Life Is Better With Dragons

St. Pierre had arrived in his tracksuit patterned with ridiculous green flowers, armed with vision boards, singing bowls and an ego the size of the Truman Balcony. Lilly had followed him like a designer-clad puppy, wagging her tail at every half-baked affirmation. Within twenty-four hours, St. Pierre had feng shui’d the State Dining Room, made the portraits disappear behind his mood boards, and declared that the historical chairs gave off a “hostile energy”. It had taken everything in Steph not to inform this sorry excuse of a man that the chairs might, in fact, find his squeaky clean white sneakers offensive—hence the hostile energy.

The worst of this ordeal? The banishment of Didier’s beloved Gingerbread White House. For years, it had been the crown jewel of the season—an edible masterpiece that drew gasps from visitors and staff alike. This year, however, St. Pierre had declared it “outdated” and “sending the wrong message about refined sugary intake”. Teaming up with Lilly, he lobbied to have it replaced with a pop-up wellness-center. Their beloved chief usher A.B. Wynter fought tooth and nail to save it, but by then the First Gentleman—bless his air-headed mind—had already approved it. And just like that, the gingerbread house was exiled to the China Room, lonely and forgotten, surrounded by porcelain and Didier’s despair.

Step rose to her feet, smoothing down her black pencil skirt and creme blouse. ‘Moved to where, Lil?’ she asked, her voice deceptively sweet. ‘I need to know.’ Lilly crossed her arms, standing tall. ‘The storage room downstairs,’ Lilly said coolly. ‘Though I did not see anyone come through the Red Room. It could easily have been one of the housekeepers misplacing your precious Tiny Tim.’ Steph’s eyes narrowed. ‘They know better than to move anything without telling Rosalind or me.’ Lilly gave a shrug that was way too innocent. ‘Then this remains a mystery.’ She brushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder—the icy locks a sharp contrast against her blue floral dress. ‘I told you all I know. Besides, isn’t cataloguing the artifacts your job? Yours and the curator’s?’ Steph forced a tight smile, biting back the urge to slap Miss Schumacher with a missing Tiny Tim. Everyone who’d ever set a mere toe in the White House knew it was packed with thousands of artworks, sculptures and knick-knacks of all kinds—it was impossible to keep track of every single one. That didn’t mean Rosalind and Steph tried, but things went missing more often than either liked to admit.

Like poor Tiny Tim.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Steph said, though Lilly had been about as helpful as wearing lipgloss in a storm—sticky and utterly vexing. Her black Jimmy Choos clicked impatiently against the carpet as she glanced around. ‘I’ll tell the others to look out for him while I check the storage unit downstairs.’ ‘Anytime, Steph,’ Lilly called over her shoulder, waving at her like she was the First Lady herself. ‘I hope you find your Tiny Tim.’ With that, the President’s social secretary strutted away, leaving Steph alone in the Red Room.

‘Frigid bitch,’ Steph muttered, turning towards the doorway of the State Dining Room—now tragically transformed into a wellness centre. She studied the setup, the corners of her mouth twitching faintly. After the great reveal, the “buzzing hub of wellness and relaxation” had become nothing more than a sad, silent joke. Maybe she should get Duane, the electrician who still owed her a favor, to rig up a soundbox playing crickets on a loop—just to rub in Lilly’s spectacular failure. Steph smirked at the thought but immediately abandoned it altogether A.B. might be thoroughly amused, but he’d still have her head for it.

Steph turned, casting one last wary glance over the Red Room before admitting defeat. She had checked the place thrice—Tiny Tim was nowhere to be found.

