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Chapter Text

Ever since Thomas Wambsgans was young, he had thought about money. How to acquire it, and how to keep it. Coming from a middle-class family, he was taught early on that hard work paid off. Before Tom knew what power was, he knew he wanted to be close to it. He’d learned young that the world didn't hold doors open for boys like him. Tall, eager, a little too clean-cut for the neighbourhood, a little too hungry behind his wide blue eyes. His mother, an attorney, kissed the crown of his head every morning and left him notes on the kitchen table next to her schedule full of late nights. She loved him more than anything, but love, as Tom would learn, could sometimes be distance.

He was polite to a fault, always the first to raise his hand, to help clean up, to bring the extra snacks his mom had packed "just in case." His teachers called him ambitious. Other boys just called him weird.

At recess, when the other kids bolted straight for the soccer field or swarmed near the swings, Tom walked slower, scanning the scene. He clocked who was orbiting who, who had the soccer ball, who was being followed without having to ask. He never assumed he’d be welcomed. But he could be useful. That was safer. 

Once, in second grade, Evan Landry, the boy with the loudest laugh and the newest sneakers, was building a sandcastle alone behind the jungle gym. Tom approached slowly and offered the red shovel. Evan looked at him confused but took it with a smile. By the end of the week, he was waving Tom over like they’d always been friends.

Tom learned then what became the foundation of everything. Power gravitated toward usefulness, and loyalty could be earned by proximity.

In the sandbox, while others built crooked castles, he built allegiances. By middle school, it was instinct. Standing just close enough to the cool kids to laugh at the right time. Carrying AV equipment for extra credit. Sitting at the lunch table edge and making himself the kind of pleasant people didn’t mind keeping around. He was a ghost, seeking for approval.

It was in high school that the hollowness started to ache. After parties, he’d walk home under the humming streetlamps with the taste of cheap beer in his mouth, remembering the way someone had called him “buddy” like a dog. He laughed too hard at jokes that stung. Nodded a little too long. Let them think they were cleverer, funnier, kinder than they were.

Sometimes, it made him feel like he was disappearing. But disappearing was safer than being forgotten. So he smiled. He played nice. He made himself a mirror, one that always reflected what others wanted to see. And when he looked ahead, to something larger than his Midwestern life, he didn’t see friendship or family or love. He saw an opportunity. Big offices. Bigger names. Money and suits and the quiet, glass-walled power of men who never had to wait for a seat at the table.

He told himself it was a strategy. Because Tom Wambsgans wasn’t a fool, he was patient. And patience, he’d learned, often looked a lot like weakness until it was time to strike.

Years later, Tom moved to New York, hauling behind him a checked suitcase and a hunger for more. The city felt electric, even from the grimy cab windows, and Tom watched it pass. He wasn’t there to enjoy it. He was there to win, to make something more of his life. He entered rooms the same way he used to scan the schoolyard, with eyes sharp, posture pliant, always searching for the biggest sandbox.

In those early months, he rented a one-bedroom in the Bronx with paper-thin walls and a view of another brick wall. Every night, he put on a blazer, combed his hair, and took the subway to somewhere expensive. Steak houses with too many mirrors, rooftop bars where everyone had a hedge fund and a god complex or one of their company events. He nursed one drink, sometimes two if he could afford to skip the next lunch, perched at the edge of odd balls like a houseplant people forgot they’d invited. But he was watching. Who looked around mid-conversation for someone more interesting. Who the others laughed at too hard. Tom memorized the social choreography like gospel. At corporate dinners, he folded names and bios into the corners of his brain, hoarded relationships like currency. He learned which junior VP was married, which partner was cheating, which executive was too drunk to remember his own intern’s name. He saw the moves before they were made. Saw the rings that slipped off fingers under tables, the smirks that preceded backstabbing.

Switching jobs and getting into Waystar Royco wasn’t luck. He’d greased every wheel, networked every lead, and smiled until his cheeks ached. He had the MBA. The unpaid internships. The debt. He showed up on his first day in a suit that fit just a little too well and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He played the part perfectly. All Midwestern humility: firm handshakes, over-enthusiastic nods, and that apologetic tone that said, I’m just happy to be here. It was a lie, of course. He wasn’t just happy. He was starving.

Tom studied the shape of every man’s ego like he used to study the lunch table hierarchy. And then he fit himself to it, perfectly tailored. He let department heads speak over him. Laughed too hard at bad jokes. Deflected credit with a shrug and offered it to someone else, always someone higher up. But when the lights dimmed and the janitors started their rounds, Tom was still at his desk. The building’s hum was familiar by then. The wheeze of the elevators, the whisper of the AC ducts. He was often alone but always alert. He kept telling himself, it wasn’t desperation. It was a craft he had perfected.

He knew when to disappear into the background and when to be indispensable. He remembered the birthdays of men who never learned his. He kept a list of their preferred scotches in a notes app. He corrected minor typos in decks before they reached the boardroom. He offered to call cars, hold coats, fetch aspirin, schedule dinners, take notes.

But even in the penthouse elevators, as his name crept up the internal charts, Tom never forgot the ceiling that carried the name Roy. The family was a myth wrapped in a steel shell. Logan, the patriarch, was volcanic, terrifying, magnetic in the way that made people forget how often they hated him. The kind of man who didn’t bend to anyone’s will. His children were products of unimaginable wealth and constant warfare, each of them armed with poison-tipped words and an Ivy League pedigree. They weren’t gods. But they were close enough to it.

Tom had made it this far. He wasn’t charming enough to be loved. Wasn’t ruthless enough to be feared. But he could be useful. And useful, he had learned, was just another word for necessary.

Somewhere in the glittering maze of Waystar Royco, there was a crack in the armor. A soft spot. A sliver of opening. And Tom would be the one to find it.

.:.:.

There she was.

Tom had seen her before. She was a Roy after all. Not in person, but through the glossy sheen of magazine pages, and the closely curated photos that trickled into the public sphere whenever Logan decided to let the world have a glimpse. She was always in motion, always just a little out of reach. 

He remembered one image in particular. Vanity Fair had captured her at the first RECNY ball. She was still a teenager, fifteen maybe, but already holding herself with a strange, dissonant composure. Rosy-cheeked, fierce-eyed, all fire and ice, posed beside her father like a gem in his collection, precious and faintly untouchable. He’d stared at that photo longer than he should have.

Even then, he knew he wanted in. Not just the wealth, though that was part of it. Not just the aura of unsolicited power, though that mattered, too. It was something about the way she looked straight into the camera, unflinching, as if daring anyone to tell her she didn’t belong at the center of the frame. There were no ceilings obstructing her. She could do anything.

The pieces clicked in his head at once. She was the key. The necessary piece to unlock everything he’d ever fantasized about while growing up in Saint Paul. There was only one complication: she was too young. Fifteen to his twenty-nine.

So he waited. He told himself it was logistical. A strategic move waiting for the right time to be played. She was the only daughter of a man who controlled newsrooms and senators alike. What better portal into the Roy dynasty than the one person who seemed to orbit at the soft edge of Logan’s tempestuous heart?

Tom was determined to position himself like a chess piece on a board already rigged in their favor. So he had begun laying the foundations of his upcoming life one calculated step after another. Degree from the University of Minnesota. Relocation to New York. A junior role that barely covered rent. A few promotions. Waystar. Shanghai. Back to New York again.

Most of his time in New York he spent alone. He didn’t need everyone to love him. There was Mary. Blonde, polite, exactly the kind of woman whose name opened the right doors but never made anyone nervous. She worked in brand partnerships at a fashion house. Tom dated her for nearly four years. Not because he loved her. He knew better than to gaslight himself, but because she looked good beside him, all soft edges and effortless small talk. With Mary, he could practice how to make conversation at gallery openings without sounding like he was trying too hard. How to blend in without letting his ambition show.

Mary smoothed out his rough edges. Made him seem safe. Like a man with a golden retriever personality and stable prospects. With her hand on his arm, no one suspected how carefully he was studying them. Mary thought they were in love, dreaming about a shared future. Tom let her think that. It was easier that way.

Years passed, promotions came, continents changed, and Mary left. And then on one cold Monday morning, as if he had willed it into being, there she finally was, back in the public eye. Sipping on his morning coffee, Tom devoured the magazine at once. 

Siobhan Roy, all grown up with her sharp blue eyes, sharper politics, slipping into rooms like she belonged to no one, like she might devour the world or set it on fire trying. She didn’t know him. But he knew her. Every year, every image, every carefully curated public breadcrumb. There was a hidden box of clipped magazine spreads he kept longer than he should have. Archived articles about her, he reread late at night. He’d watched her life unfold like a story he already knew the ending to.

After she switched from law school, she studied political science and threw herself into campaign work. First on a congressional race that no one thought mattered, then on bigger ones, her name creeping into donor lists and media coverage. He found clips of her giving interviews in too-bright studios, her voice calm, incisive, a little amused, as if she was already three moves ahead of every man trying to pin her down.

Sometimes he’d watch those clips on his laptop after work, headphones in, the lights off. He told himself he was studying her, learning how she spoke, how she held her expression steady when a question annoyed her. Especially the ones where she looked straight into the camera and explained some piece of policy in that low, deliberate tone, her mouth curving just slightly on the last word. He’d watched one clip from a town hall in D.C., Shiv in a green dress, sleeves rolled to her elbows, about a dozen times. Not because of what she said, but how she said it. That heat in her. The way she made the room hush just by standing still.

The screen had never done her justice.

In person, she was electric. And careless in a way that only people born into power could be. The kind of careless that said: I do what I want, and no one stops me. Her laugh sliced through the marble lobby of Waystar the first time he saw her live, short and amused, head tilted as she swatted at one of her brothers, Kendall. She didn’t see Tom standing there by the security desk, holding a file and trying not to look too obvious. 

But he saw her.

God, he felt her.

She was the wildcard. The one who hadn’t folded into the company yet, but still walked its hallways like she belonged. He began to linger near the elevator banks around the times she was rumored to be in the building. Pretended to check his watch more often. Picked up coffee near her usual entrance. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he rearranged his days so that they brushed against hers.

At first he told himself it was professional curiosity. That everyone at Waystar kept tabs on the Roy children. But after midnight, he could admit, at least to himself, that it was starting to be something closer to an obsession.

There was something maddening about her. Something addictive. He noticed things most people probably missed: how she tapped her thumb against her ring finger when she was thinking, how she tilted her head when amused, how she blinked once before delivering a line that could gut a grown man. He had studied her the way a scholar might study a difficult text: methodically, relentlessly, determined to crack the code. 

Leafing through the magazine, Tom read about her recent breakup with the political powerhouse, TK. He smiled. It was perfect. During the next weeks, he read every gossip page that covered it, every blurry paparazzi shot of her walking through Midtown with her mouth set in that furious line. It was the perfect moment for him to enter her story. She was vulnerable, angry, and aching for distraction.

Tom had always known what he wanted. But she didn’t even know his name yet.

But she would. Oh, she would know him.

.:.:.

The coffee machine hissed and sputtered like it was dying. Tom stood next to it, fidgeting with the sugar packets, watching the door from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t even supposed to be on this floor. His meetings were two levels down, but he’d timed this. The rumor had it Shiv Roy was stopping by her father’s office this afternoon. He’d heard the gossip from the assistants and came to look. And like clockwork, she appeared with a flash of strawberry red hair. A whip of perfume that hit him with the kind of impact that made him dizzy. Shiv entered the break room like she owned the block. Her grey blazer was slung casually over one shoulder, a phone pressed to her ear.

Tom’s mouth went dry, his mouth was left open in awe for her. She didn’t even glance at him as she walked to the fridge, still murmuring something sharp into the phone. Her hand hovered briefly, then grabbed a glass bottle of sparkling water. Tom took his chance. He turned slightly, just enough to look casual. His voice was bright, but careful.

“Hey – uh, that one’s the good kind. The imported stuff.”

Shiv paused, barely acknowledging him with a tilt of her head. The phone call continued without interruption. Tom waited, heart thudding stupidly. 

She ended the call with a clipped, “Yeah, fine, bye,” then turned her head toward him, pale brows slightly raised.

“You a sparkling water connoisseur?” she asked, dry amusement dripping off every syllable.

Tom straightened. “Oh – uh, no, just... I noticed. You know. Small joys.”

She stared at him for a beat before giving him a tiny smirk. Not much. But still it was something. 

“Right,” she said, unscrewing the bottle and taking a long sip. “Well. Enjoy your... small joys.”

Then she turned and walked out.

And just as fast she came, she was gone. Tom stood there for a moment longer, gripping his own paper cup like it might float away. He was breathless, flushed with some idiotic cocktail of adrenaline and infatuation, like he could melt on the spot. He’d spoken to her and she spoke back. He ran the sentence over and over in his head like a mantra. Why did he have to be so awkward?

He knew it was nothing. Knew that to her, he was just some guy who stood too close to the coffee machine. But to him? It was the beginning.

Luck was on his side. He began to spot her more often, always just a few degrees removed. Always hidden in the shadows.

One morning Tom stepped into the mirrored elevator and nearly stopped breathing. She was already there. Leaning back against the wall in a tailored slate-grey pantsuit, arms crossed, scrolling through her phone. Her hair was pulled into some loose twist that looked like it had cost a fortune to make it look accidental. She didn’t glance up as he entered, didn’t offer the barest flicker of acknowledgment. Just kept chewing the edge of her thumbnail, bored and focused all at once.

Tom stood beside her in silence, staring straight ahead. He could smell her shampoo. It was something sweet like apples with something sharper underneath, bitter and clean. She got off two floors before him, leaving the scent behind like a taunt. She never once looked back. 

After that incident, he started noticing her everywhere.

In the glass-walled conference room, she sat beside her father during a quarterly meeting she technically had no role in. Legs crossed, gaze distant, cutting through executive reports with eyes like a whetted blade. Occasionally she leaned in to whisper something to Logan and made the man chuckle. That, more than anything, made Tom's pulse skip. She could make Logan Roy laugh publicly.

Tom delivered his report without stuttering, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t look up once. Just clicked her pen like she was counting down seconds until she could leave the room. Still, her voice haunted him. He held the sound in his mind like a treasured song, playing it back during long commutes and quiet evenings.

At the annual charity gala, Tom was ready. Dressed to impress, with practiced charm and a handful of talking points tailored for the donors and VPs. He was mid-conversation when she arrived, and he forgot what he was saying. She swept in late, gleaming in something dark and sleeveless that caught the light when she moved. Her hair tied up into a knot, her expression unreadable. She laughed with a man who kissed her on both cheeks, maybe some European. Someone important.

Tom nursed a drink at the bar, pretending to wait, just to be in her line of sight. They never crossed.

Later that week, a Forbes piece on the Roy heirs made the rounds. Tom read it three times. He saved the photo of her, grainy and overexposed, but caught mid-laugh, a rare full-toothed smile with her head thrown back. She looked real in it, goofing with her brothers. Young, yes, but full of something unruly and alive.

She’d said in the interview that she didn’t want to be “one of those girls who marry for legacy and disappear into yachts and yoga.” She wanted to make a difference. Tom whispered, “You won’t,” to the screen like an idiot.

Still, it wasn’t until she looked at him that everything started to shift.

It was a tense day. Something was brewing upstairs like thunder. Shiv stormed out of an inner circle meeting, phone in hand, jaw clenched. As she passed Tom in the hall, she muttered, “Fucking amateurs,” to no one in particular. Then her eyes lifted. She looked at him. Directly. Not through him, not past him but at him. It was barely a second. But it was the first time she saw him as something other than office wallpaper. It landed in his chest like a lit match. He stood frozen long after she disappeared around the corner, one hand still in his pocket, trying not to smile.

He failed.

That was how it began. With near-misses and with the sense that one day, if he played it right, she might stop and stay. He needed only a moment. Just long enough to break him through. From that moment on, Tom Wambsgans started planning their official first meeting quietly and obsessively. As if the entire future hung on the next time their eyes would meet.

.:.:.

It was one of those nights where the sky above Manhattan bled out into a sea of indigo, the kind of night where every street corner pulsed with electricity. It was a gilded room full of power-hungry sharks draped in silk and Armani. Tom was still just another Minnesotan boy with a good suit and a better smile, angling for a slice of the pie. 

He was already three glasses of champagne in, carefully rationed so he’d feel a bit loose but not sloppy. He had a whole rotation of names he’d planned to approach, executives, senior editors, a couple of mid-level power brokers he suspected might eventually outrank him. He wanted to get his rounds done, so that he could solely focus on wooing Siobhan. He had rehearsed every compliment and every joke in advance. He was much older than Siobhan, so he had to make a lasting impression without seeming creepy. He got a new haircut and bought a new suit to match. 

The night went on smoothly. Tom was stuck chatting with the head of his department, Bill, when his world stopped turning as she walked into the ballroom. Siobhan Roy, golden and untouchable, her mouth set in a line so sharp it could've sliced through glass. Tom felt her before he saw her. A gravitational force he had anticipated but hadn't fully prepared for. Logan Roy's daughter. His pride and joy. The woman who was a runner-up in a race to inherit it all. 

It wasn’t just the wealth or the power that drew him in, though they were the undeniable factors. It was Shiv herself. The way she seemed to defy her surroundings, holding her own amid the wolves, not just another Roy puppet but something brighter, sharper than diamonds. His heart stopped as he gazed at her, admiring the way she moved, the way she spoke. She wore a deep navy evening dress that was twinkling with small crystals, like the night sky. The deep blue brought out her lovely strawberry red hair that was curled in Hollywood waves. 

She was speaking to someone and though her smile was polite, there was a slight drag to her expression. Boredom, elegant and expensive. Then she laughed with Roman. Threw her head back and laughed, exposing the long pale line of her neck like a dare. Tom watched it happen from across the room and felt a violent thrum in his chest. He thought that he would give anything to be the reason she laughed like that.

He took a sip of the terrible wine someone had handed him and tried to play it cool. But his eyes kept drifting. She was magnetic, even when she wasn’t trying. He carried on the conversation with Bill absentmindedly at the same time. During which, for the first time that night her gaze met his. It wasn’t long. Just a flicker. A blink through the crowd. But Tom didn’t look away. He held it. Just a beat longer than polite. Just long enough to make her wonder who the hell is that?

She looked again a few minutes later. And again, after her conversation ended. It was his moment. He moved through the crowd like in a trance, elbowing his way closer to her. Tom stopped five feet away, heart loud in his ears. Up close, she was somehow even more intimidating. Not for her posture or presence, but because she didn’t bother pretending. She appraised him openly, like he was a potential PR risk she hadn’t signed off on.

He offered her a smile, boyish and slightly winded. “Hi,” he said, voice cracking with nerves. “Sorry to interrupt, I just –”

She tilted her head. “You just…?”

He cleared his throat, straightening his. “I realized it would be criminal not to say hello. I mean, after our water tasting the other week, it only felt right.”

A flicker of amusement passed across her features after she connected the dots. “Ah. The mineral water critic,” she said. “You take your water very seriously.”

“I do,” he said, pretending to wince. “And you clearly don’t. Which makes me wonder if this –” he gestured vaguely between them “is doomed from the start.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but there was a softness at the edges. “Well, I can’t have water snobs in my orbit.”

He extended a hand, sheepishly. “Tom Wambsgans. Parks and Cruises.”

She shook it, her grip surprisingly firm, her eyes flicking to the nametag he wasn’t wearing. “You’re the rollercoaster guy.”

“Guilty,” he said, then added quickly, “Not the fun ones, though. Just the ones with liability issues.”

Shiv almost smiled.

“And you’re making this,” he added, glancing around the glimmering crowd, “the most interesting conversation I’ve had all night.”

She arched a brow. “That’s not a high bar.”

“It’s a very low bar,” he agreed. “But you cleared it with grace.”

There was that first electric pause, where neither of them looked away. Shiv took a sip of her champagne and let her gaze rest on him longer than before as she measured and studied him. As if filing him under something new to be considered.

“You always this charming with girls?” she asked.

He pretended to consider it. “Only the ones who look like they eat executives for breakfast.”

That got a real laugh. Short, involuntary. Tom felt it ripple through him like heat.

“Is that your line?” she asked, amused despite herself.

“Oh God, no,” he said quickly. “No, I’m – I’m terrible at lines. I thought about fifty things I could say to you, and they all sounded idiotic in my head, so… here we are.”

This time, she laughed, low and surprised. Something loosened in her shoulders. She laughed at the way he stumbled over his words when she shot him a piercing look.

“Okay,” she said, lifting her glass toward him in a silent toast. “Congratulations. You’re officially less boring than everyone else here.”

Tom smiled, letting himself look a little overwhelmed. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment I’ve ever received.”

She studied him, her blue eyes still wary, but warmer now. And Tom, kept her close without smothering, leaving just enough room for her to come to him.

“So,” he said, almost casually, though he had rehearsed this too, “are you here on your own tonight?”

Her expression flickered just for a second, the smallest of shadow was present in her bright eyes.

“I am,” she said, voice flatter than before. “Why?”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “No reason. Just – seems like everyone here brought an entourage. Or an alibi.”

She let out a soft exhale that might have been a sigh, her gaze dipping to her glass.

“Maybe I’m better without one,” she murmured, almost to herself while sipping the rest of her champagne. 

Tom felt something tighten in his chest. He knew he’d chosen exactly the right moment. But he only smiled, stepping just close enough that the distance between them shrank to something electric.

“Then I guess I’m lucky,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet you.”

He knew she was the fire. The kind that scorched and dazzled in equal measure. And if he wanted to be near her, he’d have to learn how not to smother it. How to stand close enough to feel the heat without demanding more than she chose to give.

Without a word, she turned and drifted back toward the bar. But she didn’t dismiss him. So Tom lingered. Just near enough to feel the heat of her shoulder beside his. He didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He just stood there, stunned by the sheer presence of her. She was so luminous and untouchable, and here he was, beside her, not sent away.

Their first conversation would blur with time. It wasn’t the words that mattered. It was this moment. The nearness and the unbearable brightness of her. For Tom, it was sacred. And as he stood beside her, silent and reverent, he felt it down to his bones. They were destined to come together sooner or later.

.:.:.

Tom lay on his back in the dark, the ceiling above him dimly lit by the orange glow of the city bleeding in through half-drawn curtains. His apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his thoughts loud, made everything feel sharp. The sheets around him were too warm. He hadn’t slept in weeks. Not really. He was thinking about her again.

Siobhan Roy. Her name was a full-body sensation now, one that ran beneath his skin like static electricity, something he couldn’t switch off. He turned his head on the pillow, staring at the empty space beside him like he could conjure her into it. He kept imagining it, the moment their mouths would meet. He wanted it to be natural. Not too practiced. He wanted it to feel like a slip in the fabric. An accident that had been years in the making.

Maybe they’d be walking home from dinner. Some place low-key, the kind of place she’d choose to avoid paparazzi and expectations. She’d have a glass too many of red wine and her guard would soften just slightly. She’d laugh at something he said, not because it was funny, but because it was him. And then she’d stop, in the middle of the sidewalk, her heels clicking to a halt.

Or maybe she’d be the one to say something vulnerable first. She’d turn to him outside a cab or in an elevator, say something low and tired and achingly real. And in that space, he’d step closer. Close enough to breathe her in. He wouldn’t go for her mouth right away…no. He’d start small, gentle. The side of her temple, maybe. Her cheek. Let her feel him tremble a little. And if she looked up at him, if her eyes softened even a fraction, then maybe, just maybe, she’d kiss him.

God, how he wanted it to be her. He wanted it to be her decision. Not because he was afraid. He wasn’t. But because he wanted her to choose him. That would mean more than anything.

He imagined her fingertips curling into the lapel of his wool coat. Her mouth so soft and warm against his. The way her breath might catch for half a second before she deepened the kiss, threading her fingers into his hair like she couldn’t help it. He let himself stay there for a while, in that imagined heat. That moment where she gave in. 

Tom rolled onto his side, tugging the blanket up to his chin. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to see it more clearly. The streetlight behind his eyelids flickered like candlelight. And in that imagined space, Shiv Roy kissed him first. Fierce and sure, like everything she did. And he let her. Breathless and wide-eyed, as if none of it had been planned.

.:.:.

It started to escalate with a text he didn’t expect to ever get.

You free tonight?

He’d saved her number in his phone the moment she gave it to him at the Christmas party, but he hadn’t dared to use it. He read the message twice, heart hammering, before he typed back.

Sure. Just say when and where.

Le Bain. 9.

Le Bain at the top of Standard Hotel wasn’t a place Tom usually went. It was the sort of dimly lit, hush-voiced bar that catered to old money and people pretending to be old money. The view of the city was breathtaking. But he was there early, posted up at the end of the long mahogany bar, nursing a neat Scotch he couldn’t really taste. He kept nervously looking at his phone, afraid that Shiv would ghost him.

Shiv arrived at nine on the dot, wrapped in a black coat that looked expensive even by Roy standards. She didn’t smile when she spotted him, but her shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit.

“You’re punctual,” she said as she slid onto the stool beside him.

“You’re intimidating,” he replied, before he could stop himself.

That startled a small, real laugh out of her.

“Good,” she admitted. She slipped off her gloves, laid them carefully on the counter. Her nails were painted the same pale pink as in the magazine photos he’d studied too many times.

Tom tried not to stare.

They ordered drinks, gin and tonic for her, another Scotch for him. The conversation felt easy in a way that surprised them both. He asked her about her work in campaigns, about why she’d switched from law. She asked him about Minnesota, about why he’d landed in Parks instead of something more impactful, like News.

At first, he thought she was only half-listening, her gaze drifting over his shoulder to the mirrored wall behind the bar. But every so often, she’d fix those ice blue eyes on him, and he’d feel pinned in place.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, after her second drink.

“Anything,” Tom said.

Her mouth curved, like she was amused he didn’t even hesitate.

“Why did you come up to me at the party?”

He’d rehearsed a dozen plausible answers. But in that moment, none of them felt quite right.

“Because,” he said slowly, deciding to be almost honest, “you looked like you wanted to be somewhere else.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her hand stilled around her glass.

“And you thought you’d rescue me?” she asked.

“No,” Tom said, honest in spite of himself. “I thought I’d stand there until you decided whether you needed the company.”

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The soft murmur of the bar filled the space between them. There was laughter from a booth in the corner, the clink of ice. Finally, she let out a slow breath and looked down at her drink.

She said, almost to herself. “That’s… annoyingly disarming.”

He smiled carefully, feeling something shift. They stayed another hour, the conversation circling from politics to movies to the best dumpling place below Fourteenth Street. When he finally stood to settle the check, she surprised him by touching his sleeve, just lightly.

“Walk me out?”

“Of course.” He couldn’t help the blush rising to his cheeks. 

They stepped out through the back door and into the hard bite of January air. The cold slapped his face, but he hardly registered it. She hovered there for a moment on the sidewalk, her breath curling into the night like smoke, the hem of her coat stirring in the wind. She looked like she belonged to another world, like something carved from starlight.

Then she moved toward him, slowly. Closer than she’d ever been. Close enough that he could see the tiny freckle on her jaw, the delicate shimmer of makeup still clinging to her lashes. Her eyes were enormous in the dark, the kind that held galaxies if you looked into them too long.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said, her voice low, roughened by the night. But she wasn’t warning him. She was bracing herself.

“I know,” he breathed, looking down on her, not because he believed it, but because she needed him to say it.

Then she rose to the tips of her heels and kissed him.

It wasn’t a grand, sweeping thing. It wasn’t possessive or practiced. Her lips met his like a secret. It was soft and searching, like a question she didn’t know she was asking. For a beat, neither of them moved. He stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sensation of her mouth on his, the tentative weight of her hand resting at the lapel of his coat. The kiss was fragile, delicate, a match struck in the dark.

Tom felt it everywhere, the fire and the ache of it. The cold scraping at the back of his neck, the warm bloom where their mouths met, the stuttering crash of his heart like it might knock the ribs from his chest.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times. In dreams, in restless nights, in the middle of dull meetings and elevator rides. Always it was smoother, more confident, more cinematic. But reality was messier. Realer. Infinitely more devastating.

She tasted like gin and winter. When she pulled back just enough to breathe, he could see her clearly. Not the Shiv from headlines or glossy black-tie appearances, but this version, with wind-tousled hair and flushed cheeks and something raw flickering in her eyes. He couldn’t stop staring.

“You… didn’t have to do that,” he said, the words scraping out of him, breathless and dumb.

She held his gaze, quiet. Then her lips curved into the smallest smile, crooked and complicated.

“I know,” she said, softer this time. 

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t anything she could take back in the morning. 

They stood there a moment longer, and when the wind picked up, her hair brushed against his cheek. She didn’t kiss him again. He didn’t ask for more.

“Goodnight, Tom,” she murmured.

His throat tightened. “Goodnight.”

She turned and slid into the back of a waiting car, the door closing with a soft click. He stood there long after her taillights faded down the avenue, the cold finally seeping into his bones. He touched his lips, just once, like trying to trap the warmth before it vanished. She had kissed him. And he knew, with something deep and unshakeable in his chest, that he would do anything to follow this woman.

When he finally started walking, the city felt different. Every traffic light, every steam vent rising from the grates, every dimly lit shop window, it all shimmered with the sense that something had changed for good. He tried to tell himself it was just relief. That he’d played it exactly right, said exactly enough. That this was simply the next step in a plan he’d been building since the first time he’d seen her photograph. But as he crossed 61st Street, the cold biting through his coat, he had to admit that he was already in danger of losing the thread. Because whatever this was, whatever she was, it wasn’t going to be part of any strategy he could control.

.:.:.

Tom didn’t expect to see her that day. He told himself he hadn’t planned it, that his meeting with legal just happened to coincide with her stepping out of the elevator. But when he saw her, all tailored and carelessly perfect hair, something thundered in his chest. Like gravity itself had turned toward her. She wasn’t looking for him. But the moment her eyes caught his, even if it was accidental, even if it was just curiosity skimming the surface, it felt like sunlight hitting a windowpane he’d been staring through for years.

Tom stood by the elevator bank, a folder of useless printouts clutched to his chest like a shield. He’d been running logistics for a parks deal all morning, nothing that should’ve mattered. But now, standing a few paces from her, the entire building had gone quiet in his head. Like they were the only two people in the marble-tiled echo chamber.

He tried to look busy. Cool. Normal. It didn’t work out. She was already walking toward him, or past him, he wasn’t sure. And before his brain could veto it, he said:

“Ms. Roy.”

Her head turned slowly.

“Mr. Wambsgans,” she replied, voice wrapped in silk and dry amusement. Tom nearly dropped the folder.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said. Stupid, obvious. He cleared his throat. “This week, I mean.”

Shiv shrugged. “The city drags me back sometimes.”

He smiled like that meant something. Then, like it was nothing at all, like he hadn’t spent the last three days thinking about her lips on his, he pulled the scarf from his briefcase.

“You forgot this,” he said, careful not to sound too eager. “At the bar.”

She frowned faintly, blinking.

Tom hesitated. “I wasn’t sure it was yours, but –” His voice dropped, almost involuntarily. “It smelled like your perfume.”

He held it out. The dark navy cashmere scarf was soft between his fingers. He’d folded it neatly, like it deserved care. She looked at it, then at him, and took it in silence. Her eyes stayed on his just a beat longer than necessary.

“…Thanks,” she said as the elevator opened behind her.

Tom didn’t move. Didn’t try to follow. Just let her walk inside with the scarf in hand and the scent of her still clinging to his skin like a ghost. The doors slid shut, and he stood alone in the lobby with his heartbeat thudding in his throat like applause.

.:.:.

Tom woke with a start, his heart pounding like he’d run for miles. The room was still dark, the faint blue light of early morning seeping through the slats of his blinds. Sweat clung to his skin, the sheets a twisted mess around his legs. His throat was dry. He blinked slowly, disoriented, like he’d surfaced from somewhere too deep and too warm.

It was always her. She haunted his days and nights.

She had laughed in the dream. That low, impossible laugh that curled under his ribs and stayed there. Not the sharp, cutting bark people got at dinners, in boardrooms. No, this was the laugh he had heard only a couple of times. But it felt real. Too real. Like something he had known once and lost.

He exhaled sharply and shoved a hand through his hair. This wasn’t the first time. Not even the third. He sat up in bed, elbows braced on his knees. The cotton of his shirt clung to the small of his back. He could still feel her ghost against his chest, still taste her on his tongue. Her mouth had been on his neck. Her nails at his collar. And her mouth, God, her mouth. He didn’t remember the words. Just the heat, like a fever he was begging to catch. She was everywhere. Warm and golden, hair spilling over his chest, her lips brushing his jaw with slow, devastating confidence.

Her voice in his ear, close enough to burn: You want me, don’t you?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had been careful and strategic. Everything about Shiv Roy was a calculated move. She was a shortcut to the throne. He had wanted proximity to power, not this... whatever this was. This heat in his chest. This ache. This fucking hunger that followed him into sleep and left him staring at ceilings in the dark.

At first, the dreams had been harmless. Fleeting. Glimpses. A whisper. A silhouette at the end of a hallway. But lately, they had become detailed. Her voice saying things she never would. Her body, warm and open beneath him, taking everything he gave. And then she’d disappear, like always. In the dream. In real life.

They’d snogged a few times since that first kiss. Heated, urgent sessions where Shiv pressed him up against the quiet hallway at Waystar, her fingers curling into his hair as she stole the breath from his lungs. But then she’d pull back with some offhand joke, or a glance at her phone. Tom never pushed. Not because he didn’t want more, but because he wanted to keep her. And if there was one thing he understood about fire, it was that it vanished the second you tried to trap it in your hand. So he waited.

And every night, his body betrayed him more. Every glance, every shared look, became a spark. Her perfume on his shirt sleeve. The way her mouth lingered on the rim of her wine glass. The sound she made when stretching her arms over her head, like it meant nothing to her and everything to him.

He pressed his palms to his face and groaned quietly, dragging them down over his jaw. This wasn’t just lust. Or maybe it was exactly that, but it was infectious. It was crawling under his skin, making everything else in his life feel dull. He hated it, because he wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the man with a plan. Not some idiot lying in bed at dawn, hard and aching and desperate from the idea of a woman who still hadn’t let him all the way in.

He stood, the floor cold against his bare feet, and splashed water on his face. The mirror didn’t offer comfort. Just the reflection of a man who was losing control. A man with flushed cheeks, wild eyes, and something dangerously close to longing carved deep into the lines of his face. He stared at himself for a long time.

“This is just part of the plan,” he whispered. “You’re in control.”

He hadn’t intended to feel anything. But he wanted her. Badly. Enough that it scared him. Enough that it threatened to undo everything.

He leaned both palms against the sink, head bowed.

Get it together, Wambsgans.

But beneath his skin, something pulsed. Something ravenous. Something that whispered her name.

.:.:.

Tom spotted her across the street. It was a Tuesday night, too late for business drinks and too early for romantic ones, which is exactly why the sight unsettled him. Shiv, radiant with her hair swept back, stepped out of Chipriani. She laughed at something just out of sight, that sharp, magnetic laugh she never wasted at Waystar.

Until he appeared beside her.

Tall. Clean. One of those faces that looked like it belonged on a Forbes profile. His suit pinstripe suit was too well tailored. He touched the small of Shiv’s back like he’d done it thousand times before, like he didn’t even need permission.

Tom stood across the street, the winter air slicing into his coat. He hadn’t meant to be there. He was just walking from a team dinner, half-watching the sidewalk, thinking about Shiv’s reply to his message earlier. 

Busy, maybe tomorrow.

Now he saw why. The pair paused outside a black car idling at the curb. Tom watched as the man leaned in, said something low in her ear. She smiled at him warmly. Shiv brushed her fingers across the man’s lapel in a gesture that made Tom’s stomach turn. She didn’t kiss him. But she didn’t pull away from his touch either. The man opened the car door for her, said something else, and Shiv laughed again before ducking inside. The man stayed on the curb, phone already in hand, like this was just a part of his schedule.

Tom stood frozen, fingers clenched in his coat pockets, heart hammering. This was his blueprint crumbling in real time. This was her choosing someone else, someone born in the rooms Tom still had to knock on. He tried to calm his racing heart, telling that it was just a dinner. It was nothing. But deep down, something inside him curled into a tight, cold knot as he continued the icy walk home. 

Hours later, Tom lay flat on his back, staring at the dark ceiling like it had answers etched into the plaster. There was only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the intermittent sigh of the radiator kicking in. He hadn’t texted her back. Not even a passive-aggressive “how was your night?” or a carefully neutral thumbs-up emoji. He’d told himself it was none of his business. She hadn’t promised him anything. She didn’t owe him any explanations. Still, his jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. 

He rolled over, face pressed into the pillow, and willed himself to sleep. It didn’t come. Instead, he saw it again. That image of Shiv laughing with someone else. Her fingers laying gently on his lapel. The worst part was how normal it had looked. Like they’d done it before. Like she trusted him. Like maybe, God forbid, she liked him.

Tom sat up, suddenly too hot, kicking back the sheets. He was being ridiculous. Juvenile. He reached for his phone lying face down on his bedside. At first, he opened Instagram. Not Shiv’s, she barely posted, but one of those society gossip accounts that collected cocktail party sightings like it was war intel. Nothing from tonight night. He switched to Google. Then froze, thumb hovering over the screen.

What would he even search? “Shiv Roy date finance looking guy”?
He scoffed. Idiot. She probably wasn’t even dating him… But he couldn’t help it. He opened LinkedIn next.

Ten minutes later, he was waist-deep in searches. Siobhan Roy + political donors + Waystar Royco associates + finance. He found a guest list from some fundraiser two months ago. A name appeared beside hers twice.

Tom blinked at the screen.

Nicholas Hoffman.
Hedge fund. Princeton.
Blue eyes. Tall.
One of those smug bios.

Tom opened his website. A photo banner. There he was. Same guy from outside the restaurant, in some crisp Patagonia vest standing beside a vineyard. His smile was perfectly shaped to punch.

Tom’s stomach twisted. He’d seen the way Shiv looked at him. Still, he told himself this didn’t mean anything, yet. People went on dates. People met people. But the need to know was like a splinter under his skin. Shiv didn’t date or meet people for fun. Not really. She liked to be the one pulling strings, not holding hands.

Was he someone she might actually –

Tom shoved his phone aside and stood, pacing the small space of his apartment. He poured himself a glass of wine just to do something. He wasn’t going to confront her. That would be stupid. That would make him look weak. But he would have to watch it and wait. Because if Nicholas thought he could casually slip into Shiv Roy’s world and stay, he had no idea who the fuck Tom Wambsgans really was.

