stood for a beat longer, eyes trailing after her—specifically, after the hem of that stolen sleep shirt, the way it rode just barely high enough to hint but not deliver. The line of her legs, the memory of them wrapped around her.

Then Katrine turned.

Eyebrow raised. “Are you coming?”

There was an unmistakable dare in her voice. A challenge wrapped in nonchalance. Lydia’s lips curled into a smirk that she didn’t bother to hide, casting a quick glance toward Alex, who was still shaking his head with laughter and mock horror.

“God help us all,” he muttered.

Lydia left him there with his irreverence, and padded quickly after Katrine, the image of her disappearing into the bedroom doorway.

Chapter Text

Lydia followed Katrine into the suite, the faint echo of Alex’s laughter fading behind her.
She stepped into the bathroom, to the sound of the shower hissing alive. Katrine stood by the glass shower, hand stretched out feeling the water temperature, but turned when Lydia entered, her eyes locking onto hers with that same molten intensity from earlier, a look that was both invitation and command.

Without a word, she closed the distance between them, her movements fluid, deliberate. One hand found Lydia’s shoulder, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle there. The other hand slid to the back of Lydia’s head, tangling in her hair with a gentle tug that sent a shiver racing down Lydia’s spine. Katrine pulled her close, their faces inches apart, and then her lips crashed into Lydia’s in a kiss that was all heat and hunger.

Lydia met her with equal ferocity, her hands rising instinctively to frame Katrine’s face, deepening the kiss. Their mouths moved together, urgent, unyielding, tongues tangling.

Lydia’s fingers found the buttons of the sleep shirt, deftly working them open, her knuckles brushing against the warm, soft skin of Katrine’s stomach. The fabric parted, and she slid it off Katrine’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Katrine’s skin was flushed, her breath hitching as the cool air met her naked body.

Katrine broke the kiss just long enough to tug Lydia’s t-shirt over her head, her movements impatient, almost rough. The shirt landed in a heap beside the sleep shirt, and then their mouths were on each other again, the kiss resuming with a desperate edge.

Katrine’s hands roamed down Lydia’s sides, nails grazing lightly over her ribs, her hips, before settling at the waistband of Lydia’s slacks. With a quick, practiced motion, she unbuttoned them, tugging at the fabric until it slid down Lydia’s legs, pooling at her ankles. Lydia stepped out of them without breaking the kiss, her hands on Katrine’s waist, guiding her backward toward the shower.

The steam enveloped them as they stepped into the glass enclosure, the hot water cascading over their skin, slicking their bodies as they pressed closer. Katrine’s hands were everywhere—sliding over Lydia’s back, her hips, her thighs—until her fingers slipped lower, finding their way between Lydia’s legs. Lydia gasped, the sound swallowed by the kiss, as Katrine’s fingers pressed into her, sure and unrelenting, moving with a rhythm that was both precise and maddening.

Lydia broke the kiss, her head tipping back as she hissed, “Katrine! Alex is just outside in the kitchen.”

Katrine’s lips curled into a wicked smile, her eyes glinting with mischief, undeterred. “Well,” she murmured, her voice a sultry taunt, “then you’d better be very quiet.” Her fingers didn’t stop, didn’t falter, doubling their efforts as she leaned in, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Lydia’s neck. The sensation was overwhelming—Katrine’s mouth hot and insistent, her fingers curling inside her, stroking with a relentless precision that made Lydia’s knees weak.

Katrine’s kisses trailed lower, over the sharp line of Lydia’s collarbone, down to her chest. She took a nipple into her mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, her tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. Lydia’s eyes fluttered closed, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as pleasure sparked through her, sharp and bright. She’d been on edge since that morning, when she’d taken Katrine in bed before Alex’s arrival, and now every touch, every movement, felt like it was unraveling her from the inside out. The water poured over them, warm and steady, mingling with the heat of Katrine’s mouth, the relentless rhythm of her fingers.

Katrine’s lips moved back up, kissing a slow, deliberate path along Lydia’s neck, her breath hot against her ear. “You like having me to pleasure you,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire, “with my fingers, my mouth, my body, to take whenever you need, don’t you?” Her fingers pressed harder, circling Lydia’s clit with a pressure that was both exquisite and unbearable, pushing her closer to the edge.

Lydia’s body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure built, sharp and unstoppable. Katrine’s free hand slid up to cover Lydia’s mouth, muffling the groan that tore from her throat as she came, hard and fast, her body shuddering against Katrine’s. The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, leaving her breathless, her vision sparking with stars. Katrine held her through it, her fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until Lydia was trembling, her body slack against the shower wall.

For a moment, they stood there, the water still pouring over them, washing away the evidence of their urgency, their breaths mingling in the now steam-filled air. Lydia’s chest heaved, her mind spinning with the intensity of Katrine’s gaze, her touch and her utter audacity as her hand slipped from Lydia's mouth.

Her body still thrummed with the aftershocks of her release, her pulse a heavy, languid beat under her skin as she pulled Katrine closer. Her arms encircled Katrine’s waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hips, and she drew her in until their bodies were flush, skin slick and warm against skin. The steam curled around them, thick and enveloping, blurring the edges of the world until it was just the two of them, cocooned in heat and intimacy.

Lydia leaned in, capturing Katrine’s mouth in a kiss that was deep and unhurried, a slow exploration of lips and tongue.

Her hands roamed up Katrine’s back, tracing the delicate ridge of her spine, feeling the subtle flex of muscle beneath her skin. The kiss deepened, Lydia’s teeth grazing Katrine’s lower lip, eliciting a soft, involuntary moan that vibrated against her mouth. She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against Katrine’s as she murmured, her voice low and rough with the remnants of pleasure but with an edge of warning, “If you ever take such liberties and pull something like that again—I’ll have you over my knee little girl”

The words hung between them, heavy with intent, not entirely playful, carrying the weight of Lydia’s need for control, her discomfort with vulnerability, even as her body still hummed with the pleasure Katrine had wrung from her. Katrine’s eyes sparked, not with defiance but with a glint of amusement, her lips parting in a soft, throaty laugh that was both bold and unrepentant. The sound was like a match struck in the dark, igniting something reckless and alive in Lydia’s chest.

Katrine tilted her head, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders, and reached for the shampoo bottle on the ledge, her movements languid, deliberate, as if she were savoring the moment.

“Oh, is that so?” Katrine teased, her voice light but dripping with that same wicked challenge that had undone Lydia moments before. She squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her palm, the scent of eucalyptus and mint blooming in the humid air, and pressed the bottle into Lydia’s hand, her fingers brushing against Lydia’s with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver through her. “Well, then,” Katrine continued, her lips curling into a smirk, “you might want to make good on it now, just to be sure.”

Before Lydia could respond, Katrine’s hands were in her hair, fingers massaging the shampoo into her scalp with a slow, sensual care that made Lydia’s breath catch. The sensation was exquisite—Katrine’s fingertips pressing firmly, rhythmically, working the lather through her hair, her nails grazing lightly against her scalp. Lydia let out a low, involuntary laugh, the sound tinged with a reluctant warmth, a release of the tension she’d been holding, though her mind still churned with the weight of her own words, the boundaries she’d drawn and the way Katrine seemed to dance so effortlessly across them.

She mirrored Katrine’s movements, squeezing shampoo into her own palm and reaching for Katrine’s hair. The strands were heavy with water, slick and smooth under her fingers as she worked the shampoo through, her hands moving with a tenderness that belied the intensity of moments before. She marveled at the texture of Katrine’s hair, the way it slipped through her fingers, the way the lather foamed and glistened in the dim light of the shower. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the intimacy of the act—the quiet, unspoken trust of it, the way Katrine’s head tilted slightly into her touch, her eyes half-closed in contentment.

The water poured over them, rinsing away the shampoo in rivulets that traced the contours of their bodies, pooling at their feet before spiraling down the drain. Lydia’s hands slid from Katrine’s hair to her shoulders, her fingers gliding over the smooth, wet skin, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone, the soft curve of her upper arms. Katrine’s body was a map she could never tire of exploring—every dip, every curve, every beauty mark a point of fascination. Her skin was warm, flushed from the heat of the water and their earlier exertions, and Lydia’s hands lingered, savoring the feel of her, the way her body responded to every touch.

Katrine’s hands moved lower, her palms sliding over Lydia’s chest, her fingers brushing lightly over her breasts before trailing down her sides, resting at her hips. The touch was gentle but sure, a quiet claim that sent a fresh wave of heat through Lydia’s core. She felt the weight of Katrine’s gaze, those golden eyes with flecks of green locked onto hers, and in them, she saw everything—desire, yes, but also a fierce, unspoken devotion, a trust that was as intoxicating as it was humbling.

Lydia’s hands found Katrine’s waist again, pulling her closer until their bodies were pressed together, the water streaming between them, warm and relentless. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Katrine’s, their breaths mingling in the steam-filled air. 

Her mind flickered briefly to Alex, to the implications of Katrine’s decision to elevate him, reshaping her world, and so willingly let go of some of her power without a word or demand in return beforehand. But those thoughts were distant, secondary to the feel of Katrine’s body under her hands, the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breath. For now, there was only this—the intimacy, the quiet joy of washing each other clean and the unspoken promise that whatever lines Lydia drew, Katrine would cross them, and Lydia would let her.

The steam still clung to the mirror in soft tendrils, beading along the glass like dew on early glasshouse panes. Lydia stood wrapped in a towel, one hand absentmindedly squeezing the damp from her hair. The scent of soap lingered in the air, and the afterglow of warm water and slick skin was still thrumming under her surface.

Katrine stood opposite her, toweling dry, quiet in a way that made Lydia look up. It was that shift in atmosphere—something subtly recalibrated. Lydia could feel it immediately, the way the air changed when a storm rolled just beyond the ridge of sky.

When Katrine finally met her gaze, her expression had sobered—less teasing now, less flushed joy from the night and morning before. There was a seriousness there.

“We should talk, though,” Katrine said.

The words landed like a quiet chord in a minor key. Lydia stilled slightly, the towel between her fingers forgotten. She nodded, careful, composed.

“Yes,” she said softly, measured. “We probably should.”

She could feel that familiar ache tighten inside her chest—not from fear, not exactly. But from the knowledge that the moment a thing becomes defined, it risks being lost. They’d stepped off the ledge last night; now came the reckoning. Whatever conversation lay ahead might end it—or, if the ground held, might make it into something real.

But real things had gravity. They could crash. Or root. Lydia didn’t know which she feared more.

Katrine’s gaze didn’t waver. “But it’ll have to wait until after Alex has left,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

Lydia blinked, then barked a soft laugh. “So now you fear him overhearing?”

There was a glint in Katrine’s eye—mischief, mischief wearing the mask of seduction.

Katrine dropped her towel, unapologetic and deliberate, the white fabric falling to the tile like a punctuation mark. She gave Lydia a playful wink and then turned on bare feet, walking with quiet command toward the dressing room, the subtle sway of her hips an unspoken dare.

Lydia stood there, still towel-wrapped, watching the silhouette move away from her like a piece of music just out of reach. 