‘Hey Steph,’ Rollie greeted her as he stepped in, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve enjoyed the massage chairs before me. We had a pact.’ Steph laughed, shaking her head. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Rolls. Didier’s macarons are way too good; I can’t afford to get on his bad side.’ ‘Now that is true,’ the head butler agreed with a wink. ‘Have you swung by the China Room today?’ ‘Not yet. You?’ ‘Twice,’ he replied, tossing her a knowing glance. ‘Made sure Didier saw me, too.’ ‘Mm, more macarons for you!’ Rollie straightened his blazer with a mock-serious expression. ‘I hope so. But Didier’s been obsessed with kangaroos lately—I’m expecting some kind of kangaroo-themed masterpiece soon.’ He paused, grinning. ‘Poor A.B.’ Steph laughed. ‘Poor A.B. indeed. Speaking of our charming chief usher, have you seen him? Rosalind’s at the hospital with her mother and I’ve been hunting for a sculpture for hours. With Rosalind out, I’m afraid I might have to break the news to the big boss.’ Rollie’s expression softened into a warm, apologetic smile. ‘I don’t envy you. He’s been in one of his moods all day—everything’s got to be perfect for the families’ Christmas dinner tomorrow.’ Steph shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t scared of A.B.’s infamous moods; cold and demanding as he could be under his stress, she always found a way to reason with him. Maybe it was their shared love of poetry and jazz. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she was absolutely smitten—a secret she’d take to her grave. She pursed her lips, studying Rollie for a moment. ‘I can handle the big beast, don’t worry.’ He winked. ‘Okay little lady. Last I saw, he went up to his office—probably brooding over his to-do list. Go on, you’ll have that beast purring in no time, eh?!’ Steph laughed. ‘We’ll see. Later, Rolls!’

She made her way downstairs, checking the storage rooms first—no Tiny Tim there—and then inquiring with the head of housekeeping, who hadn’t heard of the misplaced sculpture but promised to keep an eye out.

Then, armed with a tray of strong coffee and some gingerbread cookies she had stolen from the kitchen, Steph made her way up the usher’s staircase. Coffee always helped A.B. when he was in a mood—preferrably a strong brew. She knocked, waiting patiently until A.B.’s low voice told her to come in.

‘Hey A.,’ she greeted him as she slipped through the crack of the door and closed it behind her with a soft click. ‘I heard you were brooding, so I brought you coffee.’ ‘Steph,’ A.B. said, looking up from a stack of papers laying on his desk. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt, a blue tie perfecting his look. His greying hair reflected in the warm light of his office and his dark eyes shone kindly as he regarded her. While stress was an understandable part of the job—the chief usher was responsible for everything, after all—A.B. seemed the embodiment of composure, aside from a small tightness in his jaw. ‘I am supposed to be brooding right now?’ A.B. inquired, sounding mildly amused. ‘Who said that?’

Steph held her breath, eyes locked on him for a moment as her stomach did an embarrassing backflip. Tracksuits were not impressing her—but mature men in suits? Ugh, her absolute Achilles heel. And when that man happened to be A.B., well… that was a whole other level of torture she dealt with every single day.

‘Stephanie?’

She quickly recovered. ‘You know I cannot rat out my dear colleagues to the big boss,’ she said smoothly as she placed the tray on his desk. ‘As much as I adore you, I have to protect my sources. Besides,’ she went on as she leaned against the armchair in front of his desk, folding her arms and eyeing him defiantly. ‘It did result in coffee, so….’ ‘Are you insinuating that I’m complaining, Miss Harper?’ A.B. replied, leaning back in his seat. His dark eyes rested on her, studying her for a few seconds. ‘Because I wouldn’t dare, especially if you’ve prepared it yourself… Have you?’ ‘Extra strong,’ Steph affirmed with a grin. ‘I need to be in your good graces.’ A.B. chuckled, picking the steaming cup from the tray. ‘For what, Steph? What is it you’re after?' ‘Nothing,’ Steph replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘Though I did wonder whether you’d kill me if I asked Duane to install a sound box in the State Dining Room, so I can provide background crickets for Lilly’s lonely wellness display.’ ‘Miss Harper,’ he reprimanded her sharply, keeping his expression composed—though Steph could have sworn the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I cannot allow such mischief in the White House,’ he said. ‘I must implore you to abandon the idea.’ ‘Consider it abandoned,’ she told him. ‘Though you must admit, the idea is hilarious.’ ‘I cannot deny or confirm such a statement,’ he said, his lips barely moving and his tone even. Steph rolled her eyes. ‘Always so composed, A.’ ‘That’s what the job requires, Miss Harper,’ he noted dryly, taking a careful sip of his coffee. ‘But surely you have more important things to do than to brew me excellent coffee.’ ‘Another reprimand? You wound me!’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Steph….’ ‘There was one small thing you should know, since I can’t pester Rosalind about it today,’ Steph conceded. ‘I can’t find Tiny Tim. He’s supposed to be on display in the Red Room, but he’s not there.’ A.B.’s brow creased. ‘Remind me who Tiny Tim is?’ A soft smile curved Steph’s lips. ‘Tiny Tim is our charming little bronze dog figurine; one of former President Calvin Coolidge’s beloved pets. Sculptor Laura Gardin Fraser made the splitting image of Timmy, or Tiny Tim, for the President and his wife in 1929.’ ‘Ah, that Tiny Tim. The most vital information for me to possess in an extensive history of this house,’ A.B. acknowledged in his low tone. ‘How could I forget?’ He paused, placing his coffee on his desk; and then added, more quietly: ‘It is strange how often things vanish these days.’