Tom stood outside his office window, one hand in his pocket. Below him, the city crawled with a quiet, relentless hunger. Just like him. It had been three days since he saw them together. Three days since that smile. That touch. Shiv hadn’t mentioned the guy, not once. Which meant either there was nothing there… Or it was something real enough to keep hidden.

Tom sat back at his desk, jaw tight, and opened a new tab on his work computer. He had spent the days in between trying to decide what to do. Thinking about the radio silence Shiv had kept, he couldn’t do anything else. He stared at the blinking cursor in Waystar’s internal database for a long minute, tapping the key slowly.

Nicholas Hoffman.

It returned nothing, at first. Just a few dry business hits, an old joint-venture interest in a property firm in San Diego. Nothing alarming. But Tom knew better than to stop at surface level.

He leaned out of his office and called for his assistant. “John?”

John’s head popped up from his desk, startled. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

John shuffled in, already nervous. “What’s up?”

Tom closed the door behind him and gestured toward the chair across from his desk.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Tom said smoothly, voice soft. “And I need you to be very smart about it.”

John blinked. “Okay…”

Tom leaned in, lowering his voice. “There’s a guy. Finance world. Hedge fund type. Nicholas Hoffman. I need everything.”

John made a face that displayed how uncomfortable he found the task. “Everything like...?”

“Everything,” Tom repeated. “Donors, offshore holdings, lawsuits that were quietly dropped, interns who suddenly disappeared from his calendar, photos from Vegas bachelor parties, whatever shit people like him try to scrub from the internet. Dig deep. I’ll handle the project revision for today.”

John hesitated. “Is this personal? Or professional?”

Tom’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes.”

John nodded slowly. “Got it. And, are we assuming this is just...precautionary?”

Tom leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Let’s say...we’re assessing threats to company-adjacent relationships.”

John gulped and stood. “Got it.”

Tom watched him go, the tension in his neck easing just slightly. He wasn’t jealous. Jealousy was for amateurs. He was tracking competition. Anticipating obstacles. That’s what smart men did. If Nicholas Hoffman had even the faintest crack in his polished surface, Tom would find it. And when he did, he’d press it open with a smile.

Because if Shiv was going to choose anyone, it was going to be him. He would make sure of it.

John came back a day later, his knock timid on the frosted glass of Tom’s office. He had a folder under one arm and a look like he was about to deliver a biopsy result. Tom waved him in without looking up from his screen.

“So?” he asked, feigning casual as he clicked through emails. “Tell me he’s got a secret child in Ohio. Or a dogfighting ring. Surprise me.”

John winced. “Not… quite. But it’s not nothing.”

That got Tom’s attention. He looked up. John sat down and opened the folder, spreading a few printed pages across Tom’s desk like tarot cards. “Nicholas Hoffman. Hedge fund manager. Formerly with Millennium Capital Partners. He left two years ago. On paper, it looks clean. But…”

He tapped one of the blurry PDF scans of court documents.

“There was an internal whistleblower case. Never made it to court, but there’s an NDA. One of the junior analysts raised concerns about Hoffman front-running client trades for personal gain. It was buried. Settled fast.”

Tom leaned forward, interest sharpening. “Buried isn’t erased.”

“Nope,” John said, getting more excited with his work. “Also this is just gossip, but a guy I know from business school interned at MCP during Hoffman’s time. Said he was kind of a... smooth sociopath. Slept with the wife of a senior partner. Tanked the guy’s marriage and got himself transferred to Los Angeles before the fallout hit.”

Tom gave a low whistle. “Classy.”

“There’s also some old pictures,” John added, sliding a printout across. “Hamptons party, three years ago. He’s laughing it up with this sketchy crypto guy who just got indicted. Might mean nothing, but you know, the kind of photo you wouldn’t want circulating.”

Tom’s smile stretched slowly across his face.

John blinked. “Are you gonna… like, use this?”

“I’m not going to leak anything,” Tom said lightly. “That’s beneath me.”

John stared at him confused. Tom lifted the photo again.

“I’m just going to... let it float. You know. Make sure it ends up in the right inbox. Maybe a few people will see it. That sort of thing.”

John shifted in his seat. “But you’re not leaking it?”

“Of course not.” Tom leaned back. “I’m strategically disclosing. Big difference.”

The next week, it all happened naturally. A mutual friend, Lisa Arthur, forwarded Shiv the old Hamptons photo with a casual "FYI, you know this guy, right? A walking red flag" attached. The name Hoffman began to carry just a hint of smoke. 

To Tom’s joy, it didn't take long for Shiv to text him, breaking her silence. They agreed to meet for dinner in a quiet, tucked-away restaurant in Soho. Tom had arrived early, nervously rearranging the cutlery, checking his reflection in the back of his spoon. He’d ordered a glass of red, nothing too bold, and practiced looking casual.

Shiv was late. Not by much. Just enough to remind him who she was. She swept in wearing a wine coloured silk blouse and no apology, her lipstick the color of blood. She looked radiant, and somehow tired, like she had been dealing with something annoying. Tom stood too fast when she reached the table, bumping his thigh against the corner. The cutlery clinked with the shake. She smiled faintly, slipping into her seat without waiting for him to pull it out.

“You look great,” he said, voice a little too earnest.

Shiv just hummed, picking up her menu like she didn’t already know exactly what she wanted. “How’s Parks and Cruises?”

He laughed. “Still cruising. Still parking. You know how it is.”

That earned a proper smile, brief but real. “Jesus, you’re lucky I find you funny.”

They ordered. Conversation moved smoothly, half work talk, half shared gossip about people she couldn’t stand. Tom offered a few careful opinions, kept his edges soft. He didn’t bring up Nicholas. Didn’t need to. The absence of his name hung in the air like smoke from a candle just blown out. But what thrilled him quietly, was the way she kept watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The small, strange softness in her posture. The way she sipped her wine slower tonight, like she was actually enjoying it.

Somewhere between the second course and dessert, she reached across the space between them casually and let her hand rest on his thigh. Not too high. Not too suggestive. The conversation kept going. She didn’t break stride. Didn’t glance down. But her fingers moved slightly, slow and steady, pressing into the fabric of his slacks like a claim.

Tom nearly forgot what he was saying. Something about quarterly projections and cruise line logistics.

He cleared his throat. “Uh…sorry, I lost my train of thought.”

She tilted her head, innocent. “You did?”

“Yeah. Must be the wine,” he managed.

She smiled widely. Still, her hand stayed. Tom couldn’t move. 

The server returned to ask about dessert. Shiv withdrew her hand then, but only to flick through the menu. The moment had passed like a ghost, but the warmth of her touch remained.

They split the check, as they always did. It was on her insistence. But when they stepped out into the cold air afterward, the sidewalk seemed quieter than usual. A slow wind blew in, rustling Shiv’s coat as she pulled it tighter around herself. Tom lingered beside her, heart thudding stupidly in his chest. He didn't want the night to end. Not yet.

Shiv turned to him, hands tucked into her pockets, and for a long moment, they just looked at each other. The streetlights made her skin glow, made her red hair look like fire.

She leaned in first.

No warning, just the heat of her mouth against his. It wasn’t showy, but it wasn’t soft either. Her hand came to rest lightly at the back of his neck, anchoring him there, and for a second, the rest of the city dropped away. Tom froze, then kissed her back, his hands awkward at first, then steadying at her waist. She pulled back before he was ready, her breath clouding between them. Her glittering eyes searched his face, unreadable, and she exhaled with the faintest curve to her mouth.

“Goodnight, Tom,” she said, and turned on her heel.

He stood there dumbly as she slipped into the waiting car, the door closing with a click, like it usually did with her. Always ready to escape the crime scene. 

The kiss meant she was thinking about him. It meant he was still in the game. He stayed on the sidewalk long after her car disappeared into traffic, hands shoved in his pockets, trying not to smile like a lunatic. She hadn’t said much, but the kiss had spoken loud enough. And Tom? He’d wait for the perfect moment.

.:.:.

Tom was lounging at home on a Saturday night, thinking about his next steps. The vibration of his phone on the table woke him from his spiral about the future. It was a message from Shiv.

Are you in the city?

He stared at it for a full minute, heart slamming.

Yes? He typed, trying to pry her plans.

She sent him another message that was just an address. No emojis. No explanation, nor time.

Tom blinked at the screen. He had no idea what the address meant. A party? Something casual, something casual, he repeated to himself, because the alternative made his chest cave in. But his mind was sprinting ahead of him, cataloguing every possible outcome. Would her friends be there? Her brothers? Would she open the door, annoyed that he showed up too fast?

He wanted to look effortless. But everything felt like it mattered. The socks he chose. The way he folded his coat over his arm instead of wearing it. He just sat frozen before he forced his legs to move. He walked to the mirror, combed his hair, straightened his collar, and grabbed the bottle of red wine he’d been gifted for some vague occasion.

He’d never sweat so much over a cab ride, counting intersections like countdowns. By the time the driver pulled up, Tom’s hands were shaking. He wiped them on his thighs before he stepped out.

This was what he’d wanted. Her. The chance. Now all he had to do was not screw it up.

The doorman looked at him like he was lost. Tom stepped into the marble foyer, his shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. He paused by the brass directory, scanning until he found her name, tucked among a half-dozen hedge fund heirs and old media royalty. Even knowing who she was, it still startled him. 

Act like you’ve been here before , he told himself.

It wasn’t nerves. Not really. He just needed a second to get it right. His coat was buttoned, his breath steady, his face composed into something that looked effortless. Not like the guy who’d practically sprinted into a cab the second her text came in. He pressed the button for her floor. He ran a hand through his hair in the elevator mirror, trying not to look as giddy as he felt.

The elevator opened directly into the door of her apartment. He rang the doorbell once. When Shiv opened the door, she was barefoot in jeans and an old Yale sweatshirt. So there was no party involved with the invitation after all. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she looked, somehow, more dangerous like that. Like a wolf wearing sheep's clothing.

“You came,” she said, like it wasn’t obvious. 

Of course, he would come running. 

“You texted,” he replied, trying to sound even. “I didn’t think twice.”

She let him in with a nod, turning on her heel. No hug. No kiss. She looked almost embarrassed to see him taking in the space behind her. The space was wide, high-ceilinged, framed by enormous windows that overlooked Midtown like it belonged to her alone.

“It’s…uh,” she started, her voice low, “tiny.”

Tom blinked. “Tiny?”

She shrugged, a flush creeping up her throat. “Well not tiny. Just…you know. Compared to my family’s places.”

He let out a soft laugh he hoped didn’t sound as ridiculous as he felt standing in a too big of a foyer. 

Fucking places. So ungrateful.

“Shiv, this place is…” He trailed off, glancing past her at the living room, where a steel-and-glass bookcase rose almost to the ceiling. “It’s beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping aside to make space for him. “It’s an apartment, Tom.”

“Right,” he said, slipping past her, his hand brushing her waist gingerly, testing the waters. “An apartment with more square footage than my grandparents' entire house.”

The rich kids take everything for granted, Tom thought.

Shiv ignored his touch, already moving into the kitchen out of his arms. He stood in the center of the living room, feeling like he’d walked into someone’s movie set. Everything gleamed. The apartment was… her. Modern and clean, but not cold. Some books scattered, art leaned instead of hung. A cashmere throw draped over the couch like someone had fallen asleep under it and tossed it off mid-dream.

He followed her to the kitchen island, placing the bottle of wine on the counter like an offering. He watched as she poured them both a glass and handed him one without ceremony. She didn’t say cheers, didn’t toast. Just sipped perched on a stool, legs crossed beneath her like a cat.

Tom leaned against the counter, unsure if he should sit or stand or just float like a balloon in her atmosphere.

“This is nice,” he said lamely.

Shiv’s eyes lifted from her wine. “You’re nervous.”

“No,” he lied. Then he confessed as her eyes kept drilling through him, “Maybe a little.”

She shrugged. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here.”

That made something twist low in his gut. She wanted him to be here. 

“I like this place,” he said, glancing around again. “It’s… more personal than I thought.”

She arched a brow. “You thought I lived in a Roy-branded vault?”

He chuckled. “Honestly? Maybe. The walls could’ve been made out of gold.”

She studied him for a moment and stood. “Come on. Let’s sit.”

He followed her to the living room. She curled into the corner of the couch, folding herself into the cushions. Tom sat beside her, close, but not too close. He sank into the soft cushions, his palms flattening against the upholstery, half-wondering how much it all must cost. He tried to picture himself here coming in after work, dropping his bag by the door, hearing her voice float out from the kitchen. It felt absurd and inevitable at the same time.

The TV was on but muted. Some old movie cast flickers of light across her face. They didn’t talk for a bit.

Her voice echoed softly: “Thanks for returning the scarf.”

He turned toward her. “You’re welcome.”

He smiled, studying her face, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m just… ” He hesitated, searching for something that sounded casual and not as disarmed as he felt. 

“I’m glad you invited me.”

“Yeah, well.” She sat beside him, crossing her legs, her expression flickering between denial and something softer. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

He took a sip of the wine, set the glass down, and reached into his coat pocket.

“I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes,” he said.

She frowned. “What? Why?”

“Just humor me.”

She sighed, side-eyed him, but did it, tipping her head back against the cushion. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small foil-wrapped chocolate he’d grabbed from the front desk of the building on the way over. It was ridiculous, a cheap gesture, but something about it felt necessary. He placed it in her open palm.

“Okay,” he said. “You can look.”

Her eyes opened, falling to the chocolate. Then she looked up at him, one brow arching. “Seriously?”

“It’s a housewarming gift,” he said, trying to keep his face straight.

She laughed, low and surprised, and shook her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But I’m glad to be here. And who wouldn’t appreciate wine and chocolate?”

She just hummed in agreement and turned the foil-wrapped sweet over in her hand like she didn’t know what to do with it. And for one perfect second, Tom let himself imagine it, this room with her in it, not as something temporary, but as something that might one day be his life.

Shiv opened the foil-wrapper, popping the chocolate into her mouth, before she pulled her feet under her, curling up tighter on the couch.

Tom took a calculated risk, reaching down and taking one of her bare feet into his lap. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she stilled like she was letting it happen just to see what he’d do with the invitation. Her foot was cold in his hands, skin soft from the kinds of lotions people like her never even had to think about buying. The pads of her toes were delicate but strong, her body built to move and conquer. Still, he handled her like she might break if he got it wrong.

Tom began slowly, drawing his thumb along the arch of her foot in a light, exploratory circle. Then a little deeper. He applied pressure, but not too much. She let out the faintest sound, almost a sigh, and shifted her weight subtly, like she hadn’t expected it to feel that good. So he did it again. His fingers moved up to the ball of her foot, kneading gently. She had worn heels all day, he could tell from the tension just beneath the skin, from the way her toes flexed without her meaning to. He gave her that too. A release. He worked his way up to her ankle and back down again, rhythmic, focused, like her foot was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Fuck,” she muttered, voice low and unguarded, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s dangerous.”

“Good dangerous?” he asked softly, his thumb now brushing the sensitive spot just beneath her toes.

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, her head tilted back against the armrest, lips parting slightly, like she wasn’t used to letting herself melt like this. Not in front of anyone. But she wasn’t moving away either. Her breathing slowed, her lashes casting long shadows against her cheeks. She looked undone, but in the quietest way.

Tom watched her with something close to awe, his fingers still working steady, deliberate paths into her skin. This felt more intimate than kissing her. She was letting him take care of her. Letting herself enjoy his touch. He switched feet, lifting the other one onto his lap. She didn’t even open her eyes.

This one was more tender. The arch tighter. He loosened his touch and moved slower, using his knuckles, kneading in soft waves. Shiv let out another small gasp, barely audible, and sank deeper into the couch like she might never move again.

For a few minutes, the world shrank down to the heat of her skin under his palms, the way she trusted him enough not to flinch.

She murmured something then, not words exactly, more like sound. And said: “You’re good at this.”

He smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’m good at noticing when someone needs something.”

Still, she didn’t open her eyes. But she shifted toward him, and let her leg drape across his lap, as if daring him to keep going. A silent request for more. And he did. With both hands now, he worked slower, firmer, memorizing every inch. She didn’t say anything else. But her body did.

By the time he’d finished with her second foot, her whole body looked looser, uncoiled. Shiv’s head was tilted back on the couch cushion, her throat long and pale and vulnerable in the soft glow from the kitchen light. Her legs were still draped across his lap, like she’d forgotten they were there. Or like she’d decided she didn’t care.

Tom didn’t move. He kept his hands resting lightly on her ankle, thumbs idling there, not massaging now, just… staying. Grounding her. Grounding himself into this moment. This was real and this was happening in reality instead of his dreams. He felt like he was holding a moment in his hands, fragile and rare, like it might vanish if he even breathed too loudly.

Shiv opened her eyes. They found his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her expression was unreadable, as always, but something about the line of her mouth had softened.

“You’re staring,” she said quietly, her voice hoarse from sleepiness or something more vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Tom said. No shame in it. “I am.”

He had never seen anything so gorgeous as her, lying there like an angel flung from space. She blinked slowly. For a second, he thought she might make a joke, throw up one of her usual defenses, something about how sappy he was or how easy. But she didn’t. Instead, she shifted, just slightly, pulling herself up until she was fully seated again, legs still tangled with his, her hip pressing against his thigh. Her hand came up to rest on the back of the couch behind him. The space between them shrank.

He was suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat.

“I don’t usually let people stay,” she said, close to his ear almost absently. Her thumb brushed against the seam of the cream cushion, not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he murmured.

She looked at him with sharp eyes, testing. “Do you?”

Tom nodded, swallowing hard. “You like your space.”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown.

“But you stayed here, in the city,” he added, voice low. “Tonight.”

Shiv didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence settle around them, full of implication. Then, with a breath that felt almost too vulnerable, she shrugged one shoulder.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

It wasn’t a confession. But coming from her, it felt like one. Tom’s throat tightened. He wanted to reach any part of her: her hand, her jaw, her waist. But he didn’t. Not yet.

“You’re not alone,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure she heard it.

But her gaze flicked to his mouth. And then she leaned in just a fraction, just enough that he felt the warmth of her breath on his lips, and she kissed him again. Slowly. Not desperate, not rushed. Just a steady, intentional pressure. Her fingers grazed his shirt collar, tugging gently, and when he kissed her back, he let it build like they had time now.

She shifted, swung her legs over his lap, and straddled him without breaking the kiss. Her hands slid into his short hair, and he gripped her waist like she might disappear again if he let go. Yet there was restraint. He didn’t pull her tighter, didn’t rush. He kissed her like he was learning her. Not just touching her, but listening. Every sigh. Every hesitation. Every way her body responded when he changed pressure or angle.

When she broke the kiss, her forehead rested against his. Her voice was a whisper.

“Do you want to stay?”

Tom didn’t even have to think.

“Yes,” he breathed, almost reverent.

When she stood and offered her hand, he followed. But because this was the closest he’d ever been to her, and he wasn’t about to let that moment go.

The bedroom was dimly lit, cast in soft amber light from the fancy antique lamp above. Shiv’s bed was unmade, the sheets tangled in a way that felt lived-in. Or more like the cleaning staff hadn’t come to do their job. Tom barely had time to take it all in before she had kicked off her jeans and was on him again. Hands in his shirt, mouth catching his like she was angry at herself for wanting this.

It hit him like a current. The press of her body, the taste of her mouth, the sound she made when he backed her toward the bed. And yet, she didn’t let him lead. She spun him before his knees even hit the mattress. Pushed him down with a hand on his chest, her mouth dragging over his neck, her teeth catching the skin just enough to make him hiss. She kissed like a woman who didn’t need anything, and that made him want to give her everything.

Tom gripped her hips as she climbed over him, straddling him again. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, her hands roaming underneath, nails grazing ribs like she was mapping out every inch. When she leaned down to kiss him again, her hair fell around their faces in a veil of rose gold.

“Don’t be soft with me,” she whispered, breath hot against his jaw.

Tom swallowed, nodding, though part of him wanted nothing more than to kiss the sharp line of her collarbone and memorize the birthmark behind her left ear. But he understood what she needed right now: control, escape, friction. And it was time to deliver exactly what she craved.

He let his hands run up her thighs, firm and certain now, digging his fingers in just a little too hard. Her breath caught, and she rolled her hips down against his hardness, eliciting a low sound from him that he couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

She smiled like she’d won something.

The college shirt came off at once. The straps of her bra fell off her shoulders as Tom helped where he could, but never took over. She made quick work of him too. Button, belt, fly, all pried apart and then paused, surveying him like a sculpture she was about to ruin.

“You look nervous,” she murmured from his lap, tracing a line down his chest. His abs tensed up under her nails. 

“I’m not,” he lied.

She laughed, dry and low. “Liar.”

He was. Of course he was. Nervous, aching, high on adrenaline, and disbelief. Because here she was, Siobhan Roy, bare and beautiful and real in his arms.

And then she kissed him again, hungrier now, and nothing else mattered. The rest of their clothes vanished to the floor like an afterthought. Her mouth trailed down his stubbled neck, biting, licking, owning, while he sneaked a hand through her slick folds. She was unbelievably wet and unfortunately rather tight, as he fucked her with two fingers. But she moaned approvingly while he pleasured her, rocking her hips back eagerly. 

Her hand found his cock, which was already leaking on his stomach. Slicking her hand, Shiv stroked him hurriedly, like making sure he was up to some standard. Her hand was so soft, her touch so fucking good, he couldn’t even imagine what fucking her might feel like.

He could only gasp when she lined the head of his cock up with her entrance, and sank down onto him without ceremony. Just a sharp breath and a tight grip on his shoulders to steady herself as his hard length filled her slowly. The tight fit made her wince in pain, and pause for a moment.

Tom’s hands shot to her small waist.

“Jesus Christ, Shiv” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. 

Usually he wouldn’t hurry with the foreplay, getting his partner all warmed up and relaxed, because he was big. Almost uncomfortably so. 

“You okay?”

He watched him slowly slip deeper and deeper into her, enjoying the way her cunt clenched down on his cock, struggling to make space for him. Her mouth had fallen open as she kept rocking her hips up and down slowly, trying to take all of him. It was a challenge, and she wasn’t going to lose. He could only babble encouragements as she rocked on him. She only stopped when the head of his cock was crushed against her cervix, and she was still unable to fully sit in his lap.

“Fuck,” she gasped, out of breath.

The pleasure of it made his toes curl. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think about anything else than her hot core around him. His hands on her hips were loose, ready to guide her when she was ready to move. 

She started to fuck him brutally. Like she was punishing herself. Or maybe him. He watched her ride above him, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, all flame and fury and unbearable grace. Her skin glowed in the low light, scattered with freckles like stardust across her chest and shoulders. His hands on her ass helped to lift her up and down on his cock.

And for a while, that’s all it was. Heat and breath and rhythm. The slap of skin. Her fingernails dragging down his chest. His hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She canted her hips, making sure that her clit brushed against his pubic bone, as she sought her own pleasure.

He didn’t talk much. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to ruin it with words that might come out too tender, too revealing, too… much. He couldn’t even really look at her, or the way her breasts bounced, if he was going to make her come before him. Shiv wasn’t far off. He could tell by the way she moved, the fluttering of her core, and the sweet moans she made that she was going to come hard.

God, it was sexy to know how good he could make her feel. Tom’s abdomen flexed and twitched as he tried to hold off the rapidly approaching orgasm. His cock throbbed in warning, and he had no other choice but to let go of her hip. His free hand found her clit, needy and engorged from their fucking, and he circled around it tightly with his thumb. 

She finally came, so hard that she fell forward into Tom, biting down on his shoulder to muffle her moans of mind-numbing pleasure. He followed seconds later, abs clenching and spilling inside of her, her name stuttering out of him like a prayer. He held her there as her orgasm shook through her belly and thighs, rubbing circles on her back as she started to recover from her high.

Almost lucid, she lifted her head and bumped her forehead to his with a smack. Both of them were breathless, fighting for the same air. Her hair stuck to her temples with sweat, and she murmured against his mouth.

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

He exhaled, trembling beneath her. “Never.”

She didn’t smile. Just kissed his lips harder.

Tom woke first.

The light filtered in through linen curtains, painting stripes across the floor and the tangled sheets. For a moment, he didn’t move. He was afraid even the smallest shift might break the spell. Shiv lay beside him, half turned away, her back bare. Her hair was a sea of brass against the pillow. One arm was curled under her cheek, while the other rested across her stomach like a half-hearted guard.

He could still feel the shape of her in his hands. His body ached. Not just from the night before, but from restraint. From how desperately he’d tried to play it right.

He watched her breathe. Slow. Steady. The calm after the storm. His heart felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat. She stirred eventually, eyes slitting open in the way of someone who knew exactly where she was, and had already begun regretting it. She didn’t bolt. But she didn’t turn toward him, either.

“Hey,” Tom said quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak in this new, fragile ecosystem.

Shiv gave a small hum. “You snore,” she muttered, voice raspy with sleep.

“I do not.”

“You do. Like someone was mowing grass all night.”

He smiled, relief blooming in his chest. She was teasing him. That had to be good.

“You stayed,” he said softly.

Shiv stretched like a cat, turning her face toward the ceiling, avoiding his eyes. “Well. Didn’t feel like calling a car at 4 a.m. to my own apartment.”

“Right. Of course. Point taken.”

And there it was. The first step back. Tom blushed. He should have left before she woke. Shiv sat up, dragging some of the sheet with her, tucking it around her chest in a way that made him feel suddenly very naked.

“I’ve got to go back to D.C.,” she said, checking her phone.

Tom sat up too, slowly. “Do you want me to – should I… make you coffee?”

She glanced at him with something caught between amusement and pity. “No offense, but you’re not my assistant.”

He grinned despite himself. “Okay. That’s fair.”

She stood, crossed the room without shame, completely at ease in her body, like she hadn’t just unmade his entire world. She pulled on a t-shirt from the chair and glanced at him once more.

“This was… fun,” she said, smoothing her hair into a ponytail.

Tom’s heart stuttered. Fun.

He nodded, trying his best not to come across as too eager. “Yeah. It was good.”

“I’ll call you.” 

“You will?” His eyes shone with hope.

“Maybe.” A smirk tugged at her mouth. “If I get bored.”

She then walked out with a wink, her wonderful ass all bare and bouncing with her steps. Tom sat back against the headboard, heart still racing, body humming with the echo of her. He should’ve been crushed. But instead, there was a stupid little smile on his face. Because she hadn’t said it was a mistake. Because she hadn’t told him to leave. And Tom had always known how to wait for the good things.

.:.:.

Tom sat at the edge of her bed, buttoning his shirt with one hand while sipping coffee with the other. Shiv was still in the bathroom, the sound of running water echoing faintly from behind the door. The window behind him cast soft morning light across the room, gilding the crumpled sheets and her heels discarded carelessly on the floor.

She had come over late last night into the city, after nearly a week of silence. They’d eaten takeout on the couch. Shiv in an oversized dress shirt and bare legs, Tom still in his work suit, and then she’d kissed him like she was starving, like something had been gnawing at her all week. She hadn’t mentioned Nicholas once. Not even in passing, since he leaked the picture. 

Shiv just fell into him, hot and wild and decisive, until she’d tumbled into sleep with her head pressed to his shoulder. He smiled to himself, that familiar rush of triumph flooding his chest. It was warm, almost narcotic.

I did it.

She had chosen him. Not the finance shark with the private plane and the Hamptons clout. Not one of her usual political orbiters with their loaded last names and Ivy League self-righteousness. No. Him.

Thomas Wambsgans. Parks and Cruises.

He stood and walked over to the floor-length mirror, adjusting his collar with deliberate care. He looked good. Tired, sure, but purposeful. Like a man who was on the brink of something larger. A kingmaker. Or maybe the upcoming king. His reflection stared back at him, full of self-congratulating fire. He didn’t say it aloud, but it buzzed under his skin.

She picked me.

The bathroom door creaked open. Shiv padded out barefoot, hair damp and sticking to her neck, wearing a white fluffy towel. Tom turned, already rehearsing something sweet but confident. Something that would remind her she had made the right choice. But before he could speak, she moved past him to grab her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she said quickly, like she’d just remembered something. “Meeting with Joyce in thirty.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Okay. Want me to call you a car?”

She shook her head, already scrolling through her phone. “It’s handled.”

Tom hesitated. He wanted to say something to seize the moment, press on the thread between them before it slipped back into ambiguity. But something in her posture made him stop. Shiv wasn’t cold, exactly. Just... elsewhere. The way she always got after a few hours. Like he was a page in a book she was only half-interested in finishing.

She turned toward him just before the door, tossing him a crooked, unreadable smile. “Thanks for the wine.”

And then she was gone. Tom stood in the empty room, silence settling around him like dust. The heat from her body still lingered in the sheets, and yet she felt miles away. He looked back at himself in the mirror. Still the same face. Still the same hunger. But somewhere, a sliver of doubt pierced the triumph he felt.

Had she picked him? Or just needed something that night, and he was convenient, dependable, already trained in how to give without asking?

Tom rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Not now. Not when he was this close. So he buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie again, and walked out the door like a man who still believed the crown was his for the taking.

.:.:.

In the beginning, Tom had imagined her as untouchable. Someone who floated above the rest of them, elegant and unbothered. But as he got closer, things didn’t quite line up. The laugh that sounded hollow. The too-long pauses before she answered a question. The way she always seemed to be half in the room, half somewhere else. Like her mind was still stuck in a previous conversation she hadn't been able to win.

He noticed how she downed the first drink too fast. How she lit a cigarette with a practiced flick, even though she didn’t seem to enjoy smoking. She filled silences with pointed questions about him, not because she was curious, but because it kept her from talking about herself. It was in the gaps. The way her voice sometimes went tight.

One night, in passing, someone at the party brought up the man. Political powerhouse. Hosted dinners in Georgetown where they picked the next secretary of something.

Shiv didn’t even flinch. She just sipped her drink and said, “I thought he was on probation.”

Everyone laughed. Even Tom. But hours later, when the crowd had thinned and she was leaning against the balcony railing alone, hair mussed by the wind, Tom asked gently, “Was it serious? You and TK?”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. She was gazing at the city twinkling before them. 

With the saddest sneer he’s ever seen, Shiv answered: “He liked to flaunt his influence. I liked thinking I could stomach it.”

That was all she gave. But it was enough. After that, Tom started noticing everything. The way she dodged when someone offered to help her with her coat. The way she avoided the corners of the rooms. She always sat on the couch, hugging a cushion against her stomach, as it could offer her some form of protection.

She was a mess, but an exquisite one. And the part of Tom that was still convinced he could win anything if he just tried hard enough, began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he could be the safe thing in her life.

.:.:.

It happened on a Friday night.

Tom wasn’t asleep. He hadn’t been sleeping, not really, not for weeks. He’d tried all the usual things, melatonin, reading until the words blurred, pointless scrolls through his phone in the dark. Nothing helped. Because some part of him, wired deep, stayed alert for her. Shiv-shaped. Shiv-attuned. Every vibration of his phone felt like it could be her name. Every dream, if he managed one, somehow circled back to her. Sometimes she was laughing. Sometimes she was walking away.

That night, he’d been pacing. Back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, chewing on the same two-day-old thought like a piece of gum that had long since lost its flavor. Had he texted her too much last time? Should he have waited longer before suggesting they meet? Was this all unraveling, and he just hadn’t realized it yet? 

He turned down the lights. Poured himself a glass of wine.

The silence of his apartment pressed against his skin like static, agitating something nervous in his chest. He was about to finally sit, finally surrender to the loneliness, when the knock came, barely more than a breath against the door.

He froze. For a second, he didn’t believe it. No one knocked this late. No one came by unannounced. Not in his life. Then he looked through the peephole, and everything in his body stopped.

There she was. Siobhan Roy. Hair loose, jacket barely buttoned, lips parted like she’d run from the sidewalk straight to his door. Standing there like something out of a dream, he didn’t dare name out loud.

“Hi,” she said, a little breathless, her smile tilted and uncertain.

“Hi,” he echoed, softer than he meant to. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t expecting –”

“I know.” She glanced past him into the apartment. “I… I didn’t really want to call. I just –”

Her voice trailed off. She looked almost embarrassed at the way she’d barged into his apartment for the first time.

Tom stepped aside without making her finish. “Come in,” he said gently.

She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his chest. He could smell her sweet perfume. She didn’t look at him right away. She was studying the cramped living room, taking in the neatness, the carefully chosen furniture that still looked like it belonged to someone else.

When she finally turned back, she met his eyes with a careful defiance, as if daring him to ask why she’d come.

“I was… in the neighborhood,” she said, and the lie was so transparent it almost made him smile.

“Of course you were,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

She let out a breath that might have been a laugh, her gaze dropping to the floor. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

Tom swallowed, feeling the moment hang between them, precarious. He knew he couldn’t look too eager. Couldn’t act like this meant more than it did as his heart pounded in his chest.

“It’s… not unwelcome,” he said carefully.

That made her look up again. For a moment, something soft flickered in her expression, and he thought he might drown in it.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He reached for her hand, slow enough that she could pull away. She didn’t. Her fingers curled into his, cold from the night air.

“I’m actually starving. You want something to eat?” Tom asked while tracing his thumb over her knuckles.

“Yeah, sure.” She answered somberly. 

He made pasta. Poured her a glass of red wine. Tried to keep the atmosphere easy, soft and light, quiet music. She wasn’t talking much, and when she did, her voice kept catching, like something was pressing on her lungs. He noticed the way her fork barely moved. How she kept checking her phone but didn’t reply to anything. He didn’t know what set it off. Maybe it was the call she finally answered in the hallway after midnight. He couldn’t hear what was said, but he felt the silence afterward. 

When she came back into the kitchen, her face was blank. Like she had climbed inside a version of herself where nothing could touch her and shut the windows. She sat down across from him, picked up her glass, and said, “Do you ever wonder if you were just born to disappoint someone?”

Tom blinked. “What?”

She looked at him then, eyes tracing his shirt buttons. “Forget it.”

Ten minutes later of trying to distract her from her mood, she stood up without warning and dashed into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.

Then he heard it. Guttural and awful. The unmistakable sound of someone vomiting.

“Shiv?” he called softly through the door.

She didn’t reply.

He hovered by the door, hesitant to knock, his heart punching against his ribs. He waited for ages, listening to the water go down the drain and the doors of his cupboards click. When the door finally opened, she was pale and shaken.

“Bad oysters?” she tried to joke.

He didn’t laugh. She leaned against the door frame heavily and avoided his eyes.

“Do you want –” he started, but stopped himself. What was there to offer? A glass of water? A therapist?

“Are you okay?” he asked instead, more quietly.

That got her attention. Her eyes flicked up to his, so wide open and beautiful in her horrible state. But she didn’t answer.

Tom stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a cornered animal. He touched her arm gently. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “But you’re not okay. And you don’t have to pretend around me.”

For a second, he thought she might push him away. Tell him to fuck off or disappear through the front door or pretend this didn’t happen. But instead, she leaned forward. Let her forehead rest against his shoulder, just for a moment. A beat of silence passed.

He guided her to the couch, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and sat beside her without speaking. The TV played something forgettable in the background. Her hair was damp at the temples. Her fingers clutched the edge of the blanket like she was trying to hold something in. The silence stretched between them like a wire. Tom could barely even breathe, afraid that even the smallest shift would crack whatever strange, fragile moment they had found themselves in.

Shiv didn’t cry. She didn’t do that, not in front of people. But her body betrayed her, sagging against the cushions like all her bones had given out. She looked smaller now, less like the woman who cut down billionaires with a single glare, and more like someone who had been fighting to keep her head above water for far too long.

Then, slowly, as the noise from the TV blurred into soft static, she tilted toward him. Her head dropped to his shoulder again, more deliberate this time. Tom felt the press of her temple against his arm, the warmth of her body inching nearer. Her hand, still clutching the edge of the blanket, loosened. And when she turned her face just slightly, when her cheek brushed against the fabric of his shirt, Tom heard her exhale. It was one of those slow, exhausted breaths that sounded like surrender.

He turned his head, gently, cautiously, and met her eyes. They weren’t wide and uncertain like before. They were heavy and tired. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice a low hum.

She blinked at him. Didn’t say anything, but her gaze flicked down to his mouth.

It was all the permission he needed. He leaned in, leaving a breath of space between them. She didn’t pull away. Her mouth met his with a kind of aching softness that unraveled him instantly. It wasn’t like their earlier kisses. This wasn’t heated or sharp, not fueled by wine or banter. It was quiet. Lingering. Like the question, he asked over and over again: Are you still here? Are you going to stay?

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Tom didn’t touch her at first. He let her lead, let her climb into his lap. Her legs straddled his thighs, her forehead still resting against his as their mouths moved in slow rhythm, lips brushing and pressing and pulling apart just long enough to breathe. Her hands were suddenly in his hair, tugging with more force now. Want rising under the surface like an undertow. And Tom, helpless against the tide, kissed her harder, deeper, like he could climb inside her and pull whatever pain was still lodged there free.

She gasped when his mouth found her jaw, then her neck. She tugged his shirt from his waistband like she’d done it a hundred times before. He held her close. Not possessively, but with purpose. One hand on the small of her back, the other splayed against her ribs, just feeling her there. Solid and real, not slipping through his fingers.

She rocked her hips into him, just once, and he groaned out too loud. She pulled back just slightly, smirking despite herself. “Still not pretending, huh?”

His throat was dry. “No,” he said, the word nearly breaking in half. “Not with you.”

The kiss was heat and command and something close to anger, but not targeted at him. He let her devour him. And he gave everything she asked.

Later, when they were in his bedroom, her body stretched beneath his, he couldn’t stop thinking that none of this felt real. That she was too vivid, too bright, like something conjured out of his oldest ambitions.

She was breathing hard when he kissed her throat, her pulse thudding against his lips. But when he moved lower, she let out a sound that made every hair on his arms stand on end. He didn’t want to rush it. He wanted to burn the night into her memory, to make sure she wouldn’t be able to think of anyone else afterward. 

So he gave. And gave. And gave. Until her breath came in ragged sobs for air, until she was shaking under his hands, until she pressed her palm against his cheek like she didn’t know whether to push him away or hold onto him. 

“Tom, Oh fuck – Tom,” she moaned his name, voice breaking as she shivered through another orgasm.