The scent of coffee and rundstykker (Danish breakfast buns) greeted Lydia as she stepped out of the suite, her hand brushing lightly against the back of Katrine’s—an instinctive gesture by now. The slight chill of the penthouse air clung to their towel-dried hair. 

Alex was already at the table, happily buttering a roll with a self-satisfied hum, the Weekend newspaper splayed open in front of him. He threw them a glance—mock-judgmental, theatrical, affectionate.

“Well,” he said. “Don’t you two look indecently content.”

He motioned with the butter knife toward the empty seats. “Sit down. Eat something before I start lecturing you like someone’s disapproving aunt.”

Lydia smirked and moved to sit beside Katrine across from him. She reached for a roll, slicing it neatly, then spread cream cheese on both slices in an even layer and topped it with cucumber slices and put one of them on Katrine's plate, each motion practiced, almost ceremonial. Katrine poured them both coffee. Their movements were companionable, wordless.

Alex cleared his throat with intention.

“So,” he began, “I got good news and bad news.”

He slid the newspaper across the table with one finger, rotating it so they could both see the open spread. Lydia leaned in with mild curiosity.

A two-page spread—reviews of the opening concert. Columns of glowing text. Headline: A Triumphant Return to Form, Tár Conducts with Relentless Vision. Photos of the orchestra mid-movement, a tight shot of Lydia in profile on the podium, baton mid-arc, her face etched with concentration. She skimmed it absently, eyes flicking from headline to layout—

Until they landed on it.

There, printed in crisp full color, was a photograph taken in the atrium after the concert. It caught her and Katrine standing close, their champagne glasses in hand, locked in a gaze that, despite the crowded background, was unmistakably private. Their bodies slightly angled inward, her hand resting low and unmistakenly on Katrine's hip. The look on both their faces was the giveaway—unguarded, open, a softness that belonged nowhere near newsprint.

Lydia's breath stilled. She didn’t speak, only stared. The picture was unposed, candid—worse. Honest. And that honesty made her feel suddenly exposed.

Alex took a bite of his roll and chewed with maddening calm.

The caption below it read:

“Lydia Tár celebrating a successful performance together with rumored partner Katrine. Sources according to people close to them, but as of yet we have not been able to get further details on the couple and neither has made an official statement.”

Lydia's stomach clenched as if a cold draft had passed through her. She lifted her eyes slowly from the paper and glanced sideways at Katrine, whose face was impassive as she read. There was no immediate reaction. No telling breath. Just a fixed, unreadable stillness.

Alex, bless him, didn’t soften the blow.

“It’s all over the socials too,” he said lightly, biting into his roll. “Every classical circle from Berlin to bloody Helsinki is either speculating about your mysterious lady, or posting grainy close-ups of your hand on her hip. Congratulations, you’re trending.”

Lydia blinked. The room felt smaller.

Alex continued, mouth still half-full. “Some of it’s sweet. People swooning. Some of it’s, you know—predictable. Finger-wagging. The usual vultures trying to decide if this is a scandal or a fairytale. But hey, at least the reviews of the concert is good.”

Lydia hadn’t moved. She felt the words lodge in her body in the way only public interpretation could. The memory of last night—the kiss, the surrender, the astonishing gentleness of waking up beside Katrine this morning—now suspended under the cold light of exposure.

She turned slightly, trying to read something in Katrine’s posture. Still no expression. Just a calm, too-calm attention to the newspaper, her coffee untouched.

And Lydia’s heart, which so rarely betrayed her, beat once—hard, loud—and then paused as if waiting to be told what came next.

Beside her, Katrine let out a dry little huff, part amusement, part resigned disbelief.

“Well,” she said, leaning forward to grab the orange juice, “at least they caught our good angles. Can you contact the paper and ask for the raw image so I can get it framed?”

It was a joke, obviously—but Lydia could hear the underlying intention. The gentling of impact. A hand extended without making a show of steadiness. Katrine didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, didn’t ask what Lydia couldn’t yet articulate. And in that, something eased in Lydia’s chest that she hadn’t realized had seized.

Then, shifting gears with her usual fluidity, Katrine looked up at Alex. “But really, what do you think the best response is? Should we let PR handle it on Monday?”

Alex, mouth full, held up a hand as he finished chewing. Then he picked up his coffee and shrugged thoughtfully. “Depends on what you two want to do. But in my opinion, confronting it directly is smarter. Clear message, unified front. Leave as little room as possible for speculation to mutate even further. Ignoring it would just throw gasoline on the gossip fire—and make it look like there’s something to hide.”

Katrine nodded, expression practical, measured. She was always good at that—at transitioning between roles without losing her core. “At least they don’t know who I am. Not really. Or my role. And with you,” she gestured at Alex, “taking over, we can keep the optics focused where they belong. No matter what we decide.”

Her gaze shifted back to Lydia, softer now, her voice tempered. “What do you think? You’re the main character here. I’m just Katrine.”

Lydia looked at her—really looked at her.

Just Katrine.

What a ludicrous phrase. As if Katrine hadn’t reshaped the entire emotional topography of Lydia’s world without even trying.

“We’ll figure it out,” Lydia said at last, tone low but steady. “I knew there would be rumors. It would’ve come with the territory no matter what. I just—” She paused, the weight of honesty thick on her tongue. “I’m sorry you’re caught up in it.”

Katrine reached forward and closed the newspaper with one hand, her other brushing lightly against Lydia’s wrist. She slid the folded pages back across the table to Alex.

“No, don’t be sorry about that,” she said, voice warm, eyes unflinching. “Really. It was just a matter of time before someone noticed. And to be fair...” she leaned slightly closer, a sly curve tugging at her lips, “...they’re not exactly wrong about us being a bit more than just friendly acquaintances.”

Alex, ever the agent of chaos wrapped in charm, leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat with theatrical intent.

“Well,” he said, gesturing between them with his butter knife, “since we’re already on the topic of me taking over the throne, I just want to say—thank you, Lydia. Really. No one’s ever cared enough about my career to take one for the team and fuck the boss to get me promoted.”

Katrine had just lifted her orange juice glass to her lips, and the timing—of course, with Alex—was devastating. She choked mid-sip, sputtering into the rim of her glass and doubling forward with a half-cough, half-laugh.

“Really, Alex?” she managed between ragged coughs and a sharp glare, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand while Lydia calmly reached for the napkins and slid them across the table.

Lydia gave Alex her best attempt at a stern look, the one she reserved for unruly first chairs or overambitious agents. But even as she narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest twitch. There was no menace behind the look. Not this morning. Not in this unlikely domestic tableau of post-performance aftermath and tabloids and buttered rundstykker.

She set her knife down with slow precision and said dryly, “You’re welcome. Unfortunately, you’ll now have to suffer the consequence of working with me again.”

Alex grinned broadly, unrepentant. “Ah yes, karma. Swift and severe.”

Katrine was still half-laughing, half-glaring at him as she dabbed at her shirt with a napkin, muttering, “I swear if I get juice stains on this”

“You’ll frame it next to the newspaper photo,” Alex shot back. “Tribute to your tragic heroism.” wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb.

But then, as though flipping a switch, his tone dropped, grounded now. “Seriously though, you two should talk it over. Figure out exactly how you want to tackle this. Anything but a straightforward approach will look suspicious, and you both know that better than most.”

Lydia could feel Katrine shift beside her, still recovering from her coughing fit, but now nodding soberly. “We will,” Katrine said, voice a little hoarse but resolute. “We’ll talk it through. Properly.”

Lydia believed her. Katrine didn’t do halfway.

Katrine got up from the table, brushing a lock of damp hair behind her ear. “And you—" she said, pointing at Alex as she stood, “—still need to sign the paperwork before I have second thoughts about giving you this much power.”

Alex gave her a mock salute. Katrine disappeared down to her suite, feet light but purpose clear, and Lydia’s eyes followed her until she rounded the corner.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Alex turned back to his breakfast, buttering another rundstykke with less flair than before, then looked sideways at Lydia with the sort of mischievousness that had more knowing behind it than most would expect.

“Took your time,” he said, voice lowered and edged in gentle teasing. “I’m already on my fifth man since you two started the world’s longest prelude. But I guess you lesbians take forever to get there... and then move faster than anyone else when you finally do. Not even one night together and you already managed to hard launch in the paper's”

Lydia let out a soft snort through her nose, eyes still lingering where Katrine had disappeared. The comment might’ve come off as flippant from anyone else, but from Alex, it was seasoned with familiarity, maybe even a touch of fondness. He knew her rhythms. He’d waited. He’d watched her circle herself for months.

He set down his knife and met her gaze with something quieter now. “I don’t need to repeat what I said earlier, do I?” His expression leveled, teasing gone. “About not messing around and hurt her.”

Lydia’s mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes—because the seriousness of it deserved more.

“No,” she said, voice low. “You don’t need to repeat it.”

Her fingers tapped once against the side of her coffee cup. She looked him in the eye, no theatrics, no posture. Just truth.

“I already learned that lesson,” she said. “And it was enough. I have no intention of repeating it.”

Alex studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, once, accepting it.

“Good,” he said simply.

They both looked down at their breakfast then, the brief pocket of vulnerability folding back into the calm of the morning. But something in the air between them had shifted—an unspoken accord.

Paper in one hand, pen in the other, Katrine returned to the table, her eyes sweeping over them with a raised brow. “What were you two whispering about behind my back?”

Lydia kept her expression neutral, but a faint smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. It was always Katrine’s entrances that punctuated the atmosphere like a perfectly timed fermata—allowing breath, inviting pause.

Alex, never one to resist an opening, leaned in slightly and grinned. “I was just saying how sorry I’ll feel for anyone dumb enough to cross you two. Two power lesbians joining forces?” He gave a mock shudder. “Truly the last thing this fragile world needs.”

Katrine didn’t miss a beat. She reached across the table and shoved the pen and paper into Alex’s waiting hands. “Sign this,” she said, her voice airy, almost singsong, but with a honed edge “Or you’ll be the first casualty, you bratty little shit.”

Alex’s laughter cracked the surface of the table like a snare. Lydia watched it happen with a detached warmth—Katrine, completely in control of the room without ever raising her voice. Alex, only pretending not to be afraid of her.

Lydia leaned back slightly in her chair, sipping her coffee again, eyes lingering on the sharp curve of Katrine’s cheekbone as she watched Alex scrawl his signature.

She had spent years commanding orchestras into coherence, balancing chaos into harmony. But this—this moment of simple humor, and decisions made over rundstykker—felt more like the first few measures of something new. Unscored, unpredictable.

The scratch of pen on paper was swift, final. Lydia watched Alex sign his name with the same careless flourish he applied to most things that weren’t color coded schedules or men—though beneath that flourish, she recognized the weight of what had just shifted. That signature, simple as it was, marked a point of no return. Not just for the symphony, but for them.

He handed the signed document back to Katrine with a teasing glint in his eye.

“There. Consider the crown accepted, your highness,” he said, voice light, but his gaze lingered for a second longer than the joke demanded. He understood what this meant.

Katrine rolled her eyes, but Lydia saw the way her fingers brushed the paper, briefly—almost reverently. She was trying not to let it show, the enormity of what she’d just done. But Lydia saw it.

“We’ll go over the rest of the details on Monday,” she said, her voice even, professional. 