By the time she fell asleep totally exhausted, her hair a red halo across his pillow, she looked peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen before. He lay beside her for a long time, watching her breathe, trying to memorize every detail.

Some mornings, she stayed. Some mornings, he woke up alone, the sheets already cold, and wondered if he’d dreamed the whole thing. And even when she was gone, when the apartment was quiet, he knew he’d gotten under her skin.

.:.:.

Just when he thought he had her hooked to his sweet words, pliant charm and perfect cock, Shiv vanished. No warning. No long teary goodbye. One morning, he woke up to find her side of the bed already cold, and by afternoon he learned she’d flown to France. To escape whatever demons kept clawing at her. The same ones that made her jolt awake at 3 a.m., her palm braced against his chest like she couldn’t bear the dream still clinging to her.

There had been a look in her eyes last night together. Not softness. Not even anger. Just distance. Like she’d already slipped behind some door he didn’t have a key to. And no matter how much he kissed her, the look in her eyes stayed the same.

It chilled him. And for a moment, Tom felt it all slipping. The architecture he’d so carefully built in his head. The proximity to power. The barely-secured thread tying him to the Roy name.

His plan started to feel like sand pouring through his fingers.

He spent the first day trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling at the seams. He stayed late at the office, pretending he had work to catch up on. He sat in a small conference room by himself, the lights turned low, tapping a pen against the stack of reports he never actually read.

At night, he took the long way home, walking twenty blocks through Midtown like distance alone might settle the panic in his gut. He couldn’t let her go. Not like that. Not when he was so close. So he did the only thing he could think of during his journey home. He began to write.

The first letter was cautious, polite. Something she could read without feeling cornered. Get a laugh out of his goofiness. But by the third, he couldn’t keep up the pretense. His handwriting turned sloppy, the neat lines collapsing under the weight of everything he was trying to say.

He wrote the letters late at night, bent over the small kitchen table, still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, fingers smudged with blue. The radio played quietly on some old jazz station that made the apartment feel less hollow. He told her things he’d never said aloud. About his childhood. His loneliness. How he’d always felt like a visitor everywhere he went. How she made him feel, for the first time, like he might belong. He spun sincerity out of strategy until even he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.

He mailed the letters off one by one across the Atlantic, pressing stamps onto the envelopes like a kind of prayer. Hoping she’d read them before she built her walls back up. 

Sometimes, as he walked upstairs to his place, he imagined her in some shuttered apartment, tearing the letters open with shaking hands. He imagined her reading them slowly, her thumb pressed to the smudged ink where he’d gripped the pen too hard.

And he hoped, God, he hoped, that she would read them before she forgot how he made her feel. Before she found some handsome European prince to marry her instead of the awkward, hungry boy from Minnesota.

The silence on her end didn’t break. He waited days, then a week, then two. At first, he told himself it was nothing, that she was simply taking time to decide how she felt about him. But as June burned hotter, the quiet began to feel like a verdict.

When the letters weren’t enough, he packed up and got on a plane himself. It wasn’t a hard decision in the end.

He booked the ticket on a Thursday night, his laptop balanced on his knees, the room lit only by a single lamp. For a long time, he just stared at the confirmation screen, wondering if this was the moment he’d finally overplayed his hand. Then he closed the lid, stood up, and started to pack. There could be no room for hesitation.

He landed in Nice under a white sky so bright it made his eyes water. The heat came at him in heavy waves, filling his suit with sweat before he even cleared the terminal. He had barely more than an address scribbled on hotel stationery. Outside the airport, he paid too much for a taxi and sat in the back with his bag on his knees, watching the Mediterranean slide past in flashes of color. Pink villas, bright vines spilling over stone walls, the sea glinting like a sheet of hammered metal. He tried not to think about how absurd and exhausted he must look. Like a man on the brink of madness. 

When the driver finally dropped him at the end of a narrow gravel drive, Tom stood there for a moment, one hand on the handle of his suitcase. A heat shimmer danced over the blue roof tiles. The sea glimmered before him in the distance. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back.

Please be here, he thought, feeling the desperation gather in his throat.

He rang the bell. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft click, the door swung open.

Shiv stood there barefoot, wearing a loose tropical silk shirt that made her look like she’d been carved out of the afternoon light. She had gotten some sun, her face and arms littered with new lovely freckles. Her hair was curly, and she looked at him like he was a mirage she hadn’t decided whether to trust.

“Tom,” she said finally, voice flat with surprise.

He tried to smile, but his mouth felt clumsy. “Hi.”

Her gaze swept over him slowly, from his sweat-darkened collar to the scuffed suitcase by his side. She folded her arms across her chest.

“You look…warm,” she said, and he could hear the note of incredulous amusement trying to wedge its way in.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “It’s – um, hot. If you haven’t noticed.”

And before she could shut the door, before she could tell him to go, he stepped forward, one hand finding the frame to steady himself.

“You didn’t answer,” he said, and it came out like an accusation, or maybe a desperate plea.

She didn’t move. So he did the only thing that felt right.

He dropped the bag, closed the distance, and wrapped his arms around her like she was a lighthouse and he was some shipwrecked thing. Shiv stiffened, her hands caught awkwardly between them. But he didn’t care. He pressed his mouth to her forehead, to her hairline, to the spot above her ear that smelled like salt and something sweeter.

With every kiss, he whispered it, low and rough and ridiculous.

“Do you like this?”

He kissed her cheek.

“Do you like this?”

Another kiss, softer, on her forehead.

It was a mantra, a question he didn’t know how to stop asking. Her breath hitched. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Finally, after what felt like hours but was maybe thirty seconds, she breathed it out, low, reluctant and intimate.

“I like it all.”

Her nose brushed his chest, her voice raw and small. Relief hit him so hard he had to close his eyes. His heart felt too big, too fast against his ribs, as he lifted Shiv into air. He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her temple, feeling her pulse under his mouth, while she tried to reach the floor with the tips of her toes.

Just like that, he exhaled as the weight of his future rolled off his shoulders. Tom kissed her on the lips, relief coursing through his veins like a wildfire as he embraced her even tighter, like trying to mold them into one. The world tilted back into alignment. 

In that lavish villa that night, with the sound of a sudden June shower tapping against the windows, they made love slowly, like neither one wanted to break the spell. He pressed hot kisses into her skin, brushed his fingers along her spine like he was tracing the lines of a map he was determined to memorize. And he fell asleep, finally at peace with Shiv tucked into his arms. 

The shutters in the villa were half-closed, shielding the rooms from the burning hot light. Somewhere behind him, the soft sound of running water echoed through the bedroom. Shiv was in the shower after their trip to the beach. Her skin had tasted like salt and sun. He had kissed her until she laughed. She had tried to wriggle away when he tickled her side, but he caught her, fingers drifting over her ribs until she bit him as a revenge, sharp enough to leave a mark on his bicep. 

Tom sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but his boxers, hair still damp, the sun’s warmth lingering on his skin. His eyes drifted over the mess of their clothes on the nearby chair, the half-empty wine bottle, her necklace coiled like a snake on the nightstand. It all belonged to one of his dreams.

Suddenly, Shiv’s phone started to buzz against the bedside table. He glanced at it. He didn’t move at first, but then the screen lit up with the caller’s name, and for some reason a picture of Sadam Hussein. 

Dad

Tom stared at the screen, motionless. Then slowly, he picked it up and answered. “Hello?”

A beat of silence. Then Logan Roy’s serious voice boomed through the phone: “Who’s this?”

Tom’s mouth went dry. This was a mistake. “Tom. Wambsgans.”

Another pause. Then a snort, amused, but not kind. “Right. Put Shiv on the phone.”

Tom cleared his throat. “She’s… in the shower.”

A sigh, sharp and exasperated. “Jesus Christ. Of course she is.”

Tom hesitated, his grip tightening slightly on the phone. “She’s okay. She’s just taking some time.”

“Time?” Logan snapped. “Time for what? She has ghosted every fucking call for two weeks. She thinks she can just fuck off to France and play dead? This isn’t a fucking sabbatical.”

“I’m sure she just needed air,” Tom said, cautious. “She’s been – resting.”

Logan ignored that entirely. “You listening?”

“Yes.”

“You tell her she’s needed back. Not tomorrow. Now. I want her on the next goddamn flight. You understand me?”

Tom swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Pass it along.”

And with that, Logan hung up. Tom stood there for a second, phone still in hand. He removed the call from the log before slowly, he placed the phone back on the drawer, face-down.

There was no fear in him. Only the cold, creeping weight of being reminded, where he stood. Not a contender but a fucking errand boy. The sound of the shower stopped. He exhaled once through his nose, rolling his shoulders, straightening the line of his spine.

Shiv stepped out moments later in her towel, hair dripping, already smirking at some inside joke she hadn’t told him yet. Tom turned toward her with a warm smile. Gentle. Boyish. No trace of the call left in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, moving to her, reaching to caress her shoulders like it was instinct.

But inside him, the fire roared. He would not be ignored forever.

Tom didn’t tell her about the call. Not that night, or the one after. Instead, they slipped into a rhythm, slow and sun-drenched. They spent five wonderful days by the Mediterranean Sea, drinking tart rosé from sweating glasses, swimming in quiet coves, and laughing at things neither of them would remember later. For a moment, it was easy to pretend they were ordinary. Just two people escaping the world.

But the departure date loomed. Tomorrow, they would have to leave. Break the delicate bubble they’d wrapped around themselves and return to the sharp edges of the real world. When she slept, tangled in the sheets, her skin still warm from the sun and sex, Tom lay beside her, unmoving. Her hair was fanned out on the pillow, damp and curling slightly from the sea air. Her freckles were scattered all over across her bare shoulder like a constellation he had spent nights memorizing.

He watched her breathe, slow and steady, as if each inhale might carry her farther away. He had chased this for so long. And now that she was here, soft and asleep beside him, he felt the weight of it settle on his chest. Not joy. Not even relief. Responsibility. Risk. Desire so sharp it bordered on ruin.

He didn’t love her, not the way people in films loved each other. Not with abandon or selflessness or light. But he needed her. Needed her name stitched to his. Needed her by his side when they walked into rooms filled with men who otherwise wouldn’t look twice at him. Needed the illusion of access, of intimacy, of belonging. And he was prepared to earn it. Or fake it. Whatever it took.

Still, watching her sleep, he could admit there was something else – a thrill he hadn’t counted on. The knowledge that out of everyone, he was the one she’d let in. He was the one who got to know her behind the mask. Either way, Tom wasn’t about to let go of her.

Not now. Not ever.

Tom Wambsgans had never been the strongest, or the smartest, or the most ruthless. But he was the most enduring. And in the world of dynasties and knives behind smiles, that counted for more than anyone realized.

Chapter Text

Being in love was a dangerous thing. It made you soft. It made you foolish. It made you think you could let someone close enough to see the shape of your fear and not use it against you. I learned it early, before I even knew how to name it. Long before I met Tom, before I even had the words for what I was the most afraid of.

When I was a child, our old Catholic nanny used to frighten us with bedtime stories about damnation. How Lucifer fell because he loved God the most. How devotion could rot you from the inside out, until there was nothing left. It gets into the cracks. It finds the parts of you that are still soft, and it hollows them out. It makes you believe that someone could see all the worst parts of you and choose to stay. 

I should have taken it as a warning. I should have listened and known better. 

Because love will strip you down to your bones. Love will destroy you.

.:.:.

It took a little over six months to convince Shiv that what was happening between them was real. Not convenient, not just something she’d do when she got bored. But a real relationship. 

He never tried to say it outright. He knew better. Knew how fast she’d retreat if he pushed too hard. Instead, he made himself indispensable in smaller ways. The kinds of gestures she would have mocked if she’d recognized them for what they were. He made sure that the staff got everything right. He learned the brand of her coffee pods and made sure they were always stocked in her kitchen, tucked behind the other blends she never touched. He started laying out one of the soft hoodies she only wore when she was sick or hungover, for her on nights she came home exhausted from D.C. She’d roll her eyes at him but pull it on anyway.

He learned all those small signs. The way she rubbed the side of her neck when she was about to cancel plans, the way she clinked her glass against her rings when she was thinking too hard. He’d counteract it before she could escape, suggesting takeout, turning on an old movie, offering her the end of the couch without asking questions.

When her voice turned tight on late calls with her father, he didn’t pry. He just sat beside her, silent, close enough for her to lean on if she decided she needed it. And she did, slowly, eventually. Some nights, she’d end the call and wordlessly curl under his arm, pressing herself so tightly against his side he could feel the shape of her heart beating against his ribs.

He left her notes she pretended not to read. Slipped them into the pages of books she’d abandoned, tucked between folded sweaters, written on the back of receipts. Small declarations he was too careful to say out loud. In return, she offered him pieces of herself in brief, unguarded moments. Letting her hand drift over his on the couch. Closing her eyes when he pressed his mouth to her hair. Falling asleep against his chest without apology during a movie.

It was never grand or cinematic. Her fall was a slow accumulation of ordinary intimacies. She must not have been familiar with feeling safe while being with someone, from the way she recoiled from his acts of affection before slowly surrendering. 

One morning in early autumn, she emerged from her bedroom, tired, wearing her fancy silk pajamas, hair in a braid. He thought she looked heartbreakingly young like that. She paused when she saw him standing at the stove, his tie draped over the chair, her coffee already poured in the mug she liked the best. She looked at him for a long moment, something wary and fragile flickering behind her eyes. Then she just sighed soft, and, somehow reluctant before leaning against the counter, as though she’d finally decided to stop resisting.

It had taken everything in him, every patient bone, every careful gesture, every ounce of softness he knew how to give. And as he turned back to the stove, pretending not to notice the way she watched him, he knew it had all been worth the wait.

It was a couple of days after that, he got what he wanted. The sheets were still warm from where she’d lain. Shiv sat at the edge of the bed, tugging her stockings back on, her hair falling in a loose, beautiful mess around her face.

Tom propped himself up on one elbow, watching her in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He smiled faintly, like he was amused but also aching for more.

“You’re not even going to stay for breakfast?” he said softly. “I mean… if I ever manage to make breakfast for you.”

She shot him a quick look over her shoulder. “I have an early meeting. D.C. stuff. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, though his chest tightened. “I just –” He stopped, biting down on the words, trying to catch her attention.

Shiv paused, frowning. “What?”

He tilted his head, trying to look casual, but his puppy eyes betrayed him. “Sometimes I feel like I’m… Like you come over, and I’m –” He laughed lightly, self-deprecating. “the warm body, the human comforter, and then you vanish.”

Shiv raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Tom gave her a soft look, but wounded enough to make her shift slightly on her heels. “I mean… it doesn’t feel like just that. Not to me.”

She rolled her eyes but with less force than usual. “Tom.”

“No, I get it,” he said quickly, holding up a hand like he was absolving her of something. “You’re busy. You’re… Shiv Roy. I’m just the guy you, uh… occasionally throw a bone to.” He chuckled, but there was something raw beneath it.

She turned back toward him fully now, arms crossing. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not,” he said, and it was true, mostly. “I just…if this is going nowhere, tell me now. I can handle it. I’ll… work with that. But if it’s not nothing…” He let the thought trail off, tilting his head, his pleading gaze steady on her.

Shiv stared at him. He could see the slow calculations flickering behind her eyes, the way she searched for a back door, but there was something else there, too. Something softer.

Finally, she sighed and crawled back onto the bed, sitting on her knees before him. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” he said with a small grin. “But you like it.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and brushed her fingers through his short hair, almost absentmindedly. He caught her wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, feeling her heartbeat thunder against his lips.

“So…” he said, eyes still on hers, voice low. “Are we doing this? Like, really doing this?”

Shiv hesitated, but then almost carelessly, she shrugged. “Yeah. Fine. Sure.”

Tom’s face lit up like someone had just handed him the keys to the kingdom. 

“Yeah? Yes?”

“Yeah,” she repeated, smirking slightly as his arms wrapped around her, almost smothering.

“God, yes,” he said, his grin so wide it made her laugh. He kissed her cheek, her temple, her jawline, unable to stop himself, tackling her back onto the bed. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Don’t make it weird,” she wheezed from under his weight, but there was amusement in her voice. 

Tom didn’t care. He buried his face against her neck, inhaling her perfume like it was oxygen, silently promising himself he wouldn’t let this slip. 

He’d won. Not the game. Not yet. But this piece of it, this sliver of her, was his.

That night she’d come back to him. The next morning, she nursed a cup of coffee in the kitchen when he woke. The morning news echoed in the sunlit kitchen. She looked a bit tired despite the make-up, her hair twisted up in a fancy knot, and he could tell she was already second-guessing the softness she’d let slip by the tightness in her brows. Not giving any space for her to withdraw, Tom waited until she idly pushed his mug towards him, then said it like he was trying not to sound too hopeful or nervous.

“So… your family dinners.”

She was immersed in the morning news on her iPad, and just continued to sip her coffee. “Hmm… What about them?”

“I was thinking maybe –” He hesitated, searching for the right mix of hesitation this question took and some light optimism. “Maybe I could come sometime. With you, to have dinner with your family.”

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and unreadable.

“Tom.” His name was a warning. 

“I mean –” He laughed, too quickly. “Not to make it a big thing. I just… I know how important it’s to you.”

She set her mug down with a little too much force. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t,” she snapped, then softened, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “Jesus. Sorry. I just –”

He waited, watching the line of her throat as she swallowed.

“They’re not…normal, you know?” she said finally. “It’s hardly a Sunday roast with a nice chat about everyone’s week. It’s… dad. And Kendall being a prick. And Roman being fucking… Roman.”

“I can handle it,” he said quickly. “I’d like to meet them properly. Not just –” He gestured vaguely. “at the office. I want to meet them like this. With you.”

She let out a slow breath, her expression flickering between something fond and something exhausted. “They know you? You don’t have to prove anything to them.”

But he did. He needed them to see him, to remember him. To place him in the same constellation as Shiv, even if it was just for an hour. 

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he lied. “I just… want to be part of your life. I want to support you. And meeting your family is a part of that.”

Her eyes searched his face, the walls going up again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Maybe not,” he said, carefully setting his mug on the counter so she could see his hands were steady. “But I want to find out.”

For a moment, she looked like she might say no outright. Instead, she crossed her arms, gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she murmured.

“I won’t,” he said, soft as a promise.

And when she finally nodded, barely perceptible, but enough, Tom felt something click into place behind his ribs.

It was a risk. Maybe it was too soon but it was the first step closer to the throne, and he would take it.

Tom wore his best suit, a discreet navy that said professional, not desperate, and brought a bottle of Barolo he’d spent half an hour researching. When he stepped out of the elevator into Logan Roy’s penthouse, his palms were already damp.

Shiv greeted him at the door in a black cashmere sweater and slim trousers, her hair loose. She didn’t kiss him hello. Just looked him over with a flicker of something he couldn’t read.

“You made it,” she said, voice low.

“You invited me,” he replied, trying for a lightness that felt just out of reach.

“Come on in.”

He followed her into the dining room, where the table was already set. Logan was at the head, as if the chair had grown around him. Roman was leaning back with his arms crossed, smirking before Tom even opened his mouth. Kendall glanced up from his phone just long enough to deliver a flat, assessing look. Shiv’s stepmother Marcia was missing from the table.  

“Everyone, this is Tom,” Shiv said. She didn’t touch him, didn’t link her arm through his. Just gestured vaguely in his direction, as though introducing a contractor.

“Ah,” Logan rumbled, not bothering to rise. “From theme parks.”

Tom felt his neck heat. He stepped forward, offering the bottle like a peace offering. “Barolo,” he said, too quickly. “I thought it might go with –”

Roman snorted. “Oh, wow, he brought wine. Cute.”

Tom let out a laugh he hoped sounded relaxed. “Well, I thought it would be nice.”

Nobody smiled.

Dinner unfolded in courses. The starter was some delicate fish that flaked apart under his fork, greens drizzled with something sour enough to sting. They didn’t let him off the hook for a minute.

“So,” Kendall began, tipping his glass toward him, “You ever think about doing something else than theme parks?"

Tom tried to keep his tone neutral. “Sure. I mean, Parks is profitable. But I’d love to –”

“Profitable,” Logan interrupted, his voice like gravel. “That’s what matters, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, hoping he sounded confident. “And well, I think there’s a lot of potential synergy –”

Roman groaned. “Synergy. Fuck me. He’s one of those.”

He glanced at Shiv, waiting for her to say something, to toss him a lifeline. She didn’t. She just took a sip of her wine and looked down at her plate like she’d never seen him before.

He swallowed. “I only meant –”

Kendall interrupted. “Heard you’re ambitious. True?”

Tom hesitated. He felt the trap in the question, but he also knew what he was supposed to say. “I’d like to think so.”

Roman leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “So what’s your angle here? You wanna marry the boss’s daughter and skip the line?”

A hush settled over the table. Even Logan paused, eyes fixed on Tom with that unblinking, dissecting stare.

His throat went dry. He looked at Shiv again, surely, surely she’d say something now and defend him. But she just lifted a perfectly curved brow, like she was waiting to hear his answer too.

“I –” He cleared his throat. “I care about Siobhan a lot.”

“Uh-huh,” Roman said. “Sure.”

Tom felt something small and vital shrivel inside him.

He didn’t remember much of the dessert course. Just the glint of the silverware, the way Logan’s lip curled when he asked about Minnesota winters. The way Shiv never quite met his eyes.

After dessert, Logan stood slowly, joints creaking in a way that no one dared acknowledge. He fixed Shiv with a look that made her straighten from her slouch.

“Walk me to the study,” he said, voice low but not quite a suggestion.

She sighed, set down her napkin, and followed. Tom lingered near the dining table, pretending to fuss with the stem of his wine glass. Roman watched him with a small, gleeful smirk, ready to poke some holes in him.

“Bathroom?” Tom asked, voice pitched casual.

Roman shrugged.

Tom slipped out into the hallway, moving carefully so his shoes didn’t squeak against the polished floor. He turned toward what he thought was the study. The door was almost closed, but not quite. Just enough of a gap that he could hear them talking with low voices. He inched as close as he dared, pulse hammering in his throat, and listened. Logan’s voice came first, heavy with that particular scorn he reserved for his children’s poor life choices.

“So. This is it?”

“What’s it?” Shiv replied, all breezy indifference.

“This” A pause, the scrape of a chair leg. “This fucking… mascot. That’s who you’re spending time with now?”

Shiv let out a small, humorless laugh. “Dad, don’t start.”

“I’m asking you a question.”

Tom held his breath.

“He’s fine,” she said eventually. “He’s…nice.”

“Nice,” Logan repeated, voice flat with contempt. “You think nice gets you anywhere in this world?”

Shiv drawled. “Maybe I’m tired of everyone I know being such assholes.”

“You could do better.”

Another long silence. Tom imagined her folding her arms across her chest, that bored, studied look she used when she wanted to seem unbothered.

“Maybe I don’t want any better,” she said.

“Bullshit.”

More silence.

“You want someone you can control,” Logan went on, softer now, which somehow made it worse. “Someone who’ll sit there and smile while you wipe your feet on him.”

“Can we not do this tonight?” Shiv muttered.

“I know you, Siobhan. He won’t make it. He’s not one of us.”

She didn’t answer. Tom pressed a hand to the doorframe to steady himself.

“He’s just a little man who wants to feel big,” Logan continued. “He’s not going to make you happy.”

Shiv exhaled sharply. “Thanks, dad. Really.”

“Listen to me.” Logan’s tone shifted, something darker coiling through it. “You’ll get bored of him. And when you do, don’t come crying to me about it.”

There was the soft creak of leather as he stood to leave the room.

Tom stepped back as he heard Logan’s heavy tread approaching. He ducked around the corner, heart in his throat, waiting until the footsteps receded upstairs.

When he finally emerged, Shiv was still in the study, staring at the dark window as if it might offer a better conversation than the one she’d just had. She didn’t look at him when he slipped inside. He didn’t ask what Logan had said. He already knew.

They rode the elevator down in silence. Shiv stood with her arms folded, her gaze fixed on the floor numbers ticking past. Tom tried to read something, anything, in the set of her jaw, but she didn’t give him anything at all. When they stepped out into the lobby, the doorman glanced up and nodded. Shiv lifted a hand in a small, distracted wave, already pulling her phone from her pocket.

The black car idled at the curb. She didn’t wait for him to catch up, just opened the back door and slid in. Tom climbed in beside her, carefully smoothing his coat over his knees. The door closed with a soft thud, sealing them into a hush that felt too intimate and too empty all at once. The driver pulled away, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and dark.

For a while, she said nothing, her face lit in profile by the passing lights. He thought she might pretend to be asleep, or check her phone, or do anything to avoid acknowledging what torture they’d just sat through. But after a few blocks, she turned her head and looked at him. 

“Are you happy?” she asked quietly.

He blinked, surprised. “What?”

“You got your invite,” she said. “Family dinner. Was it everything you hoped for?”

Her voice wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just tired. Like she’d knew exactly what would happen. He felt heat crawl up his neck, shame mixing with something harder and older.

“No,” he admitted, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “Not…exactly.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer. Then she looked back out the window, the neon of a store sign strobing across her cheek.

“I’m not sorry,” she huffed. “If you’re going to be around, you should know what it’s like. And it’s going to be like that. Always.”

Tom didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, some small, hopeful part of him had believed that sitting at that table would feel like belonging. Like he’d crossed a threshold to be welcomed in with open arms. Instead, he felt exposed. Ridiculous. Like the small man Logan said he was. But under the shame, something else woke within him. A slow, steady heat that felt almost like defiance. He would prove them wrong. He would make Logan see that he was more than a placeholder in Shiv’s life. More than a convenient mascot for the company. He would make them all see that he was the one. 

One day, he didn’t know when, but he knew it would come, he would sit at that same table, across from Logan Roy, and Logan would have no choice but to respect him.

The car turned onto her street, slowing as it approached the curb. Shiv had busied herself with her phone. Tom watched her read her emails, and wondered if she had any idea just how determined he could be.

From that dinner on, he stepped fully into the role he’d been rehearsing, of the devoted boyfriend. Attentive. Agreeable. Just enough wit and goofyness to amuse her, just enough passivity to soothe her. He studied her moods like a scholar, learned to anticipate what kind of Shiv would arrive home. The sharp-tongued political animal, the distracted heiress, or the lonely girl masked in irony. He made himself whatever she needed. A mirror, a pillow, a joke. He let her pull the strings and never once tugged back.

The new rhythm of their relationship settled into something strange but functional. Shiv was mostly in D.C., neck-deep in political strategy meetings and media spin, while Tom remained at Waystar, playing the long game with boardroom politics and lunch meetings that felt more like battlefield drills.

They didn’t see each other every day. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. 

Most nights, Tom would lie in her Midtown apartment, already half-undressed, phone balanced on his chest. He would always call her at 10 p.m. sharp, so she wouldn’t forget him. Shiv’s voice would crackle through the line, tired but happy, ranting about polling numbers like it was personal.

Tom never interrupted. He just listened, and enjoyed hearing her voice. Sometimes she’d call him from her car, the mic catching the hum of D.C. traffic behind her, and tried not to let him hear how exhausted she really was.

“You ever think about quitting?” she asked once, sometime past midnight.

“Only hourly,” he replied with a shake of his head, smiling into the dark. “You?”

She’d been quiet then. So quiet he thought the call had dropped. 

“No. I don’t know what I’d become if I stopped politics.”

Weekends became their lifeline. He’d fly down or she’d fly up, depending on who was less buried with work. They were still figuring it out but the distance had a way of stripping things down. Sometimes they barely left her apartment. He’d make her breakfast in the morning while she wandered around in his shirt, her phone already lit up with new fires to put out.

“You make good eggs,” she told him once, yawning while spooning the eggs into her mouth like she’d never seen food before.

The days flew by so fast, he almost didn’t remember to text her about how much he missed her. That’s what a good boyfriend would do. However he couldn’t help but noticing, that the usual quiet he was used to, had started to feel a bit hollow. So when she showed up unannounced at his door one Friday, suitcase in hand, hair a little wild from travel, and he just stood there looking at her like she’d been conjured out of a dream. 

She smiled at his goofy, dumbfounded face and said, “Don’t say anything stupid.”

So he didn’t. He just pulled her into his arms. She dropped her suitcase by the door, kicked off her heels with a little groan, and padded straight toward the kitchen. He followed her like she might vanish if he blinked.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, still smiling like an idiot. “I was about to reheat some leftovers.”

“Tom,” she cut in, “I’ve been living on conference coffee and one sad yogurt a day. If there’s food, I’ll kiss you.”

He laughed, ducking into the fridge. “I’ve got that leftover pasta. And the bread you like, the one with the –”

“Seeds?” She leaned her elbows on the counter. “God, yes.”

It was almost startling, how normal this felt. She was scrolling absently through her phone while he plated the pasta, the smell of garlic and basil filling the small space. This, her in his kitchen, not a hotel room, not a car between them, felt like something they could build a life around.

By the time they sat down, she had changed her clothes into one of his hoodies, sleeves too long over her hands. He watched her eat, watched the tension leave her shoulders in slow degrees.

“Good?” he asked, just to hear her say it.

She glanced up mid-bite, smirking. “Better than D.C. yogurt.”

When they were done, he pulled her onto the couch. The TV murmured something forgettable in the background while she rested her legs over his lap, idly twirling the drawstring of her borrowed hoodie. He traced small circles on her shin, the whole world narrowing to the heat of her against him.

“You ever think about… I don’t know, doing this more?” he said lightly. “You here. Not just… when work lets you.”

Her eyes flicked to his. “You mean, moving in together?”

He gave a half-shrug, the kind meant to disguise hope. “Maybe. Or just… making more time.”

The look she gave him then wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Tom,” she said, sitting up, her voice suddenly cool. “This works because we have space. You get that, right?”

He tried to laugh it off. “Sure, sure. I’m just saying, it’s nice when you’re here.”

Her mouth tightened, like he’d asked for more than he had. Something in his chest dipped. He covered it with a smile, smoothing her sleeve over her wrist. 

“Just glad you’re here now.”

She studied him for a beat, eyes narrowing as if she might be deciding whether he’d meant it. Then, almost like she hadn’t been the one to chill the air, she sighed and leaned back into him, head on his shoulder.

“Don’t get sappy,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head anyway. She let him. And even though his arms stayed around her, he felt that small crack remain. It was thin, almost invisible, but there all the same.

.:.:.

Tom double-checked the address twice before ringing the bell. It was in the West Village, tucked along a quiet, tree-lined street that looked like it belonged to a postcard more than the city he lived in. The kind of idyllic street where brownstones were covered in ivy. It was early evening, late golden hour, and the townhouses glowed in the sinking light.

When Shiv opened the door, she looked gorgeous in her black pantsuit. All done up for work. Tom couldn’t help but stare at her with an open mouth, dazed by her beauty and confused by the weird meeting place. 

“You found it,” she said, stepping aside. Her curly ponytail swished in the air. 

Tom hovered for a second. “Is this…?”

“Come in,” she said, not answering the question, already walking deeper inside.

He followed her through a small hallway into the open living room and kitchen area. It had tall windows, original crown molding, light pooling across honey-colored floors. It wasn’t massive, not by Roy standards. But it was elegant. Soft and somehow majestic in the afternoon glow.

She turned to him, arms crossed. “So?”

“It’s beautiful,” Tom said, still in awe of the rooms. “Is it yours?”

“I’m closing on it this week.” Her tone was light, like buying a West Village townhouse was the equivalent of picking up an extra bottle of wine.

“Wait, you bought this?” He tried not to let his voice pitch too high, but it slipped out anyway.

Like she wouldn’t have enough places to stay. 

Her shrug was a little too casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. “I wanted a change of scenery.” 

Tom was still taking in the smell of fresh paint, the faint echo in the hallway. The place was a blank page.

“You invited me here because…?” he asked slowly, careful not to overstep the edge of the moment.

Shiv admired the tall ceiling while avoiding meeting his eyes. “I thought you’d want to see it.”

“I do,” he said. “I really do. I’ve always loved these streets. Something about the atmosphere.”

“And I thought maybe… you’d want to live here.”

The words didn’t register at first. Not fully.

Tom stared at her. “With you?”

Her eyes flicked to his face, shy, then away. “I mean, yeah. It has a guest room, if you suddenly start to snore more than you usually do.” Her voice was light but something in it wavered. 

Fear of rejection. 

Tom felt warmth surge to his face with disbelief. “You want me to move in?”

Shiv exhaled, shifting her weight. Her ears were turning the same shade with her hair. 

“We basically already live together while I’m in the city. You know how I like my eggs. I know you talk to your plants.”

“I only talk to Franklin when he’s wilting.”

She smiled at that. Small, crooked. “But yes,” she said. “I’m asking you. You can say no.”

Tom stepped closer, shaking his head. “I’m not saying no.”

She looked up, brows arched cautious.

“I want this,” he said softly. “I want us.”

Her mouth twisted like she didn’t quite know what to do with that. But she didn’t pull away when he leaned down and kissed her slowly.

When she broke the kiss, she muttered against his mouth, “Just don’t start talking about the paint colors for the bedrooms. I’ll murder you.”

But Tom could hear the smile in her voice. 

The move-in date was set and the paperwork done. Tom brought over a couple of boxes and a bottle of champagne. Shiv brought nothing but a carry-on and a dream of “renewing” her whole wardrobe. They were going to make a life there. It was straight from Tom’s dreams. He had imagined something like this often. Shiv’s coat tossed over a chair. Her heels lined up by the door. Her sweet scent in every room.

He just hadn’t imagined it with a dog.

A client's assistant had cornered Tom after a lunch meeting, holding a phone in one hand and a file folder in the other.

“There’s this dog,” she said. “Total mutt. The owner passed away. No one in the family wants him. He’s been living in a foster crate situation, and it’s… not ideal.”

Tom blinked at her, confused for a second, thinking it was some sort of metaphor.

“He’s quiet. House-trained. Doesn’t bark,” she added. “Not trying to guilt you or anything. Just thought I’d try.”

He wanted to say no. Every fiber in his clean-suited, strategically rising self said no. He didn’t do rescue dogs. Shiv had an allergy to anything chaotic, and he had no interest in starting their new life together with some unpredictable, mangy project underfoot.

But they needed the deal to go through and Logan would be expecting good news. The final paperwork still hadn’t been signed, and getting this client’s signature as fast as possible was the key. If it meant accepting a dog for the time being, so be it. He could always deal with it later. Quietly with no drama.

So he gave a tight smile, and said, “Sure. I’ll take him.”

He hadn’t even seen the dog yet.

The next day, the mutt was dropped off in a blanket-lined crate. It was curled up and quiet in an old fleece blanket. He looked like a shepherd crossbred with something sad and street-worn. Thin, anxious, and trembling when the driver opened the door. The dog didn’t make a sound. Just looked at Tom through the bars like he’d already been disappointed by the world too many times. 

Tom opened the crate. The dog padded out and sat beside him, unprompted. Tom didn’t even touch him at first. He just stood in the foyer of the new house, cardboard boxes stacked around them, and looked down at the dog. 

“You’re a walking liability,” Tom muttered.

The dog blinked up at him with liquid eyes, tail giving one slow, hopeful thump against the wood.

Still, he brought out a bowl of water. Then a little left-overs from his dinner. Then a ratty towel for the dog to lie on. The whole afternoon, the mutt followed him from room to room, never barking, never whining. Just quietly present. Watching his every move.

It wasn’t affection exactly, but it felt somehow familiar. Something about the dog’s anxious devotion, the way he flinched every time Tom raised his voice on a call, the way he trotted dutifully after him with no promise of reward, scraped too close to the bone.

By evening, Tom caught himself saying out loud, “You’re not staying,” as he watched the dog sleep curled on the blanket in the corner, his ribs rising and falling in an even rhythm.

It didn’t sound convincing even to him.

Later, when Shiv arrived back from D.C. for the weekend, irritation already prickling behind her temples, she paused in the entryway. The dog lifted his head slowly from his blanket and looked at her like she might be the one to save him this time.

“What the fuck is that?” Shiv asked.

Tom, suddenly self-conscious, stepped in front of the dog. “He’s… a dog.”

The dog stared at her, wide-eyed and statue-still, tail motionless.

“You brought a dog into our house,” Shiv said slowly, as if processing a war crime. “Without asking me first.”

“Well, technically, it’s a temporary dog. Just for… deal reasons.”

She didn’t blink. “You adopted a ‘deal dog.’”

Tom winced and crouched beside the dog, patting its flank like they were a team. “Okay, yes, that sounds bad. But he’s quiet. And he’s sad. And I think he has abandonment issues.”

Shiv crossed her arms. “Great. You can trauma-bond while you find him a new home.”

“He’s not your responsibility,” Tom said quickly, rising. “I’ll walk him. Feed him. Clean up after him. And if it doesn’t work – if it interferes with your… anything, we can rehome him. Once the deal is inked.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did you seriously just pitch getting rid of him later like that was a feature?”

Tom tried to shrug. “Just… trying to manage expectations. I even ordered him a pen so it won’t roam around the house.”

The dog padded over and sat at Shiv’s feet, looking up like he’d been rehearsing it all day. She looked down at him, unimpressed. The dog wagged his tail very slowly. 

Shiv glanced between them. “Does it have a name?”

Tom froze. Shit. He forgot to ask for the dog's name.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t ask. Maybe you could name him?”

Shiv shot him the driest look in recorded history. But the dog held her gaze like a lifeline. Something in Shiv shifted, as she looked at the poor mutt. Her shoulders dropped a little.

She sighed, already regretting it. “Mondale. He looks like a Mondale.”

Tom blinked. “Wait, like – Walter Mondale?” The failed senator from Minnesota. 

Shiv shrugged. 

Tom smiled. “See? It’s growing on you already.”

“It’s not,” she muttered. 

But when the dog came to sniff Shiv’s ankles, she didn’t move away.

The first few days were tense. They hadn’t officially lived together before after all. And certainly not with a dog. Tom hovered. Shiv steered clear. Mondale stuck loyally by the kitchen island, trailing Tom like a shadow on a leash.

On Monday morning, Tom had an early meeting at Waystar. Shiv said she’d work from home for the day. Mondale had taken up his usual position on the rug in the corner of the living room, watching the door like a soldier on shift. He didn’t follow Shiv. He just observed. Quiet, and solemn, like he was waiting for Tom or to be kicked out at any moment.

Shiv had ignored him most of the time. Called him “the squatter”. She never touched him. Never called his name. But that morning, after Tom left and silence wrapped around the townhouse like a fog, she noticed Mondale watching her keenly while she poured her second cup of coffee.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Creepy little thing.”