Alex stood, stretching with the smug satisfaction of a man who knew he’d just walked away with a kingdom. “Allright. I’ll be there bright and early. Or, more likely, hungover clinging to my iced coffee.” he said, slapping his hands together. “I’ll leave you two teenagers to talk everything over and clean up after me.” He paused by the kitchen island, tossing them both a grin over his shoulder. “I’ve got a very cute man back home waiting for me to return. Time to go bask in my newly acquired authority”

Lydia smiled despite herself. There was something annoyingly charming about Alex in the mornings—unfiltered, already two jokes ahead of everyone.

“Do tell him he's dating an even bigger queen now. And to brace himself accordingly,” she said dryly, swirling the last of her coffee.

Alex chuckled as he made his way toward the door, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. “Oh, he already knows. Poor bastard.”

Then he was gone, the front door clicking shut behind him,the echo of it settling into the quiet that followed.

Their talk was coming. Lydia could feel it, approaching like the first low rumble of a timpani beneath an otherwise gentle score. It would ask things of her. Of them.

Chapter Text

After the door closed behind Alex, silence reclaimed the penthouse. The kind of silence that was pregnant with meaning, threaded with uncertainty.

Katrine stood and started gathering empty mugs and plates, moving with the quiet precision of someone giving their hands something to do while their mind circled around too many unspoken thoughts.

"Well," Katrine said finally, barely above a murmur, "let's clean the table first."

Lydia nodded, wordless. She rose slowly, pushing her chair back without a sound. They moved around each other, exchanging quiet glances that never quite held, like magnets approaching the wrong way. Dishes clinked gently, the running water from the tap the only noise to fill the void between them.

It was absurd, Lydia thought, how the simple act of clearing breakfast could feel more intimate now than anything that had come before. Perhaps because this was the part no one talked about—what came after the hunger and surrender, after the curtains were drawn back. When you had to make sense of it all in daylight.

She watched Katrine as she reached up to place a glass back on the shelf. Something about the clean line of her back, the slope of her shoulder under the thin fabric of her shirt, the casual grace of movement—so achingly familiar and yet more distant now, separated by that looming what now?

Lydia’s breath hitched. A flicker of fear shot through her—sharp and uninvited. What if this was the moment it started to unravel? What if the weight of it all—public scrutiny, private consequence—proved too much? It almost had when her and Sharon had come out together.

Before she could think better of it, she stepped forward and reached for her.

Katrine turned just as Lydia’s hand caught her waist, pulling her in. And then she kissed her—not out of lust this time, not out of hunger—but to feel. To be reassured.

Katrine responded without hesitation, her lips warm, steady, as if she already knew what Lydia couldn't yet ask aloud.

Katrine let out a long, shaky breath. “We’ll need something a lot stronger for this conversation than coffee,” she said with dry humor, though her voice betrayed the knot in her throat.

Lydia let out a scoff that was more breath than sound. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Exactly,” Katrine said, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Also too early in the day to have a conversation like the one we’re about to have. But… here we are.”

Lydia watched her retreat a step toward the bar, barefoot and beautiful and though she didn’t say it, internally, she couldn’t have agreed more.

Here we are.

Katrine returned with two glasses of cognac, handing one of the glasses to Lydia with a faint but knowing smile, the kind of smile that pretended to be light but didn’t reach all the way to her eyes.

“Yikes,” Katrine muttered, unlocking her phone. “Alex wasn’t kidding. We’re trending. The rumor mill is officially industrial-grade.” She scrolled briefly, thumb flicking fast over the screen, her brow furrowing. “Even my profile’s been found. Tagged in a hundred-plus posts and comments... And missed calls from Jesper. Very unlike him to disturb on a weekend.”

She held the phone out for Lydia to see. Lydia took it with one hand, the other still gripping the heavy-bottomed glass of cognac. The screen was a blur of push notifications, tags, shares, comments. She caught a glimpse of a few hashtags, her name paired with Katrine’s, speculative headlines and blurred screenshots of the now-infamous photo.

“Yours is bound to be even worse than mine,” Katrine said as she turned away, walking toward the couch. She tossed herself down with a practiced sigh, the glass in her hand like armor.

Lydia took a long sip of the cognac—too generous a pour for the hour, but appropriate for the moment. The heat of it rolled down her throat like fire and steadied her nerves only slightly. She scrolled through Katrine’s phone. The captioning had moved from speculation into confirmation in many of the posts. Wild, contradictory narratives already spinning like satellites.

Lydia brought the phone over to the couch, handing it back silently as Katrine sipped her own cognac like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.

“I’d better call Jesper,” Katrine muttered, “tell him it’s under control. That the rest can wait until Monday. So he can relax and enjoy his weekend.”

Lydia gave a slow, somber nod, placing her own glass down with a soft clink against the wood of the low table. Then she turned and walked back into her suite.

Her phone was lit up like a slot machine, the notifications rolling in—news alerts, social media tags, missed calls, interview requests. Her old phone—quiet in her hand, cold from disuse—had just a single thread of texts, but all from one person.

Sharon.

She stared at the screen. Not a single message from Andris. Or Eliot. The great moral arbiters of her professional collapse, apparently content to wait this one out from a distance. No doubt weighing which way the wind would blow.

She took a breath—not a deep one, just enough to make it through the next few moments without splintering. She collected both phones and returned to the living room, where Katrine was finishing her call to Jesper with a voice dipped in calm but edged in fatigue.

“Yes. Monday. Everything’s under control,” she was saying. “Alex was here this morning.”

Lydia sat down beside her and stared at her old phone for a long moment before touching it. As though by simply opening the message thread, she’d be opening a wound. But the tension in her body—the low-grade buzz of dread and fury—was already spreading under her skin. Avoidance wouldn’t dull it.

Lydia opened the texts.

The first message hit like a slap.

“I see your opening night ended very successfully in more ways than one.”

Dry. Icy. Sharpened with practiced malice.

The next came hard on its heels.

“You’re not even ashamed. Parading a new, naïve young woman around.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, jaw tightening.

“You have not changed at all, have you?”

That one landed lower, meaner. More insidious because it knew exactly where to strike. Knew the history, knew what those words would evoke.

But the last one—there, her anger sparked to life, alive and wild.

“What have you promised this one in exchange? A seat in the symphony?”

The screen blurred slightly, not with tears but with heat. She felt her pulse climb into her throat.

She stood up so quickly the cushion barely stirred beneath her. Her glass of cognac was in her hand before she registered grabbing it. Without pause, she threw it back in one swift, burning swallow, the sharpness of it slicing down her throat and igniting a rage that had nowhere to go but her body.

She moved—couldn’t stop moving—pacing in front of the vast floor-to-ceiling windows like a caged animal. Copenhagen skyline glittered with its Saturday late-morning clarity, but she couldn’t feel anything beyond the furnace inside her ribcage.

She wasn’t just furious at Sharon. She was furious that Sharon could still do this to her. Still pull at threads so expertly tied to shame, to guilt, to history she thought she’d outgrown. She wasn’t that woman anymore. She knew she wasn’t. Katrine wasn’t... she wasn’t part of some old pattern.

Lydia closed her eyes, tried to pull her breath back into something even. She could feel herself walking too fast, mind spinning.

Behind her, Katrine’s voice floated in gently, finishing the last of her calm reassurances to Jesper.

“...The paperwork is in order, and I backdated it just in case. Thanks, Jesper.”

Then the click of the call ending. A brief silence. The sound of Katrine setting her phone down.

“Lydia?”

Her voice was gentle, but edged with a perceptive alertness. Lydia stopped, just for a moment, and turned toward her. Katrine’s gaze searched her, brows drawn in quiet concern.

“Are you okay?”

Lydia didn’t want to answer. Not really. But lying felt absurd now—useless.

“Sharon texted me,” she said flatly. Her voice sounded strained to her own ears. “Her words got to me.”

Katrine didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt. 

Lydia pressed her fingers against her temples briefly, as though that could hold everything in place. Then let her arms fall back to her sides.

“It’s not just what she said,” Lydia murmured. “It’s the way she still believes she can say it. That she knows me so well. Like I’ve been caught at something I haven’t even done.”

The worst part was how quickly she’d believed Sharon’s accusations—for the briefest flicker of a second—as if she hadn’t fought every inch of her way back from that past.

She exhaled. Her hands trembled slightly, the adrenaline tapering off into a frustrated exhaustion.

From the couch, Katrine simply said, “Come sit. Please.”

And though Lydia didn’t want to admit how badly she needed the invitation, she obeyed. Slowly. The burn in her throat from the cognac now matching the one behind her eyes.

She sat, leaned her elbows to her knees, and felt Katrine’s steady warmth settle next to her again.

The air in the suite had that oddly still quality that always followed emotional combustion—like the quiet after thunder. Katrine didn’t speak, didn’t reach for her. She simply waited, her presence steady beside her.

Lydia exhaled. She hated this kind of vulnerability—this raw, nerve-exposed version of herself. But to pretend now would be insulting to them both.

She turned her face slightly toward Katrine, her voice low.

“I should’ve said earlier,” she began. “Sharon already suspected something. She texted me before the article. One of the violinists is from the Philharmonic—Hanne. They’re friendly.” The word friendly sat bitterly in her mouth. “She told Sharon about you after you showed up at the Friday bar. I never answered her back.”

Her tone had curled in on itself defensively without her meaning it to—habit, really. That old reflex of protecting herself before an accusation even landed. The posture of someone who knew exactly how it felt to be spoken to like a courtroom defendant. A life of being cross-examined in private.

But Katrine didn’t pounce. Didn’t narrow her eyes or let her mouth twitch with suspicion. No sharp tone. Follow up trick question innocently phrased to trap her.

Instead, her hand reached out, warm and steady, fingers brushing Lydia’s jaw with such careful intent that Lydia almost recoiled from the gentleness of it.

“Hey... hey,” Katrine said softly, drawing her face toward her. “Look at me.”

Lydia did. Slowly. Expecting—something. But Katrine’s eyes, as they met hers, were wide open. Unflinching. Full of presence, of care, not one molecule of suspicion.

“I’m here,” Katrine said. The words fell between them like a weight, grounding and unshakeable. “And you’ve done nothing wrong. No matter what words Sharon’s thrown at you.”

Lydia’s lips parted, a protest forming, an instinctive rebuttal—a ripple of disbelief that someone could so clearly stand in that truth with her. But before the protest could form, Katrine leaned in and pressed a soft, slow kiss to her lips.

When they pulled apart, Lydia kept her eyes on her. She wasn’t ready to let go of the moment. The honesty in Katrine’s gaze, the warmth—it wasn’t the wide-eyed naivety and worship Sharon had always mocked in her newer lovers. It was strong and steady.

“Whatever happens,” Katrine said gently, her voice a balm on Lydia’s nerves, “you have me on your side. Okay?”

Lydia closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Letting the words sink into her skin and settle inside her chest. The anger loosened its grip, not gone but softened, diluted by something stronger.

Her fingers hovered for a moment longer around her old phone, then she turned it toward Katrine, offering the screen like a confession.

“She’s accusing me of taking advantage of yet another naïve young woman,” she said, her voice quieter now, dulled by the familiar sting of the accusation.

Katrine took the phone without hesitation, her brows lifting as she began to read. For a beat, her expression remained neutral—focused. Then, quite suddenly, a laugh broke from her. Bright and unrestrained. She laughed so hard she had to set her cognac down before it spilled.

Lydia blinked, unsure how to interpret it. It wasn’t a reaction she’d ever associated with that kind of language, that kind of condemnation. It caught her off guard, like a gust of wind in a sealed room.

When Katrine finally handed the phone back, her cheeks were still pink with amusement.

“I might be young,” she said, still catching her breath, “but I’m definitely not naïve, I would not be where I am if I didn't know how to play dirty. And Sharon clearly has no idea what she’s talking about. If anything, that entire power dynamic she’s spinning was the other way around. You didn’t have the upper hand. I did. Right up until last night.”

Lydia felt herself smile—not wide, not foolishly, but with the kind of quiet, interior relief that loosened the knot that had wound itself in her gut since Sharon’s name first appeared on her screen.

But then Katrine’s tone shifted. Calmer. Sober. Intentional.

“I’m not Sharon,” she said. “I won’t hold your past against you. That’s not what this is about.” Her fingers found the edge of her glass, but she didn’t drink. She looked Lydia directly in the eye, her voice soft but resolute. “But I’m going to say this once, and I won’t say it again—because if we’re doing this, I don’t want it hanging in the air like some unspoken threat.”

Lydia’s breath caught. 

“If you ever repeat your old patterns,” Katrine continued, “and I find out you’ve lied to me, betrayed what this is—we’re done. I’m not Sharon, but I also won’t share my bed with someone who shares it with others. I won’t compete. I won’t be collateral. I am me. And that will be the only thing I ever demand of you.”

She paused, letting the silence underline her words. Then: “If you already know now that you can’t give that—end it. Here. While we’re still on neutral ground.”

Lydia sat still, her hands closing around her old phone. She felt strangely hollowed out by the relief that Katrine wouldn’t be punishing her for the past—but also exposed by the clear-eyed boundary she’d drawn. Not cruel. Just unmistakable.

For a moment she wished she could reach back into her past and undo the years that had made her the kind of person people expected betrayal from. But that was useless. She could only move forward, and she had to do it clearly.

She turned fully to Katrine, her voice low but deliberate.

“I’m not going to do that,” she said. “I don’t want to. I won’t.” She shook her head slowly. “You might be younger than me—and yes, that is exactly the kind of woman I’d have been drawn to in the past, but... you’re also nothing like them. Not in the ways that matter.”

Katrine swirled what was left in her glass and let out a slow, slightly amused breath, her gaze softer now, teasing. “And,” she said, tone lightening as if gently guiding them out of heavier waters, “I’m also not a musician. So I guess that makes me your first anomaly.”

Lydia arched an eyebrow, lips curling with faint amusement. There was no need to pretend the remark didn’t land—of course it did. It carried the truth with it, laced in levity. Her smile came slowly but stayed. “No,” she murmured, tipping her head slightly toward Katrine. “You’re not a musician. But you’re an artist. And you speak the language.” She paused, meaning it. “Whether through sound or through brushstroke—it’s all devotion. It’s all passion.”

Katrine’s expression held for a moment—quiet, thoughtful—then nodded, her voice a gentle agreement. “Yes. It is.”

Then, with a slight shift in her posture and a narrowing of her eyes, Katrine said, “So that’s it then?” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “We’re agreeing that there’s not going to be anyone else in the bed between us but the two of us?”

Lydia gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Yes.” She could feel the weight of the promise—how different it was from so many she’d made and broken in the past. This one wasn’t performative. It wasn’t about control. 

“Thn there’s just the whole social media circus to figure out,” she said with a deep sigh.

Lydia groaned audibly, “Do we really have to?”.

“Even if neither of us want to deal with it, pretending it’s not happening would only make it worse. You heard Alex. We can’t ignore it.” she answered, voice tinted with the same annoyance Lydia felt, but also resigned rational.

A beat of silence passed. Lydia exhaled deeply.

“I’ve always kept relationships,” she said, the word catching slightly on her tongue, “very low-profile. Practically invisible. Even when Sharon and I were official—public—I never really acknowledged it unless I had to. I skirted the questions. Let the ambiguity linger. As if that somehow kept the door open.”

She felt the guilt catch behind her ribs as she said it—the quiet acknowledgment of how calculated that had been. Of what it had allowed. She didn’t want that kind of ambiguity now. Not with Katrine.

“I don’t want to do that with you, but I also don't want my private life to define my professional life” Lydia added, softer this time, her voice more exposed. “But that ship sailed long time ago when I mixed those two caught up in the power I had.”

Katrine’s expression didn’t shift with judgment. She leaned back a little, her eyes searching Lydia’s.

“I prefer privacy too,” she said, her voice open and unguarded. “So yes... all this attention, the speculation—it does make me feel exposed. Uncomfortable, even. But,” she shrugged slightly, her fingers still resting lightly against Lydia’s jaw, “I don’t care what people think about us. I’m not ashamed of this. Not even a little.”

The quiet in Lydia’s chest settled a fraction. It wasn’t absolution. It was steadiness. Something to lean against instead of constantly bracing for impact.

She nodded once—more to herself than anything else. Then reached down to Katrine’s hand and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s figure it out. Together.”

She reached for her other phone on the coffee table, the screen lighting up before she touched it—another dozen notifications in the few minutes she’d left it idle.

Her thumb hovered over the Twitter icon.

Then she tapped it.

The app opened, and there it was—again. That now-ubiquitous photo: her hand resting gently, unmistakably, on Katrine’s hip. A candid moment, likely snapped right before she had led Katrine down the empty hallways to kiss her. The picture saying more than words ever could.

The caption was a simple question: “Power couple or Tár's newest young meat?”  The comments below were a torrent of speculation. Some supportive. Some amused. Many not. Others digging in with the familiar tone of presumption. Accusations, assumptions, contextless interpretations. Parallels already being drawn.

She stared at the screen, her fingers tightening around the device. That familiar burn in her chest, low and nauseating, began to stir again—like a performance turning on her mid-conduct. Uncontrolled. Spiraling.

She turned the screen toward Katrine, who was curled beside her, legs tucked beneath her, still nursing her glass of cognac like a ritual shield.

“I don’t really know how to handle this,” Lydia admitted, her voice quiet. She hated how small it sounded. She cleared her throat. “What do you think we should do?”

Katrine didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked at Lydia—really looked—and Lydia felt the weight of her attention like a steadying hand.

“I’ll do whatever you feel comfortable with,” Katrine said softly.

Lydia let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t feel comfortable with any part of this.” Her throat tightened. She looked away, fingers dragging across her forehead. “It feels like I’m back on trial again—facing a jury of strangers who think they know me. Who already have the verdict written.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Katrine set her glass down and shifted closer. “Do you trust me?” she asked gently.

The question stopped Lydia cold. Her mind flicked, to when they'd gone over her choices for the orchestra chairs. The moment she’d asked Katrine the same thing, almost defensively. “Do you trust me?” Katrine had looked her in the eye and said I do, and the simplicity of it had steadied her then.

Lydia met her gaze now, heart unspooling. The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was a lifeline tossed back across the water she was now struggling to swim through.

She swallowed once. Then again.

“I do,” she said. And she meant it.

Katrine’s body shifted slightly, and then she tucked herself into Lydia’s side with the casual intimacy of someone who had long known where she belonged. Her warmth curled into Lydia’s ribs. She angled her phone so Lydia could see the screen too—an unspoken gesture of transparency.

Katrine’s fingers moved across the screen with quiet determination.

She opened her Twitter app.

The viral photo appeared in seconds—Katrine tapped the image, held her thumb to save it to her phone.

Then she moved to compose a tweet with the picture attached.

“It was a joy attending the reopening of the Copenhagen Symphony last night, conducted by my talented partner, Lydia Tár.”

Partner.

The word landed in Lydia’s chest like a low, resonant chord. Not flashy. Not defensive. Just... true. A clear note in a room full of noise. No commentary. No justification. No hedging. Just a quiet claim, and a proud one.

Lydia felt her heart skip a beat in something dangerously close to joy—genuine, full-bodied joy that warmed the recesses long left cold. She didn’t look at Katrine yet; she was afraid if she did, the emotion would be too visible on her face.

Instead, she allowed herself a breath. And then another.

Katrine wasn’t done.

Still calmly, she reached for Lydia’s phone next—Lydia handed it over without protest, something she would never had done in the past. Katrine opened Lydia’s Twitter and navigated to her own profile with a quiet sort of confidence.

She selected her new post and tapped retweet with comment. Wrote. Then paused.

“What do you think of this?” she asked before hitting post:

“Happy to celebrate a successful opening night as conductor of Copenhagen Symphony.
Dates and tickets for upcoming concerts can be found on the official Copenhagen Symphony website.”

Lydia read it twice.

There was nothing salacious in it. No indulgent romance, no defensiveness. It framed the moment in professional success while echoing a subtle, unspoken unity between them. A mirror to Katrine’s post, but refracted through Lydia’s tone and role.

She gave a small nod. “It’s perfect.”

Katrine smiled, satisfied, and tapped Post.

Katrine hadn’t left her to weather the rising tide alone like Sharon and everyone else had done. She hadn’t hesitated to step beside her—not behind her, not in front of her—but with her.

In this, Lydia was not alone.

Katrine had jumped in—no grand speech, no defensiveness. Just action. Just alignment.

And somewhere beneath Lydia’s ribs, the old wolfish instinct of possessiveness stirred—not sharp or jealous, but purring, pleased. Katrine was hers, and she had made that truth known without theatrics or fear, but also at the same time, she had stated her own claim.

Katrine's voice was calm but deliberate, “This should be enough—direct, clear. No evasions. If people are looking for a signal that there’s nothing shady or hidden here, they’ve got it. And anyone digging into my profile will quickly figure out I’m not in any music circles. I’m just an architect who likes to paint, go to art exhibitions and wine bar's with my gay best friend.”

Lydia let out a short, surprised laugh. She felt it break free like a bird startled from its perch.

Relieved, yes. But also amused by Katrine’s phrasing. Just an architect. As if there was anything just about Katrine. There was nothing uncomplicated or ordinary about the way her mind worked or the way she navigated the world.

“There’s nothing simple about you,” Lydia murmured, almost to herself.

Katrine gave a little smile, but her expression turned slightly more cautious, a shadow of thought slipping across it. Then, quietly, she asked, “Are you planning to answer Sharon?”

It wasn’t a challenge. Just a question. Still, it landed with a certain weight.

Lydia shifted slightly in her seat, letting her head fall back against the cushion. She stared upward, at the play of light on the ceiling. Her hands were still curled loosely around her old phone.

“I want to,” she admitted. “God, do I want to. There’s this impulse—this burn to defend myself, to... correct the record. To remind her that I’m not that person anymore. That I see things differently now.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, the air leaving her like steam from a pressurized valve.

“But it would be pointless. She already knows the version of me she’s chosen to believe. She’s curated that narrative—it comforts her. Undermine it, and she'll just build another one. Sharper. Meaner.”