Mondale didn’t move.

She tried reading briefs on her laptop. Tried not to look at him. But he kept watching, ears just barely perked. When she stretched her legs across the couch, he moved for the first time, hesitantly padding closer until he was a few feet from her bare feet. Then he curled into a ball on the carpet and tucked his head under his tail.

“Seriously?” she said aloud.

He didn’t react. Shiv stared at him for a long time. Then went back to her screen. After a while, without thinking, she reached out her foot and nudged his soft striped fur gently. Not a kick. Just a test.

Mondale raised his head, blinked, then inched forward until his chin rested on top of her foot. He was warm. Heavy in that grounding way animals could be. Shiv froze, mid-email.

"Okay," she whispered. "But this doesn’t mean you can stay.”

Later that night, Tom walked downstairs to find her curled on the couch, feet tucked under her. She was asleep like that, PGM on, her head tipped against the couch cushion, Mondale’s heavy body pressed against her hip. He had probably climbed onto the couch once she had fallen asleep, ready to protect her. 

“You like him,” Tom said quietly one evening, smiling behind his wine glass.

Shiv arched an eyebrow. “No, I don’t.”

“You just ordered him a walker.” Tom pointed out. 

“He deserves to be outside regularly with our crazy schedule.” Shiv stabbed her ravioli.

“You called the vet to book his shots.”

“I was already calling because you need to get neutered,” she said, smirking. “Two birds, one stone.”

“Uh-huh.” Tom laughed and shook his head.

Mondale dozed between them on the rug, tail twitching gently in his sleep. Shiv reached down and scratched behind his flank without looking. Tom’s smile grew. He let himself stretch out on the chair, Mondale’s warm against his ankle, Shiv’s foot nudging his calf. For a second, in the flicker of low lamp light, Tom allowed himself to believe it might last. The house, the dog, the girl.

As their life started to roll out smoothly, it was never the big moments that threatened to undo him. Not the magazine spreads of them holding hands like a power couple, not even the way she’d let her hand rest on his forearm in a crowded room, claiming him with a single, unthinking touch.

No, it was the smallest things. The things that felt too ordinary to matter.

Like the way she never finished her coffee, always leaving exactly an inch in the bottom of the cup, as if she needed an escape hatch from every commitment. Even breakfast. Or the way her brow furrowed in perfect concentration whenever she scrolled through news alerts on her phone, lower lip caught between her teeth. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear just before she said something that would draw blood, softening the cruelty by smoothing herself into order.

He’d catch himself watching her in those moments, feeling something unsettling spark low in his chest. A thought he didn’t dare to name. A thought he wasn’t ready to believe in. 

One Sunday morning, he stood in the doorway of their new bathroom while she leaned over the sink in his old t-shirt, half-dressed, swiping concealer under her eyes with quick, impatient strokes. She’d slept badly, he could tell it by the slight tremor in her hand. He had the absurd urge to step forward, to kiss the freckled skin on her temple and tell her she didn’t have to prove anything to him. 

He knew better than to bother her. 

Later they were on the couch, a takeout container between them, Shiv was eating pad thai straight from the carton with her chopsticks. Mondale drooling at her feet, waiting for morsels. She was telling some story about a senator in D.C., her eyes bright, her voice sharp and amused. He wasn’t even listening to the words. He was watching the way her face lit up when she thought she was winning. The way she laughed, already halfway to the punchline, her mouth curving in that uneven grin.

It struck him that these were the things that could make someone fall in love with her.

Not the ambition, not the pedigree, not even the proximity to power, but these small, unguarded glimpses of Shiv. The ordinary pieces no one else would ever get to see. He wanted to protect that part of her from the prying eyes. 

And as he reached over to wipe a smudge of peanut sauce from her chin, he thought about how these were the details that could make him forget why he was here in the first place. The moments that could make him fall in love with her.

But he told himself he hadn’t. And if there was a small ache in his chest, he pretended not to notice it. 

.:.:.

The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the hallway mirror.

Tom froze mid-sip of tea, turned toward the sound of her heels clacking angrily through the foyer. Shiv entered the kitchen like a storm in heels, cheeks flushed, blazer wrinkled at the shoulders like she’d been tugging at it in frustration.

“Hey,” he offered carefully. “You’re home late.”

She tossed her bag onto the kitchen table and opened the fridge, staring into it like it had personally betrayed her.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water. “If one more old white man calls me a legacy hire to my face, I might actually stab someone.”

Tom set his mug down. “Who was it this time?”

She cracked the bottle open and took a long drink. “That fossil Anderson said I only got Joyce because I have Logan Roy’s blood in my veins. Not because I’ve spent every hour since February fixing their fucking messaging.”

Tom winced. “That’s –”

“And then –” she continued, pacing now, “then Amanda fucking Tevis nodded like, ‘Well, she’s a Roy,’ like that’s the whole explanation for why I’m allowed to sit at the table.”

She stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose, then looked up at him. Her eyes were glassy with frustration, not tears. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction

Tom stepped forward slowly. “You are good at what you do,” he said reassuringly. “You’re the sharpest person in every room you walk into, and anyone who can’t see that is either threatened or blind.”

Shiv leaned her hip against the kitchen island, crossing her arms tight over her chest. “Yeah, well, that and a billion-dollar surname seems to make people conveniently forget my work ethic.”

Tom took another step closer. “They forget because they’re afraid of you, Shiv. They know you’re smarter. Better. Faster . That’s why they tear you down.”

Something in her jaw twitched. He swallowed, nerves sparking low in his gut. It wasn’t the right moment. He knew that. But still, the words spilled out of him like a reflex he couldn’t stop. 

“I love you.” 

Tom said without hesitation, like he’d practice it a hundred times before.

She blinked with furrowed brows. Like she’d misheard him. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time. “I just – I wanted you to know that. You don’t have to fight with me.”

Shiv’s eyes narrowed, her body going still.

“Tom…” she said, voice flat with warning. “What is this? Some Hallmark fix-it moment?”

“No,” he said, flustered. “No, I just meant – look, I know it was a shitty day, and I just wanted you to know that I see you. I love you.”

Her laugh was short, not unkind but exasperated. “Christ, Tom. You’re picking now to say this?”

“I thought maybe it would help.”

She set the bottle of water down too hard on the counter. “You thought it would help? What exactly is it helping, Tom?”

He flinched, just a little. She saw it, and her expression softened by half a degree.

Tom backed up a step, raising his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

Shiv stared at him for a second longer, like she wanted to say something more biting, something that would leave a scar. But she just exhaled sharply and turned on her heel. Shiv stormed down the hallway without another word. Mondale, who’d been curled in his pen nearby, perked up at the sound of her steps and followed her with cautious loyalty, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood.

Tom stood frozen in the kitchen, alone again, heart still pounding from the conversation. He looked down at his trembling hands and then to the empty couch, already rehearsing the hundred ways this might go. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He shouldn’t have said it. Not like that. Not when she was raw and spiraling. But the words were like a knife to her mangled armor. He knew he could get through the weakest parts if he pushed hard enough. 

The bedroom door stayed closed for what felt like hours. In reality, it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes, and he’d gone through every conversation ending that was possible. His nerves were wrecked with fear. 

When the door finally opened, he didn’t look right away, just heard the faint shuffle of her bare feet. Shiv padded back into the room, the fuzzy blanket from their bed draped around her shoulders like a cape. Her face was less tight, her mouth softer. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she didn’t need to.

Mondale trailed right behind her, his tail wagging tentatively like he knew this was a fragile moment but he was just too happy to see his owners.

The television was on, with some old political documentary she’d claimed was “nostalgic” in the driest tone possible. Tom wasn’t watching it anyway. He was watching her. Tom sank deeper into the couch, unsure if he should say anything. If saying something would ruin everything. However Shiv said it for him, in her own way, by dropping beside him without fanfare.

Her knees were drawn up, her elbow resting against the arm of the couch. Tom shifted closer. He didn’t reach for her. Shiv liked her space, and he respected it. But their legs brushed. She didn’t move away. It wasn’t an apology. But it was something.

They sat there for a while in silence. The room was dimly lit, the neighbours' lights flickering beyond the windows, and the occasional exhale from Mondale filling the gaps. 

“You’re staring,” she said, not looking away from the TV.

Tom blinked. “Sorry.”

Mondale let out a sleepy grumble and rolled over, one paw pushing on Shiv’s foot.

She wrinkled her nose. “Your dog has no boundaries.”

Tom stated. “He gets that from me.”

Shiv snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

Eventually, her body tipped sideways until she rested against him. She let out a long, slow breath. He didn’t say I love you again even though he wanted to. He just leaned in and kissed her bared knee, then her wrist, then her shoulder. She let him.

Mondale snuggled even closer to her feet in his sleep. Tom just smiled into her shoulder. Shiv just stared ahead for a moment, lips parted, like the words were caught in her throat.

Her voice was small and sounded almost afraid as she whispered: “I love you too.”

It came out low, like it hurt a little to confess. Like it cost her something. Tom froze for half a second. Just long enough to make sure he hadn’t imagined it, and then turned to her fully. His hand came up to cradle her face, to make sure that she wouldn’t shy away from this. 

“You do?” he asked, barely breathing.

She met his eyes with something soft and raw. She didn’t say it again. Just nodded once. He could see the mix of emotions swirling wet in her wide blue eyes. 

He kissed her then, There were no fanfares, no desperate edge of lust. Just his mouth on hers. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt as she kissed him back. Not urgently, but to just stay there a little longer.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, he let out a shaky breath and smiled.

If this was how she loved, no ceremony, he’d take it. Every scraped-together bit of it was his, and he’d hold it like gold in his hands. Because she’d said it. To him. And it felt real. Even if tomorrow she’d deny it, or twist it into a joke, or bury it beneath a pile of sarcasm and headlines, he’d still remember this moment. Her knee brushing his. Her voice breathless and devastating as she surrendered.

.:.:. 

She called it freedom. He called it strategy. It was all calculated, the way he softened his voice when she called, the way he waited for her to get drunk enough to slur her secrets. 

He made it easy for her. Never challenged her, never questioned her absences, the phone calls that ended too quickly or started too late. When she left for D.C. for a stretch of meetings, he packed her bags and kissed her goodbye. She wanted to be as untethered as possible. So he let her be. Because to cage her too early would’ve ruined everything.

Tom smiled. He kissed her forehead. He told her she was the most brilliant person he’d ever met, and maybe, on some level, he believed that.

But beneath the surface, he was storing everything. Cataloging it. Every offhand comment, every dropped name, every flicker of guilt that crossed her face after she came home too late or didn’t come home at all. He was building a quiet archive of her, of their life. Not because he planned to use it now. But because he understood what most people never did: love is leverage, too. When you give it freely, people forget you’re holding a knife behind your back. 

One day, she’d find herself needing him in ways she hadn’t prepared for. And when that day came, Tom would be ready. Because Tom wasn’t going to leave. He had no intention of it. He didn’t just want her, he wanted everything about her, what she represented, legacy, proximity, power. Not just love. And marriage, real and legal, her name-on-the-paper marriage, was the next step in his plan. 

Tom sat alone at the kitchen table, the remains of takeout still scattered across the plates. Shiv had gone upstairs ten minutes ago, phone pressed to her ear, her laughter echoing faintly down the staircase. It wasn’t the kind of laughter he liked. It had that sharp, showy edge she used for other people, especially the kind she wanted to impress.

He absently pushed a fork across his plate, the clink against porcelain loud in the quiet room. Across from him, Mondale snored in a perfect circle in his pen, one paw twitching in a dream. Tom swirled the last of his wine, staring into the glass like it might give him an answer to the question he kept asking himself.

If it was this hard to stay in Shiv’s good graces, who kissed him when she felt like it, who could mock him until his skin prickled, who disappeared for days and came back expecting him to wait like the world’s most loyal pet, then what the hell was it going to take with Logan?

Logan Roy didn’t hand out affection or even basic civility. His approval was a currency you could never quite earn and could lose without warning. Tom had watched seasoned executives crumble under that gravelly voice, seen people vanish from the company like they’d never existed. He’d watched his own children suffer from his cruelty and mind games.

Tom rubbed at his temple, remembering the way Logan had looked at him at dinner, like a man assessing a hairline crack in a foundation. And Shiv just let it happen, like it wasn’t out of the ordinary. She sat there, sipping her wine, letting him twist.

Tom let out a small, humorless laugh. “If I can’t keep the daughter happy,” he muttered under his breath, “what chance do I have with the man?”

But instead of discouraging him, the thought solidified into something else. Because if Shiv was this mercurial, impossible to read, impossible to please, and she still stayed, then maybe he was exactly the kind of man who could survive Logan Roy’s storms.

Maybe the trick wasn’t winning their approval. Maybe the trick was never leaving, no matter how hard they pushed.

Upstairs, Shiv’s laughter softened, almost faded. Tom leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile curving his lips, though it didn’t touch his eyes. He drained the last of his wine and glanced at Mondale.

“Guess it’s just you and me in the meantime, buddy.”

Tom was still sitting at the table when her footsteps padded lightly down the stairs. Shiv appeared in the doorway, phone still in hand, cheeks faintly flushed like she’d just stepped out of the cold, but it wasn’t the weather that had done it.

“Hey,” she said, almost distracted. “That was dad. He’s –” She stopped herself, the corners of her mouth pulling into a self-satisfied smile. “He liked my pitch. Actually liked it.”

Tom matched her smile, even though his chest tightened. “That’s great.”

She grabbed his half-empty wine glass, took a sip, then leaned her hip against the table. “He said I’ve got the touch. That I should keep pushing. And you know what that means.”

Tom nodded, because he did know. Keep pushing meant keep climbing, keep performing, keep proving herself until there was nothing left to prove. And she’d do it, no matter who or what got sidelined in the process.

“That’s… amazing, Shiv.” He reached for her hand but she slipped away to the fridge, pulling out the bottle of wine.

She poured herself more and, without looking at him, added, “I told him I might be in D.C. longer than planned next week.”

Tom kept his tone light. “Longer than planned?”

“Yeah.” She finally looked at him, like she’d only just remembered he was there. “You’ll manage without me.”

There it was again, that casual assumption that he’d wait, like a piece of furniture she could leave behind without worry. He swallowed, the words What if I don’t? hovering on his tongue, but he bit them back.

Instead, he smiled faintly. “Of course.”

Shiv drained her glass and set it down with a little clink, her eyes bright, her whole body still humming with the high of her father’s approval. 

“I’m going up,” she said, voice softer now, drawing out the words just enough to make them an invitation. She let her gaze linger on him, one brow quirking like she already knew his answer. 

“You can come… if you’re done brooding down here.”

Tom gave a small laugh, but it felt tight in his chest. “Brooding? I’m just… thinking.”

She smirked, already turning toward the stairs. “Think faster, then.”

He watched the curve of her back as she went, the deliberate sway of her hips, the slow pace that was both a tease and a test. His first instinct was to follow immediately, to be whatever she wanted him to be in that moment. But as her steps softened up the staircase, he sat for a beat longer, fingers curled loosely around his empty glass.

If this was what it took to keep her, waiting, accommodating, adjusting himself until he fit perfectly into the space she allowed him then fine. He’d do it. He could chase her when she wanted him to. Because one day, she’d look over her shoulder and realize he’d always been right there.

He rose then, setting the glass down gently, and followed her upstairs.

.:.:.

The Waystar media gala was already running hot. There were champagne towers, low amber lighting, and an unending churn of too-loud laughter bouncing off the glass walls. Tom had been working the room with careful precision, shaking hands with investors, fielding nods from board members, laughing at just the right volume.

Shiv appeared at his side halfway through the evening, her glass already half-empty, her lipstick just faintly smudged. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Networking?” she asked, in a tone that was equal parts curiosity and mild mockery.

“Trying to,” he said, smiling.

They drifted toward a cluster of other executives holding court near the bar. The conversation was harmless enough, annual revenue projections, a bad joke about the upcoming Q4. Tom offered something mild in response, and one of the execs, emboldened by the open bar, chuckled.

“Gotta say, Tom, you’ve really got the best job in the company,” the man said. “Cozy corner in Parks, cushy title, and… you know…” His gaze flicked toward Shiv, a smirk creeping in. “Quite the plus-one situation.”

The group laughed, low and knowing. Shiv didn’t step in. Not right away. Instead, she arched a brow, smirking like she might turn the whole thing into a game.

“Well,” she said lightly, swirling the champagne in her glass, “he does know how to hold onto the good things.”

Tom’s smile froze. “That so?”

“Sure,” she continued, voice teasing. “You’d be amazed what he’s willing to put up with for the perks.”

The laughter around them swelled. It was supposed to be harmless, at least, that’s how she played it, but it landed like a slap on his face. Tom felt his ears heat, the champagne in his stomach suddenly sour.

He tried to laugh it off, but his eyes met hers for just a second too long, letting her see that flicker of hurt he couldn’t hide.

“Wow,” he said softly, turning towards her, voice stripped of humor. “Thanks, Shiv.”

Her smirk faltered, just slightly, but she recovered fast. “Oh, come on, don’t go all wounded puppy on me in front of the guests.”

“I’m fine,” he said, but his tone betrayed him.

Her expression hardened. She tipped her head toward the party behind them. “Then maybe you should get back to mingling.”

And before he could respond, she turned on her heel, her perfect curls swinging, vanishing back into the glittering crowd like she hadn’t left a bruise in her wake.

Tom stayed rooted for a moment, the sound of clinking glasses and laughter pressing in on him from all sides. Someone brushed past with a tray of oysters, and he realized his hand was still clenched around his half-empty glass.

He made his way toward the far end of the venue, past the glittering main floor, until he found himself in a quieter side corridor lined with framed photographs of Waystar’s “legacy moments.” Logan shaking hands with presidents. Logan breaking ground on new properties. Logan standing at the top of a rollercoaster, grinning like he’d built it himself.

Tom set his glass down on a narrow console table and leaned against the wall, loosening his tie just enough to breathe. His reflection in the polished glass of a frame looked like it was smirking at him.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t take a joke. He’d taken a lifetime of them, but coming from her, in front of them, it cut in a different way. It wasn’t just a jab at him. It was permission for everyone else to laugh, too., He rubbed his thumb along the seam of his cuff, thinking about the look she’d given him when she walked away. Daring him to make it a thing. Daring him to be the one who couldn’t roll with it. Maybe that was the game. Shiv could poke and prod, and if he didn’t flinch, he proved he could hang. But if he did? Then he’d just confirmed what they all suspected, that he didn’t belong here, and never would.

Somewhere back in the main hall, Shiv’s laugh rang out again. It was bright, charming, perfectly in her element. Tom straightened, smoothed his tie back into place, and forced himself to head away from the sound.

Tom left the party before anyone noticed. At least, he hoped so. The air outside was damp and cool, cutting through the warmth of the champagne and humiliation lingering in his chest. He walked the blocks back to their place without calling a car, just to burn it off. By the time he let himself in, the townhouse felt oppressively still. Mondale greeted him like nothing was wrong, tail wagging. Tom patted his head absently, went straight for the bathroom, and started brushing his teeth.

He was almost ready to call it a night when the banging started. The noise was sharp, uneven, like whoever was on the other side couldn’t quite coordinate their own limbs. Mondale barked for the first time at the strange voice, ready to protect his house from an intruder. 

When Tom opened the door, the cold night air rushed in along with her. Shiv leaned against the frame, hair mussed. Her heels dangled from one hand, the strap twisted around her wrist like she’d been dragging them behind her for blocks. Her eyes were glassy, her smirk too loose around the edges. She smelled like expensive whiskey and the perfume she wore to events she knew mattered.

“Hey,” she slurred, voice pitched like she was trying to make a joke of it. “Miss me?”

Before he could answer, she brushed past him, her shoulder knocking into his. She didn’t make it halfway to the kitchen before she swayed, and he caught her arm. “Easy –”

She shook her head, muttered something he couldn’t catch. He felt the tremor running through her before she shoved him away and rushed to the bathroom, slamming to her knees on the tiles just in time. He followed, crouching beside her. Her hair was in his hand before he even thought about it, his other palm steadying her shoulder while she retched.

She retched until there was nothing left, her body folding in on itself as tears rushed out from her eyes. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just stayed there, silent and solid, rubbing slow circles into her back the way you would with a child. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. Just kept her steady until the worst of it passed.

When her stomach was finally emptied, she slumped sideways, cheek against the cool tile wall. “I’m fine,” she rasped.

“You’re not fine,” Tom said firmly. 

He pressed a damp towel to her face, made her rinse her mouth with a mouthwash. Tom then hooked an arm under her knees, hoisting her into his arms. She felt a bit too light. She let him lift her easily, her head falling against his chest as if she’d been carrying the weight of the whole party home with her.

In the bedroom, he didn't bother taking off her fine silk dress. He pulled the blanket over her and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair back. She curled onto her side, eyes already half-closed, her mascara feathered under her eyes.

Her voice was almost swallowed by the rustling of the sheets when she said it.

“I know you want me for the ladder.”

The words hung there, raw and shapeless, like she wasn’t even fully aware she’d let them go.

Tom froze for a second. He could have denied it, laughed it off, pretended he hadn’t heard. Instead, he smoothed the hair from her forehead and said quietly, “Yeah. I do.”

Her hum was low, humorless. Her breathing evened out almost immediately.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, like sealing a pact neither of them had fully acknowledged until now. His hand still lingered in her hair, stroking it back.

Because it was true. He wanted her for the ladder, for the name, for the access. But in moments like this, when she was stripped down to something fragile and unguarded, he wondered if maybe he wanted her for something else too.

He lay down beside her, careful not to wake her, and listened to the sound of her breathing until it pulled him under.

Chapter Text

Love isn’t safe. It’s not something you give without consequence.

It’s a deal. A wager. And you should never, ever bet more than you’re willing to lose.

I should have remembered that when I met Tom. Because he was never supposed to get that close. He wasn’t supposed to see me.The brittle parts I don’t show anyone. But he did. I thought maybe I could keep it compartmentalized, boxed and locked away, like everything else. 

But love doesn’t stay where you put it. It seeps into your bloodstream. It grows teeth.

Tom saw things he shouldn’t have. He saw who I am when I’m not performing. And he stayed. I started to think that maybe this was different. Maybe love doesn’t have to destroy you. Maybe it could be a shield instead of a blade.

However, that's meant for other people. Because in the end, even Tom learned how to use it. And I don’t blame him. Not really. 

I handed him the knife.

.:.:.

When Logan’s stroke hit, it was the opening Tom had been yearning for to get out of their tepid life. 

He watched the family collapse inward, not with screaming or sobs, but in the quiet, stunned silence of people who had built their lives around a singular gravitational force and were suddenly left floating mid-air. They moved like ghosts with ashen faces through the sterile corridors of the hospital. Their once sharp suits were wrinkled, their eyes ringed with fatigue and disbelief. The joys of the birthday party were long forgotten. There was a kind of animal fear in the air, the kind no amount of money could ward off. The siblings were out for each other's blood. 

Tom said little. He kept to the edges, observant and servile, ready to run any little errand the siblings asked him. He made phone calls and rubbed Shiv’s stiff shoulders. Tried lightening up the air with a joke or two, but inside, something coiled and was ready to unfurl. He had been carrying the engagement ring for months in his pocket. 

This was the moment. The opening.

Power was shifting, and where power shifted, opportunity followed, new doors opened. Tom had initially thought his chance came with Logan’s birthday party. Instead he ended up being ignored and carried the gift box for the whole fucking day, the one he spent hours on. He had tried to strategize the perfect gift to get Logan’s respect. Shiv had helped him with it. However he ended up spending the day trying to break into the fortress between father and daughter in vain. Marcia’s dismissal at the hospital was the final nail in his coffin. 

He had to hurry. It was now or never.

He caught her outside the restroom. She was pacing, arms locked tight across her chest like she could hold herself together if she pressed hard enough. The harsh fluorescent lights washed her skin pale, accentuating the tremor in her hands. She was still reeling from the sight of her father. The tubes that snaked into his arms, machines beeping out the rhythm of his fading life. No armor, no spin, no headlines. Just her. The girl beneath the woman.

Shiv didn’t notice him at first. Then her gaze flicked up, registering his presence with a startled jolt, confusion knitting between her brows.

Tom stepped closer, his expression steady but almost unbearably soft. He said her full name as though it might anchor her in place. Falling to his knee, he asked her to marry him. It came out firm, decisive, as if this moment was the only moment for this plea.

She blinked at him, mouth parting, closing, and parting again. She was caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage. Her eyes darted around the empty hallway, searching for an escape, then back to him kneeling there before her.

Tom didn’t give her time to finish the thought. He told her he loved her, and while he held out the ring, his voice softened. He said he wanted to be with her forever, and added pointing out that if something were to happen to Logan…

Her jaw tightened at the thought of her dad’s demise. Tom could see the flicker of calculation behind her eyes. The wheels were spinning. The diamond of the ring sparkled under the too bright halogen lights. She was trapped between grief and desperation, and he knew it. The same instinct that had her circling the carcass of her father's empire since she was old enough to understand inheritance.

It was all carefully calibrated, the timing, the tenderness, the suggestion of a shared future right when her foundation was cracking. This wasn’t about love for her. Not really. And that was fine. It didn’t need to be.

When she answered with outrage instead of excitement, he started closing the ring box, his wide blue eyes carrying just enough sadness to make refusal feel cruel. That was when she exhaled sharply, her resistance sagging into something like surrender.

“I’m sorry honey. Let’s just not have this as the moment. But so you know,” she said finally, her voice thinner than he’d ever heard it. “Yeah, whatever. When it happens – yes.”

She looked away as she said it, a shy little thing, almost ashamed of giving into him. 

Hearing those words leave her lips was like being handed the world on a silver platter. His chest felt too small for the rush of heat inside it. He didn’t think, just crossed the space in two long strides and pulled her up into his arms.

The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, not the kind they usually did for show in public. Her mouth tasted of salt and burnt hospital coffee. She trembled against him, and he tightened his hold until he could feel her bones press through her soft knitted cardigan.

She needed something solid. He could be her rock, her safety net, her loyal fool who would stand in the path of anything that came for her. Even if she only reached for him because the walls were caving in.

He murmured something against her temple, not even sure if it was words or just the sound of wanting to comfort her. She didn’t answer, only let her forehead rest briefly against his chest, the smallest, fleeting surrender before she inhaled slowly and straightened again.

That night, they didn’t sleep. The hospital room was too full of fluorescent light and the restless shuffle of nurses in the corridor. They sat side by side, watching the slow rise and fall of Logan’s chest, the endless flicker of monitors. Once in a while her hand would graze his on the armrest between them, pulling his hand in hers.

It was only in the town car, sometime after dawn, that they drifted into a kind of fragile sleep. Shiv curled into herself against his chest, her breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. He pressed his nose into her hair, the faint scent of her shampoo cutting through the chemical tang of the hospital still clinging to her.

She slept like someone guarding a secret even in her dreams, her shoulders tight, her fists loosely curled in his shirt. He held her anyway, his hand spread protectively over her side. Outside, the city passed in streaks of grey and gold, the morning sun sliding between buildings. 

.:.:.

The second time he asked her to marry him, there were no rings, no hospital halls, no grief humming in the background like an EKG.

It was just late. The kind of hour when the city outside had quieted down, and Shiv was lying next to him in bed, scrolling through emails with her screen dimmed low. Her hair was pulled back into some half-mess, and the pillow creased the side of her cheek. 

He was watching her when it came to him. It was like a breath that had been caught in his throat for too long.

“Marry me.”

Shiv’s fingers paused over the screen. Her eyes flicked toward him. “Again?” she asked, with a raised brow, amused but not unkind.

He nodded. “Yeah. Again.”

“Who died this time?” she said, still not smiling.

“I mean it,” he said, propping himself on one elbow. “I mean it more now than I did before.”

Her gaze searched his face skeptically, maybe a little afraid.

“Tom…” Her voice trailed. She set her phone down, turned to face him fully. “You’re doing this now?”

This was no lake como after all.

He nodded. “We’re here. You haven’t vanished to D.C. or buried yourself in ten layers of politics. You’re in my bed, and I want that. I want you.”

She studied him for a long time. “You’re sure?”

He gave a crooked smile. “I’ve never done anything as spontaneous as this in my life.”

Her laugh was small, broken almost. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am,” he agreed. “But I’m a good… husband. I could be, I mean.”

Shiv bit the inside of her cheek. 

Tom reached for her hand and linked their fingers. His thumb brushed over the soft skin between hers. “I want you,” he said, almost reverently. “Even if you weren’t a Roy. Even if you were just… Shiv. With your impossible standards and your over critical opinions.”

He traced the empty space on her finger where his ring belonged. 

“And your three different types of conditioner. Marry me. Not because the world is burning. Just because it’s you and me. We work. Together.”

Shiv didn’t say anything for a long moment. Her hand was still in his. She looked away briefly, her mouth twitching like it wanted to say no, like she was fighting something inside herself. But then she bit her lip and nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Tom’s breath caught. “Yeah?”

She nodded again, firmer, eyes sliding to meet his. “I’ll marry you, Tom Wambsgans.”

When he dived in to kiss her, it didn’t taste like triumph. Her yes lingered in the air, fragile as glass. Tom’s pulse thundered, and he kept looking at her as if she might take it back if he blinked. But then she shifted closer, her thigh brushing his under the blanket. He could feel the heat of her skin even through the cotton. The move was subtle, almost thoughtless, but it set his whole body on edge.

He kissed her again, tenderly, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off. She let him. One of her hands slid up into his hair, her fingers curling lightly at the base of his skull. The kiss deepened, her mouth warm, tasting faintly of the wine they’d shared earlier. His hand traced the curve of her hip, over the familiar softness of the t-shirt she slept in, until his palm rested against bare skin where the hem had ridden up.

When she pulled back, her eyes were half-lidded but sharp, assessing. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to start wearing matching pajamas. None of that bullshit,” she said, her voice low, teasing, but with an edge of truth.

He smiled faintly. “I think I’ll survive.”

Shiv just pressed her mouth to his harder now. The kiss turned into something messy and impatient. Her legs tangled with his, and he rolled them so she was beneath him, her hair spilling loose from its half-tie. For a moment, his thoughts were empty of Waystar, Logan and the plan. Just her fingers clutching at his back and his lips moving over her jaw, her neck, down to the hollow of her throat where her pulse thundered.

With his kisses to her collarbone, her breath hitched, and Shiv pulled him closer by the collar of his t-shirt, murmuring something he didn’t catch. He didn’t need to. He understood the way she arched into him like she wanted to be closer and further away all at once.

Her hands were fast to slide under his shirt, palms warm against his skin, roaming like she was searching for something, maybe control, until she ripped his shirt over his head. He didn’t care. His own hands traced down her sides, committing every inch of her to memory, the faint tremor in her stomach when he skimmed over it. The bunched up cotton was on the way. Shiv was more than happy to help him to toss the shirt away. 

He kissed her deeper and more hungry, until her soft sound of approval vibrated in his mouth. The mattress dipped as she shifted, pulling him fully over her. For a few suspended seconds, there was nothing but the heat between them, the quiet gasp when his thumb brushed the inside of her thigh, trailing over her silk panties. Shiv dug her nails lightly into his shoulder.

Her eyes found his in the low light. “You’re too needy sometimes,” she murmured, though her hips angled up into his touch, eager for more.

“I can be less needy,” he said against her jaw, not meaning any of it.

Her lips curled faintly, and then she was kissing the slight stubble of his jaw again.

“No, I like knowing that you’re mine.”

The words sank into him, a hot brand pressed to the softest part of his chest. She meant them half as a tease, half as a claim, but Tom heard them as permission. Leverage. Proof that the pull between them was real to her. 

And it was in moments like this, when her guard slipped and she admitted ownership as easily as desire, that Tom felt the most dangerous thought rise in him. Maybe he could bend this balance further. Not by force. Not by anger. But by teaching her to crave him, to need him, as much as she thought she hated to.

If she liked possession, if she liked the idea of keeping him, then he could weaponize that. Not in one blow, no, it had to be incremental. A slow tightening of the knot until she couldn’t tell when she’d become tangled in it.

Tom had been practicing on how to break dominant women. It was all about establishing an association in her mind. He liked to start wearing her down with pleasure. To make her body betray her first. If he could show her again and again that surrender felt good, that it tasted like power, not weakness, she would start to reach for it herself.

Every sigh, every arch of her back, every sharp breath that broke loose when he put his mouth to her throat, he collected them like trophies. Not just because he wanted her, God he did, but because each one was a reminder that this was how you rewired someone. This was how you made them need.

Shiv thought she was keeping the reins, doling him out in small doses like a favor. But Tom was already teaching her something else. That every time she touched him, every time she let him linger in her bed, it was her who came back for more.

And if he did it right, if he was patient enough, careful enough, she’d never notice the moment when wanting him and needing him became the same thing.

Her lips brushed his jaw, lazy, almost teasing, like she was humoring him. Tom tilted his head, letting her think she was leading, while his hand slid lower, pressing into her hip just enough to remind her of his grip. He went back to kiss her throat, slow at first, until he felt her pulse stutter beneath his mouth. That was it. That little break in rhythm. He latched onto it, nipping the skin gently with his teeth, dragging his tongue along the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She inhaled sharply, nails curling into his shoulders.

He shifted, pressing her back into the cushions, not rough but steady, undeniable. His mouth found the hollow of her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly. She arched up despite herself, a small noise escaping her lips.

“There,” he murmured against her skin, like he’d discovered something precious. In reality, he was marking a map. Every spot, every flinch, every sigh, he had catalogued it all. His hand smoothed up her thigh, coaxing, until she spread just enough for him to settle firmly between her legs. Tom pressed her down into the mattress, his weight settling just enough to remind her who held the ground. He softened it with a slow roll of his hips, getting a gasp out of her throat. 

Her eyes fluttered half-shut, her lips parted. She looked almost soft like this, undone in ways she would deny later. Tom kissed the corner of her mouth, but underneath, he was smiling. Because he knew. Every time she let him in, every time she forgot herself in his touch, she was reinforcing the very trap she didn’t know she was in.

And Tom was patient. He’d keep her coming, over and over, until she couldn’t imagine a night without him. Until his presence, his hands, his body became her habit. Her addiction.

He kissed her harder, almost punishing now, feeling her nails bite into his back. Her resistance, her dominance, it was all just noise he’d learn how to quiet.

He’d make her love it.

His hand slipped over her waist, palm hot against the plane of her stomach. He didn’t rush. That was the trick. He was being slow, attentive, like she was the only woman who’d ever mattered. His fingers traced circles at the edge of her ribs until she squirmed, until her hips tilted up to chase his touch.

“There you go,” he whispered against her collarbone.

Her breath hitched. She hated praise, he knew that. Shiv hated the implication that she needed anyone’s approval. He kissed her softer, like he was covering his strategy with something tender.

By the time he slid his palm higher, cupping her breast, her head tipped back, a shiver running through her. He pressed his mouth to the shell of her ear, murmuring, “Good girl,” before he could stop himself.

She stiffened for a second from pride and instinct, but then melted back against him when he teased her nipples with his fingers. 

When he finally lowered his mouth to her chest, she let out a sound he rarely heard from her. He caught it, devoured it, kissed her harder like he could trap it inside his lungs. Her hands were in his hair, tugging, demanding his mouth on her, but she was moving with him now. The fight was still there but he had found the rhythm of it. How to let her believe she was steering while he was quietly mapping the route. He kissed every inch of her skin, slow enough to make her shiver, fast enough to keep her on edge. 

Tom could feel the wetness of her panties seeping onto his underwear from the way Shiv kept grinding against his throbbing cock. It felt horrible to detach themselves for the seconds that it took to kick their underwear down their legs, but they managed to do so. Tom’s fingers were fast to trace her slick around before he rubbed her clit. Shiv dove into his neck to escape the onslaught of pleasure he brought to her. His cock hardened even further, throbbing against her thigh, with her small moans against his skin. Pushing two fingers into her, he groaned at the way she squeezed and clenched around him. He searched and found his favorite spot to stroke her.

His thumb circled her clit harder as his fingers fucked deep into her. Shiv moaned against his shoulder, before her head fell back with a thud. She wanted more. She wanted it faster and harder as her cunt pulsed against his fingers cleaving her open. 

But he kept her on the edge. He just had to steadily keep applying pleasure until she was ready to crumble. Tom adjusted his fingers to curl inside of her, hitting the spot he knew made her unravel. The pleasure made her hips rock and grind against his hand on their own accord. 

“Fuck,” Shiv whined against the pillows. 

The effect the action had on her couldn’t have been more apparent. She squirmed, trying her best to get away from the maddening touch. Her eyes closed as her thighs clamped around Tom’s arm, trying to stop him. But her toes curled into the sheets as the feeling intensified into a wave that came crashing hard over her when the orgasm finally took her.

It was only once that she’d been softened, when her defences were weakened, that he could stake his claim on her. There was no greater pleasure than to feel her yield inch by inch as she stopped thinking and started feeling. The fire in her eyes dimmed to embers as she gave in.

He kept fucking her, slow and steady, with his fingers all through her orgasm. When she stopped sucking in breaths like she was drowning, Tom pulled his fingers out. His hand climbed up her stomach, smearing her wetness on its way to her breast. He pinched and rolled her nipple between his fingers. 

The soft lull of the post orgasm bliss didn’t last long. Because after Tom had pulled his fingers out, he replaced them with his tongue, burying it between her sensitive folds. Just like he did with his fingers, he traced her swollen folds and clit with the tip of his tongue, before he dipped into her, groaning at the sweet taste of her. Her thighs were fast around his head, blocking him away from the world outside of Shiv. 

He didn’t mind. He kept savoring her, kissing and lapping at her cunt, tasting every sensitive inch of her. It was all just for him. He kissed her clit just as sweet as he’d done to her lips, before laving over it sloppily.

“Oh fuck, Tom,”

He could hear her even though his head was almost crushed. Shiv’s nails dug through his hair, tugging hard at him. But he didn’t care about her protests. Holding her hips down with his strong arms, Tom just hummed against her as he continued to eat her, sucking her clit between her lips. He could feel it throb in his mouth, could feel her arousal dripping over his chin. She writhe and grinded against Tom, attempting to take any resemblance of control over her pleasure he kept inflicting on her.