Katrine stirred beside her but didn’t interrupt. That was something Lydia had come to notice—Katrine never filled the silence too quickly. It was one of the reasons Lydia trusted her with it.

“When I first met Sharon,” Lydia began, “it was good. More than good, even. I was guest conducting for the Berlin Symphony. Andris was still holding the podium back then. Sharon was playing second chair violin. She had this drive. There was a shared clarity of purpose. We wanted the same thing. I wanted to take the orchestra from Andris, and she wanted to rise with me.”

Her lips curled slightly at the memory, but it wasn’t fondness—more a trace of irony. That kind of burning idealism always had a half-life.

“We came together with this shared hunger, this mission,” she continued. “Co-conspirators, in a sense. She knew how to navigate the board; I knew how to move the pieces. And we played well together—at first.”

Lydia felt Katrine’s hand shift slightly against her thigh. Still quiet. Still listening.

“But somewhere along the way,” Lydia said, her tone softening into something less exact, “her ambition stopped where mine didn’t. I started to feel stifled. As if she wanted me to want less. To quiet down. So that we could keep living in that little box we built together, unthreatened by how far one of us might go.”

She paused, letting the weight of those years flicker across her. “And I started pulling away—emotionally, then physically.”

There it was. The shape of it, laid bare in the room between them.

Lydia’s eyes fixed on a distant corner of the ceiling as she added, “And I found myself being admired—by young women. Desired. Powerful.”

She let the truth ring out like a dissonant note left unresolved.

“I’m not proud of that, but it wasn’t just about sex or youth. It was about feeling untouchable. They looked at me like I was fire. And I liked that.” Lydia said plainly. “I convinced myself it wasn’t abuse. But I know now what it was—what it looked like. How it fed into something already cracking inside me that I only realized afterwards in the Philippines, when it was too late.”

Katrine was quiet for a long moment, and Lydia braced herself for the shift—whatever might come.

“You know,” she said, her voice low but unwavering, “when the conversation first came up about hiring you for Copenhagen, I pushed hard for it. I didn’t just agree to it. I insisted on it.”

Lydia turned her head toward her, brows faintly lifted.

Katrine met her gaze, not flinching. “Not because of your reputation, or to provoke some scandal, or to ride the edge of controversy for its own sake. But because I saw a woman who had the kind of vision and power that terrified the people who couldn’t control it. And I hated watching that get stripped from you. I hated watching you be reduced to half your weight. I want to see you burn it all down.”

Lydia exhaled slowly. “She—Sharon—” Lydia started, and then stopped, the words sticky with their own weight. “She said that all I had were transactional relationships... except for Petra.”

Her lips curled faintly, not into a smile, but into something closer to fatigue. “And she wasn’t wrong. I do like the power. The dynamic of it. But people wanted things in return, too. Access. Association. A foothold into something bigger.”

Katrine’s hand slid into hers, lacing their fingers together.

“Almost all relationships are transactional in it's rawest form. If we stop wanting something from our relationships, there's no relationship. The difference between it being a good or bad thing is whether or not its one sided. Sharon took equal part in the relationship being transactional, she got her first chair. Then stopped sharing the same ambitions after getting what she wanted and made it one sided.”

Lydia looked down at her old phone.

She tapped it. The screen lit, briefly—Sharon’s messages still there, suspended in quiet menace—and then she pressed down on the side button until the display went black. Off. Not just asleep. Gone. Cut.

She turned to Katrine, who had been watching her, unintrusively but attentively.

“Would you…” Lydia held the phone out toward her, fingers relaxed now. “Would you get rid of it for me?”

Katrine took it gently, her brows lifting with that patient kind of care Lydia had come to associate with her.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes.” She looked Katrine deep in the eyes, and smiled a wickedly self assured smile, "let them burn." 

Katrine’s answering smile was conspiratorial, quiet and close-lipped—like the kind exchanged between revolutionaries moments before a match is struck. She gave a small nod and without needing further instruction took the phone and rose from the couch quietly. She padded barefoot down the staircase to her office.

Lydia listened to the subtle creaks in the floorboards, her own breath steady in her chest, grounded now in a body that felt strangely light.

A few minutes passed. Then Katrine came back, empty-handed.

“I’ll have it discarded properly on Monday,”

And then, as if the moment had reached its emotional saturation point, Katrine strode across the room and unceremoniously lowered herself right into Lydia’s lap.

Lydia caught her with both hands, instinctively at the curve of Katrine’s waist.

“So now that everything’s handled. Shouldn’t we actually get to the celebrating we're supposedly doing?”

Lydia’s smile twisted, sharpening into something shrewd, a glint of lust sparking in her eyes as Katrine’s suggestion hung in the air like a dare. Celebration. The word felt ripe, heavy with promise, and Lydia’s pulse quickened, her body already leaning into the heat of Katrine’s closeness.

“Yes,” her voice already shifting, lowering, “we should.” She tilted her head, gaze raking over Katrine’s young body. The sight stirred something primal in Lydia, a conductor’s instinct to command, to shape the rhythm of the moment.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Lydia’s hands slid up Katrine’s sides, fingers catching the hem of her shirt. She tugged it upward, peeling the fabric away with a kind of reverence that belied the hunger in her movements. Katrine lifted her arms, obliging, her breath hitching as the shirt came off, leaving her bare from the waist up.

Lydia’s eyes darkened, drinking in the sight—Katrine’s skin, soft and warm, the gentle rise of her breasts, the faint shiver that ran through her under Lydia’s scrutiny.

Lydia’s hand moved before her mind caught up, cupping one of the firm breasts, her thumb brushing over the soft weight of it, savoring the way Katrine’s body responded—a slight arch, a quiet gasp. Her fingers found the nipple, tugging gently, then more firmly, rolling it between her fingertips with a precision that was almost musical, each touch a note in a private symphony.

Katrine’s head tipped back, her lips parting, and Lydia felt a surge of satisfaction at the sound she drew out, low and unguarded.

Leaning in, Lydia’s mouth found the other nipple, her lips closing around it, sucking softly at first, then with a teasing pull, her tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. Katrine’s hands gripped Lydia’s shoulders, fingers digging in as her breath came faster, a soft moan escaping her.

She pulled back just enough to meet Katrine’s eyes, her own gaze sharp and commanding, though softened by a flicker of affection. “Be my good girl,” Lydia murmured, her voice low, edged with a playful authority that carried the weight of her desire. “And strip for me. Now.”

Katrine’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and surrender. She slid off Lydia’s lap, standing before her, movements slow and deliberate as she reached for the waistband of her pants, ready to answer Lydia’s command with her own kind of grace.

Lydia leaned back on the couch, her posture deceptively relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, predatory, drinking in every detail of Katrine’s form—the subtle curve of her hips, the slight flush creeping across her chest, the way her fingers hovered at the waistband of her pants, poised with a deliberate slowness that made Lydia’s breath catch.

Katrine’s lips curled into that same knowing smile, a flicker of mischief in her eyes as she held Lydia’s gaze. Her fingers moved with unhurried precision, popping the button open, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She tugged the zipper down, the soft rasp of metal teeth sending a jolt through Lydia’s core.

Katrine’s movements were fluid as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid the pants down her thighs, letting them pool at her ankles. She stepped out of them with that architect’s grace, her body unfolding like a blueprint coming to life—each line deliberate, each curve intentional. The thin strip of her lacy underwear followed, slipped off with a casual flick of her wrist, leaving her bare, vulnerable yet entirely in control, her skin catching the light in a way that made Lydia’s pulse hammer.

Lydia’s breath hitched, her eyes tracing the planes of Katrine’s body—the gentle slope of her shoulders, the taut line of her abdomen, the soft shadow between her thighs. She felt a rush of heat pooling low in her belly, a slick ache spreading as her body responded to the sight before her.

She was already soaking wet, her thighs pressing together instinctively as she fought to maintain the composure she wielded so effortlessly in every other sphere of her life. But here, with Katrine, control was a game, a delicate balance she relished playing.

“Kneel,” Lydia commanded, her voice low and sharp with authority, but laced with a hunger that betrayed her own mounting need. “Between my legs. Now.”

Katrine’s smile widened, a spark of defiance flashing in her eyes before she complied, sinking to her knees with a fluid grace that made Lydia’s breath catch again.

She settled between Lydia’s thighs, her hands resting lightly on Lydia’s knees, her touch warm and teasing, as if testing the boundaries of the moment. Her gaze flicked upward, locking with Lydia’s, and there was something intoxicating in the way she looked—bold, yet pliant, a silent acknowledgment of the power Lydia held, and the power she chose to give.

“Unbutton my pants,” Lydia said, her voice dropping to a husky murmur, edged with raw desire. Her hands rested on the couch, fingers curling into the fabric as she fought to keep her composure, though the heat between her legs was undeniable, a pulsing need that grew with every second Katrine’s hands lingered.

Katrine’s fingers moved with deliberate slowness, her touch featherlight as she reached for the button of Lydia’s tailored trousers. She popped it open with a practiced ease, her movements seductive, almost reverent, as she dragged the zipper down, the sound sending another wave of heat through Lydia’s core.

Katrine’s eyes never left Lydia’s, her lips parting slightly as she leaned in, her breath warm against the fabric, teasing, drawing out the moment with a precision that made Lydia’s thighs tremble. The air felt thick, electric, every touch amplified by the quiet intensity of the room.

Lydia’s was high on lust now, the sensation heady, almost overwhelming, her body thrumming with the need for more. “Take them off,” She ordered, her voice rougher now, control fraying as she lifted her hips slightly, giving Katrine the space to obey. “Pants and knickers. All of it.”

Katrine’s hands were steady, confident, as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of Lydia’s trousers and underwear, tugging them down in one smooth motion.

Lydia shifted, allowing the fabric to slide off her legs, the cool air hitting her bare skin and sending a shiver through her. Katrine’s touch was warm, her fingers grazing the insides of Lydia’s thighs as she pulled the clothing free, leaving Lydia's wet core exposed.

Lydia’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in Katrine’s hair, gripping just tightly enough to assert her dominance, to anchor herself in the storm of her own desire. She tugged gently, pulling Katrine’s face closer, her voice dropping to a low, commanding growl. “Pleasure me,” she said, the words dripping with need, her eyes burning into Katrine’s. “Show me how well you can use that delicious talented young mouth of yours.”

Katrine’s lips curved into a wicked smile, her eyes gleaming with a mix of submission and challenge as she leaned in, her breath was hot against Lydia’s skin, a teasing prelude as she leaned closer, her lips brushing the sensitive flesh of Lydia’s inner thigh.

The touch was deliberate, a slow crescendo that sent sparks skittering through Lydia’s nerves, her body already taut with anticipation.

Katrine’s hands slid up Lydia’s thighs, fingers splaying with a gentle firmness as she lowered her mouth, lips grazing Lydia’s core with a featherlight touch that made Lydia’s hips jerk involuntarily. The first flick of Katrine’s tongue was precise, deliberate, and Lydia’s head tipped back, a low moan escaping her lips.

Katrine’s mouth worked with a skill that was both reverent and relentless, her tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns, then quickening, finding a rhythm that matched the pulse hammering in Lydia’s chest.