Tom could keep eating her forever, but the need in him was starting to grow too large. He pried her legs apart and crawled up and over her. His cock was rock hard and leaking. Trying his best to control himself, Tom pumped his cock before spreading her legs wider. Keeping a hand on her waist, he notched the blunt head of his cock against her molten cunt. He could only wait a second before pushing into her, just to feel her arch and beg for it.

By the time he slid inside her, she was pulling him closer, muttering his name against his shoulder like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Burying himself into her all the way to the hilt, he moaned. She felt impossibly tight. Breathing steadily, he tried to think about anything else than Shiv wrapped around him. But she was everywhere, even every breath he took was full of her signature scent and her sweat.

Her hips lifted to meet his priming thrusts, desperate for more, but Tom slowed just enough to keep control. His hand found hers and pinning them gently above her head. Not forcefully but a reminder that he was there, holding her together when she threatened to fly apart.

“Tom,” she breathed, and this time it wasn’t a warning. It was something raw, something that sounded too close to need.

He bent low, his lips brushing her jaw as he moved inside her, deep and steady. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting as she arched up into him, her free hand clutching at his shoulder. She kissed him hungrily, the kind of kiss that made him ache, because it felt like she meant it.

Every time she pressed against him, he answered with more, not punishing but giving, like he could pour all the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have into the rhythm of his body. His mouth traced her skin, soft nips turning into reverent kisses at her throat, her collarbone, the hollow where her pulse fluttered fast beneath his lips.

“Mine,” he murmured against her skin almost like a prayer.

Her breath caught, and her body answered him, gripping around him hard as her voice broke. His name rolled off helplessly on her tongue. He fucked her through it, cradling her tighter. Tom bit down on the inside of his cheek, holding off his rapidly approaching orgasm. Because this was the proof. This was the hook. She could call him needy, mock him, dismiss him in daylight, but here, in the dark, her body was teaching her something else.

And he would be the one she came back to. Always.

It happened so fast Tom didn’t even register the pain at first, just the sharp crack of Shiv’s elbow colliding with his face. The blur of white sparks exploded behind his eyes, his need to cum forgotten in seconds, and the stunned silence followed.

“Jesus Christ!” Tom yelped, rolling onto his back and clutching his face.

Shiv propped herself up on one elbow, hair falling into her flushed face. “Oh my God, fuck!” She broke off, covering her mouth. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Tom peeked between his fingers, already feeling the throb deep in his cheekbone. “I think you tried to kill me.”

“You moved,” she said, fighting a smile that was quickly turning into a laugh.

“I moved? We were –” He gestured vaguely between their naked bodies, wincing. “I think the movement was implied!”

She was laughing now, full and shameless. “Let me see.” She reached for his hands, but he pulled away.

“Oh no. It fucking hurts Shiv. This is…” He sat up slowly, imagining the slow bloom of purple around his eye. “Oh God. I’m going to have to go into work like this.”

Shiv rolled her eyes. “So? Say you walked into a door. Or got into a fight.”

Tom gave her a look. “A fight? Shiv, you’re the one rough housing your brothers when no one is looking.”

She smirked. “Then tell them the truth. That your new fiancée elbowed you during hot and passionate sex.”

“NO,” Tom cut in quickly, pointing at her like she’d just suggested murder. “Absolutely not. That’s… no. I’m not being Elbow Guy for the next six months.”

He swung his legs off the bed, padding into the bathroom to inspect the damage. Sure enough, there was already a red welt blooming under his right eye.

“Fantastic,” he muttered at his reflection. “Karl’s going to stare at me like I’m a victim of domestic violence.” He trailed off, shuddering. 

Shiv leaned in the doorway in her naked glory, still grinning. “Honestly? It’s kind of hot. Makes you look dangerous.”

Tom looked at her in the mirror, deadpan. “Nothing says ‘dangerous’ like a man who got TKO’d by his fiancée’s elbow.”

“Then own it,” she said, coming up behind him to kiss his shoulder and wrap her arms around him. “Tell them you got into a fight. Just… maybe leave out who won.”

Tom continued to survey the damage from the mirror until Shiv swatted his bare ass. 

“Come on. Back to bed. You don’t need your vision to fuck me silly.”

.:.:.

When Waystar handed him the keys to Parks and Cruises, he’d told himself it was an opportunity. A test. A scrap of power tossed to the loyal pet to see if he’d sit, stay, and perform the trick on command. He took it gratefully, of course. Wagged his tail. Put on the suit, smiled for the photos, made a point of shaking the right hands and nodding in the right boardrooms.

It was his first meeting as the head of Parks and Cruises. Tom was just about to open his mouth and welcome everyone when his phone buzzed with Shiv’s name. The tone in her voice left no room for negotiation. 

Drop it. Come to Logan’s. Now. 

He hated how quickly he shut his computer, how awkward his call was to move this up for two hours, how abrupt his exit was in front of his subordinates. They could read between the lines. They knew. He was running someone else's errands instead of his own meetings.

By the time they were in the car heading uptown, Tom could feel the irritation simmering under his skin. It wasn’t pointed at her exactly, but at the fact that his priorities weren’t really his own. Shiv wanted to see Logan, Marcia’s gatekeeping be damned. And so he was here, in motion, without a choice.

Logan’s apartment was heavy with the smell of antiseptic and overwatered plants. Marcia met them at the door, her expression as warm as a blade.

“He’s not himself,” she warned, in that measured tone that always made Tom feel like he was about three feet tall. “It is not a good time.”

Shiv didn’t even pause. “I’ll decide that,” she said, already stepping past her. Connor followed her with a muttered “hey” to no one in particular. Tom trailed, but when Shiv headed straight for the stairs, Marcia’s body shifted just enough to make it clear. 

You’re not going up there .

So he stayed in the cavernous living room, perched awkwardly on the edge of a white leather chair next to Connor. The tick of some antique clock filled the silence. Marcia poured herself tea and sipped without offering them any.

Tom tried for small talk, something about the weather, something about how good it was that Logan was finally home. She smiled without showing teeth. Connor just stared at the floor.

Footsteps finally sounded on the stairs, and Shiv emerged. There was something off in the way she moved, her gaze fixed ahead, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Well?” Marcia asked smoothly.

Shiv’s mouth curved in something that could pass for a smile. “He’s fine,” she said evenly. “Tired, but fine.”

Tom saw it instantly. The way her jaw locked just a fraction too long, the way her hands stayed at her sides instead of in her pockets like they usually would. Something had happened. Something she wasn’t going to say here.

Marcia gave a knowing little nod, as if she’d expected as much, and turned away.

They left together. In the elevator, Tom tried gently.  “You okay?”

“Fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Tom.”

She kept her eyes on the elevator doors all the way down, her reflection in the metal impossibly composed. But when they stepped out into the street, he noticed she was holding her hands like she’d touched something she couldn’t wash off.

He didn’t press again. Not here. Not now even though Connor had split off. But as they slid into the car and the door shut behind them, he knew, whatever had happened upstairs, it had shaken her. And he wasn’t going to be allowed to touch it.

The long conference table at Parks and Cruises headquarters was too polished. It reflected the overhead lights in little brutal rectangles that made Tom’s forehead shine when he leaned forward. He could feel the weight of thirty pairs of eyes on him. The clerks, middle managers, deputy directors were all gathered to witness the ceremonial handoff from Bill, their beloved patriarch of theme parks and floating buffet cities.

Bill was standing at the other end of the table, casual in the way only a man secure in his legacy could be. Bill’s farewell speech was still echoing in the room when Tom realized the bastard had gone for the jugular. The way he used people’s names, one by one, making the room glow with remembered summers and cruise launches. The way he folded in jokes about staff barbecues from ten years ago as though he hadn’t been storing them in a neat little folder just for this moment. The grace of it made Tom’s teeth ache.

Tom cleared his throat. He could feel sweat collecting beneath his collar.

“Bill. ‘The Best Boss That Ever Lived.’ ”  he said too quickly, before anyone else could move. He gestured toward Bill, voice tightening into the brittle, performative cheer he’d been practicing.

Bill, gracious as ever, laughed with a paternal hand on Tom’s shoulder as though to steady him. Tom flushed. He hated Bill for that laugh, for the way it made him feel like a schoolboy promoted to teacher’s chair only because the headmaster’s daughter had insisted.

“Tom’s going to be terrific,” Bill said, projecting warmth. “He’s got ideas. He’s got energy. And he’s got all of you. You’re in good hands.”

A smattering of applause. Tom grinned wide enough to hurt, his teeth a weapon against the silence. He nodded, too many times, too quickly.

“Thank you, Bill. That’s… that’s really generous. Big shoes to fill. Giant shoes.” He forced out a laugh. 

The laughter this time was thinner, flatter.

“Well,” Tom said, voice bright, brittle. “Let’s make some magic, huh?”

The applause was still evaporating when Bill, all hearty grins and fatherly pats, clamped a hand on Tom’s arm.

“Walk with me, champ.”

Tom followed, buoyed for half a second by the illusion that this was mentorship, a torch passed. Bill guided him down the corridor with the ease of a man who had spend here the most of his career. Tom tried to match his stride, chest tight with the aftertaste of humiliation, but still hopeful. Maybe Bill was about to give him real advice, something useful.

They reached the corner office. Tom’s new office. The leather chairs gleamed, the view stretched out like a promise. Bill shut the door behind them, and the room sealed into quiet.

“Congratulations,” Bill said, the word rounded with amusement. “You’ve inherited the kingdom.”

Tom laughed, brittle. “Well, yeah, you know. Hard work pays off.”

Bill cut him off with a look. Not unkind, but sharp enough to slice. He moved to the desk, ran his hand across it like he was still the owner. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Listen, Tom. I kept this place running by keeping certain… things… from coming to light. Things that, if they were out in the open, would burn the whole department to the ground.”

Tom blinked, throat tightening. “Things?”

Bill smiled, as though he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Just some accidents.”

Tom’s stomach dropped. His skin prickled, scalp buzzing like he’d been plugged into a socket. He’d thought he was inheriting a golden throne, a padded chair with a view of the ocean. Now it looked more like a powder keg.

“Wait, what – what kind of accidents are we talking about?” His voice cracked at the edges. “Because, uh, you know, I thought I was coming in to, like, manage rollercoasters, shuffleboard tournaments –”

Bill’s eyes stayed locked on him, flat now, all the initial warmth drained away. “You’ll find out. It’s all in the locked files. He’s the code.” He tapped the keyboard like knocking on a coffin lid.

Tom stared at the printer that spewed out a six number code. He didn’t want to open it. He wanted to be anywhere else. But he was already sitting in the chair, already smiling for the staff, already shackled to the mess Bill had curated for decades.

Bill straightened, smoothed his tie. “It’s all yours now. Guard it well, Tom.”

Tom swallowed. He realized with a slow, icy certainty that he hadn’t been promoted. He’d been buried alive, with the department’s secrets as the soil. Bill clapped him on the shoulder one last time, smile back in place, genial and unshakeable. Then he left, whistling softly as though he’d just gifted Tom a box of cigars. Alone in the office, Tom stared at the code. His reflection in the glossy desk looked pale, sweat-speckled, his grin stretched into something grotesque.

I’ve been fucked, he thought. And there’s no way out.

The house was too quiet when Tom walked in, shutting the door with more force than he meant to. His shoes felt wrong, too tight, his tie knotted like a noose. He dropped his briefcase by the wall and just stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, breathing shallow.

The place smelled faintly of Shiv’s perfume that clung to the air even when she wasn’t around. But she was here, in the living room, curled on the couch with a tablet in her hand, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of the coffee table. Mondale was sleeping in his own cot. The old dog didn’t bother but to raise his ears on Tom’s arrival. She looked up as he came in.

“Well,” she said, smirking like she already knew the answer. “How was your first day as the Big Chief of Cruises?”

Tom forced a laugh. It scraped out of him, brittle. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it collapse over the back of a chair. “Oh, you know. Smooth sailing. Everyone loves me. Couldn’t stop clapping. Bill practically carried me around on his shoulders.”

Shiv tilted her head, wine glass in hand. “Really.”

“No,” Tom said, sharper than he intended. He rubbed a hand across his face, sinking into the couch beside her. “No. They worship Bill. They made me feel like… like I’d stolen their dog and kicked it in front of them.”

Shiv laughed softly, unsympathetic. “Well, my dad practically pried the job out of Bill’s cold dead hands for you.”

Tom flinched at that, staring down at his own palms, damp with sweat even now. “Yeah. About Bill…”

Something in his tone made her put the glass down. She raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

Tom hesitated. He thought about the files. The NDAs stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t see over. His throat tightened. He wanted to tell her, unload it all, but the words stuck. Kendall’s dismissal weighed down on him.

“You know what my dad used to say? He’d say he loved all his employees. But he particularly loved the guys who ate the shit for him, and he never even knew it.”

The secrets already felt contagious, like speaking them out loud would doom him.

“Nothing,” he said finally, forcing a smile that hurt his cheeks. “He just… he gave me a pep talk. Classic Bill.”

Shiv studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Then she shrugged and leaned back. “You’ll get the hang of it. They’ll come around.”

Tom nodded, staring at the dark window across the room. His reflection looked pale and hollow, eyes wide like he’d been staring into headlights. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. The files were waiting for him, whispering somewhere in the archives.

The apartment was still dim when Tom woke. The gray wash of early morning when the city felt far away and muffled covered the rooms. Shiv was already up, sitting at the dining table with her laptop open and a cup of coffee going cold at her elbow. Her hair was scraped back carelessly, and the set of her shoulders told him she was deep in whatever she was pretending to read.

He padded in barefoot, the wood cool under his feet, and leaned against the doorway for a second before speaking. “You’re up early.”

She didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Tom crossed to her, slid into the chair opposite. He let the quiet stretch until it felt almost uncomfortable. “Shiv… about yesterday.”

Her eyes flicked up briefly, sharp and unreadable. “What about it?”

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “When you came downstairs and… you were different. Not like you. I could see something was wrong.”

Her fingers drummed once against the mug, then stilled. “Tom, it was nothing. He’s just… not well. It was weird seeing him like that. That’s all.”

It wasn’t convincing. Not even close. He leaned forward a little. “You can tell me if it was more than that. Did he say something to you?”

Her mouth curved in something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so thin. “This isn’t one of those things I talk about.”

He sat back, the words hitting him with that familiar chill. It was a reminder that there were parts of her world with walls too high for him to see over. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He traced the seam of the table with his finger, then tried a different angle.

“You know you can tell me anything.”

For a second, her face softened, almost imperceptibly. But then she took a sip of her coffee and set it down with a quiet clink.

“Tom, I’m fine. Let’s leave it at that.”

He forced a small nod, though the weight in his chest didn’t lift. She’d given him the answer, but the boundary. And he’d have to live inside it.

But in the evening, when the TV was on but Tom wasn’t watching it while Mondale snored at his feet. He was half-reading a report about the cruises on his phone when he heard her bare feet on the floorboards.

Shiv didn’t say anything as she crossed the room. She just sank onto the couch beside him, then shifted until she was straddling his lap. The soft weight of her in that position knocked the air out of him in a slow, startled breath. Her hands slid into his hair, just to rest there. He searched her face for an explanation, but she didn’t give him that either.

Tom let his phone drop onto the cushion. He wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling the steady press of her against him. They stayed like that for a long time, breathing in sync, the muted light from the TV spilling over both of them. She didn’t say sorry. She didn’t say thank you. But her forehead dipped briefly to touch his, and he understood that this was as close as she’d come to either.

He kissed her temple once, without asking for more. Because this, too, was part of the deal, knowing when silence was the only answer he was going to get.

.:.:.

Greg Hirsch was a joke. A stammering, stilt-limbed clown who tripped over his own shoes and blushed when he spoke too loud. That’s what everyone saw. That’s what Logan saw. That’s what Shiv and her brothers smirked at.

But Tom knew better. He recognized it the first time Greg stumbled into Logan’s birthday party. Without even having a gift, trying to make himself small though he was built like a birch. It was in the way he laughed too loud at jokes he didn’t get, the way he nodded along without understanding, the way he apologized for taking up space he’d been invited into. Tom had lived that. He’d been that.

And that was the problem.

Greg wasn’t a Roy by name, but with blood connection. Although it was thin and laughable. It gave him something Tom would never have: a right to be in the game. Tom had clawed and scraped and reshaped himself to get close, and still he was always on the outside, pressing his nose against the glass. Greg, with his oversized suits and awkward laugh, had been handed a seat at the table simply because of his blood. 

Tom hated him for it. But hate was too simple. There was something else there too. Pity, maybe. Or fear. Because when Tom looked at Greg, he saw himself, a few years back, before he learned how to keep his hunger hidden behind a smile. Before he figured out how to laugh at the right volume, how to stand just close enough to power without choking on it.

Greg was what Tom might still look like, if he hadn’t sharpened his edges.

So Tom kept him close. Keep your friends close and enemies closer, right. He pulled Greg in, offering him attention he so craved. He made him useful, treated him like a pet and a punchline. Because if Greg was beneath him, then Tom could believe he wasn’t at the very bottom himself.

But sometimes, in the quiet of his office after the lights went out, Tom thought about the race they were both running. Two outsiders, different speeds, same track. If Greg ever stopped tripping and figured out how to run, he might catch Tom.

And Tom would never, ever let that happen. Luckily Tom was infected by a deadly disease of knowing too much, and he’d be happy to contaminate Greg with him. If he were to go down someday, so would talented Mr. Greg. 

It wasn’t long when the first whispers began about a scandal, abuse, death, the kind of rot that seeped into the foundations of a division like his and stayed there. Bodies buried in tropical silence. Victims’ names erased with payouts. So Tom did what was expected. He buried it deeper. He pulled Greg deep into the mud with him, made the kid touch the filth so his own hands would look cleaner by comparison. They cut deals in the dark, the kind you never write down.

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t feel shame. He did. But shame was a small price for ascension. He told himself it was an investment, a down payment on longevity.

He tried, once or twice, to bring it up with Shiv. Never the specifics, just the weight of it that made him lose his sleep, the unease that settled in his gut like bad shellfish. But she always evaded. She’d brush past him in the hallway of the townhouse, more interested in her phone, or make a joke sharp enough to turn his words to ash. And so he hunted her through their home in the evenings, catching only glimpses of her as she slipped from room to room, always out of reach.

At his first RECNY ball, he thought maybe, finally, he was in. Tuxedoed, polished, engaged to a Roy. This was all he had been dreaming about for the past fourteen years. He caught his own reflection in the mirrors of the ballroom and didn’t hate what he saw. Logan’s gaze found him once across the crowd, and there was something like approval there. He soaked in it like sunlight.

The orchestra swelled, laughter and cutlery clattered, chandeliers burned like a hundred suns. He felt Shiv’s hand slip into his, her nails cool against his palm. She was smiling at the stage, enjoying the show. He looked at her, heart pounding. Somewhere behind the champagne bubbles and the mirrors lurked the cursed files and Tom felt a chill prickle through his tux. If the truth ever cracked out, it would be him under the spotlight, not Bill.

And then Logan was speaking. His voice cut through the hum of the room, wry and deliberate.

“In personal news,” Logan said. “Someone took advantage of my being in the hospital. To propose to my daughter.”

A ripple through the family table. A couple of side-eyes, raised brows. Tom felt the glances shift, quick and sharp, toward him. His throat went dry.

“So,” Logan went on, pausing just long enough for the crowd to lean in, “I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome her fiancé, Tom Wambsgans, to the family.”

Applause. A sudden, bracing tide of it. Tom blinked, surprised, momentarily delighted, as though a rope had been thrown down into the pit and he’d been hauled up into daylight. Logan was smiling. Shiv was smiling. For a fleeting second Tom felt the warmth of the welcome he’d always wanted, a place in the family not bought in whispers but declared, sealed with applause.

“Welcome to the family, Tom.”

Shiv slipped her arm around his neck, pulling him close, kissing him in front of them all. His chest swelled. He was in. He’d officially done it.

But even as he basked, he felt the weight of it pressing down. Logan’s smile was like a vice, Shiv’s hand holding him in place, the entire family watching, measuring. Shiv leaned close, her eyes on him, a question shimmering there: Are we okay?

Tom smiled back, the perfect fiancé. Yes. The word lived in his eyes.

During the late hours of the party, Gerri appeared out of nowhere, cutting through the crowd in a navy gown, her smile taut, the corners of her eyes as sharp as glass. She leaned in, close enough that he could smell her perfume, and spoke through clenched teeth.

“Suck it up. Shut your mouth. There is no press conference.”

And it was like being slapped. A sin-cake-eater? That’s all that he was? His brain scrambled to catch up. How the fuck did Gerri know? That phrase, press conference, was a term he’d used with Greg and Shiv, in a moment he’d thought was private. He was livid as he hunted Greg down, roughhousing a No out of him. 

His stomach went cold. He scanned the crowd until he saw her. Across the ballroom, Shiv was talking with Kendall. Her hand was raised to her mouth in a pantomime of secrecy. Her smile was lazy, feline, and dangerous.

And that’s when the realisation slid into him, slow and metallic. All this time, he’d been planning. Calculating. Moving pieces across the board to secure his place, not just with her, but with the family, with Waystar. He’d thought of Shiv as something to win, to protect, to keep on his side while he maneuvered to the top.

But she wasn’t a prize. She was a player. She had her own horse in the race, her own angles, her own pieces to move.

The mask stayed in place as he smiled back at her. He laughed when someone passed by with a quip. But something in his spine stiffened. The game wasn’t him with Shiv against the world.

It was Tom and Shiv, two parallel campaigns. And tonight, she’d made her move.

The car was warm and dark, the city outside a blur of lights streaking past the tinted windows. Shiv was scrolling through her phone with one hand, the other swirling the ends of her curls, relaxed in the loose-limbed way she always was after a party.

“How was your first RECNY ball, Mr. Wambsgans?” she asked without looking up, her tone light, teasing. “You were grinning like a golden retriever during dad’s speech.”

Tom forced a smile, staring out at the dark glass where his own reflection hovered faintly over the passing skyline. “Yeah. It was… something.”

She finally glanced up, her head tilting in that subtle way she had when she sensed a shift in him. “Not the answer I was expecting after Logan publicly welcomed you into the family. You basically got knighted in front of half of New York.”

“Mm.” Tom adjusted his cufflinks just to have something to do with his hands. The words were right there, pressing against his teeth but saying them would be like tossing a match into gasoline.

Did you tell Gerri? Did you use me as a joke?

Shiv narrowed her eyes, reading the silence. “What’s with you?”

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Just tired. Big night. Big… everything.”

She smirked faintly. “You’re hungover already, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” he said, watching her hair glow gold as she swirled it.

The truth was, he was hungover, but not from champagne. From the high of thinking he belonged tonight, only to feel the floor shift under him. Logan’s warm hand on his shoulder in the ballroom, the applause, the congratulations… it had all felt like progress. And then Gerri’s whisper had stripped it clean away. Again.

And there was Shiv now, laughing softly at something on her phone, her face lit by the blue glow of the screen. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her across the ballroom.

He looked away before she caught him staring. Shiv set down her phone and stretched out, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “Cheer up, Tom. You’re officially in the club now.”

He made a sound that was halfway to a laugh. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

But even with her head there, even with Logan’s words still echoing in his ears, the sour taste lingered. She might have been welcoming him in tonight. Or she might have been holding the door just wide enough to shove him back out when it suited her.

By the time they got home, the house was quiet enough to hear the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen. Shiv went upstairs without asking if he was coming, her bare feet soundless against the polished wood. Tom stayed in the entryway for a moment, his coat still on, listening to the muffled sound of her dresser drawers opening and closing above him.

Mondale padded out from the living room, tail wagging sleepily. Tom crouched to scratch behind his ears, the familiar weight of the dog leaning into him like gravity. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured. “We survived.”

The words were meant as a joke, but they felt strange in his mouth. Survival… yeah, maybe that was closer to the truth than he liked to admit.

Upstairs, water started running. Shiv’s voice drifted faintly through the ceiling, not words, just the murmur of someone talking to themselves or maybe into a phone. Tom tilted his head, trying to catch it, then felt ridiculous for doing so.

He shrugged off his coat and wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge without really seeing what was inside. A bottle of white wine caught the light. He thought about pouring himself a glass, then decided against it. His stomach was already knotted tight.

Mondale followed him, nails clicking softly against the wood. Tom crouched again, rubbing the dog’s head. “What do you think, huh? Is she… real?” He trailed off, shaking his head. Talking to the dog like it was going to give him an answer.

The shower shut off upstairs. Silence, then the creak of the floorboards as Shiv moved around. He stayed there on the kitchen floor with Mondale, letting the cold from the floor sink into his knees, thinking about the way Gerri’s words had landed like a dart, about the sight of Shiv’s smirk.

He wanted to believe she wouldn’t do it. That she wasn’t playing him. But the thing about the Roys, he’d learned this quickly, was that the game was never really over. 

.:.:.

Tom sat at the kitchen table, spoon idle in his bowl of granola. The blueberries had gone soft, bleeding faint purple into the milk. He stared at them as if the right arrangement might give him an answer. His head was foggy from the night before, not quite sleep, not quite waking. The endless cycle of tossing and the sense that Shiv was awake beside him, never quite on the same wavelength.

When she came downstairs, she looked composed, brisk, already ahead of him. He tried to play casual, making excuses about his restless night, pretending at normalcy. But she was already sliding something across the table toward him, a fat envelope that thudded against the wood.

The envelope sat between them like a third presence, heavier than its weight, thick with paper and implications. Tom turned it in his hands, feeling the corners bite into his palms. He smiled too much, too brightly, because that was easier than letting her see the dread creeping in behind his eyes.

A prenup. Of course there would be one. He wasn’t stupid. He’d watched enough films, read enough profiles of powerful families. But still some part of him, the naive core that clung stubbornly to fairy tale versions of marriage, had thought maybe Shiv wouldn’t go through with it. That marrying him might be an act of trust, of rebellion against her father, a leap without a safety net.

Instead, the net was all around him, woven tight in legal language and clauses he couldn’t even imagine yet. He wasn’t from money. His parents were middle-class Minnesotans who pinched pennies for retirement trips. He didn’t come from a world of assets and estates. He came from modest vacations on credit cards. 

But that wasn’t the point. The prenup wasn’t about assets. It was about control. About reminding him, gently but firmly, that this marriage would always be on her terms, her family’s terms. That even here, at the breakfast table, with his granola going soggy, he was someone granted access, not an equal.

His mother’s enthusiasm for the whole thing made it worse. She had giggled down the phone, fascinated by the negotiations, tossing around words like “tiered share options” and “fertility clauses” as though this were a boardroom merger. Tom had laughed along, but inside he’d felt sick. His own marriage, reduced to performance metrics, the worth of his sperm cross-referenced against spreadsheets.

The clause his mother had noticed missing, sat in his mind like a live wire. He hadn’t even considered it. Shiv was dazzling, unreachable, and somehow she had said yes to him. The idea that she might want, or already have, someone else felt like standing on ice that was thinner than he realized. And her casual tone when she brushed it off, that sharp glint in her eye.

Things happen.

He hadn’t thought of it as a possibility before. But now, with the envelope in front of him, it felt planted, alive, inevitable. Not now, maybe not soon, but eventually. Like a clause in her life he hadn’t noticed until she pointed at it.

Tom smiled harder, pressing the grin across his face like tape across a crack in glass. He told himself it was nothing, that this was just the business side of love. But the truth hung there in the thickness of the envelope. He had no leverage. No ground. No bargaining power. He was marrying up, and everyone knew it.

The prenup was not a formality. It was the reminder that he was disposable. And he signed anyway, because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

.:..:.

Shiv had flown to D.C. to decide if Joyce was the right choice for the future. Tom decided now would be the perfect time to take Greg out to town.  

Tom ushered Greg into a restaurant where the menus had no prices, just ingredients listed like incantations. He steered the lanky kid through the dining room. The table gleamed, the glasses thin as soap bubbles. He ordered for both of them, things Greg couldn’t pronounce, then explained the dishes as if he’d eaten them his whole life.

Greg sat stiffly, as if worried about breaking something with his elbows. Tom didn’t let him see the hesitation. He picked up the menu, ordered briskly in French, then explained each dish as if he’d grown up eating truffle risotto under the Tuscan sun. Greg’s eyebrows rose higher and higher as the words piled up

.

Finally on the last course, Tom leaned across the table, a grin spreading wide. He held out a fist. “Songbird bros.”

Greg blinked, then extended his hand uncertainly. “Songbird bros.”

Tom smiled, satisfied. The fist bump felt like a seal, a covenant. For a second he could see Greg as he saw himself: anxious, gawky, clinging to scraps of approval. He felt a flicker of triumph. Maybe he’d just made Greg complicit in something, even if Greg didn’t yet know what.

He waved to the waiter for more wine. The bottle came, liquid dark and glossy in their glasses. Greg studied him, head cocked.

“What is this?” Greg asked, half-joking but not really. “Are you… are you trying to seduce me, Tom?”

Tom barked out a laugh, louder than necessary. “Hahaha! Yes. I am! Hahaha.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Because the things we’ve done, the things we’ve seen. We’re in this together, right?”

Greg blinked again, lips parting like a fish. “Oh. Okay. Is that what this is? The thing?”

Tom shook his head, then backtracked. “No. No, man, no. Well – I mean – look, we have a bond, but also…” He gestured loosely between them, wine glass dangling from his fingers as he weighed on the confession. “I recognize myself in you.”

“You do?”

“Sure,” Tom said, voice softening. “I was an outsider once. A young guy from St. Paul, alone in the big city. And it was hard. You have to know where to go and what wines to drink and what suits to wear, and you have to wear this hard shell, but really…” he paused, smiling faintly. “We’re little nudie turtles.”

Greg chuckled nervously, unsure if it was a joke.

Tom took a long sip of wine, eyes narrowing for a moment as he studied him. Greg was useful, yes. Pliable, and extremely easy to maneuver. A sponge for secrets. But there was also something disarming about his sheer awkwardness, the way he seemed permanently unarmored in a world of sharks.

Tom reached across, clinked his glass lightly against Greg’s. “Songbird bros,” he said again, but quieter now, almost sincere.

For the briefest second, Tom let himself feel kinship. And then the waiter returned with the bill, and the spell was gone.

Later, they staggered out into the cool night, bellies warm with wine and the weight of courses Greg couldn’t pronounce. The city lights pulsed in the distance, neon strobes bleeding into the dark. Greg’s long frame teetered as they walked, his laugh spilling out like something half-choked.

He rambled about the dinner, voice rising and falling like waves. How the bread was better than any bread he’d ever tasted. How even the water alone at the restaurant was better than anything he’d had in his life. 

“Like, seriously, Tom. That was, like, the Rolls Royce of water. That was, like, liquid platinum.”

Tom smiled, patted his arm as they drifted toward the sound of basslines leaking from a club down the street. He nodded as if he agreed, as if yes, of course, water could be transcendent. Greg looked at him then, wobbling under a streetlight, eyes wide with something like awe. Maybe admiration. Maybe confusion.

Tom basked in it anyway.

The line outside the club was a clot of sharp-dressed rich people, perfume and cigarettes curling together in the air. The doorman made a way from them as Tom pulled Greg past the velvet rope. Inside, the music pounded, lights strobed, sweat and glitter and perfume all collapsing together.

Greg trailed him like a loyal dog, gawking at the dancers, the bottles sparklers, the sheer thrum of wealth and youth. Tom led him through the crowd, hand briefly on his back, steering him toward the tables, toward whatever corner felt like the center of it all.

Greg’s eyes never left him. There was bewilderment there, but also trust, as though Tom were the only one who knew the map, the secret doorways of this city. Tom drank it in. That was the trick, wasn’t it? To make Greg believe he was the guide, the mentor, the man with the keys to the kingdom. Even if the keys weren’t really his.

And in the pulsing dark, for a moment, Tom almost believed it himself.

The apartment was dark except for the faint winter light creeping past the curtains. Tom lay sprawled in bed, his head pounding with the kind of headache that felt biblical. He buried his face in the pillow and groaned as he heard the front door. 

“I might die,” he announced hoarsely into the mattress. “This could be it. Tell the newspapers.”

From the doorway came Shiv’s dry voice: “Well, that was fast. Thought I’d at least get a honeymoon out of you before you keeled over.”

Tom’s head snapped up, squinting. “Shiv?”

She stood there with her travel bag still in hand, hair pulled back, eyes sharp with the faintest trace of fondness. “Back from the land of lies and handshakes. Found you alive. Barely.”

Tom rolled onto his back with a dramatic groan. “Barely is generous.”

Shiv dropped the bag and walked over, climbing onto the bed. She straddled his lap, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips, and smirked down at him. 

“Pathetic,” she said, while toying with the buttons of his shirt.

He winced, then wrapped his arms weakly around her waist. “I’m… fragile. Handle with care.”

Her mouth curved. She pulled something behind her back and held it up. “Brought you a gift.”

He blinked at the fancy leather box. “What is it?”

“A little gift…for the wedding. If you manage to stay alive long enough.” Shiv rocked her hips against his naughtily. 

Tom laughed, then winced as the laugh spiked his headache. “God, you’re – amazing.”

“Uh, Tom?” came Greg’s weak, drawn-out voice.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

Shiv twisted around on Tom’s lap, her eyes narrowing. “Why the fuck is Greg in our house?”

Tom’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Uh… he… we… Greg was – staying over. After the… uh… champagne?”

Before Shiv could reply, a loud thud echoed from the staircase. The same time her phone started ringing. Both of them froze.

They moved to the kitchen as Shiv tried to make out the bloodfest at Waystar from Roman. Greg appeared through the kitchen doorway, rumpled and pale, clutching the banister like it might save his life.

“I, uh, think I’m still drunk,” he croaked, hair sticking up at odd angles.

Shiv was clutching at her hair as Roman babbled on and on about the No-confidence vote Kendall had arranged against their dad. 

“Did you fucking know about this?” Shiv hissed as she slammed her phone down on the table. “Dad’s shooting the rebels at the town square. Everyone is fired!”

Greg lifted a shaky hand. “Yeah. Hi. Sorry. Hi, Shiv.” He winced at the sound of his own voice. “Do you, um, have water? Or… possibly… morphine?”

Shiv stared, then shook her head. “Unbelievable. You two look like frat boys who got lost and wandered into Manhattan.”

Tom pressed a hand to his chest. “It was research. Networking business.”

“Mm-hm.” Shiv crossed her arms, smirking as she looked between the two men. “Well, congratulations. You’re both an embarrassment.”

Greg groaned and collapsed into a kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands.

“Enjoy your hangover. I’m going to see if Ken’s still alive.”

.:.:.

The Roys didn’t really do Thanksgiving, not in the traditional sense. At the Roys’ table, Thanksgiving was a catered spread. Every surface was full of silver trays, truffle gravies, poultry flown in from somewhere French. The air was thick with tension between family members, not nutmeg.

Tom floated at the edges, glass in hand, smiling too hard at jokes where he was the catch. He told himself it was fine, this was proximity, this was belonging, this was what he’d worked for. Yet he couldn’t shake the sense that everyone else here had been born knowing how to navigate a room like this. Tom felt a flicker of unease, sharp as a pin, and turned back to the bar.

The night didn’t end on a high note as they ended up talking about their prenup again. Shiv all but dismissed his worry about the missing infidelity clause, before walking away from the conversation. That was when Roman appeared from the corner, drunk on expensive scotch and his own malice. His smirk cut through the low buzz of conversation, aimed straight at Tom.

“So, uh… you know Shiv coaches liars for a living, right? Like, actual professional liars. Politicians.” Roman swayed closer, eyes glittering. “You think you’re gonna… what, spot it if she’s lying to you?”

His grin widened, sharp enough to draw blood. “With a background like hers? I mean… good luck, buddy.”

Tom laughed it off in the moment, the way you do when you don’t want to give someone the satisfaction. But the words lodged somewhere deep within him.

When they got home late that night, Shiv was fast in their bed, scrolling her phone. She didn’t look up when he slid to their bed in his pajamas. 

“You good?” She asked, feeling the heaviness in the room.

He said yes, because what else could he say? But lying there beside her, listening to the faint tick of her nails against the screen, he thought about that missing clause. About Roman’s voice, oily and knowing. About the casual way Shiv had said earlier, when he’d brought it up once, half-joking, “We’re adults, Tom. If something happens, we’ll handle it.”

He realized he wasn’t sure if “we” meant we together. Or if it meant she’d handle it on her own, and he’d just have to live with it.

Right there in the dark beside her, under the low light of her phone was when the seed of doubt finally took root. Tom lay there, still staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of that missing clause in a way no sheet or blanket could match. Then Shiv set her phone facedown on the nightstand and rolled toward him. Just warm skin pressing into his side, her arm draping over his stomach like she’d done a thousand times. She buried her face against his chest, her voice muffled. 

“You’re warm,” she murmured, almost drowsy.

It should have been nothing. A normal, domestic gesture. But her hand slid lower, fingertips grazing his ribs in that absent way she had, like she could both stake a claim and test the edges of it in the same motion. Tom kissed the top of her head, trying to feel grounded in the moment instead of spinning through the what-ifs. She made a small, pleased sound against him, and for a heartbeat he let himself believe this was enough.

But even as her breathing slowed into sleep, the thought wouldn’t let go. If she ever crossed that invisible line, he wasn’t sure whether she’d confess or just expect him to adapt like he always did.

By morning, the weight was still there. The apartment smelled faintly of Shiv’s everyday perfume and burnt coffee, and she’d already slipped out for meetings before he’d even come into the kitchen. No note. No text.

At Waystar, Greg was waiting outside Tom’s office, lanky and nervous as ever, clutching a stack of papers like he’d stumbled into a hostage negotiation.

“Uh, morning,” Greg said. “So, um, there’s a couple discrepancies in the revenue reports from –”

Tom cut him off with a sharp, “Greg, have you ever read a report before handing it to me?”

Greg blinked. “I – well, yeah, I mean, I looked at it –”

“Looked at it?” Tom repeated, stepping in close. “That’s not reading it, that’s not reviewing it, that’s… that’s tourist behavior, Greg. Do you want to be a tourist your whole life?”

Greg opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… no –”

“Then do better,” Tom said, tossing the papers back at him. “Fix the numbers. Triple-check them. And if you don’t know how, figure it out. I’m not your babysitter.”

Greg slunk away, shuffling the papers like they’d burned him. Tom leaned back in his chair, the burst of control settling in his chest. It didn’t fix the unease, nothing would, but it dulled the edge for now.

.:.:.

The wedding planning started in fits and bursts. Or rather, he started it. Shiv was already sliding out of it, one polite shrug at a time.

The wedding planner came to the townhouse two times a week. Tom was always there, leaning over swatches and mood boards, running his finger along the edges of linen samples like they were the soft underbelly of the whole operation. If Shiv was home, she would wander through, phone pressed to her ear, tossing out the occasional “Mm-hm” or “Whatever Tom wants,” before disappearing back into her office.

Tom had binders. Actual binders. White, leather-bound, embossed with WEDDING in gold serif. Inside was a proposed guest lists arranged by seating compatibility, aerial photographs of potential venues marked with red dots for camera angles, notes about which flowers wouldn’t wilt in crisp March air.

He thought about the optics constantly. A wedding was more than a celebration. It was a press release with canapés. The venue had to be both exclusive and photogenic. A vineyard in Tuscany for the romance, or maybe a glass-walled lodge in Aspen for the power. 

He ran through scenarios in his head. “Vineyard gives us old money leisure vibes,” he explained to Greg one afternoon at Waystar, flipping through a glossy brochure. “But Aspen says we could crush you in a ski lift accident and call it an act of God.”

Greg blinked. “Right. That’s… romantic.”

Tom ignored him, circling another name on his list. “It’s about public memory. What do you want burned into people’s minds when they think ‘Tom and Shiv’? A Tuscan sunset or a billion-dollar blizzard?”

The call came on a Thursday morning. He was mid breakfast when Shiv wandered into the kitchen, tossing her bag onto a chair. “Oh, by the way,” she said casually, opening the fridge. “Wedding’s in England.”

Tom looked up from the arrangement sketches littered on the table, blinking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“England,” she repeated, pulling out a bottle of sparkling water. “Mom called. We had a rather shitty talk. So I promised her, we’d do the wedding there.”

Tom’s mouth opened, then closed. “You… decided? Just like that?”

Shiv tilted her head, as if the question was strange. “Yeah. It’s fine, right? It’s just a place.”

He stared at her. All those weekends poring over venues, the tactical calculus of optics, the binders, it all evaporated. 

“It’s not just a place,” he said carefully. “It’s the stage. It’s… the whole thing.”

She shrugged, unscrewing the bottle cap. “Tom, I don’t care if it’s in England or the moon. We’ll be married either way. You can still pick the flowers.”

The words landed like a pat on the head. She was already walking away before he could say more.

Later that night, alone in his office, Tom slid the leather binders back onto the shelf. His jaw was tight, but his mind was already working. England could work. He could make England work. If Shiv was going to hand him a stage, he’d make sure it was the most spectacular goddamn performance anyone had ever seen.

.:.::

Weeks before the wedding, they were all at Connor’s ranch, Austerlitz. It was Logan’s attempt to reconcile with his children. The place looked grande with white walls and rooms so big they swallowed sound.

In the kitchen, Logan stood above them like a statue. The kids kept rebelling against their father. His voice carried the weight of the situation. He was done fighting against his ungrateful children. So he went straight in for the kill. 

“You’re marrying a man fathoms beneath you because you can’t risk being betrayed,” he said to Shiv. The words landed like stones in water, each one pulling them further under.

Tom stood beside her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The words sliced through him, hot and humiliating, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. He took it, because taking it was the only way to survive Logan Roy.

Shiv’s head turned toward him, just a fraction. She looked at him like she was waiting for something, some sign that he wouldn’t let her father brand him like that. But Tom didn’t move. That was the point. You didn’t win with Logan by sparring. You survived him by letting the blow land and staying upright.

Shiv looked away first and stormed off the kitchen without another word. Tom didn’t know but to follow. 

Later that night, they sat on the edge of the guest bed. The open windows let in the smell of dry earth, the distant chirp of night insects. Shiv was peeling the dark polish from her fingernails in strips, letting the flakes scatter on the carpet.

Tom watched her hands. He wanted to reach for them, to cover them with his own, to tell her that her father’s cruelty wasn’t true, even if a part of him knew it was. But both of them knew Logan had found the soft underbelly and gone straight for it.

Her shoulder brushed his arm, but she didn’t lean in. They sat like that for a long time. Two people who weren’t yet married, already bound by something neither of them could admit. They would never let go of each other, not because it was pure or easy, but because letting go would mean Logan was right.

Tom swallowed hard. The words stayed locked in his throat. And beside him, Shiv stripped away the last of her nail polish, leaving her fingertips bare and raw.

.:.:.

The original plan for his bachelor party had been Prague. A jet, a suite, some half-drunken promises from Roman about palaces and rooftop clubs. Tom had pictured it, European glamour, a story he could tell for years. Instead, they were standing on a cracked sidewalk outside an abandoned train track. 

Roman was grinning. The rest of Tom’s friends looked uncertain, ties loosened, eyes darting at the tunnel as if it might swallow them whole. Tom tried to smile, tried to muster enthusiasm. 

Prague, but underground, he told himself. Prague, but edgy.

Still, disappointment clung to him like smoke. He stepped aside, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Shiv?” His voice was too loud in the dark tunnel.

She answered from D.C. quickly, distracted.

“And I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Tom said, lowering his voice, “but you know, I have a feeling it’s all liable to get a little ‘disgusting’ and –”

Her laugh was sharp in his ear. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be telling me this, Tom?”

“I just wanted to flag it,” he rushed on, eyes flicking toward the door where Roman had already slipped inside. “And calm the qualms. Because I for one –”

“Tom.” Shiv’s tone softened, slicing through his nerves. “We’re adults. It’s one night. Enjoy yourself.”

The relief hit him like champagne fizz, bubbling through his chest. He exhaled, shoulders dropping.

“Shiv…? Honey badger?” His voice cracked on the nickname. “God, I want to dock myself inside you so much right now.”

There was a pause, and then her voice, low, warm. “I love you too, Tom.”

The line clicked silent. Tom stared at the phone a moment longer, as if her words might linger there. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and followed.

Roman led the group down a dim concrete tunnel, flashlights bouncing off wet walls. Connor trailed behind, still dragging his luggage like he’d wandered off a plane into the wrong movie. Greg hunched at the back, blinking into the dark. Kendall looked bored already, scrolling on his phone.

Tom jogged a few steps to catch up, trying to keep his voice light.  “Oh, man. What the fuck have you got planned for me, Roman?”

Roman’s laugh echoed through the tunnel, sharp and devilish. Tom laughed too, a beat too late, trying to match the energy.  

“Seriously. What have you got planned?”

Roman stopped just long enough to shine the flashlight under his own chin like a camp counselor telling a ghost story. “Look. Tom, I’m sorry. Prague fell through and I was busy and I didn’t have time to organize a hot-air balloon to Monaco.”

The others chuckled. Tom forced his own laugh, swallowing his disappointment. His heart was still sore from the phone call, from the quiet relief Shiv had given him. This wasn’t Prague. This wasn’t even close.

“No,” Tom said, pasting on a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Thanks, Roman.”

Roman tilted his head, grinning in that mean little way. “What did you expect? Why did you even ask me, Tom?”

Tom shrugged, his voice smaller than he wanted. “I thought you’d rise to the occasion.”

“Well clearly I haven’t risen to the occasion.” Roman’s smirk widened, daring him to disagree.

Tom nodded sullenly, lips pressing into a thin line. The group reached a battered service elevator at the end of the tunnel. Its steel doors rattled when Roman jabbed the button.

The elevator shuddered, groaned, then opened onto velvet blackness and pulsing red light. The bassline from the club hit Tom’s chest like a second heartbeat. He blinked, trying to take it in. Mirrors, low couches, shadows moving against shadows. A bar glowed like an altar, tended by sleek men in tailored vests.

Greg trailed behind, gawking. Connor dragged his luggage through the haze like an unwelcome tourist. Roman grinned like a ringmaster. 

They went straight up to the bar. He couldn’t do this sober. They drank too much and chatted with new people. Greg did some coke for the first time in his life. He took too much, realizing that he was going to be too fucked up to do anything. Everyone laughed at him. Tom was so done being ashamed. What Shiv didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her. He wanted to do something reckless. 

He ordered two drinks, threw one back too quickly, and shouted over the music to Greg: “Shiv gave me a hall pass. ‘We’re adults.’ Apparently. I’m going to blow my stack, like, multiple times!”

Greg frowned, face half-lit by the club strobes. Something occurred to him.

“And what, Shiv? Shiv has the same arrangement. She’s an adult too?”

“What? No! I mean. Sure. I don’t know.” Tom’s grin twitched. “Greg, it’s not a competition.”

“No, it’s cool.” Greg shrugged, glancing away. “I’m sure you’ve got it all figured out.”

Tom looked out across the club at the people. The words stung. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure of his position. So ducked towards an empty corner, pressing his phone to his ear. He listened to the line ring until Shiv’s voice came sharp, distracted.

“Tom, sweetheart, listen, I’m at ATN with Gil, what is the least number of syllables you think you can say this in?”

Tom turned away from the crowd, voice low, urgent. “Yeah, just so we’re clear in terms of you and me. Is this a quid pro quo arrangement?”

“What are you talking about, Tom?”

He hunched his shoulders, muttering into the phone. “Because if I for instance, touch a boob, do you grab a dick?”

There was a pause. Shiv sounded irritated. “Um. I don’t know if –”

“Is there a rough chart of comparison?” Tom pressed, words tumbling. “Like Celsius to Fahrenheit? Or is it an eye for an eye, an orifice for an orifice? I’m just trying to get a sense of the parameters?”

“Tom.” Her voice was flat, cold with dismissal. “I can’t negotiate right now. Just… We know, right? We know.”

“Right. No, sure, we know.” He tried to catch her tone, but it came out desperate.

The line went dead. Tom stood there, cut adrift, the phone heavy in his palm. Back at the bar, he rejoined the others. His voice cracked too loud.

“And in terms of Shiv, where I’ve landed is – I think I’m going to maybe just ask for a ‘handy’?”

Roman laughed, clapping him on the back. “Tom. Don’t pre-rationalize. You get off and you eat the shame for dessert.”

That’s when he saw her again. She was gorgeous. The kind of woman who could make a living just by showing up to a party. Tom grinned helplessly, eyes catching on Tabitha across the room. She smiled at him warm and inviting. Tom smiled back, a nervous ripple of energy buzzing through his chest.

Roman followed his gaze. “Wait. Her? This one?”

“Yeah,” Tom stammered. “We were talking for twenty minutes about financial derivatives and then she just asked me?”

Roman’s eyes went wide, hungry. “My god. Holy shit. Dad would go absolutely nuts for her. You should do it.”

“Yeah?” Tom asked, voice pitching higher.

“Man. I’d be all over her. Oh yeah.” Roman made a lewd gesture, grinning.

Tom flushed, grabbing at the bar for support. “Okay. I need a Smint. Do you have anything?”

“Tom.” Roman rolled his eyes. “Just grab your baloney-pipe and jizz.”

Tom took a beat, swallowing, then picked up two drinks. He carried them carefully back to Tabitha, handing her one with a shaky smile. Roman watched from across the room, eyes narrowed, as Tabitha leaned close and whispered something vulgar in his ear. Tom let her take him by the hand and lead him away.

He let her sink to her knees in a dark back room. His hands were buried in her hair as he fucked her face. It meant nothing. It was hot, and depraved. Afterward, he stared at the ceiling and felt like a winner.

Later in the night, Tom was sweating, his shirt untucked, eyes wide and manic from too much alcohol, too much noise, too much pressure. He grabbed Greg by the arm and pulled him into a corner, blurting out his story in a rush. His hands moved quickly, sketching the sequence in the air. His grin was too wide, his gestures too emphatic, as if the energy itself could convince Greg it had all been erotic.

Greg’s face told another story. His jaw slackened, his eyes blinked in horror. Tom pressed on anyway, insisting on the thrill of it, the wildness, the “hotness,” desperate to frame it as a triumph. But his voice was a shade too high, his smile a fraction too sharp, the sheen of desperation breaking through every word.

He swallowed hard, gulping mineral water like medicine, wiping his mouth as if to steady himself. Greg just stared at him, pale and unsettled, his body language broadcasting the desire to leave the damn place.

The two of them stood side by side, staring out at the dance floor. The music was still pounding, lights still strobed, but they looked hollow against it. Connor drifted into their orbit, carrying with him the casual cruelty of someone who had overheard enough. Tom’s smile faltered, the bravado slipping from his face. The glow drained out of him, replaced by a dull, stunned look. He reached for justification, muttering half to himself, clinging to the absurd notion that what had happened wasn’t really cheating, that it was somehow a closed loop system.

They emerged from the club into the fresh air. The sun was just starting to rise from the horizon in deep oranges. The bass continued pounding somewhere in the club as they stood on the curb, waiting for their cars to pick them up. They were dead tired, Greg still kinda coked out. The shame boiling in Tom gave space to his longing to see Shiv. 

The door swung shut behind him with a thud that sounded too loud in the apartment’s stillness. Tom’s skin prickled. He was jittery, running on fumes, a guilty conscience buzzing in his chest like static. He tried to reason himself, that he’d done nothing wrong. His tie hung loose, his eyes red-rimmed, shirt crumpled from a night he couldn’t quite justify to himself.

He forced brightness into his voice. “Hey, Shiv? I’m home! And I still have both my eyebrows!”

The words hung in the air a beat too long before Shiv appeared from the hallway, hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed. She froze for half a second, as if caught mid-thought.

“Oh. You’re back already? I was just –”

Tom didn’t let her finish. He lunged into cheer. “God honey, I’ve missed you.”

They embraced, bodies colliding without rhythm, each holding something back. Tom was acutely aware of how he must smell. The alcohol, sweat, the faint ghost of someone else’s perfume. Shiv’s arms circled him with a hesitation that stung, her own scent sharp, unfamiliar, though he couldn’t name it. For a moment it was like hugging a stranger.

They pulled apart too quickly, eyes meeting, then darting away.

“How was it?” Shiv asked, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve.

“Which? Oh. The party?” Tom forced a laugh. His throat felt dry. “Yeah it was a blast.”

Her gaze lingered on him, cool, assessing. “So what happened?”

“You know.” He waved a hand vaguely. “This and that. The usual. Normal stuff.”

A smile flickered across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Then, abruptly, it dropped. “Specifically what, Tom?”

His stomach lurched. The panic was immediate, hot. 

Wait. They had an understanding. A hall pass. She said it herself. He hadn’t cheated. Not really. His voice cracked.

“Wait. Shiv? Because I thought you said –”

Her mouth curved again, sharp this time. “I’m shitting you, Tom.”

He exhaled, the laugh stumbling out of him too loud, too shaky.

Then she added, quieter, softer: “It’s good to have you back.”

The words landed between them like a truce neither fully trusted. Tom’s heart kept racing, though he smiled, nodded, tried to play along. He looked at her and wondered, had she spent her night cleaner than his?

.:.:.

The wedding was held at Eastnor Castle, a sprawling estate nestled into the English countryside, where the grass was too green in the summer and the stone walls too old to feel anything but haunted. It was her mother’s choice, naturally. A nod to their heritage, to aristocracy, to a time when titles still meant something. Lady Caroline played hostess with the brittle charm of someone hosting a performance she’d long grown bored of. She smiled, made toasts, and offered Shiv whispered barbs about the hideousness of her nude dress. She also kept the classic wedding game of “how long do you give it ” on. 

Tom played the groom like a well-rehearsed role. He wore the suit picked for him by Shiv’s stylist, stood still during photos, and shook hands with men whose names he’d memorized months earlier. He was the picture of gratitude, beaming, soft-eyed, endlessly polite. The kind of man the tabloids would call “besotted.” The kind of man Caroline would call “decorative.”

The castle was the sort of place that made Tom feel like he should be wearing a smoking jacket and a family crest on his breast pocket. Stone corridors wound in directions that made no sense, portraits of long-dead Collingwoods gazed down at him like they could smell the middle-class Minnesota on his coat.

Dinner had broken apart hours ago. Logan had retired, the Roy siblings had vanished into some mischief, and Tom was too wired to sleep and wandered the empty hallways.

He found Caroline in a smaller drawing room, one with a low fire and two velvet armchairs angled toward each other like duellists. She was wearing a fancy embroidered night robe. There was no question about her being Kendall’s and Roman’s mother. The boys were the spitting image of her with their raven hair. Caroline didn’t look startled to see him. She looked as if stray guests just appeared for her to toy with, like a mouse to a cat.

“Ah. The Minnesotan,” she said, her vowels crisp and leisurely.

Tom stepped in. “We met –”

“We were introduced,” she corrected, with the kind of precision that made him feel graded. “Introductions aren’t the same as really meeting each other. You’ll be part of the family in no time. Sit.”

He obeyed.

Caroline’s eyes were blue-grey and cutting. They scanned him over the rim of her drink. “You’re a brave man, marrying into this family.”

Tom gave a small, deferential laugh. “I like a challenge.”

“Siobhan was a challenge from the moment she could walk,” Caroline said. “Shiv and Roman used to wrestle each other in the drawing room carpet, knocking over antiques older than the American constitution. She’d get him pinned and sit on his chest until he squealed. Then she’d steal whatever toy he’d been hoarding.” Caroline’s mouth twitched faintly. “ Logan never punished her.”

Tom smiled weakly, picturing a miniature Shiv perched on Roman like a victor on a battlefield.

“She was always her father’s favourite,” Caroline went on. “Could do no wrong. The rest of us found her a complete pain in the arse. Stubborn, bossy, convinced she was destined for something monumental. And now –” She gave Tom a slow once-over, as if weighing him against a set of invisible scales. “Now she’s marrying you.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, blush starting to rise on his cheeks.

“I’m stunned she’s going through with it,” Caroline said, leaning back. “She doesn’t… keep people.”

He tried to smile again. “Maybe I’m different.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are, darling.” Caroline’s tone was both dismissive and faintly amused. She tipped her glass back. “Do enjoy the castle while you can. It’s not mine, sadly, but I suppose I can still let you pretend to be the king for a few days.”

The night before the wedding, Shiv tried to play him.

All day she had been circling, her mood shifting with a careful precision Tom had learned to recognize. It all had started with her changing from Joyce to Gil’s team so casually, so offhand, but with the kind of calculation that meant she was already playing a longer game. The weeks when she brushed off his attempts to unburden himself, when she dodged his anxieties about Cruises, were suddenly gone. Now she was more than eager to listen to him. 

He led her through the clamor of the wedding banquet, down the hall, into the stone-walled bedroom where shadows stretched long across the floor. She edged closer, her hand grazing his arm, her voice warm, almost tender, as she circled back to the Cruises catastrophe. The scandal Bill had handed him like a curse. She had dismissed it for weeks, rolled her eyes, changed the subject, but now she cared. Too much.

Tom could feel it in the shift of her tone, the careful way she posed her questions. This wasn’t concern. This wasn’t intimacy. This was strategy. She was trying to pull a sliver of leverage. Something she might shape, weaponize, tuck in her pocket for later. Maybe for politics. Maybe for her own safety. He didn’t need to ask what she was doing. He already knew.

And she didn’t even bother to hide it. There was someone still in orbit, lunches that ran long, inside jokes she didn’t translate. Tom understood she was testing him pushing the boundaries, seeing how much she could take before he cracked. But he didn’t crack. He let her think he was slow, docile, blissfully unaware. Let her underestimate him.

And so, he turned inward. He slouched on the couch, quiet and still, letting the ache spread through his chest. He had always known, deep down, that she hadn’t fully chosen him. But until now he hadn’t let himself look directly at the truth.

When he looked at her, there was no anger, only hollowness. Everything he had built, every compromise, every humiliation, he had told himself it was for her. And now here she was, circling him like a scavenger, not for what she could give, but for what she could take.

He asked her if what they had was real. He pulled away, just slightly, as if detaching would protect him. And in that moment, something in him fractured.

She saw it. She hadn’t expected it. Her composure slipped as she moved towards him in a rush. Her eyes were wide, her body suddenly frantic with guilt or fear or some buried affection. She reached for him like she was afraid of what she had broken. As if his grief was a riptide she might be dragged into. He didn’t resist her touch, but he didn’t return it at first either. He just let it happen. Let her lean into him, let her hands wrap tight around his shoulders, let her try to fix something that had already cracked wide open. Her head stayed bent on top of his as they breathed together.

Eventually, he reached up. His hands found her tiny waist. 

He’d known she was capable of lying, of compartmentalizing. But feeling it confirmed in her sudden over-eagerness to listen. It landed in him like a stone in deep water. Not a surprise. A reckoning.

She was good. So good he could almost believe her act.

And still, he gave her what she wanted. Not because it was forgiveness. Not even because it was love. But because he understood that giving her his trust, or at least the illusion of it, was more powerful than withholding it. The best move wasn’t resistance. It was surrender.

She clutched him tighter, like she’d won something. And in the hush of that room, Tom let himself open. He told her everything.

They exchanged vows beneath a canopy of imported white orchids and curated candlelight. Roman smirked from the front row, smug with his date, Tabitha, Tom’s bachelor-party mistake. Kendall checked his phone like he was waiting for an airstrike, and Logan looked like he was watching a business merger he didn’t entirely approve of. 

Shiv’s voice only faltered once, on the word fidelity. It was the tiniest catch, gone in a breath, so subtle no one but Tom might have noticed. And even he wasn’t sure.

Then the officiant’s voice cut clean through the air, pronouncing them husband and wife. Shiv’s hand remained in his. Husband and wife.

Something opened inside him. A warmth, sudden and startling, like a flare igniting where he’d expected only calculation. It spread through his chest, an ache that made him tighten his grip on her hand without thinking. He looked at her, red hair pulled to the side in cascading curls, her perfectly painted red lips, the white roses in her hair. She was radiant. She was unreadable.

And suddenly, the thought crashed into him:

Fuck. I think I actually love her.

It wasn't a practiced obsession he’d groomed like armor. Not the strategic devotion he’d worn like a uniform. This wasn’t a tactic, wasn’t leverage, wasn’t hunger for power disguised as intimacy. It was raw, involuntary, stupid. Real.

It was the one move he hadn’t planned for.

The applause rose around them, hot static in his ears. He felt his own chest tighten. His stomach lurched. He’d lost control of the game. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was standing here, his heart unspooling at the altar. She was supposed to be the prize. He was supposed to secure her like a trophy, not bleed for her. But standing there, hand locked in hers, he felt the truth clawing at him: he was hers now. Entirely.

After the ceremony, the speeches began. Shiv kept hers brief, her voice smooth, her smile perfectly pitched. She called him her rock, and though the words sounded almost rehearsed, Tom felt something snag in his chest anyway. It was a throwaway compliment, but in the moment, he let himself believe she meant it.

Logan didn’t speak. His silence hung heavier than any toast, a verdict Tom couldn’t appeal.

When Tom stood, the room shifted. He cracked a few Midwestern jokes, self-deprecating, like he’d rehearsed in the mirror for weeks. He said how lucky he felt, and, God help him, he meant it. 

He spoke about Shiv, about their future. His throat tightened as he said it: “I love my wife. And I love saying the word wife . Wife, wife, wife. So she’s my wife, and she’s my life. And I’m gonna stop talking now, because I feel like I’m gonna cry.”

Laughter, applause, clinking glasses. The room glittered like a jewel box, expensive and disposable all at once.

He watched it all from just outside himself, like a man peering through glass at his own life. Every detail was immaculate. The champagne pyramids, the chandeliers, the photographs being snapped and catalogued for magazines and memory alike. And in the center of it, Shiv. His wife.

They danced. She let him hold her, let him guide her through the music. Her body pressed to his, but never completely. There was always that invisible inch of air, that signal that part of her remained elsewhere, sealed off. Tom pretended not to feel it. He tightened his arm around her waist, pressed his cheek to her hair, laughed too easily when her brothers heckled from the sidelines.

The photographers circled like vultures, and Tom kissed her knuckles for their cameras, presenting the image of perfect devotion. He was radiant, triumphant, a man who had scaled the impossible peak. He had made it. His name carved onto the Roy family ledger.

And yet, beneath the warmth in his chest, the terror gnawed sharper. Because for the first time he wasn’t just in it for the victory, for the access, for the power. He wanted her. Really wanted her. Needed her. Which meant he could lose her.

The summit wasn’t secure. It was a cliff edge. One wrong step, one shift in her affections, and he would be the man who fell harder than anyone else. And standing there, arms around Shiv as the room cheered, Tom realized the cruelest truth of all. He’d never felt more at home, and he’d never been more vulnerable.

in the wedding suite, a sprawling, antique-laden chamber that smelled faintly of lavender and centuries of old money, he wanted to have her, to absolutely consume her. To undo every last button of that designer gown with shaking hands, to press his mouth against every freckle she tried to hide. He wanted to pull her out of that dress, out of that family, out of herself.

But she kept slipping through him.

Still half-buttoned into white lace and unresolved tension, Shiv stood by the window, eyes tracing the dark English hills beyond. She was talking, her voice measured, clinical. Political consulting. About how the marriage changed nothing, how she needed to keep her “options open.” It was all very clinical. Very her.

Tom sat on the edge of the bed, quietly aching. He had gotten what he wanted. The name. The connection. The seat at the table. But somewhere along the climb, he had miscalculated. Somewhere between holding her hair back while she threw up at 2 a.m. and rubbing circles into her back when she couldn’t sleep, between waiting for her texts and watching her flirt with ghosts of other men, he had stumbled into the thing he never expected. 

He had fallen in love with her. Really, irreversibly, ruinously in love. And now it was too late to turn back.

He tried to lure her closer, to win her back from wherever she’d vanished in her mind. With laughter, with tenderness, with dreams he painted into the dark of their bedroom. Jokes about running off together, escaping it all. Becoming sheep farmers in New Zealand. Teaching scuba in the Maldives. Just her and him, no cameras, no legacies, no knives behind backs. He described it so vividly he could almost see it himself, a rom-com life she would never allow herself to believe in.

For a moment, it cracked her armor. That earnest look on his face got to her. Her carefully arranged expression slipped.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, suddenly, voice low.

He didn’t flinch. He had known. Had stewed on it in silence, waiting for this moment like a car crash in slow motion. He didn’t think this would come so fast after last night's denial. But still, he tilted his head, feigned surprise.

“Was it Nate?” he asked, gently. “Can I send him home?”

There was a pause. Just a breath. But it was fatal.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She turned away, crossing her arms, shoulders tightening as she began to unravel. Not with tears, but mechanically, like she’d rehearsed this. Her views on monogamy, how she wasn’t built for it, how fidelity felt like a cage. How she hadn’t lied, not really, because she never believed in fairy tales to begin with. They were adults. Practical. Rational.

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even framed as betrayal. It was a declaration. A border erected in the middle of their marriage bed.

Tom sat still, the words filling him like cold water, rising to his throat, pressing on his chest. He wanted to vomit, or scream, or beg. Instead, he swallowed it whole. He had done everything right, climbed so carefully, cherished her so patiently. And here she was, on their wedding night, giving him only a fraction of herself and daring him to accept it.

“At last he managed one word: “Okay.”

She turned back to him. Her face was unreadable, not cold, not cruel, just tired. And underneath, maybe, a flicker of fear.

“Love,” Tom muttered, a bitter laugh cutting through his throat. “It’s bullshit… But I do love you.”

Her expression broke. Tears welled against her will. “I love you too,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

And then he kissed her lips like it didn’t hurt. Like he hadn’t just bled out some vital part of himself onto the castle floor. Because he had her. And wasn’t that the point?

He unbuttoned her dress slowly, ritualistically, each clasp undone like an oath. He kissed her wrist, her collarbone, her hipbone. He moved over her reverently, the way newlyweds are supposed to, as if devotion itself might bind what vows could not.

But it wasn’t only devotion, it was more of desperation. Each touch felt like a plea. His mouth on her skin, his hands trembling at her waist, it was all a way of saying choose me, choose me, choose me. He wanted to believe he could love her into choosing him, that the physical could become something binding, something permanent.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes glistened. She was letting him close, letting him see the part of her that always stayed hidden. For once, she wasn’t smirking or calculating or shielding herself with cleverness. She was just Shiv. Bare, fragile, and real.

He buried his face in her neck, whispering nonsense against her skin, little words of awe and apology and love. He told her she was beautiful, that she ruined him, that he didn’t care, that he would still give her everything. He meant every word.

She touched his face then, brushing his hair back like she might be memorizing him, like she wasn’t sure she’d let herself keep him. That simple, tender gesture broke him open more than anything else. He caught her hand and pressed it against his mouth, holding it there as if he could breathe her in through his skin.

They moved together slowly, with a kind of fragile intensity, both of them pretending for just a while that this was what marriage meant. That the vows had worked, that love could be summoned if you just clung tightly enough.

And when it ended, when they lay tangled in the sheets in the dark room, Tom closed his eyes and let himself believe. He threaded his fingers through her hair, heart pounding, telling himself he’d finally done it. He’d anchored her, tethered her, pulled her to him.

For those few moments, before she shifted away, before the silence stretched, he let himself feel whole.

She was his now. And yet, somehow, still entirely out of his reach.

Chapter Text

I failed to see the danger. He was too soft around the edges. A man who looked at me like I was both the question and the answer to something he’d been trying to solve his whole life. I decided he was harmless. The sort of man I could lean on when the world pressed too close. It was almost laughable. How quickly he’d become necessary, almost vital. 

I knew then that I would hurt him. It was inevitable. I was not built nor raised for gentleness. And poor Tom had no idea what loving me would cost him. Neither of us would walk away because he wanted me. And some buried, unspoken part of me yearned to be wanted like that. Even if it meant the fall.

.:.:.

The morning after the wedding, the castle was still echoing with ghosts of laughter and scorns at Kendall, when Tom and Shiv boarded their flight. The private jet was glistening with brand new leather. Tom had thought that the jets couldn’t be any fancier. He was wrong. The side table was filled with fresh calla lilies as a reminder of their wedding. London slid away beneath them in patches of fog and light, and for the first time in days, it was just the two of them.

Shiv leaned back against the seat, a smudge of mascara from the day before staining the outer corners of her eyes. After getting only a couple of hours of sleep, they both felt physically and mentally drained. She pulled a silk scarf around her shoulders and opened her laptop before the plane had even leveled out. Tom watched her, the cold  glow of the screen reflected in her eyes, and felt the ache of wanting to be the thing she reached for first.

He dozed fitfully beside her, the adrenaline of the wedding and the drama replaced by a kind of hollow fatigue. Every time he stirred awake, he saw her typing, scrolling, reading briefing notes like everything was business as usual. They had picked Fiji for the honeymoon so that they wouldn’t have service or WiFi on hand. So Shiv was determined to get two weeks worth of work done during their flight.

They stopped in Singapore to refuel. Tom wandered the cabin like a restless ghost, running his hands over the mahogany trim, peering out at clouds stretched endless and white. He thought about how improbable it all was, that a boy from St. Paul was flying halfway around the world on a Roy honeymoon. 

Despite being married, they remained as Tom Wambsgans and Siobhan Roy. Two singular entities. The only proof of their vows rested on their fingers. 

When Shiv finally set her laptop aside, her eyes were all red from typing for hours. She ordered champagne, and stretched her legs across his lap. He touched her ankle absentmindedly, tracing the protruding bone with his thumb, grateful for even that small claim. She looked at him then, briefly, her eyes softening just enough to undo him.

“You okay?” she asked, voice light, almost casual.

Tom smiled too brightly. “Never better.”

He kissed her shin through the cashmere of her trousers, holding her gaze.

The hum of the engines filled the silences between them. Outside, time zones collapsed and the Pacific spread beneath them like a blank page. He imagined paradise waiting at the end with turquoise water, private villas, and burning sun. He was ready to pretend that none of last night's conversation happened and slip into the fantasy. 

Shiv had closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, her head tipped just out of reach. Tom sat awake, staring out the window, knowing that he couldn’t let the distance between them grow any further.

By the time the jet touched down in Nadi, the sun was a ball of fire sinking into the Pacific. A driver ferried them straight from the tarmac to the marina, where the yacht waited. It had three decks of gleaming white steel, and glass walls that reflected the pink sky.

Tom stood at the edge of the pier, hands shoved in his pockets, open-mouthedly staring up at the thing. It wasn’t a boat so much as a floating fortress, the kind of vessel dictators retired to. He felt the same dizzy dislocation as he had walked down the aisle, like he was slipping into someone else’s life, wearing it badly but too afraid to admit it didn’t fit.

The crew welcomed them aboard with champagne flutes and practiced smiles. Shiv barely acknowledged them, already kicking off her sandals, heading toward the after deck like she’d grown up on boats like this. She probably had cruised the Mediterranean for the most of her summers. Tom trailed after her, glass in hand, grinning too wide, too eager while taking everything in. He couldn’t be dreaming all this.

They cast off quickly, the marina receding until it was just them and the open water. The turquoise sea stretched infinite in every direction. Dinner was served on the upper deck. They had lobster, mango salad, and coconut cream in delicate china bowls. Tom cracked jokes about possible pirate attacks. Shiv smirked, rolled her eyes, but she let him make her laugh once, and he clung to it like a gift. He wanted to pretend even just for this week that they didn’t have the horrible talk about her views of monogamy, and that he had to learn how to live with it. 

When the crew withdrew, leaving them alone under the vast Pacific night, Tom reached for her hand across the table. The stars were dizzying, spilled like diamonds across the sky, and for a moment he let himself believe the world was theirs.

But later, as they moved through the cavernous suite, the silence stretched. The yacht rocked gently, the sound of the water lapping against steel filling the space between them. Shiv stood at the window, glass of wine in hand, looking out at the endless dark sea.

Tom watched her from the bed, his chest aching with want. He told himself the yacht was a kind of paradise: no other Roys, no politics, no Nate, no mind games. Just them. Just husband and wife. But even in this floating palace, he couldn’t shake the fear that she was still half elsewhere, still not his in the way he needed her to be.

The sea was glass that morning, brilliant blue stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Heat shimmered off the water, the air had the faint scent of hibiscus drifting from the island behind them. The yacht swayed gently, anchored just beyond a strip of white sand Tom hadn’t even asked the name of.

Shiv was still asleep, curled on her side in the bed, hair spilling across the pillow in unruly copper waves. The curtains shifted with the motion of the yacht, letting in slices of sunlight that cut across her bare shoulders. She looked untouchable, like some figure painted on the ceiling of a church, more myth than alive.

Tom sat propped against the headboard, a book open but ignored in his lap. The jet lag had woken him from his slumber too early. His gaze was fixed on her hand that laid palm-down against the sheets. The ring caught the light each time the curtains swayed, a glint of gold and the sparkle of diamonds that stabbed straight into him.

His ring. His. He let the thought expand in him, sick and dizzying. She’s mine. 

Unable to stop himself, he bent forward, brushing his lips against her knuckles. He lingered there, inhaling salt and faint perfume, desperate to believe this small act meant something binding.

She stirred, lashes fluttering as she blinked awake. Her eyes caught his, and for once she didn’t armor herself. A lazy, amused smile curved her mouth. 

“Are you seriously kissing my hand like some knight?” Her voice was husky with sleep, the tease softened by drowsiness.

Tom flushed, caught. “Just checking it still fits,” he murmured, his voice uneven but warm. “Wouldn’t want it to get lost in the sea.”

She gave a little huff of laughter, dropping her head back against the pillow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I would still dive off the railing and get it back for you.” Tom sighed.

She didn’t pull away. Her hand stayed there, fingers relaxed against his shirt, the ring glinting each time the yacht shifted with the tide. Tom curled down until his face was in her hair, shutting his eyes. But beneath the warmth in his chest was the edge of terror, sharp and unyielding. Because loving her felt now less like victory and more like surrender. 

And he knew, God, he knew, if she chose to, she could let go, and he would be the one to drown.

The days bled together on the yacht, each morning breaking in a haze of salt air and endless horizon. Time felt suspended. There were no boardrooms, no headlines, no family hovering like stormclouds. Just the hum of the engines, the splash of water against steel, and Shiv stretched out on white cushions with the sun on her skin. Well mostly she spent her time reading and lounging under a shade, so that her paper white skin wouldn’t burn, wearing her wide brimmed sunhat. He loved to examine the new freckles that bloomed on her skin every day, kissing her cheeks, her shoulders and knees.

Tom surprised himself by feeling almost content. They swam in lagoons, their bodies drifting side by side in water so clear it looked unreal. He held her waist as they snorkeled over coral gardens, watched her laugh into her mask when a parrotfish darted too close. He enjoyed the view as Shiv strutted on the deck in her bikinis. At night they drank rum on the deck, stars spilling overhead like they were the only two people alive. Tom taught her to recognize some constellations, but Shiv wasn’t a big believer in astrology, or fate itself. She just preferred to admire the view in peace. 

Shiv was looser here, her edges softened. She still teased him, but in good spirit. She let him hold her hand as they walked the shoreline of uninhabited islands. Sometimes, in rare flashes, he felt like they were just two newlyweds on holiday, not a Roy and her careful acquisition.

One morning Tom woke before her with the morning sun. He rolled toward her, expecting to see the familiar spill of strawberry-blonde waves across the pillow, the curtain of hair he’d kissed his way through on their wedding night.

But it wasn’t there anymore.

For a split second his heart lurched in panic, as if a stranger was lying in the bed beside him. Then Shiv stirred, turning onto her back with a sleepy groan, and he saw it properly. She had cropped her hair into a sharp, gleaming bob that barely skimmed below her jaw, while he had been asleep. 

It shook him. That hair had always been part of how he viewed her: the armor and the allure. And now it was stripped away, leaving her looking more dangerous, somehow more modern. Sharp.

His breath left him before he could think. “Holy shit.”

Her eyes cracked open, so blue and foggy with sleep. “What?” she muttered, voice rough.

Tom propped himself up on one elbow, staring, unable to stop. “Your hair. Shiv… you cut it.”

She gave a lazy shrug, already half-rolling away, her bare shoulder catching the light. “It’s just hair, Tom. Don’t have a meltdown.”

But he couldn’t stop looking. The severe lines made her look like she’d walked out of a magazine spread, like a woman who would burn down anyone who tried to keep her caged. His chest tightened. He wanted her more, but the want carried fear, because if she could change something so central to how he saw her, what else could she change, cut away without telling him first?

His hand moved before his mind caught up, sliding into the new weight of it, fingertips brushing the sharp ends where they grazed her bare neck. The sight of her made his pulse stumble.

“You look…” His voice cracked, unsteady. He swallowed, tried again. “You look incredible.”

That drew a faint smile, the kind she usually fought to hide. She pressed her face into the pillow, muttering, “Uh-Huh.”