Each movement was a masterful stroke, drawing Lydia closer to the edge, her fingers tightening in Katrine’s hair, urging her on with a desperation she couldn’t mask. The heat built, a molten pressure coiling low in her belly, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps as Katrine’s lips and tongue pushed her higher, higher, until the world narrowed to the exquisite sensation of Katrine’s mouth, the soft hum of her own moans, the creak of the couch beneath her.

Her climax hit like a thunderclap, a wave of pleasure that shattered her composure, her body arching as she cried out, a raw, unguarded sound that echoed in the quiet room.

Her thighs trembled, her grip on Katrine’s hair loosening as the aftershocks rippled through her, leaving her breathless, flushed, and—impossibly—hungrier than before. The orgasm had only stoked the fire in her, a restless, insatiable need that surged anew, her body thrumming with a mix of both satisfaction and unspent desire.

Lydia’s eyes snapped open, her gaze locking on Katrine, who looked up from between her legs, lips glistening, a faint, triumphant smile curving her mouth.

The sight sent a fresh jolt of lust through Lydia, her arousal spiking as she reached down, grabbing Katrine’s arm and pulling her up with a force that was both commanding and desperate. “Up here,” She growled, her voice rough with need, guiding Katrine back onto her lap.

Lydia’s hands cupped Katrine’s face, pulling her into a kiss that was deep, aggressive, almost bruising in its urgency.

Her lips claimed Katrine’s with a ferocity that funneled every emotion swirling in her chest—happiness, sharp and bright, for the freedom of this moment; frustration, jagged and raw, for the weight of the world she’d carried too long.

The kiss was a release, a collision of teeth and tongue, Lydia pouring herself into Katrine, using her as both anchor and outlet, her hands roaming Katrine’s back, nails grazing skin as she pressed their bodies closer, chasing the relief Katrine could give her.

Katrine matched her intensity, her hands gripping Lydia’s shoulders, her mouth pushing back with equal fervor, a low moan vibrating between them. The sound sent a thrill through Lydia, her body alive with the need to feel Katrine unravel.

One hand slid down Katrine’s side, fingers tracing the curve of her hip before dipping between her thighs, finding the slick heat there. Lydia’s breath hitched as she pressed two fingers against Katrine’s core, circling slowly, teasingly, before sliding inside with a deliberate thrust.

Katrine gasped into Lydia’s mouth, her body arching, hips rocking against Lydia’s hand as Lydia set a relentless pace, her fingers curling, stroking, finding the rhythm that made Katrine’s breath come in sharp, desperate pants.

The kiss grew messier, more frantic, their lips barely breaking apart as Lydia drove Katrine toward the edge, her own arousal building again at the sight of Katrine’s flushed skin, her parted lips, the way her body trembled under her touch. Lydia’s free hand tangled in Katrine’s hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back, exposing her throat as Lydia’s lips grazed the pulse point there, her teeth nipping lightly at the bite mark before returning to the bruising kiss.

Katrine’s moans grew louder, more urgent, her body tensing as Lydia’s fingers worked faster, deeper, relentless in their pursuit.

The room was filled with the sounds of their shared desperation—Katrine’s gasps, Lydia’s low murmurs of encouragement, the soft creak of the couch.

Katrine’s climax came fast and hard, her body shuddering as she cried out, the sound muffled against Lydia’s mouth, her hips bucking against Lydia’s hand as waves of pleasure tore through her. Lydia held her through it, her fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until Katrine collapsed against her, breathless, their lips still brushing in the aftermath.

Lydia’s heart pounded, her own body still alight with desire, but there was a quiet satisfaction in the weight of Katrine in her lap. For now, this was enough—this moment, this release, this woman who met her fire with fire, her chaos with calm, her need with need.

Then, a sudden, unmistakable growl sliced through the stillness.

Katrine’s stomach.

Lydia blinked, then burst into soft, incredulous laughter.

Katrine, unfazed, groaned into Lydia’s shoulder. “Oh god, that was so loud.”

Lydia tipped her head back, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Baby girl, I think that may have registered on the Richter scale.”

Katrine lifted her head, mock-offended, but her grin betrayed her. “In my defence. We skipped lunch and just breakfast and cognac is definetly not enough compared to all the exercise we've done.”

“Unforgivable,” She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Katrine’s mouth before murmuring, “Go get dressed. We’re going out for an early dinner. We're celebrating after all.”

Katrine arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? People will definetly take notice, I doubt the news have fully died down yet.”

“Yes,” Lydia confirmed. “You’re going to let me wine and dine you properly.”

Katrine stretched languidly in Lydia’s lap, then slowly slid off, a teasing smirk curling on her lips as she stood. “You just want to show me off.”

Lydia didn’t even flinch, but just unapologetic smirked “Obviously.”

Chapter Text

Lydia stood in front of the wide mirror in her closet, buttoning the soft blue of her dress shirt with unhurried precision. The fabric was fine Egyptian cotton, faintly cool against her skin, and paired neatly with the tailored caramel-brown pantsuit—sharp lines softened slightly by the looseness of the silk scarf draped around her neck, striped in understated shades of slate and bone. 

She adjusted the collar with practiced finesse, tugging it flat where it curved against her clavicle. Her fingers moved automatically, but her gaze lingered—not on the symmetry of the ensemble, nor the fit of the trousers—but on the small hickey Katrine had made just beneath the hollow of her throat.

Faint, still in its bloom of wine-dark red against her skin.

It was possessive, yes. Undeniably so. The kind of mark Lydia had never tolerated—not from anyone. Not when she’d built a reputation on command, on polish, on keeping power in her pocket, not pressed into her skin like someone else's thumbprint.

A ripple of amusement passed through her—a private, low thrum of satisfaction.

She didn’t mind.

Because it wasn’t about submission. Not this time. Not the usual imbalanced dance she’d performed in too many beds, with too many girls half in love with the fantasy of her and half plotting their own rise by brushing up against her orbit. Those women, eager and silken, had wanted something from her. Katrine—well. Katrine wanted with her.

There was a difference. And it mattered.

Katrine’s power wasn’t based on hers. It wasn’t aspirational. She wasn’t impressed by Lydia—at least, not in that way. She didn’t seek to steal the spotlight, nor sit in its glow. She held her own lamp. And rather than dim Lydia’s, she burned beside her. Equal wattage. Equal heat.

Lydia touched it briefly, her fingers brushing the mark with clinical detachment. The skin was tender. But she didn’t cover it—not with concealer, not with powder, not even with the scarf. She let it sit there, half-obscured, just visible if one looked closely enough.

Let them look.

Let the world reframe her again.

Because this wasn’t about shame. It wasn’t about apology.

It was about arrival.

She heard Katrine’s voice, melodic and casual, calling out something half-teasing. Lydia didn’t catch the words—but the tone made her mouth curve while buttoning the last button.

Katrine was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, one hand braced lightly against the green marble counter, the other poised with a tube of lipstick—that rich, unapologetic red she always wore. The curve of the color traced her lower lip in a slow, practiced sweep. She was calm in the way a woman is when she knows exactly what she’s doing—and precisely the effect it will have.

Lydia stopped at the threshold and watched her.

The black dress clung to Katrine’s frame like it had been made with her body in mind. A boat neckline revealed her collarbones—elegant, defined, as if carved in porcelain—and the delicate swoop of her shoulders. The silhouette of the dress was minimalist in design, but maximalist in impact.

But it was her legs that drew Lydia’s eye next—long, sculptural, sheathed in stockings, disappearing into tall, red-bottomed stilettos. The kind of heels that made a statement even in silence. The kind of heels that made her legs seem to go on forever.

Lydia’s eyes traveled down slowly, unhurried, allowing herself the pleasure of the full view. Her gaze was appreciative, unapologetically so—beauty, when executed with perfection, deserved to be lingered over.

In the mirror, Katrine’s eyes met hers, catching her in the act.

“I managed to get us a table at Alouette,” Katrine said, her voice light, almost amused, but with a flicker of satisfaction underneath. The kind that came from knowing you’d orchestrated something quietly impossible.

Lydia stepped into the room, crossing the tiled floor in a few easy strides. As she reached Katrine, the other woman had just capped the lipstick and turned around, facing her.

Their bodies stopped a breath apart.

Lydia placed her hands on Katrine’s hips, the fabric beneath her palms smooth.. The faint scent of that seductive perfume clung to her skin. Katrine reached up, fingers tugging gently on the silk scarf at Lydia’s neck—just enough pressure to draw her in.

Lydia allowed it.

Their faces were inches apart. Lips almost touching. The heat between them simmered just beneath the surface, like a kettle just shy of boil.

“You always look so handsome,” Katrine murmured, her eyes scanning Lydia’s face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

Lydia smirked dangerously.

“We better get going,” she said, voice dropping. “Before I decide to eat something else.”

Katrine’s laugh was soft but rich, blooming in the narrow space between them like a note perfectly struck. Her hand lingered on Lydia’s scarf for a moment longer, then let go.

They approached Alouette, its façade understated yet magnetic, the kind of place that didn’t need to scream its exclusivity because its reputation did the work. The windows glowed softly, casting amber light onto the street, and the faint hum of conversation spilled out as a couple exited, their voices swallowed by the night.

As they neared the entrance, Katrine slowed her pace, turning slightly to face her.

She stepped closer, her arms sliding around Lydia’s neck in a lovers embrace. Lydia’s hands instinctively finding Katrine’s waist, steadying herself against the sudden proximity.

Katrine leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Lydia’s ear.

“I forgot to tell you,” Katrine whispered, her voice a velvet blade, low and deliberate. Her hand found Lydia's, guiding it with brazen confidence, hidden by her long coat, up the smooth expanse of her leg and under her dress. Lydia’s fingers grazed the sheer edge of a stocking mid-tigh, the texture shifting from silk to skin, then to the taut elastic of a garter belt. The discovery was electric, a jolt that sent heat spiraling through her core.

“I’m not wearing any knickers.”

Lydia's mind, usually so disciplined, so precise, stuttered.

The absence of underwear was a deliberate provocation, a power play wrapped in silk and intention. Katrine’s thigh was warm, impossibly soft, and the knowledge of what wasn’t there burned in Lydia’s chest like a swallowed ember.

Then Katrine pulled back just as swiftly, her hand slipping free, leaving Lydia’s fingers suspended in the air for a fraction of a second too long. With a graceful pivot, Katrine turned and strode toward the restaurant’s entrance, coat flaring slightly, her heels clicking with purpose.

She forced herself to move, her steps quickening as she crossed the threshold into Alouette. The interior was a study in understated opulence—dark wood, soft lighting, the clink of crystal and the murmur of voices blending into a symphony of privilege. Katrine was just ahead, her silhouette unmistakable, and Lydia’s eyes locked onto her. She caught up in three strides, her jaw tight, her expression a storm of desire and reprimand.

She shot Katrine a look—tortured, scolding, a silent how dare you laced with something dangerously close to awe.

Katrine met her gaze with a mock-innocent glance, her lips curving into a smile that was equal parts angel and devil. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, daring Lydia to say something, to react, to break the carefully curated facade they both wore so well. But before Lydia could form a single word, the maître d’ approached, his demeanor polished, his smile professional.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice smooth as the wine they’d soon be drinking. “Welcome to Alouette. Do you have a reservation?”