He bent low, kissing the newly bare line of her throat, tasting sleep and the faint lavender soap she favored here. His mouth lingered there, reverent. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He kissed her neck all the way down to her shoulder. 

“I mean it,” he whispered against her skin. “I didn’t think I could want you more. And now…”

She turned back to him. Her hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. Eyes half-lidded, voice still low with sleep, she murmured, “Then prove it.”

The challenge lit something raw in him. He kissed her like he’d never kissed her before. It was hungry and desperate, a man clinging to the one thing that made sense out on this endless, shifting sea. Tom kissed her hard, as though the shock of this severe, luminous version of Shiv, had unlocked something feral in him. Her cropped hair slid against his cheek, and it was like kissing a new woman, one he was both terrified of and hopelessly drawn to.

She let him. More than that she answered him eagerly. Her hand tightened in his shirt, pulling him down, her lips parting against his with a kind of sleepy ferocity. The sharp ends of her hair brushed his face as she turned, letting him taste her fully. It was the smallest crack, but he fell straight through it. For one dizzying moment the world shrank to nothing but her mouth, her fingers, the warm press of her body against his. Out on the glass-blue Pacific, with no one to watch, no cameras, no brothers smirking in the background, it felt almost like they belonged to each other. 

He broke the kiss first, only because he needed air. He hovered above her, chest heaving, eyes locked on hers. Her smile was lazy, but her gaze was sharp. Her new bob haloed against the pillows. 

Tom whispered it before he could stop himself: “God, I love you.”

The words landed heavy in the space between them. For a beat too long, she just looked at him, unreadable. Then she brushed her thumb over his cheek slowly.

“I love you too,” she said softer than before.

Shiv pushed herself up from the bed, the sheet sliding away from her shoulders. She ran a hand through her new, cropped hair, water-colored light spilling over her bare skin. Then she glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Come shower with me,” she said, in the nonchalant way only Shiv could. 

Tom didn’t hesitate. He practically bounced to his feet, grinning like he’d just won the lottery twice in a row. “Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, trailing her through the cabin as if he’d follow her anywhere.

The shower steamed up instantly, hot water cascading against stone tiles. Shiv stepped under first, tilting her head back so the spray slicked her new bob flat against her jaw. Tom watched, transfixed, then stepped in after her, looping his arms around her waist from behind. They were laughing before their mouths even met. He pressed kisses along her neck, her shoulder, drinking her in. She turned in his arms, wet skin sliding against his, pulling him down into a kiss that was hungry and playful at once. The water streamed over them, but it only made them hungrier, like it couldn’t cool the heat that was building between them.

Tom couldn’t stop touching her waist, her hips, the sharp new line of her hair clinging to her cheek. He wanted all of her, every inch, every second. He kissed her hard, grinning against her mouth, his hands everywhere at once. She laughed breathlessly into the kiss, nails grazing his chest, tugging him closer. They stumbled against the glass, still laughing, still kissing like they couldn’t stop if they tried. They stayed under the water until the glass fogged. Tom felt like a teenager again, drunk on her, dizzy with the sheer fact that she was his wife.

When they finally tumbled out of the shower, dripping and laughing, they left a trail of water across the polished floorboards. Tom scooped her into his arms halfway to the bed, grinning like an idiot while she swatted at his shoulder.

“Tom, you’re going to fucking slip –”

He dropped her gently onto the wide bed, water soaking instantly into the crisp sheets. She gave a little squeal of protest that dissolved into laughter as he crawled in after her, clothes and towels long forgotten.

The bed was a mess within seconds as their wet skin slided against the linen. The tangled sheets clung to their bodies. Tom kissed her like he’d never stop, reverent one second, playful the next, chasing the sound of her laughter, the feel of her nails grazing down his back. He couldn’t stop saying her name against her mouth, against her skin, like he had to remind himself this was real. Shiv hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him closer, her bob brushing wet against her cheek. For once, she didn’t hold anything back, she gave as much as she took, hungry and smiling against his kisses.

She was quick, almost giddy, pushing him back onto the unmade bed. When they finally sank into each other, the laughter that had carried them from the bathroom shifted into something deeper. The yacht rocked gently beneath them, cradling them in its rhythm. He let her set the pace, surrendering completely, hands resting at her hips, his chest rising and falling under hers. She moved with a deliberate grace, as if she already knew exactly how to undo him, and he wanted nothing more than to be undone by her.

Droplets clung to her cropped hair, sliding down in shimmering trails. He watched, breathless, as thin rivulets traced over her collarbones, gliding across the swell of her breasts before dripping onto his skin. It was mesmerizing, almost holy as she moved above him. Every curve of her, every line of her body, seemed carved for worship. Tom’s hands tightened on her waist, not to guide her but to steady himself, to anchor himself to her reality as he fucked back against her. He had never wanted anyone more. He thought, wildly, that if the yacht sank right then, if the sea swallowed them whole, he would die happy.

Days blurred into one another, marked not by news cycles or phone calls but by the rhythm of the tide. Without WiFi, without the constant vibration of headlines and politics, the world shrank to the size of the yacht and the blue horizon that surrounded it.

In the mornings, Tom brought her coffee on the deck before she even asked, watching her sit cross-legged in one of his button-up shirts, the steam rising against the sea breeze. Sometimes she’d read, sometimes she’d just stare out at the water, her newly cropped hair ruffling in the wind. He thought she had never looked more alive. Tom made her laugh with terrible impressions of her brothers, exaggerated enough to be harmless, until she had to bury her face in her glass to keep from spitting out her drink. He loved that laugh most of all, the one she didn’t bother disguising.

Even in bed, the detachment from the outside world softened her. There were no late-night texts, no ghost of Nate or Gil pulling her attention elsewhere. Just Tom’s hands, Tom’s voice, Tom’s endless, giddy repetition of wife, wife, wife against her skin until she hushed him with her mouth.

For a week, it was easy to believe. Easy to imagine they were simply a married couple on honeymoon, untethered from the empire waiting back home. And though Tom never stopped aching for more, he held onto those moments like seashells in his pocket, fragile tokens of something fleeting and rare. He would come back to these days years later.

They ate breakfast with the sea stretching endless around them. Shiv, still in her robe, sipped black coffee with her bare feet propped on the rail, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Tom, nursed a faint bruise along his collarbone where she’d bitten him, feeling absurdly content. Like maybe they could stay here forever with the sun and the sea.

Then Shiv’s phone buzzed on the table. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound sliced through the calm like an alarm.

Her hand darted for it automatically, screen lighting her face. A flash of tension across her jaw. “Shit.”

Tom sat up straighter, heart skipping. “What?”

She shoved the phone toward him. The headline glared across the screen:

WAYSTAR ROYCO FACES RECKONING – KENDALL ROY CALLS SURPRISE PRESS CONFERENCE.

Tom’s gut dropped. His first thought was panic, but his second was greed. He didn’t hesitate. He snatched up his own phone, praying for a signal. A single bar appeared, then two. He punched open the stock app.

Waystar was plunging. The graph was a sheer cliff starting from their wedding and the bear hug. His breath caught. He stared at the numbers, adrenaline rushing hot through him. The whole company was wobbling, Logan exposed because Kendall went nuclear. It was terrifying, yes. But also, this was the kind of moment people rose in.

He couldn’t help it. His mouth curved into something like a grin.

“Is that from today?” he asked, though he already knew.

Shiv nodded, already pushing back from the table, her silk robe falling open around her legs as she stalked the deck. Her sunglasses slipped low on her nose as she muttered, half to herself: “It’s happening. He’s actually doing it. I thought dad might choke it out of him, but – fuck.”

The air shifted. Paradise evaporated. The yacht was no longer a cocoon but a cage keeping them from the only place that mattered.

“What a shit show,” Shiv huffed as she ran her hands through her hair. 

Tom’s voice came low and cautious. “So… what do we do?”

Shiv’s reply snapped like a whip: “Look at the stock. What’s the number?”

He already had. His pulse still raced from the sight of it. His tongue burned to say it out loud: We need to be in New York, now. This is the moment. But he bit it back, his teeth grinding on the words.

Instead, he glanced at her, forcing neutrality. “Do you… want to abandon the honeymoon?”

She froze, eyes locking onto his. “Do you want to abandon the honeymoon?”

Their silence was louder than the sea. The truth surged in both of them. Yes. Yes, they wanted to run back into the storm. Yes, they wanted to be there when the empire shook, to claw their way into the center of it. Yes, they needed to abandon honeymoon. 

But neither dared to confess.

Because if Kendall was out of the game, Tom needed to be right there, clinging to the throne with both hands.

The crew began making hurried calls, prepping the yacht for the return, voices sharp in the background. Shiv stalked the deck, pacing like a caged animal. Tom bent over their things, folding her robe with hands that trembled, not with fear this time, but with hunger.

The ring on her finger flashed in the sunlight as she reached for her glass. That glint, small and solid, steadied him. She was his. She would be his anchor, even in the chaos.

​​On the tarmac, a private jet idled. They didn’t speak as they climbed the steps, both already halfway gone mentally across the ocean.

In the cabin, champagne was set out, but it remained untouched. Tom sank into his leather seat, jittery, his knee bouncing. Only seventeen hours and they’d be home. Shiv was across the aisle, silk robe and bikini traded for crisp linen, phone pressed to her ear, her voice clipped and fast while she spoke to Roman. He stared at her while pretending to scroll. He thought about the yacht, about her laugh in the shower, the taste of salt on her skin, the way her bob had clung damp against her jaw as she rode him. It already felt a million miles away. That fantasy version of them dissolved the moment the signal came back.

The flight stretched like a fever dream, seven, ten, fifteen hours of silence broken only by muffled calls, the occasional clink of ice against glass. Tom couldn’t sleep. His mind buzzed with jagged little hopes. Logan would need someone to fill Kendall’s seat if he was cooked. Maybe this was the crisis that would plant him right at the old man’s shoulder. But underneath the buzz was nausea. Because Shiv wanted something too. Her ambition was sharper, hungrier, and he could see it every time she scrolled, every time her jaw flexed. They hadn’t spoken it aloud, but both of them were already calculating the odds. 

When the wheels finally touched down at Teterboro, the cabin lights flared harsh against their tired faces. Shiv closed her laptop with a snap. Tom swallowed, his throat thick, wanting to say something. But she was already on her feet, phone to her ear, striding toward the exit.

He followed with legs that felt like lead, pulling his jacket straight, past the stewardesses and the baggage cart, into the black SUVs waiting on the runway. Manhattan glittered faintly in the distance, jagged and cold, like the crown he kept reaching for.

.:.:.

They traveled from ocean to ocean. 

Tom watched the waves lap at the Hamptons shoreline, the sun dipping low over the horizon, painting the sky in bruised oranges and pinks. He could almost imagine they were still in Fiji except for the cold wind that beat his cheeks red. The Summer Palace loomed behind them, cold in the early spring. Shiv stood beside him, her short hair tousled by the wind, eyes glittering with a mix of triumph and disbelief.

Tom could see the way her jaw clenched, how her fingers worried at the hem of her jumper's sleeve. Tom kept his hand on her lower back, rubbing slow circles over the wool. He wanted to say something, something that would make her feel safe, before going into the table. 

The lunch had been brutal. Logan prowled the table, tossing out hard questions that felt like traps, each answer a blade balanced on its edge. The question of whether to sell hung over them like a guillotine, and nobody dared to breathe too loudly. Except Shiv who was the most brave to speak her mind when it came to her dad. 

The table talk wasn’t enough for Logan. He wanted his children one by one, behind closed doors.

So they waited. The Summer Palace’s wooden corridors carried the echoes of hushed voices, nerves leaking through every syllable. Shiv stood cool as ice, but Tom was vibrating beside her, too restless to keep still. He tugged her a few paces further down the hall, out of earshot of the others.

“Jesus, Shiv,” he hissed, voice already bubbling over. “Might he actually sell? He’s deciding, in there? This is playing fucking gin rummy with Zeus!”

Shiv gave him a look, her mouth curving, sharp and unimpressed. “I don’t buy the selling. Whoever tells Solomon not to split the baby, they get the baby.”

But Tom wasn’t soothed. He edged her further still, lowering his voice as if the panels themselves might be wired. His heart hammered in his throat. “But it can’t be Kendall, right? And it can’t be Roman, can it?”

“Tom.” Her tone was flat, warning. “Let’s just take it easy.”

He nodded quickly, too quickly, but the words kept pouring out. “The very least we want is me out of Cruises and Parks, right? Into something heartland media? LA?”

“Uh-huh.” Shiv was clipped, distracted, but Tom seized on it as encouragement.

“One of the key divisions,” he pressed, voice climbing with eagerness. “Right? Or could we ask? Could we accelerate the plan?”

Shiv turned, narrowing her eyes. He could see her weighing him, her patience thinning, but he couldn’t stop. He leaned close, almost trembling, whispering like he was confessing a sacred desire.

“Could I consider the big trousers?” His voice cracked into a laugh, desperate, and hungry. “Could I fill them out?”

He stood there flushed, breath shallow, adrenaline rushing through his veins. In his mind’s eye he saw it already. Him at the head of the table, his name on the masthead, no longer the hanger-on from St. Paul but the man who had climbed higher than anyone thought he could. Two major promotions in a year. This could be the moment, the highlight, maybe the peak.

Shiv’s face didn’t soften, not really, but the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. A smirk he clung to like a rope in his grandeur, spinning it as approval.

She sees it too. She knows I could be it.

And then Logan’s voice boomed through the rooms, summoning Shiv inside. The sound rattled through Tom’s chest like a verdict. He stepped back, forcing composure, but his hands shook as he smoothed his knit shirt. Because if the right words were said behind that door, if Shiv played this right, maybe this was it. Perhaps the throne wasn’t as far from reach as he’d always feared.

And Tom wanted it more than he’d ever admit.

The oak door shut behind Shiv with a muted click. She emerged sharp and radiant, her expression tight with calculation but eyes alive, carrying the weight of whatever Logan had just dropped in her lap.

Roman was first to pounce, half-drunk on nerves and malice, grinning like a hyena. 

“Hey! How did it go?”

Shiv didn’t even slow. “Cool. He just offered me the company. I’m saying he should send you to look at pineapple production in Honduras?”

Roman barked a laugh, incredulous and wounded all at once. But Tom barely heard it. He was already on his feet, intercepting her like a man starved for oxygen. He caught her arm, steering her a few steps down the corridor, out of sight. His heart was racing so hard he thought it might shake out of his chest.

“What did he say? What did you say? Where am I going? How’s the plan??”

Shiv slowed, darting a look over her shoulder to be sure they were alone. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp with something almost triumphant. “It’s – yeah, couple of options, a lot to think about.”

Tom’s grin wobbled, caught somewhere between terror and thrill. He leaned closer, desperate. “Shiv? What have you fucking landed me? Is it huge?”

She let the silence stretch, let him hang on the wire just long enough before delivering it. Her lips curved into a private smile. “Yeah. I had some leverage and I’ve got you into the belly of the beast. Chair of Global Broadcast News. ATN, baby.”

It hit him like champagne exploding from the cork. His whole face lit up, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Oh shit!” He almost laughed, half-giddy, half-stunned.

He grabbed her hand, squeezing, needing to ground himself. He wasn’t CEO. But this? This was real power. This was prime time. Chair of ATN. It was a kingmaker’s throne. Not Cruises. Not Parks. Not some corporate backwater clogged with skeletons and bad NDAs. It was a division that shaped nations, that bled into living rooms every night, that made or broke presidents.

His chest surged with pride. He imagined the headline: From Cruises to News Titan. He imagined Logan, grim and grudging, realizing Tom Wambsgans wasn’t just furniture. That he was someone to place on the board.

His mind leapt further, beyond ATN, beyond the chair. One step away. The crown wasn’t his yet, but for the first time in his life, it didn’t feel impossible. He was in the room now.

“Shiv,” he said, breathless, still grinning. “This is – it’s massive. This is… fuck – I mean, me? In the belly of the beast? This is the highlight of my life. Jesus.”

For a flicker of a second he thought he saw pride in her eyes, though it was layered and complicated. He clung to it anyway, clung to her hand, and let the adrenaline soak through him like fire.

“Whoa. Okay. Global Broadcast News?” Tom stammered, his face glowing and pale all at once with a realization. “But how does that fit with Cyd Peach? Isn’t that overlap?”

“He likes that.” Shiv smirked, tilting her head like she’d already gamed it out. “Two contenders, one chair. That’s his favorite. It’s an invitation to step up. Eat The Peach, baby.”

Tom swallowed hard. The phrase hit the back of his throat like champagne and bile in equal measure. Thrilling. Terrifying. He could already picture the old man watching him, waiting for him to choke or not.

“Fuck,” Tom breathed, his voice husky, mind spinning. “So what did you say, he’s not selling? Did he offer you more stock, or – ?”

Shiv waved a hand, dismissive, as if the tectonic plates under them hadn’t just shifted. “Oh, lot of bullshit. I’ll fill you in. Something and nothing. Yeah.”

She leaned against the paneled wall, arms folded, the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes. Almost like she enjoyed watching him spin.

Tom’s heart hammered in his chest. His ears rang with her words, as if she’d sung them into his bloodstream.

Chair of Global Broadcast News. ATN. Him.

He could feel the hunger gnawing at his chest, the greedy, dizzy hope he tried to disguise with a crooked grin. Shiv was watching him, and he didn’t want her to see just how much it meant, how badly he wanted to sink his teeth into it.

.:.:.

The triplex still smelled of fresh paint and polished stone. Boxes half-unpacked stood like fortresses in the corners, a scattering of bubble wrap trailing across the floor where the movers had just been. Morning light streamed through wide floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling gold onto the parquet floors. Mondale sauntered around the empty rooms, sniffing out the new place. 

For Tom, the whole place felt less like an apartment and more like evidence. Proof that he’d made it here, to the highest rung he could have ever imagined. And yet, he couldn’t quite shake the thought of their old place. That “regular” apartment with its warm lamps and creaking floorboards, the one that felt, against all odds, a little homelike. The old place had smelled of Shiv’s perfume, the dog curled up on a familiar rug. This new triplex? It was glass and concrete and floating stairs that you could fall to your death from if you missed a step. It was sleek, yes, and breathtaking, yes, but home? Not in the slightest.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe “home” wasn’t what people at this level lived in. This was design. This was architecture. This was what you were supposed to move into when you leveled up. You weren’t supposed to get attached into some apartment.

Tom sat perched on the edge of a sprawling white sofa, a new suit hugging him just right, shiny shoes planted against the pristine rug. He held a porcelain teacup balanced on its saucer, trying to sip delicately, the way he imagined people did in apartments like this. But his heart pounded too fast, too giddy to be hidden. Every surface gleamed. Every angle screamed money. He felt both like an intruder and like a king, perched in this castle in the sky, convincing himself that this was where he was meant to be all along. He had worked his ass off for this.

Above the fireplace stretched a vast, blank expanse of wall. Tom stared at it, his mind racing with ideas. He’d never dared picture himself in a penthouse like this, in this neighborhood, at this level. The thought of filling that wall with their faces felt both obscene and delicious.

“You know what? I don’t care,” he said suddenly, out loud, his voice echoing in the bright empty space.

Shiv looked up from her nest of devices, brows raised.

“The empty wall, over the fireplace? I don’t care if it’s incredibly gauche. Can we just have a big beautiful portrait of us up there? I mean art is great but the truth is, what I really want to look at? I want to look at you, and I want to look at me.”

For a beat he imagined it: him and Shiv immortalized on canvas, like royalty. The thought made his chest swell.

Shiv’s eyes narrowed. 

The fantasy wobbled. He forced a grin. “A bit Saddam? Too Assady?”

Shiv just nodded at him from the emails. “Yup.”

But even her jab couldn’t puncture his mood. Not today. Not when everything seemed to be gliding forward exactly as he’d hoped.

Shiv stopped her reading to study him. “You good?”

“Am I good? I’m great!” he burst out, pacing a little, unable to keep still. His body felt electric, like all the years of clawing upward had finally combusted into this one moment. “Slept well. And your thing about us, you know, I think I’ve contextualized it –”

“It’s really not a thing, so –” Shiv started. 

But he wasn’t listening. He never liked to stop when the current was running. “No sure but I feel like, okay, if I’m a king and you’re a queen, maybe it’s fine if we fuck the odd peasant?”

Her look was flat, unimpressed. He laughed it off.

Because here was the thing: a few months ago, her silence, her little digs they would’ve cut him open. He’d have lain awake at night, dissecting them, panicking over what they meant. But now? Now he was untouchable. He was one step away from Logan himself, reporting directly to the man. He could weather a little coolness from Shiv. They were married. They had Mondale. They had this apartment.

“Because, big picture, our plan is right on track.” His grin widened. “You saw Gil’s numbers, right? And from today I’m in there. ATN!”

“Yeah, we should talk,” Shiv said. Her tone was clipped, cautious. “About strategy at some point. Update.”

He nodded enthusiastically, not catching the weight in her voice. All he could hear was affirmation, and partnership.

“In case, you know, it’s important to keep flexible?” she added.

“Hell yeah,” Tom said, buoyant, clueless. “Totally. I’m just gonna roll in with a Colgate smile, kiss The Peach on both cheeks and garrote her with my dental floss!”

He leaned into her, arms draped heavy around her shoulders, practically vibrating with energy. His body wouldn’t stop humming. Like the promotion, the apartment, the sheer fact of being here had set him permanently alight.

“So listen, could we bang? Right here? Now?” he said, lips brushing her ear.

“Um? I don’t – I’m quite mentally in another place?”

Normally that would’ve gutted him. Normally he’d shrink back, nurse the bruise in silence. But not now. Not today. The rejection barely grazed him because he was untouchable. Tom laughed softly, pressing his mouth against her temple, letting his hand slide lower across her hip. He wasn’t asking anymore, he was laying claim. 

“Sure,” he said, voice husky, “but God, I’m just feeling so incredibly – potent.” He pressed closer, nuzzling her neck, fingers teasing at the waistband of her trousers. 

“The new place. You know? I’m feeling Godlike and horny. Everyone looks two feet tall to me right now.”

Her phone slipped from her hands onto the table. He barely noticed. All he could think of was the rush pounding through him. He kissed down her jaw, greedy, biting back the urge to laugh at how surreal it all felt. He wanted her to feel it too, the scale of him, the inevitability. 

Shiv gave a small, shaky smile, her eyes darting away. Something flickered there that he didn’t catch.

“Look,” she said finally, smoothing her tone, softening it. “Tonight let’s split from the thing early, yeah? Talk and– ” she tilted her head, voice suddenly low and suggestive, “everything?”

Tom’s grin split wide, childish and manic with relief. He pulled back just enough to see her face, his own flushed, triumphant. “Okay! My fave. Strategy and a fuck!”

He kissed her cheek, already half picturing the portrait above the fireplace: King Tom and Queen Shiv. Their reign framed in gold.

For once, he thought, nothing could shake him. Nothing.

.:.::

The morning started deceptively sweet. A junior staffer intercepted Tom in the elevator lobby, handing him a flat white from Stumptown, the one he used to walk three avenues out of his way to reach. The gesture should have steadied him, but instead it sharpened the jitter in his chest. This wasn’t just coffee. It was a silent memo of we know who you are now, and we will anticipate your needs.

The ATN floor hummed like a live wire. Fluorescent lights buzzed over endless rows of monitors, every screen pulsing with breaking banners, polling numbers, angry faces frozen mid-debate. The air smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of recycled air-conditioning. Tom followed Cyd Peach through the controlled chaos, each step landing like an audition. They reached her office, a glass box suspended above the newsroom. A live ATN feed glowed across the far wall, anchors mid-tirade about voter fraud. Cyd gestured to it, her face impassive. “So – that’s where we shape the debate.”

Tom grinned, heart pounding faster than he liked. “Cool shit. And I like how the debate keeps getting shaped like a swastika.”

The joke died mid-air. Cyd turned her head, eyes narrowing with the slow precision of a sniper. “Oh, you don’t share our news values?”

Tom felt the back of his neck heat. Too fast, Wambsgans. He forced a chuckle, smoothing a hand through his hair before correcting. “Kidding. Totally. I get it. I’m from the Midwest. My mom’s friend Deb weighs three hundred pounds and she’s pissed as hell about practically everything. I get the demo. Trust me. Besides what Logan wants, Logan gets, right?”

Cyd’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Logan doesn’t set our news agenda.”

“Sure. Oh, I know,” Tom said quickly, pivoting. “And in ten years the Corleone family will be entirely legitimate.”

Nothing in her expression changed, but Tom felt the floor tilt. He’d come in planning to charm her, to make it clear he was more than a Roy son-in-law with a laminated title. Instead, every sentence felt like a trap door.

Cyd settled into her chair, folding her hands. “You’ve got the cool job title. Freedom of movement. Why not take a look somewhere more…comfortable? Entertainment, maybe?”

Tom leaned forward, finding his footing in numbers. “But this is the action. The profit center. Median age of our audience is sixty-eight. Time spent viewing is dropping like a stone. Ads are all adult diapers and colon-cleanse pills. Maybe I can lend a hand.”

Cyd tilted her head, eyes cool as a scalpel. “You know, he sends me one of you every four years. That train’s never late.”

“Interesting,” Tom replied, forcing brightness. “And tell me – these others he sent, were they his son-in-law too?”

He knew he fucked up before a flicker of amusement passed through her gaze. “Good luck, Tom. I run a pretty tight ship. I hope you can deliver.”

When she stood, Tom followed suit, the meeting ending with a handshake that felt less like welcome and more like warning.

Outside the glass office, the newsroom’s roar hit him again. Greg trailed at his elbow, gawky and wide-eyed. Tom turned, seizing the only subordinate he trusted.

“Greg. I need you on the floor at ATN. Be my representative on earth. I’m sending you on a mission to body-shame ATN. Find me the excess. The extraneous Danish. The lazy cleaner. Pig-Man, sniff out the waste!”

Greg blinked, mouth opening and closing like a carp. “Like…how do you mean?”

“Trim the flab,” Tom said, already striding away. “Efficiencies, Greg! I spy savings.”

Greg scurried to keep up, scribbling in his notes he’d probably lose within the hour.

As Tom moved through the humming maze of desks and screens, the initial sting of Cyd’s cool dismissal hardened into something sharper. This was the belly of the beast. Logan’s beast. And now it was his floor to conquer.

Every flickering monitor, every staffer glued to a live feed, every slow-walking mail guy, Tom saw them all as pieces to be moved, trimmed, bent to his will. Cyd might have smiled her little warning, but he’d show her. He’d show all of them.

By the time he reached the elevator, the flat white in his hand had gone cold, but his pulse still raced hot with the thrill of it. ATN might chew people up, but Tom Wambsgans was ready to bite back.

.:.:.

The suite looked more like an embassy than a home. Crystal chandeliers threw soft light across marble floors, servers drifted silently with trays of champagne and miniature lobster rolls. Connor had gone all in on the Future Freedom theme. He had flag pins on the staff uniforms and a string quartet playing patriotic standards just a beat too fast. Tom stood near the balcony doors, cheeks flushed from the warmth and the wine. His new ATN badge still felt like a secret medal pinned beneath his jacket. Across the room, Shiv was deep in conversation with a state senator, her cropped hair catching the light like fire. When she finally excused herself and crossed to him, Tom nearly vibrated with pent-up excitement.

“Hey,” she said, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing tray. “You look… wired.”

“Wired?” Tom grinned, stepping closer so the noise of the party folded around them. “Baby, I’m electric.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “Greg found it. The mother lode. The ATN floor? It’s basically Amish. Nothing’s digital. Everything is still manual. Filing, routing, scheduling. It’s like a museum of inefficiency.”

Shiv raised a brow, sipping her drink. “Okay…?”

“Okay?” Tom’s grin widened, manic and bright. “You know what that means? We can gut it. Fire tens – hell, dozens and dress it up as modernization. Logan will love it. It’s savings and brutality in one package. It’s like giving him a birthday and Christmas on the same day.”

Shiv tilted her head, studying him. “You’re very… enthusiastic about firing people.”

“It’s not firing,” Tom said quickly, though his eyes gleamed. “It’s cleansing. An ATN cleanse. Efficiency, synergy, all the buzzwords. Greg’s been scouting every dusty corner for fat to trim. We’ve got a mailroom guy who takes nineteen minutes to do a nine-minute run. That’s –” he waved a hand, giddy “that’s money, Shiv. Just walking around!”

She smirked faintly. “So you want to walk into Logan’s office and pitch… what? A purge?”

Tom’s pulse kicked. He could see it already. Logan’s approving nod, the rare, thin smile. “Yes. A beautiful, clean, ruthless purge. I go in tomorrow, lay it all out. We’ll digitalize everything, cut the dead weight, sharpen the margins. Logan hears the numbers, and boom.” He snapped his fingers. “I’m not just the guy he married his daughter to. I’m the guy who saves his whole network.”

Shiv’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading the fever in his grin. “Careful. You sound almost… excited about bloodletting.”

“Excited?” Tom leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a growl. “Shiv, this is it. This is the job. This is the action. I’ll be indispensable. Untouchable.”

For a heartbeat, Shiv just looked at him, the buzz of the party fading behind them. Then she gave a small, sharp smile that was half amusement, half warning. “Well,” she said, lifting her glass. “Happy cleansing.”

Tom clinked his champagne against hers, the crystal ringing like a starting gun. Inside, his chest thrummed with a heat he couldn’t contain. Tomorrow, he thought, would be the day he stopped orbiting the Roy family and became gravity itself.

“Hey, maybe we could get a car and go home?” Shiv sipped from her glass and gazed at him through her lashes. 

The apartment was hushed when they came in, the city lights twinkling through the tall windows. Tom was still buzzing from the party and Connor’s ridiculous speeches. How absurd it was that renting a girl wasn’t enough, that someone could live full time in a hotel? Shiv’s silence during the ride home wasn’t the easy kind. It didn’t seem like tonight’s activity would be strategy and fuck. She moved past him into the kitchen, already reaching for the decanters. “You want anything? I’ll get you something.”

Tom hovered near the kitchen counter, loosening his tie. “Ooh,” he laughed, nervously, when he saw the measure she poured. “That’s a biggie! Is this about the arrangement?” His voice cracked halfway through, a boy caught pretending.

Shiv said nothing. She poured him one too, handed it over, then leaned against the counter, holding her glass like a shield. Tom sat, tea-colored whisky trembling in his hand. His chest thudded. She chose her words carefully, each syllable measured.

“Okay. Tom. It’s Waystar. So. Look. This is never going to happen. I don’t even trust him. And even if I did, I’m not even sure I’d want it –” she paused, to shrug of her jacket, revealing a fine silk shirt underneath.

Then she dropped it clean. “He offered it to me. To be next.”

Tom blinked, blank, unable to absorb it.

“Dad,” she added, softly.

It hit him and the room tilted. His chest tightened. “Oh my god, Shiv –”

Instantly she shook her head defensively. “Like I said. It’s not real. And I’m probably not even interested.”

Tom’s jaw tensed, his nails digging into his palm. He forced his face into a mask of mild interest, nodding like he’s still on her side. Like he wasn’t burning on the inside. His mouth felt dry. “When –?”

“What when? I don’t know. The Hamptons?”

“The Hamptons!” His voice cracked up into a pitch of disbelief. “That’s – Shiv, that’s amazing! That was like weeks ago? Congratulations. What the fuck?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Shiv said before gulping down her whisky.

He felt sick, his stomach turning, but his mouth kept running, desperate to match her calm. “Yeah! Holy shit! This is huge! But I mean, do you –?”

“Want it? No.” She shook her head, eyes sharp. “I don’t even trust him. So it doesn’t apply.”

Logan said he wanted Shiv. Not Tom. Not the loyal, dutiful son-in-law who had bled for this family, who had swallowed every insult and every backhanded compliment with a grateful smile. Not Tom who was ready to renew the whole ATN. No, Logan had chosen his daughter. And Tom? Tom was just the husband. 

The afterthought.

“Because I thought that we wanted for me to have it?” The words slipped out of him, naked, and too raw from him to fully hide the disappointment.

“We do.” Shiv assured, circling around the island to him. 

“I mean that was the plan.” Tom pressed his lips together, his jaw working.

“This is the same plan.” Her tone was quick, decisive. “Me is just a modification of the plan.”

In the silence, Tom picked up his glass and took a long, slow drink. The whiskey burned all the way down, but it was nothing compared to the fire smoldering in his gut. He felt like freefalling. So Shiv was going to be CEO. And Tom was going to smile and nod and let her believe that was enough.

He laughed weakly. “No, sure. Quite a big modification.” His eyes darted as if picturing it against his will. “So he asked, and – I’m just picturing the scene and –”

“Well he asked and I said yes. But only as a play.” Shiv’s eyes were feverishly bright. 

“Uh-huh. Totally!” His laugh was too loud, brittle. “So what’s the play?”

“I mean he’s asked before obviously but this was real and it felt like I would be deleveraging power if I said no?” Shiv looked at him for a beat longer, eyes narrowing.

“Exactly. Yes.” His voice was frantic now, agreeing too fast.

“Tom. This is one hundred percent not going to happen. But it’s smart to say yes, right?”

He nodded quickly, his hand trembling as he sipped his drink. “I’m so excited for you. For us.” The grin faltered, the light draining from his face. “I am.” 

His hand reached up to her clasped hands on the counter. He covered her small hands in his and squeezed. “And you know, it’s okay for you to say if you want it. I’d support you.”

She sighed, softer now. “Look. Say I did want it, and I don’t. If I was CEO of Waystar then you honey, you’re going to be something huge.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was hollow. “Yeah. Sure. Like what?”

“I don’t know but we’ll figure it out.”

“No, sure,” he said, retreating into his drink. “That’s all for some time later down the road. Whenever. Just whenever.”

The silence stretched. Shiv took a long sip, tilting her head as though testing how much she should say, how much she should hold back. Her joy was spilling out of her in small laughs of disbelief. “Hilarious, right?” she offered finally. Her eyes were bright and sparkling with triumph. Lips curling involuntarily into a smile as she hopped onto the stone counter.

“Oh.” His mouth twisted. “It is very fucking funny.” 

His whole evening was officially ruined. Tom swallowed, his throat dry, eyes fixed on the curve of her neck. This was the woman who just swallowed his dreams whole and spat them out like cherry pits. 

Something stirred in her then. Maybe the relief of having finally confessed, maybe the charge of seeing him off balance. She was at his height now, eye to eye, her expression sharp. She looked at him with a flash of heat, eyes narrowing with lust. 

“Hey, come here.” 

Shiv reached for him, hooking a hand into his tie and yanked him closer until their faces were nearly touching. Her kiss was hard, decisive, and whiskey-sweet as it landed on his lips. His knees almost buckled. She pulled him closer, legs spreading to make room for him. Her kisses became rough and demanding, her teeth grazing his bottom lip.

He blinked, pulling away from the kiss. His body tensed, the thought of sex colliding with the churn in his stomach. “Oh, Shiv now?“

She didn’t wait, just nodded against his lips. She pressed herself against him, her mouth hungry, her hand sliding down to palm his cock with practiced ease. She brushed her hand over the outline of his length, feeling the warmth seep through the fabric, hissing under his breath as the tips of her fingers ghost over the sensitive skin. Tom froze for half a second, his breath catching.

“Uh, great. Um – just hold on. I should brush my teeth –” He tried to excuse himself. He needed to breathe, to gather himself. Maybe go and punch a hole in the wall. 

Shiv didn’t let go of his lapels. Just shook her head as a no before She kissed him again, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. Tom’s eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into her, hands bracketing her hips. He wanted to tell her to stop. He wanted to push her away, scream at her, shake her until she admitted that she had stolen everything he’d ever wanted. But he couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like this, her eyes dark and so hungry. 

Tom’s breath stuttered. He was utterly powerless as she yanked his shirt from his waistband while her fingers worked at his belt. She didn’t even break the kiss. He still felt sick from her revelation, his stomach a whirlpool, but his body surged forward anyway, helpless towards her familiar touch. 

His control was unraveling as Shiv helped him to push his pants down, her nails scratching against his bare stomach. She slipped her fingers underneath the band of his boxer briefs and pulled his cock out, giving it a couple of strokes from base to tip. This is her answer, he realized. Domination. A demonstration of where the power sat. It didn’t take much more of a mental battle for him to decide to fuck it.

His hands slid to the zipper of her pants, dragging it down, before shoving the fabric down her thighs with her help. She was wearing nude panties under her suit, and he couldn’t help but to cup her with his whole massive hand, listening to the soft audible breaths she let out as he made contact with her core. She was wetter than he expected as she grinded eagerly against the heel of his palm.

Everything regarding his future had been thrown into the wind. He didn’t care about being soft. Tom just grabbed the glued side seams of her no-show panties and ripped them straight apart. Shiv shuddered as the cold stone immediately hit her soaked, exposed, and sensitive cunt. Grasping at her soft thighs to scoot her closer to the edge, Shiv was barely sat on the counter. Her eyes were dark with lust, lips swollen from their kisses. Tom couldn’t say he wasn’t affected by this as his cock pulsed in his hand. Still he gave it a couple of tugs for a good measure before slowly slipping the tip inside, gasping as he felt how tight and wet and warm she was around him. He would never get tired of this. Shiv mewed at the sudden burn as he kept reaching deeper and deeper inside of her. 

His hands went automatically to her hips, gripping as though he might steady himself, but it was clear she was in command. She spread her legs around him, closing her ankles behind his back tighter, dragging him in deeper. His tip gently kissed her cervix as he buried himself all the way to the hilt, gravity helping him. Shiv could only offer a clipped moan before wrapping both arms around his neck. The air around him was all Shiv as he was caged by her.

Shiv guided him against her, her movements commanding, unhesitating. He followed, pulling back and shoving into her at a slow but brutal pace, making her feel every single inch of him. She rocked against him, her breath hot against his ear. He wanted to think of power, of ATN, of the seat at the table he’d just been handed. But all he could think of was her strength, her hot wet cunt tight around him, her control absolute.

He moved with a desperation that bordered on feral, each thrust a silent scream, each moan a confession he couldn’t voice. Tom fucked her roughly, his thrusts picking up speed and rattling her, and maybe it was exactly what she needed as the kitchen was filled with the sounds of them fucking.

Getting rid of his suit jacket, Shiv’s nails raked down his shirt covered back, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Tom pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, their bodies locked together. Panting against his cheek, she could have been embarrassed by how close she was. But there was no room for shame in Shiv’s triumph.