Lydia’s focus snapped to him, her voice steady despite the chaos Katrine had ignited. “Tár,” she said, her tone clipped but authoritative. “Table for two.”

The menus hadn’t even fully settled into their hands before Katrine folded hers shut with the crisp assurance of someone who knew precisely what game she was playing.

“We’ll have the tasting menu,” she said to the server with a smile so composed it barely concealed its mischief, “and the wine pairing, of course.”

The waiter gave a courteous nod—an almost imperceptible glance between them, just a flicker, nothing impolite—and then retrieved the menus with that neutral discretion of high-end hospitality. Gone again, like mist parting between footsteps.

Lydia hadn’t said a word.

Or rather, couldn’t have, even if she’d tried. Her tongue, for once, had momentarily abandoned her, suspended somewhere between arousal, amusement, and the sheer audacity of this woman sitting across from her in thigh-high stockings, red lipstick and no knickers, pulling the strings without breaking a sweat.

When the server disappeared into the hum of the dining room, Katrine turned her eyes on her again—bright, razor-sharp, and entirely aware of the effect she was having.

“Are you okay?” she asked lightly, as if they were two colleagues chatting about rehearsal tempos and string harmonics instead of conducting this quiet symphony of power.

Lydia blinked, slow and deliberate, squinting at her with a precision that felt more like a measured downbeat than any real irritation. It was a warning. And Katrine knew it. Which made it all the more dangerous.

She leaned forward, not much—just enough to let her elbows rest on the table’s edge and lace her fingers together, gaze fixed on Katrine.

“You,” Lydia said softly, her voice threading with amused menace, “are going to be in so much trouble when we get home.”

Katrine’s smile widened—not broadly, but wickedly, like someone very pleased to hear that the score was still being written and that she had just nudged it into a new, unexpected key.

The meal passed in a haze of sensory overload—each course a small masterpiece, each sip of wine a note in the evening’s composition. But Lydia’s focus was singular, her thoughts consumed by the woman across from her.

Katrine, for her part, kept up the charade of normalcy, commenting on the food, the wine, the ambiance, her voice light and conversational, as if she hadn’t just set a grenade between them and pulled the pin. Lydia responded when necessary, her answers clipped but polite, her mind elsewhere.

When the final course arrived—a delicate chocolate tart, its surface dusted with gold leaf, paired with a glass of tawny port—Lydia’s patience was wearing thin. Not out of frustration, but out of hunger. Not for the dessert on her plate, but for the one sitting across from her, her eyes gleaming with the knowledge of what she’d done.

Katrine took a slow bite of the tart, her lips closing around the fork with a deliberation that was almost obscene, and Lydia’s jaw tightened.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she said, her voice low, almost a growl.

Katrine’s eyes met hers, wide and innocent, though the effect was ruined by the wicked curve of her mouth. “The tart? Oh, it’s exquisite. You should try it.”

Lydia didn’t bother responding. She pushed her plate away, untouched, and leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving Katrine’s. The message was clear: Enough. Katrine’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she recovered, setting her fork down with a soft clink.

“Ready to go?” she asked, her voice still light, but there was a new undercurrent now, a hint of anticipation that matched Lydia’s own.

Lydia didn’t answer with words. She stood, her movements fluid and deliberate, and extended a hand to Katrine. The gesture was both an offer and a command, and Katrine took it without hesitation, her fingers warm and sure in Lydia’s grasp.

As they left Alouette, the night air cool against their skin, Lydia’s mind was already three steps ahead, plotting the moment when she’d turn Katrine’s boldness back on her.

The door to the penthouse clicked shut behind them, but before Katrine could take another step, Lydia’s hands were on her, swift and unyielding, spinning her around and pressing her hard against the door.

The wood groaned faintly under the force, and Katrine’s breath hitched, her body yielding to the sudden intensity. Lydia’s hands were already under Katrine’s dress, the fabric bunching around her wrists as her fingers found the bare, warm skin of her thighs. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t tease—her fingers slid higher, parting the soft flesh, and buried themselves deep into Katrine’s pussy, slick and ready, the heat of her almost scalding.

“Fuck,” Lydia murmured, her voice low, a growl laced with triumph and accusation. She pressed closer, her body pinning Katrine’s against the door, her lips brushing the shell of Katrine’s ear as her fingers curled inside her, slow and deliberate. “You’re so wet. Have you been sitting through that entire dinner like this? Your pussy dripping, aching, just from teasing me?” Her words were sharp, each one a precise cut, but there was a dark amusement in her tone, a relish for the power she now held. “You thought you could play me, didn’t you? Thought you could pull the strings and walk away unscathed.”

Katrine’s head tipped back against the door, her lips parting on a soft, involuntary moan, her eyes half-lidded but still glinting with that infuriating spark of defiance. “Maybe I did,” she managed, her voice breathy but unrepentant, her hips shifting slightly, pressing into Lydia’s hand as if daring her to go deeper. “Maybe I wanted to see how long you’d last before you broke.”

Lydia’s laugh was low, dangerous, a sound that vibrated through the narrow space between them. “Oh, baby girl,” she said, her fingers moving with slow, torturous precision, drawing another shudder from Katrine. “I’m not the one breaking tonight.”

With a sudden, decisive motion, she withdrew her hand, ignoring Katrine’s soft whimper of protest, and grabbed her wrist instead, pulling her away from the door.

Katrine stumbled slightly, her heels catching on the hardwood floor, but Lydia’s grip was firm, unyielding, as she dragged her through the penthouse, past the sleek lines of the living room, the grand piano gleaming in the moonlight, and into the suite.

Lydia didn’t pause to let Katrine catch her breath. Her hands were on the zipper of Katrine’s dress before they’d fully crossed the threshold, tugging it down with a swift, practiced motion.

The black fabric slid from Katrine’s shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk, leaving her standing in nothing but her thigh-high stockings, garter belt, and those red-bottomed stilettos that had haunted Lydia’s thoughts all evening.

The sight of her was a masterpiece—her skin pale and luminous, her curves accentuated by the delicate straps of the garter belt, the stockings clinging to her thighs like a second skin. Lydia’s gaze raked over her, unhurried, possessive, her breath catching at the sheer perfection of Katrine’s vulnerability, her audacity laid bare.

“On the bed,” Lydia commanded, her voice low but absolute, leaving no room for argument. Katrine’s eyes flickered with something—amusement, defiance, arousal—but she obeyed, stepping out of the dress and moving toward the bed with a grace that made Lydia’s pulse spike.

She sat down on the edge, then slowly slid back, her movements deliberate, her body an invitation and a challenge all at once. Lydia followed, her steps measured, predatory, as she pushed Katrine down onto the mattress, her hands firm on her shoulders. Katrine’s back arched slightly, her legs parting instinctively, the heels catching on the sheets as she settled against the pillows.

Lydia didn’t waste time. She leaned over to the bedside drawer, her movements precise, her mind already three steps ahead. She’d snooped in this drawer when Katrine had been away for a conference in London, and she knew exactly what it held.

Her fingers closed around the leather cuffs, their texture smooth and cool, the metal buckles glinting faintly in the low light. She pulled them out, holding them up for Katrine to see, and the other woman’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of anticipation and something deliciously close to apprehension.

“You’ve been playing with fire all night,” Lydia said, her voice soft but laced with steel as she straddled Katrine’s hips, pinning her to the bed.

She took Katrine’s wrists, one by one, and fastened the cuffs around them, the leather snug against her skin, the buckles clicking into place with a satisfying finality. She looped the cuffs through the slats of the headboard, securing them tightly, ensuring Katrine couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. “But now, kitten, you’re going to learn what happens when you push me too far.”

Katrine tugged lightly against the restraints, testing them, her lips curving into a smug, defiant smile. “And what’s that?” she asked, her voice low, teasing, though her breath hitched as Lydia’s hands slid down her arms, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her collarbone.

Lydia leaned in, her lips brushing Katrine’s jaw, her breath hot against her skin. “You don’t get to control this,” she murmured, her voice a velvet blade, cutting through the haze of Katrine’s bravado. “You don’t get to control my orgasms, my pleasure, my anything. Tonight, I control yours. And you—” She pulled back slightly, her eyes locking onto Katrine’s, her gaze unyielding, commanding. “You won’t come until I allow it.”

Katrine’s breath caught, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes darkening with arousal. “Is that so?” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray how much Lydia’s words had affected her.

Lydia didn’t answer with words. Instead, she slid down Katrine’s body, her hands trailing over her skin, lingering on the taut straps of the garter belt, the silky texture of the stockings.

She settled between Katrine’s thighs, her fingers parting them gently but firmly, exposing her completely. Katrine’s pussy was glistening, swollen with need, and Lydia’s mouth watered at the sight, at the scent of her arousal, heady and intoxicating. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of Katrine’s inner thigh, teasing, drawing out the moment until Katrine’s hips twitched, a soft, desperate sound escaping her lips.

Lydia’s tongue flicked out, tasting her, slow and deliberate, savoring the way Katrine’s body tensed, the way her breath hitched. She was sweet, musky, perfect, and Lydia lost herself in the act, her tongue exploring every fold, every sensitive spot, her hands gripping Katrine’s thighs to keep her still.

Katrine’s moans grew louder, more desperate, her wrists straining against the cuffs as she arched into Lydia’s mouth, chasing the pleasure she wasn’t allowed to claim.

“Not yet,” Lydia murmured against her skin, her voice muffled but firm, her lips curling into a smile as she felt Katrine shudder beneath her. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at her, to see the flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parted in a silent plea. “You’ll wait. You’ll wait until I’m ready.”

Lydia’s own arousal was a fire in her veins, her body aching with the need to touch herself, to find release in the taste and feel of Katrine.

She slid one hand down her own body, slipping beneath the waistband of her trousers, her fingers finding her own clit, slick and sensitive. She moaned softly, the sound vibrating against Katrine’s pussy, and the other woman’s hips bucked, a strangled cry escaping her lips.

“Lydia,” Katrine gasped, her voice raw, pleading, but Lydia only smirked, her fingers moving faster against herself, her tongue relentless against Katrine’s clit. She was in control now, the conductor of this symphony, and she would decide when the crescendo came. For now, she let herself drown in the taste of Katrine, in the power of holding her pleasure in her hands, in the knowledge that Katrine was hers—completely, utterly, irrevocably hers.

Her tongue was a weapon, precise and unrelenting, painting Katrine’s pussy with slow, deliberate strokes that sent tremors through her bound body.

Each flick, each swirl, was calculated, designed to drive Katrine to the edge of ecstasy and hold her there, teetering, without letting her fall.

Lydia’s lips closed around Katrine’s clit, sucking gently, then harder, feeling the pulse of her arousal against her mouth, the way Katrine’s thighs trembled under her grip. The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of her devotion, the soft gasps and whimpers spilling from Katrine’s lips, and the low, hungry moans Lydia let slip as she pleasured herself, her fingers circling her own clit in time with her tongue’s rhythm.

Katrine was a vision of surrender and defiance, her wrists straining against the leather cuffs, the headboard creaking faintly with each tug. Her chest heaved, her nipples hard and aching, untouched but begging for attention.