So he moved faster, snapping his hips forcefully against hers with every stroke. She reached down between them and swiped back and forth against her pulsing clit, moaning loudly as the pleasure started to take over. The dread in his stomach soured the triumph in his chest, turning it into something dark and compulsive. He couldn’t stop wanting her, even as the truth of it hollowed him out.

“Shiv,” he whispered against her mouth, half-plea, half-panic. His head still spun with the words Dad offered me the company, but his body betrayed him, urgent and greedy.

When he came, he came with her. It was with a strangled gasp against her neck, his body collapsing forward against the counter, spent. Shiv caught his jaw in her hand, forcing him to look at her. Her gaze burned, fierce, almost cruel, before she kissed him hard again, like she was sealing the whole thing shut. Tom let himself be kissed, let himself be consumed, tasting whisky and iron in his mouth. His lip must have been bleeding.

When she finally pulled back, she slid gracefully off the counter, smoothing down her shirt like nothing had happened, where he stood there with his shirt untucked, pants pooled in his ankles, heart pounding.

In the bedroom only the low rush of the AC filled the silence. Shiv was already asleep, when he emerged from the shower. Her breathing was even, one arm draped over her stomach. Tom lay on his back beside her, eyes wide, staring into the unfamiliar dark.

He should have been satisfied. She’d pulled him in against the counter, dragged him under, wrung him out. He’d come apart in her hands, and she’d kissed him like she meant it. He had what so many men would have killed for, a Roy, the apartment, the promotion. He’d climbed another rung today. He should have been floating from joy..

Instead, he felt the weight of her confession in his stomach.

She knew for almost two weeks.

The thought looped and looped, keeping him wired. The Hamptons. A whole week of breakfasts, of moving, of jokes in the shower, of stroking her hair while she brushed her teeth, through all of it, she’d known. Logan had offered her the crown, and she hadn’t told him. Not once.

She’d said yes, even. As a play, she insisted, but yes all the same.

His mind kept replaying it. The invisible line between them was widening with every hour she’d sat on the secret. Him, giddy about ATN, about his big shiny seat, while she knew the real prize was already dangling in front of her.

He turned onto his side, studying her profile in the low glow of the neighbouring buildings spilling through the curtains. Her face looked younger in sleep, almost unguarded. He wanted to reach out, brush his hand down her arm, remind himself she was his. But the hand wouldn’t move.

He tried to console himself. If she’s CEO, she’ll pull me up too. We’ll be a team. She said I’d be something huge.

But the words felt thin. What if “something huge” meant a trophy husband with a corner office and nothing else? What if he was always meant to be the adjunct, the footnote, the Wambsgans to her Roy?

He pulled the sheet up over his chest, breathing shallow, trying not to disturb her. He felt suddenly small in the massive bed, the cavernous apartment, the whole empire looming above them. Shiv murmured in her sleep and rolled toward him, her hand brushing his arm by accident. For a moment he closed his eyes, let himself pretend that it meant something, that it tethered them.

But when her hand slipped away again, curling against her own chest, he was left awake, alone, and stewing. The promotion still gleamed in his mind, but it no longer felt like a crown. It felt like a consolation prize.

And Tom Wambsgans had never wanted to be a consolation prize.

By morning, the gray-gold streaks from the sun cut across the sheets. Tom hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, his body heavy but his mind running laps. Shiv stirred, stretching languidly like a cat, her hand grazing the empty space where he’d been lying awake.

“Morning,” she muttered, voice husky.

“Morning!” Tom chirped too brightly. He was already upright, knotting his tie in the mirror, pulling on his jacket like armor. He caught her reflection in the glass, and felt the old rush of pride at being the man who got to claim her.

“You’re up early,” she said, propping herself against the headboard.

“Yeah, I’m just –” he turned, smiling, teeth white, too rehearsed.

“I’ve got a big day, right? Big, huge. ATN, baby! I have a plan. I am going to give the boss like fifty new skulls.” 

He threw her a wink, like it was all still fun, like last night’s conversation hadn’t cracked something open. Shiv smirked faintly, but her eyes slid past him, already elsewhere.

He came to sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing his tie, leaning toward her with a kind of desperate cheer. “You know what, Shiv? I think we’re unstoppable. Like we’re the power couple now. Logan gave you the offer, I’ve got ATN, the whole thing’s…” He waved his hands, searching for a word that would cover the size of it. “…cosmic. Like fate, right?”

She tilted her head, watching him. “Mhm.” Noncommittal.

Tom laughed too loudly, clapping his hands once as if to puncture the air. He wanted to shake her, to make her see it, to make her say she believed it too. But she only reached for her phone on the nightstand, screen lighting her face. Her phone was bursting with messages.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, straightened his jacket. Don’t push. Don’t let her see you sweat.

“Okay, well,” he said, voice tightening, “I’ll go in with a smile, so they won’t know when I’ll strike.” He forced a laugh.

“Right,” Shiv murmured, eyes already on an email.

Tom kissed the top of her head, lingering a second longer than he meant to, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. He wanted to believe it anchored him. But when he straightened, she was still absorbed in the glow of her phone, and he felt suddenly like an afterthought.

The elevator doors closed on him minutes later, and in the mirrored walls he saw himself with the perfect suit and the perfect smile. But behind his eyes, the truth gnawed. She’d had the crown in her hand for almost two weeks, and she hadn’t told him. He wasn’t sure anymore if that made him her partner or her pawn.

.:.:.

Mondale was curled loyally at the foot of the bed while Tom lay slumped against a mound of pillows, his nose raw, his throat scorched. A plush blanket was tucked up to his chin, but still he shivered, every so often breaking into a pathetic cough. His laptop sat unopened on the nightstand. He’d tried to reach for it earlier, but even that small effort had made his head spin.

“This is it,” he croaked weakly to Mondale. “This is the end. Taken down by a cold. Logan’ll hear, and tomorrow it’ll be Greg sitting in my chair!”

Mondale only shifted, pressing his warm bulk closer to Tom’s feet. The comfort was immediate, but not enough to settle the gnawing guilt in Tom’s gut. He hated being still. Hated being weak. What if Logan needed him today? What if Shiv did?

The door opened, and Tom fumbled to sit up straighter. Shiv appeared with a paper bag from the pharmacy in one hand and a brown takeout container in the other.

“Christ, you look like death,” she said, though her voice was softer than her words. She crossed the room and set the things on the nightstand. “Got you soup. And NyQuil. And those fancy lozenges you like that cost a fortune.”

Tom blinked at her, throat tightening. “You…you came home early.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to keep you alive. And Mondale doesn’t have opposable thumbs.”

He laughed, but it came out as a rasp. “I should be at work. Logan’s probably writing my resignation as we speak.”

“Relax,” Shiv said, perching on the edge of the bed. She dipped a spoon into the soup and blew on it before holding it out to him. “The empire will survive a day without its most overcaffeinated commander.”

Tom opened his mouth dutifully, the warmth of the broth hitting his raw throat like a miracle. He closed his eyes, swallowing slowly. When he opened them again, Shiv was watching him with something that looked suspiciously like fondness.

“You don’t have to –” his voice cracked. He tried again, softer. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re allowed to be sick.”

He smiled weakly, leaning his head against her arm for a moment, overwhelmed. “God, Shiv. You make me feel like…like I’m not a burden.”

She pressed a hand to his forehead, checking the heat there, her thumb lingering against his temple. “You’re a lot of things, Tom. But not that.” 

When the soup container was empty on the nightstand, and the spoon licked clean. Tom lay slouched back against the pillows, his eyelids heavy but stubbornly open, as if afraid the world would collapse in the hour he dared to rest. But still he couldn’t help but doze off for a couple of minutes at the time.

Beside him, Shiv had kicked off her shoes and stretched out on top of the duvet, laptop balanced on her thighs. The glow of the screen lit her profile, fingers flying as she tapped out quick responses to emails. Her presence filled the room in a way Tom hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

He turned his head, watching her over the edge of his blanket. “You’re still here,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” She didn’t look up, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Mondale had repositioned himself into a warm loaf across Tom’s ankles. Tom flexed his toes into the dog’s side, comforted by the weight.

“I feel…useless,” Tom admitted after a moment. “I should be at ATN. Cyd’s going to eat me alive for missing a day.”

“Tom.” Shiv’s voice was firm now, finally glancing up from her screen to pin him with her eyes. “Stop stressing about it.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words dissolved into a cough. She rolled her eyes, closed the laptop, and shifted closer until she was leaning against him. The duvet rustled, her warmth seeping through.

“Let’s rest,” she said softly, settling her head against his shoulder.

Tom froze for a second, then melted, resting his cheek against her hair. His chest swelled with gratitude. Shiv scrolled on her phone one-handed, her other hand brushing absent circles against his arm. Tom drifted in and out, lulled by the rhythm, the rare closeness.

Every so often, he blinked awake, caught her still there, still beside him, and felt that warmth bloom again. He didn’t say it out loud, didn’t dare to, but the thought beat through him anyway. This. This is what I wanted. Just her. Just us.

.:.:.

The table gleamed under the overhead light. Four bowls of steaming soup sat before them, the smell of leeks and cream mingling with expensive wine. Tom’s scarf was still looped awkwardly around his neck. His nose was red, his eyes a little watery coming down from his cold. He hadn’t wanted to come, but Shiv had insisted. “It’ll be fun.”

Roman leaned back, spoon in hand, smirk sharpened like a blade. “So. How’s news, Tom?”

Tom straightened in his chair, voice careful, chipper. “Oh. Challenges. A tough row to hoe. But I think I see a way out.”

“Good for you, man.” Roman took a sip, but his eyes gleamed with the promise of another jab.

Tom’s spoon clinked against the bowl. He could feel Shiv’s gaze on him, assessing, half-amused.

Roman leaned in. “So what is it? This way out?”

Tom hesitated. His instinct was to hedge, but something stubborn made him put the spoon down, fold his hands. He forced a smile. “Well. We’re, um—I’m looking at digitizing ATN. Total overhaul of the legacy analog infrastructure. Yeah. Productivity gains too. So I think your dad will be pretty pleased.”

Roman’s smirk twitched. It was plausible. Smart. Dangerous, even. He nodded, too slowly. “Look at the corn-feeder. Going all synergies and shit. Nice. Worth a shot.”

Tom smiled politely, heat prickling under his scarf. It is nice. It’s more than nice. You couldn’t think of that if you tried, you little prick.

Roman wasn’t finished. “Where do you get your suits, by the way, Tom? Maybe that’s why I’m not moving as fast as you. Right? I just don’t have that boxy corporate look?”

Shiv barked a laugh, sudden and sharp. “I’m sorry, but what the fuck? You look like a Transformer.” She turned toward him, eyes glinting.

Tom froze, smiling thinly. His scarf itched at his throat. He tried to brush it off, but Shiv pressed on, like it was a bit they’d rehearsed.

“What? Your suits are terrible. We’ve laughed about it!” She gestured toward him. “He’s thrifty and he has the worst suits.”

Roman grinned wider, smelling blood. “You look like a divorce attorney from the Twin Cities.”

“I think it’s partly the walk,” Shiv added, sipping her wine. “He has a real agricultural walk.”

“A pig farmer taken to a Brooks Brothers in Times Square,” Roman said.

Shiv and Tabitha laughed together. The sound rang in Tom’s ears, hollow. Tabitha’s laugh stung worst of all. It wasn’t cruel, but it was effortless, like she’d forgotten he was human.

Shiv leaned back, warming to the bit. “I had him one tailored a couple of years back, from the guy dad uses, but he just looked –”

“Hey, Shiv?” Tom’s voice cut through, sharp as broken glass. He leaned forward, his face red with more than the cold. His eyes burned. “Fuck off, yeah?”

The table fell silent. The words hung there in the air, jagged, and too raw.

Tom had seen plenty of uncomfortable tables in his climb through the Roy orbit, but this one felt like punishment designed just for him. Across the gleaming wood, Tabitha sat luminous and bored, Roman’s arm draped across the back of her chair like she was just another expensive accessory. Her laugh came easily, silvery and careless, and every time it broke the air Tom felt it land like a slap. She knew. Maybe she didn’t care, maybe she’d filed that bachelor-party night away as nothing more than a transaction, but she knew. And now she was here, sitting pretty in Roman’s spotlight, laughing at jokes about his body, his suits, his small-town walk, while Shiv, the woman he’d married, the reason for every calculated humiliation, barely looked up from her wine. To them it was just banter, just Roy sport. But to Tom every flicker of Tabitha’s grin felt loaded, a private reminder of the one night he’d let himself be someone else, a night he would give anything to take back. He could smell the soup cooling in front of him, cream and leeks and money, and still all he tasted was salt.

The staff appeared, discreet, to clear plates. Tom sat straighter, pasted on brightness, his voice too loud, too fake. “The soup was –” He kissed his fingers, exaggerated. “My compliments to all involved.”

The servers nodded, the bowls vanished. Conversation limped on, but the air had shifted. A faint, sour tension lingered over the table like smoke. Tom lifted his wine glass, smiled too wide, and tried not to think about how small he felt, sitting there with his scarf still on, every laugh ringing in his ears like humiliation.

The elevator doors closed behind them and the hush of the triplex swallowed them whole. Tom unwound his scarf slowly with heavy fingers. Roman’s voice still jeered in his head. He set the scarf down on the couch, then muttered without looking at her, “So I’m probably going to sleep on the daybed in the guest room. Don’t want to keep you awake.”

His voice cracked at the edges. Not from the cold but the deep self-resentment and the humiliation the night had brought. They’d really beaten him down tonight. He would never win with them.

Shiv froze mid-step. “Are you kidding me?”

“What? We’ll both sleep better.” He turned away, shoulders slumped, retreating into a wound.

Shiv stepped out of her heels but instead of leaving him to be, she chased after him. Snatching the lapels of his jacket, she pulled him closer to her, forcing him to face her. She was short without her four inch heels, but nevertheless commanding. 

For a moment she just watched him. Then, quieter, she said, “Tom?”

He wanted out of the conversation, he tried avoiding her intense gaze but she kept pulling him closer and closer until there was no space between them. Her eyes were impossibly wide, like she’d wanted to say she’s sorry, but just couldn’t dig it out of her. 

“We’ve gotten a bit tangled up. You’re the only one I can talk to about this stuff.” Shiv pleaded, hanging onto his lapels. “I need you.”

The words melted something in him. It was nice to be needed. Nice to be chosen, even if just for counsel. His wounded heart gave in with a relief flickering in his eyes. “Okay. Well. Let’s break it down.”

Shiv snatched Tom’s hand in hers and led him to the couch. They sat down together still holding hands. Tom clung to the contact as if it steadied him.

Shiv exhaled, eyes darting. “I have a choice to make. And it’s kind of a headfuck. It’s either dad… or it’s Gil.”

Tom nodded slowly. He wanted to look like he was weighing it like a partner. But inside, something sharpened. A path was opening before him. Maybe he could still make space for himself.

“Because here’s what I’ve been thinking,” she continued pointing at herself. “What if a good person ran Waystar?”

“Well, sure.” He squeezed her hand. “You’d be perfect.” He let the pride drip into his voice, not too thick. Just enough.

“And then there’s Gil. What if he wins? I get Chief of Staff. That’s, like, the game beyond the game.”

Her eyes flicked to him, searching for answers. Unsure about her options.

Tom leaned closer, warm, steady. “Yeah, you know? Waystar. The family business. Your inheritance. You could make it your life’s work, fix everything that’s wrong with it.” He let the fantasy hang there, bright and seductive. Then he softened his tone, added the hook: “But…I gotta say, I like Gil.”

Her brow lifted. “Uh-huh?” She was already hugging her emotional support pillow. She had a habit of needing to cover herself with something. Like a shield between her and the world.

“Look, Shiv. I love you.” The words came easily this time. They felt like tools in his hands. “It might be cleaner for me if we were in separate spheres, like we planned. But I can adapt.”

She tilted her head, caught between believing him and doubting everything.

Tom stroked her hand gently, like he was soothing her, like he wasn’t steering her. “But you saw what your dad did to Kendall. There’s gotta be a chance he’ll do the same to you, right? Once he’s got you, he’ll get bored of you. Chew you up. Spit you out.”

Shiv’s shoulders stiffened, but she nodded. “I know. I know.”

He pressed the advantage, his voice low, and coaxing. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s about keeping your options open, Siobhan?”

Her lips parted, hesitant as she weighed the options: “Yeah. Definitely. Yes.”

Tom smiled, masking the rush of victory with tenderness. “I mean politics. That’s your sphere, Shiv. You’re like, top-five strategists in the US. Can you not just… see how it goes? Keep the plates spinning? Go Dick Morris? Run things from the back?”

Shiv blinked, then nodded slowly as a smile spread to her face. His logic soothed her, made sense, even if she knew it was half a dodge.

“You’re right.” She leaned her head back against the couch. “You are. That’s the play. That’s sensible.” She turned to him, eyes softening in the dim light. “You are sensible, Tom. That’s what I love about you.”

Tom squeezed her hand, hiding his smile in the shadows. Shiv leaned in and kissed him chastely. It was just a peck, but for a moment, he forgot the sting of Roman’s laughter. The humiliation ebbed. Because here, in their gleaming fortress above the city, Shiv had leaned on him, trusted him, and let him guide.

And if he couldn’t have the top seat yet, this was the next best thing. To keep her close and to steer her. 

.:.:.

The light poured into the triplex in wide, golden sheets, spilling over the parquet floors. Tom emerged from their bedroom wearing a fresh suit. He hadn’t really slept, just drifted in and out, mind chewing itself raw with the possible future.

Shiv was already at the kitchen island, hair neat, a coffee steaming in her hand. She was scrolling her phone, cool, as though the night before had never happened.

“Morning, honey badger!” Tom called too brightly, his voice cracking a bit at the edges of a sore throat. He grabbed a mug, poured coffee with shaky hands, and leaned against the counter like he was perfectly at ease. “Slept like a baby. You?”

Shiv glanced at him, skeptical. “Sure.”

Tom forced a grin, ignoring the burn behind his eyes. He had a plan now. He’d landed on it somewhere between three and four a.m., staring at the blank ceiling. Shiv needed to stay in politics. The more she leaned into Gil and all his little do-gooders, the less Logan could reel her into Waystar. And if Logan needed someone steady, pliant, loyal… Tom could be that man. They would be happy, successful and together while working on their separate ladders.

He sipped his coffee, wincing at the heat, and let his eyes flick over Shiv. She was radiant in the morning light, her cropped hair ironed out perfectly. His plan was almost perfect, but the thought of Nate intruded immediately into his head. Shiv spending all of her days at work with Nate. Nate at her side in some conference room, Nate leaning too close, Nate smirking like he knew things Tom didn’t.

Tom’s grip tightened around the mug. I scared him hard enough. I did. He’ll stay away from Shiv. Otherwise I’ll just have to get rid of him. 

“Big day,” he said, injecting a note of triumph, as if sheer enthusiasm might erase his doubts. “Some very important meeting about a new possible acquisition" he broke off, softening, adopting his husband voice. “But more important is you, Shiv. You’re… God, you’re just incredible. Whatever you decide? Waystar, Gil… you’ll crush it. Totally crush it.”

Shiv studied him for a beat, her eyes cold as ice. Then she reached across the counter, touched his hand. “Thanks, Tom.”

The words sent a jolt of warmth through him. He smiled, too wide, nodding as if he’d just been knighted.

“Always,” he said, squeezing her hand back. Inside, though, his thoughts were sharp, hungry. 

Stay with Gil. Stay in politics. Let me have Waystar. Let me have the crown. He kissed her knuckles quickly, like a man sealing a pact, then drained his coffee, the burn scalding but welcome.

.:.:.

His nameplate gleamed on the door, and Tom had spent half the morning just looking at it, grinning. Chair of Global Broadcast News. He’d walked the corridors with his chest puffed, shaking hands, firing useless staff and cracking jokes he hoped sounded authoritative. This was it. His foothold. His clear path to the summit.

He was hunched over his desk now, scrolling through metrics, when his phone buzzed. It was one short message from Shiv: Call me when you can.

Something in his chest clenched. She didn’t write like that unless it was serious. He picked up immediately, voice too cheerful. “Hey, honey! What’s up? You miss me already?”

There was a pause on the line, heavy. Shiv’s voice came low, measured. “Tom. I’ve made a decision. I’m going with Waystar.”

The words slammed into him like a fist. His throat went dry. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he blurted before he could stop himself. He wheeled his chair around, facing the blank expanse of window, his reflection warped in the glass.

Shiv pressed on, quick, as though she needed to control the story. “It’s the right move. Politics was… it wasn’t working out. So I’m focusing on Dad.”

Tom shut his eyes. Not working out. Maybe Gil dropped her. He could hear it between the lines, smell the blood in her tone. But she wasn’t saying it, and he wasn’t going to be the one to call it out.  Instead, he swallowed hard, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said carefully, “Okay. Okay. Wow. Well. That’s… that’s big. Huge. Congratulations, honey.” His voice cracked like glass.

In his head, though, he was screaming. He forced a laugh into the phone, high and brittle. “So, uh… team husband-and-wife now? The power couple. Roy and Wambsgans. King and queen of Waystar, right?”

She hummed faintly, noncommittal. “We’ll talk later. Just wanted you to know.”

“Yeah, of course.” He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. “Thanks for looping me in.”

The line clicked dead. Tom sat there in silence, phone heavy in his palm. His reflection in the window looked pale, hunched, ridiculous. His throat burned with swallowed curses. She’s back in it. She’s playing the same game. For a moment, despair clutched him, the old knowledge that he’d never be enough to win it. But then the gears began to turn. Slowly, steadily, the humiliation hardened into strategy.

If Shiv was in Waystar, so was he. They’d rise together, or if it came to it, he’d use her momentum to vault himself higher. He could make himself indispensable. Logan trusted loyalty above all else, and Tom could do loyalty like no one. He straightened in his chair, wiped the sweat from his lip. It just meant the climb would be bloodier.

The triplex glowed warm with the setting spring sun. Shiv was already at the kitchen island, a glass of wine in hand, the day’s armor shed but her posture still taut. Tom came in with his briefcase and a bright smile plastered on his face, the kind that felt glued there, stiff and unnatural.

“Shiv! My warrior queen,” he announced, setting his case down a little too loudly. “How was the rest of your day?”

She raised her brows, cautious. “Fine. Busy.”

Tom crossed the room quickly, kissing her cheek, holding on just a beat too long. He wanted her to feel him close, to believe he was aligned. “Busy with, uh… Waystar things?” His grin strained wider.

She gave the smallest nod. “Yeah. Waystar things.”

Tom felt his chest tighten, but he laughed as though this was all a shared joke. He poured himself wine, sloshing more than he meant to, then leaned against the counter across from her.

“Big move, Siobhan. Huge. Monumental.” He gestured with the glass, the wine almost spilling. “Roy blood at the helm of Royco. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Shiv studied him, her gaze sharp, searching for the sarcasm beneath his words. Tom sipped quickly to cover his nerves, heart pounding. Inside, though, his thoughts were cutting through themselves in circles. 

He set his glass down, reached for her hand. “But hey, whatever happens, I’m with you. You and me, we’re power couple, right? Whatever seat you’re in, I’ll be right beside you.”

Her expression flickered, faint guilt in her eyes. She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Tom. I need your support.”

That was enough to steady him, enough to convince him he still had a foothold.

He smiled again, bright and boyish. “Always.” He drained his glass, forcing a laugh into the silence.

Darkness set into the apartment with the deepening night. Shiv sat on the edge of their bed in her silk robe, scrolling through her phone, while Tom emerged from the bathroom fresh, hair damp, the nervous energy still buzzing in his limbs.

He lingered in the doorway for a beat, watching her, the glow of the screen lighting her bare face. His chest tightened. She’d chosen Waystar. She’d be shoulder to shoulder with Logan, with Kendall, with Roman. Thick as thieves. She’d be in the race, and so would he. He had to be careful so she wouldn’t shut him out. And if he couldn’t outmaneuver her with words tonight, maybe he could with touch.

He crossed the room quickly, sliding onto the bed beside her. His hand brushed her bare thigh, fingers tracing the line of her skin. 

“You know,” he murmured, voice pitched low and warm, “you’ve had a hell of a day, my future CEO. You deserve a…debrief?”

She shot him a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “A debrief?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, leaning in to kiss her collarbone, his hands already sliding beneath her robe. “Like a full-body, no-clothes kind of debrief.”

At first she sighed, about to brush him off, but he didn’t let her. He pulled the phone out of her hand, tossed it somewhere on the bedding, and pushed her down against the pillows. His mouth moved fast, greedy, pressing into her neck, her collarbone, his hands slipping under her robe. Inside, his head was still spinning with her choice, his gut sour with dread, but his body surged forward anyway, desperate for her. He wasn’t tentative tonight. He didn’t ask. He poured himself over her, and when she gasped in half surprise, half arousal, something in him clicked. He needed this. Needed her to need him more than anything. Needed to remind both of them that he still had a place in her bed, and in her life.

Tom kissed her harder, almost frantic, his hands roaming with an urgency. He told himself that he fucking loved this woman but underneath, it was also strategy. Every gasp, every touch, every moan was proof she still let him in. Proof he still mattered.

Ridding her of the silk robe, he was on her immediately. Pushing her down on the bedding, his mouth found her peaked nipple, sucking it, running his tongue over it and around it. Shiv bit into her bottom lip as hard as she could, nails scratching his hairline, as she tried to stifle the noises that threatened to spill from her mouth. Spurred on by her noises, he grabbed her other breast and kneaded it, pinching her buds between his fingers, playing her body like he owned it.

He was needy as he caged her small frame under his while he sucked and nibbled on her skin. Mapping his way over her whole chest before he kissed his way back to her neck again. He could still see the faint tan lines she’d gotten from their honeymoon. Her skin littered with more and more freckles. 

Crawling forward, Tom shoved his knee in between her legs while shifting them better onto the bed, off the edge. Shiv wiggled underneath him helplessly as his hot breath ghosted over the light red markings on her skin. His thumbs were back toying over each sensitive nipple and his lips were curved into a smirk against her skin at the sharp little gasps she made. With each little movement she was pushing her bare cunt directly into his knee, chasing for something more. So he rolled his knee against her bare, wet mound. Her eyes went half-lidded while her mouth opened in a throaty moan. Thighs clamped snug around his leg as she trembled with need.

While Shiv kept steadily rocking her hips against his knee, he gradually began to focus more on squeezing her nipples, pulling and flicking the tips until they began to change from pink to red, getting all swollen up from his lips and fingers. He was salivating at the thought of her sore nipples rubbing against her bra all day tomorrow, acting as a reminder of what had happened. He wanted her so sensitive, so needy that her control would falter.

He released her nipple with an audible pop before asking: “Can you come from this?” Her heart was racing loudly underneath his hands as he continued to knead her breasts together.

“Uh-Huh – just fucking pull me closer,” Shiv groaned.

Tom did work as ordered and almost lay down on her, so she was unable to slide back on the slippery bed as she ground her cunt harder against his thigh. Every lick, suck and bite was driving her mad with need. It didn’t help that the heat that was building on her nipples shot straight down to her clit. She bucked her hips faster, grinding down on his thigh with her head thrown back, leaving his skin all sticky. It didn’t take long for her orgasm to come with the way he played her, her stomach trembling against his hard cock. 

“That was a good one,” Tom praised, his hands skimming over her curves to bring her down, while easing his weight off her. 

Shiv bit back a whimper, when his knee detached from her pulsing core, leaving his leg all smeared up with her slick. It didn’t help when Tom spread her glistening folds, revealing just how swollen and red she’d gotten, her clit eagerly peeking out of its hood.

“You’re a fucking mess.” Tom smiled before he pressed his lips against her thighs, trailing kisses to the crease of her inner thigh and then nipped her gently.

Tom used his thumbs to spread her apart for him, keeping his hold on her firm the entire time while he ate her out. She was so wet, continuously dripping over his chin, covering his tongue in her as he delved deeper inside her. Shiv moaned ever so quietly, tipping her head back. Her fingers were tightly grasped in Tom’s hair, pulling ever so slightly. It felt good against his scalp. She could feel Tom hum in satisfaction against her before he sucked on her clit, as it beat in his mouth so swollen and ready for more.

Shiv unconsciously rode his face as waves of pleasure kept washing over her. It helped him to dig in deeper, eating her from the inside out like a starved man. Focusing for a while to the thrumming of his cock, he felt a bit sorry for her. So he started sucking on her clit harder, listening to her tiny moans, feeling her cunt quiver. He alternated between hard sucks and lapping at her fast until she came. He could feel the rush of wetness dripping from her, so he didn’t stay to prolong the orgasm, but dived down to suck up all the sweetness into his mouth. Cursing silently, he licked up the length of her swollen cunt.

“Fuck, Tom. I – It’s – It’s so much –” Shiv panted weakly, her hips trying to shy away from each pass of his tongue.

He laughed into her skin and yanked her closer from the hips, doubling down on her. She was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He could never get enough of her. Not the taste of her, not the scent of her, never of the way she sounded in the throes of pleasure. He was so addicted nothing could pull him away from her at this moment. Shiv almost kicked him as she came again, clit hot and aching in the pull of his mouth. His fingers were twisting her poor abused nipples hard, her thighs trying their best to squeeze the life out of Tom, but he didn’t stop. Shiv shuddered, whining as she finally got him to pull away by tugging his hair. 

He was far from done. He wanted more. He wanted to make her beg him for it. "What would you do without me?" Tom let out a mock sigh. 

He sat before her, pulling her still trembling leg over his shoulder, to get an unrestricted view of her beautifully plump folds. Tom didn’t wait for her to recover from her orgasm any longer. He started bullying her swollen, abused clit rolling it between his index finger and thumb, while spreading her folds with the others. He had an excellent view of the way her hole was clenching around nothing, drooling out desperately, hungry for him. 

He worked her methodically, bringing her closer to orgasm again and again. He dipped his fingers down to her cunt, gently slipping them inside. He curled them just right as he entered, drawing them slowly out before pushing back in, enjoying the view of her walls gripping onto his fingers. Having had his visual fill, he started to fuck her in earnest with his fingers. Her cunt was still impossibly sensitive from coming already, walls swelling tighter against him. It made her ever wetter, leaking clear slick over his hand, some of it trickled down to the cleft of her ass. 

Every time she came, her body loosening, her lips falling open, he felt the knot inside him tighten into something hotter, darker. She went soft, pliant, eyes dazed, and he pushed her further, chasing it, salivating on the fact that it was him, Tom Wambsgans, who could pull her apart like this.

She keened, all high-pitched and pathetic, squirming a little in his grip around her hips that he used to keep her down and tease her womb inside and out.

“You’re doing so good. I know you can take it,” he encouraged. “It’s a lot, I know but you’re doing so good, honey.”

Shiv shook her head against the bed, whining incoherently. He let go of her pulsing cunt to comb her sweaty hair back from her face with his hand that wasn’t soiled in her. He tugged at her hair, pulling her head back, so he could whisper directly into her ear.

“You’re just so sensitive, I can’t help it. How many times do you think you can come?”

Her breathing was laboured, her clear blue eyes had a haze on them. She tried to think before shaking her head: “No – I … Oh.”

He continued sucking kisses to her neck before kissing her open lips. “No number? Am I going to have to decide for you, hmm?”

Tom’s hand slid down to cup her overworked cunt. Despite her fried nerve endings she involuntarily rocked her hips against his calloused hand. 

“You want my cock here?” he asked while hooking his fingers into her warmth. Her walls still gripped his fingers as he lazily stroked her.

“Oh – fuck, Tom,” she had to stop speaking when Tom’s fingers curled over the place that made her see stars. She continued, her breast heaving from the effort: “Oh please – Just, oh, fuck me.”

Hearing her words almost made his cock burst right there. “Good girl,” he gooed, slipping his pruned fingers out of her cunt. 

His cock was all purply and leaking with pre-come, when he finally pushed his boxers down. Using the thick head of his cock, he slid the tip around her engorged clit, teasing her for a good measure. But he couldn’t wait any longer, or otherwise he couldn’t give her what she so wanted. Tom entered her cunt languidly and slowly, taking his sweet time breaching her warmth as he reshaped her to fit him again. His little wife trembled beneath him as he pushed and pushed further in, holding her legs over his shoulders. The slow entry felt endless and so long until finally he managed to fit himself inside of her.

Her cunt pulsed tight around him, and it seemed like she came again just from the penetration. Which made sense considering the excruciatingly long foreplay. She whispered his name once with her breathless and raw voice, and he almost came from that alone. But he wasn’t done. He started slowly fucking her, until she was trembling once again, her hair sticking to her temples, her body slack against the sheets like the fight had been drained out of her.

Her perfect tits bounced with every thrust, begging him to bite them. He so wanted to, but Shiv’s legs high up on his shoulders stopped him from folding her into a mating press. He couldn’t reward her just yet. It was a blessing enough seeing the marks from his teeth on her white skin and the way she got flushed pink as the pleasure grew within her. She wailed silently as her walls tightened around him again. He tried breathing deep in and out of his nose, while picking up the pace to fuck her harder as he continued to admire her fine tits.

"That feel good, honey? You gonna come again?" Tom smiled as she clenched up tighter and tighter.

Shiv nodded slowly, reaching back to grab at his hips, trying desperately to brace herself as he rutted into her hard and fast, the sound of their skin slapping together echoing off the white walls around them. He smiled to himself as he felt her cunt eagerly pulse around him, reaching the tipping point.

“So good for me, honey. You feel so good when you come so hard for me.” Tom grunted as he kept fucking her through the orgasm. 

She moaned loudly. She wanted him to go faster, to prolong it as long as he could, but she was overstimulated and drunk on the pleasure to form any coherent sentence to express her wants or needs. But Tom knew that she wanted more. 

Her legs trembled hard against his shoulders. Tom decided it would be best to let them down. It took some effort to rearrange them as fucked out as Shiv was, but he didn’t mind. He had great stamina but still he couldn’t continue fucking her forever. The change of position bought him enough time to cool down. Not feeling like he’d pop at any second anymore, he could still coax an orgasm or two out of her. 

Laying her head down on the bed, he smoothed his hands over her trembling thighs before lifting her on her knees, ass up. 

“Fuck, look at you. All open for me,” he exclaimed, spreading her ass apart, admiring her stretched, leaking hole. He squeezed her thighs gently, his grip firm, holding her up as her knees threatened to give out beneath her, before gripping her hips. He slid back into her with no effort. He started fucking her deliberately, each thrust knocking the air out of her. All he wanted was to claim her and make sure she would think of him every second tomorrow after this.

Tom found her slick clit all over again. He could almost feel her heartbeat through the pads of his fingers as he circled around it. Shiv moaned, all broken while still eagerly arching her back to him, letting him penetrate her even deeper than before. His cock kept pounding against her cervix in a way he knew made her ache, but she took it anyway. It didn’t take much to tame her despite how independent and cold she could be. 

It took all the effort she had. Shiv tried to balance on her knees and one arm to reach one hand back, hitting him on the waist, then stomach in an attempt to slow him down. He didn’t heed her wishes, continuing to rub his fingers in a tight circle over her clit in pace with his thrust. He couldn’t continue this much longer. His thrusts were beginning to get rougher as he went. Squeezing her hip in his hand, he pulled her onto him again and again, enjoying the way she leaned forward with every thrust. A little punched-out moans escape her with every desperate roll of her hips. 

"Tom, please –" she cried out into the bedding.

Tom didn’t hear her over the blood rushing past his ears, each movement making him more and more desperate to feel her come again. He loved nothing more than the feel of her finishing on his cock, the feel of her silky walls closing down tightly around him, the way her cunt swelled and pulsed as she came, almost trying to push him out. 

He swiped his fingers over her clit one more time before feeling that telltale flutter of her pussy around him as she came with a shout. White-hot fire coursed through every nerve, leaking through her veins and making her cry out, cunt clenching around him, gripping him impossibly tight, making him groan loudly. She pulled him closer and closer.

Tom knew she could keep going, even if she was sore and overwhelmed. There was something about the praise he gave that made her want nothing more than to be good for him, let him have her until her brain fogged over and she couldn't think for herself anymore. It wasn’t right to take advantage on her weaknesses but he had to take everything he could to win. So he caresses her waist gently before grabbing her hips and pulling her back onto his cock.

When she started to let out tiny whimpers, as she kept rocking her pelvis to be flush with his, clit grinding against him even though she was so overstimulated it hurt her, made him feel some pity. Her body was stuck chasing the pleasure even through the haze. Every ounce of resolve was flushed down the drain with that tiny, needy little noise she made as her body absently begged him for more. 

“It’s – Ah, fuck. It’s – Oh, too much!” Shiv moaned into the bedding. She couldn’t feel Tom’s hot cum sloshing in her even though she could clearly feel his cock kick.

“You can baby. You’re so good for me. I just need you to cum together, with me, okay? You can do it.” Tom praised her, his hands tight on her, as he pushed and pulled her on him.

She could only nod against the bedding. Her muscles trembling so much, she didn’t know if she even stopped orgasming at some point. A sheen of sweat coated her shivering body from the effort, her skin feverish to the touch. 

The sight of her so gone snapped something over his head. It wasn’t only satisfaction. It was more about possession, about pure lust he felt towards her, and he couldn’t get enough. But luckily he was a mere mortal man and he couldn’t keep holding off his own orgasm any longer. Finding her puffy clit, he pressed down on it, making her clench around him again. His hips stuttered as he chased the feeling, letting himself really enjoy this without needing to hold anything back. He slammed against her roughly, before his release started to spill out of him. Slowing down but not stopping, he rolled his hips, pushing every rope of cum as deep as he could. 

Shiv panted and whimpered as he filled her, her legs shaking violently. She could feel his cum starting to churn out, dripping against her inner thighs, sticky with her own release. 

He helped her on her side and only then did he let himself collapse beside her, chest heaving, his hand possessively sliding over her stomach, holding her in place. She looked ruined, sated, eyes already half-closed, and he felt a surge of triumph so sharp it almost scared him. He’d remoulded her, if only for tonight, turned the sharp-edged Roy into something pliant, yielding, something that was only his.

Tom kissed her sweaty temple, like a seal pressed onto parchment. “I love you, Shiv,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

She made a faint sound, not quite words, her hand finding his weakly. That was enough. Because if she was in the race, then so was he. And tonight, at least, he’d marked his ground.