Her stockings clung to her thighs, the garter belt framing her hips like a work of art, and those red-bottomed stilettos dug into the mattress as she arched, chasing the release Lydia kept just out of reach. “Lydia, please,” Katrine gasped, her voice breaking, raw with need, her eyes glassy with desperation. “Please, I can’t—”

Lydia pulled back, her lips glistening, her breath hot against Katrine’s slick folds. “Oh, you can,” she said, her voice a low purr, dripping with control. “You can, and you will. You don’t get to come yet, little girl. Not until I’ve had my fill.”

She dragged her tongue along Katrine’s inner thigh, savoring the way her body jolted, the way her breath hitched. “You teased me all night, didn’t you? You knew exactly what you were doing. Now you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

Katrine’s head fell back against the pillows, a soft sob escaping her lips, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity of being held at the precipice.

Lydia watched her, her own fingers moving faster against herself, her clit throbbing under her touch. The sight of Katrine—so undone, so desperate, so utterly at her mercy—sent a surge of heat through her, coiling tight in her core. She leaned in again, her tongue diving back into Katrine’s pussy, lapping at her with a hunger that bordered on feral, her lips and chin slick with her arousal.

Katrine’s moans grew louder, more frantic, her hips bucking against Lydia’s mouth, but Lydia was attuned to every shift, every tremor. The moment she felt Katrine’s muscles tense, her breath catch in that telltale way, she slowed her pace, pulling back to gentle, teasing licks that kept her on the edge without pushing her over.

“Fuck you,” Katrine whimpered, her voice thick with frustration, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. Her eyes were wet, her lips parted, and the sight of her so beautifully wrecked sent a jolt of pleasure through Lydia’s core.

She pressed harder against her own clit, her fingers slick, her breath ragged as she chased her own release. The power she held over Katrine, the way she could unravel her with a single touch, was intoxicating, a drug she couldn’t get enough of.

Lydia’s orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing through her with a force that made her gasp, her body shuddering as she rode the high, her fingers slowing but never stopping. She moaned against Katrine’s pussy, the vibration pulling another desperate cry from her, and Lydia’s eyes fluttered open to watch Katrine’s face as she came down, her chest heaving, her skin flushed with the afterglow.

“God, you’re perfect,” Lydia murmured, her voice rough, reverent, as she pressed a soft kiss to Katrine’s thigh, her lips lingering on the sensitive skin. “So perfect, and completely mine.”

She sat up slightly, her hand still resting on Katrine’s thigh, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against the silk of her stockings.

Katrine’s eyes were locked on hers, pleading, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Lydia,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “please. I need to come. I can’t take it anymore.”

Lydia tilted her head, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “No,” she said, her tone soft but unyielding, “you don’t get to decide that, I do. But I’ll give you a chance.”

She leaned in closer, her face hovering just above Katrine’s, her breath warm against her lips. “If you want to come, you’ll have to beg for it. Really beg. Like the good little girl I know you can be. And maybe—maybe—if you ask your Daddy nicely enough, and if you apologize for teasing me all night, I’ll let you have what you’re so desperate for.”

Katrine’s eyes widened, a mix of defiance and surrender flickering in their depths, but her body betrayed her, her hips shifting, her thighs trembling with need.

She tugged against the cuffs again, the leather creaking, and Lydia’s smile widened, relishing the way Katrine’s pride warred with her desire. “Go on,” Lydia urged, her voice a velvet command. “Beg me. Let me hear how much you want it.”

Katrine’s lips parted, but no words came at first, only a soft, frustrated sound. Lydia didn’t wait. She slid back down, her hands spreading Katrine’s thighs wider, her tongue diving back into her pussy with renewed fervor.

She licked and sucked, her movements relentless, driving Katrine back to the edge in seconds, only to pull back again when she felt her start to tense, her moans turning to desperate, broken pleas. “Lydia, please,” Katrine gasped, her voice cracking, her body writhing against the sheets. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for teasing you. I didn’t mean—fuck, please, I need you. I need to come. Please, Lydia, I’ll be good, I swear.”

The words were like music, sweet and desperate, and they sent a fresh wave of arousal through Lydia, her own body responding to the sound of Katrine’s surrender.

She moaned against Katrine’s clit, her fingers slipping back to her own pussy, circling her clit with a frantic urgency. The sound of Katrine begging, the sight of her so utterly undone, was enough to push Lydia toward another orgasm, her breath hitching as she worked herself faster, her lips never leaving Katrine’s pussy.

She sucked harder, her tongue flicking with precision, and Katrine’s cries grew louder, more frantic, her body trembling on the edge of release.

“Lydia, please, I’m begging you,” Katrine sobbed, her voice raw, her pride shattered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please let me come Daddy, I’ll do anything, please—”

The sound of her pleading, the way her voice broke, was Lydia’s undoing.

Her second orgasm ripped through her, fiercer than the first, her moan muffled against Katrine’s pussy as her body shook, her fingers slick with her own release. She rode the wave, her eyes locked on Katrine’s face, watching the way her lips trembled, her eyes fluttered shut, her entire body straining for the release Lydia had denied her.

“Such a good girl,” Lydia murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction as she came down, her lips brushing Katrine’s clit one last time. “You begged you Daddy so beautifully. I suppose you’ve earned it.”

Without warning, she dove back in, her lips closing around Katrine’s clit with a fierce, unrelenting suction, her tongue flicking fast and hard. Her fingers slid inside Katrine’s pussy, curling deep, finding that perfect spot that made her scream.

Katrine’s body arched off the bed, her wrists yanking against the cuffs, her heels digging into the mattress as Lydia pushed her over the edge. The orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her cries echoing through the room, raw and unrestrained, her body shuddering violently as pleasure consumed her. Lydia didn’t stop, her tongue and fingers working her through every pulse, every tremor, until Katrine was a trembling, gasping mess, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

Lydia finally pulled back, her lips glistening, her eyes dark with triumph and adoration.

She crawled up Katrine’s body, her hands gentle now, unbuckling the cuffs and freeing her wrists. Katrine’s arms fell limp, her body still trembling, and Lydia gathered her close, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “You were perfect,” she whispered, her voice soft, reverent, as she brushed a strand of hair from Katrine’s flushed face. “So perfect for me.”

Katrine’s eyes fluttered open, still hazy with pleasure, and she managed a weak, breathless smile. “I am not gonna ask how you knew I had cuffs in my drawer,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, but there was no malice in it, only a quiet, sated affection.

Lydia chuckled, low and warm, and pulled her closer, their bodies tangling together in the aftermath, the air heavy with the scent of sex and satisfaction. Katrine’s breath was still uneven, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves, her skin flushed and damp against Lydia’s.

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows and the soft rustle of sheets as Katrine shifted, her body curling instinctively into Lydia’s embrace. The intensity of moments ago had softened, but the air still thrummed with the intimacy they’d woven, a delicate thread that bound them closer than words could articulate.

She shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Katrine’s languid state, and reached for her feet, still clad in those red-bottomed stilettos that had driven Lydia to distraction all evening. With slow, deliberate care, she eased the heels off one by one. The shoes fell to the floor with a soft thud, and Lydia’s hands lingered on Katrine’s arches, massaging gently, her thumbs pressing into the tender skin to ease any ache from the hours spent in those towering heels.

Katrine sighed, a small, contented sound, her body relaxing further under Lydia’s touch.

She let her hands move upwards, her fingers brushing the silky edge of Katrine’s stockings. She unhooked the garter belt’s delicate clasps, each one releasing with a faint snap, and slid the stockings down Katrine’s legs with reverent care, her touch light but possessive, savoring the softness of her skin.

The garter belt followed, unfastened and set aside, leaving Katrine bare except for the faint sheen of sweat and the lingering flush of their earlier intensity.

Lydia’s hands never stopped moving, caressing Katrine’s thighs, her hips, her waist, each touch a quiet affirmation of adoration.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace between them. Katrine’s only response was a soft hum, her breathing slowing, her body growing heavier as sleep began to claim her.

Lydia watched her for a moment, her heart swelling at the sight of Katrine so vulnerable, so trusting, her defiance now softened into something tender and unguarded.

As Katrine’s breaths evened out, her body sinking fully into the mattress, Lydia pressed one last kiss to her forehead before carefully disentangling herself. She moved with quiet precision, sliding off the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom, her own body still humming with the afterglow of their shared pleasure.

She rummaged through the neatly organized shelves, her fingers closing around a packet of makeup wipes. She pulled one out, the faint scent of aloe and chamomile rising as she unfolded it, and made her way back to the bedroom.

Katrine hadn’t stirred, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep, her face softened in repose, lips slightly parted. The red lipstick she’d applied so meticulously earlier was smudget, but still vibrant, a bold slash of color against her pale skin, and Lydia felt a pang of affection at the sight.

Kneeling beside the bed, she leaned over Katrine, her movements slow and careful. The makeup wipe was cool against her fingers as she gently pressed it to Katrine’s cheek, wiping away the faint sheen of foundation, the delicate sweep of blush that had accentuated her cheekbones. She worked with a tenderness that felt almost sacred, tracing the contours of Katrine’s face—her high cheekbones, the gentle slope of her jaw, the soft curve of her brow. The wipe glided over her eyelids, removing the smoky shadow that had deepened her gaze, the eyeliner that had framed her eyes like a painter’s stroke. She moved to Katrine’s lips, softening the bold red into a faint stain, revealing the natural pink beneath, a color so soft it seemed to belong to a different woman.

Lydia paused, studying her bare face up close. The sight was arresting—Katrine’s features, usually so sharp and commanding, now softened into something almost ethereal, her vulnerability a gift Lydia felt privileged to witness. She set the wipe aside, her fingers brushing lightly over Katrine’s cheek, a final, gentle caress.

Satisfied, Lydia stood and began to undress herself, her movements unhurried but deliberate, each action a quiet shedding of the evening’s intensity. She unbuttoned her dress shirt, the fine Egyptian cotton sliding off her shoulders, its soft blue hue catching the lamplight as it fell to the floor in a whisper of fabric. The caramel-brown trousers followed, the tailored fabric pooling at her feet, along with the now ruined knickers.

She stood naked, her skin prickling faintly in the cool air, her body still warm with the memory of Katrine’s touch, the faint ache of her own release lingering in her muscles. Glancing at Katrine one last time, ensuring she was still asleep, before slipping into the bed beside her. The sheets were cool against her skin, a contrast to the warmth of Katrine’s body as she drew her close.

Lydia wrapped her arms around Katrine, pulling her gently against her chest, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Katrine stirred faintly, a soft murmur escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake, her head nestling into the crook of Lydia’s neck, her breath warm against her skin.

Lydia’s fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns along Katrine’s back, following the gentle curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, each touch a quiet promise of safety and care.

“You belong to me,” Lydia whispered, the words barely audible, more a thought than a declaration, as she pressed a final kiss to Katrine’s hair.

The weight of Katrine in her arms, the steady rhythm of her breathing, was a comfort Lydia hadn’t known she needed. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of their shared space, and within moments, sleep claimed her too, pulling them both into its quiet embrace.