A small, thoughtful silence settled between them—steady and soft.

Steph let the pause stretch on–not deterred at all by it—relaxing in her seat. She listened to the faint footsteps of a staff member descending the usher’s staircase, her gaze distant. A.B. was right, the traditions that made the White House the institute it was, seemed to have been upheaved lately. It wasn’t unusual—each new President liked to leave their mark—but this administration seemed rather relentless. For the staff, it was an adjustment and some shouldered the changes better than others.

‘Each administration leaves its mark,’ she said finally, her voice quiet but sure. ‘But this one feels like it’s trying to remodel the walls.’ A.B. let out a soft breath through his nose; not quite a laugh, but something dangerously close. ‘There are days I suspect they’d knock the place down and rebuild it in glass, if they thought the light would photograph better,’ he confessed, his tone low. ‘It’s—’ he seemed to reflect on the slip of his tongue, the crack in his carefully maintained composure. ‘Forgive me, Stephanie. I am brooding today.’ ‘You’re not the only one brooding,’ Steph quipped. ‘Tiny Tim’s probably hiding in protest.’ Their eyes locked, dark brown clashing with vivid blue—something unspoken brewing between them. ‘A silent act of resistance?’ A.B. mused, one brow lifting. ‘Tiny Tim proves to be quite the rebel.’ Steph nodded solemnly, but mischief sparkled in her eyes. ‘It’s always the quiet souls, you know. "Still waters run deep."’ ‘They do indeed,’ he replied, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. His tone was calm, but there was a steady warmth beneath it now. ‘Thank you, Miss Harper. For the coffee. And the report of Tiny Tim. I’ll inform the rest of the team of Mr. Tim’s absence. Perhaps he’ll turn up after Christmas.’ ‘After our little wellness corner has been cleared, I presume,’ Steph said, rising to her feet. ‘And in the meantime, I’ll try to hunt him down.’ ‘Poor Tiny Tim.’ Steph laughed and stole a cookie from the tray. ‘Sir! That’s slander!’ A.B. smiled faintly. ‘Don’t ‘sir’ me now, Stephanie. You just accused me of brooding and bribed me with coffee and cookies. Which you are stealing back right now, I see.’ She grinned, properly this time. ‘I deserved it. Besides, I gotta go. I have crickets to not install.’ She shot him a cheeky glance, slipping through the crack of the door. ‘If I hear any crickets inside the house, I'll know exactly who’s behind it,’ he called after her, making Steph laugh even harder. ‘Bite me, A.!’ She remarked, quickly shutting the door behind her before he could raise an eyebrow and cite protocol on biting staff members.

Her laugh echoed through the stairwell as Steph descended the stairs, dying out as she munched on her gingerbread cookie. Her cheeks radiated heat as her mind relived her own audacity—God, had she really just asked her hot boss to bite her? As if he ever would…

‘Girl,’ she breathed to herself. ‘Get yourself together. He could have been your dad.’

Indeed, he could have been. But somehow, after hours of shared discussion on poetry, literature, music and life in general, A.B. wasn’t just her boss anymore. She admired his soul, his dedication to his job. His quiet calm, his intelligence. His humor.

Steph heaved a sigh, her attention jolting to her current surroundings as she almost missed a step—her hands holding onto the railings just in time. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she murmured to herself. ‘The suits….’

Later that night, the hustle and bustle had quieted. The family had retreated to their private quarters, and most of the staff had made their way home—some just in time for a late Christmas Eve service.

Steph, having had no luck finding Timmy, was packing up her things in the curator’s office tucked into a quiet corner of the third floor—right next to Didier’s. A slightly odd place for staff offices, maybe, but she didn’t mind. The view was nice. And it meant she and Rosalind could bond with Didier over macarons.

She pulled her headphones from her bag, humming Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’. It was a small stroll to her apartment, so she did not mind working late—often giving Rosalind the room to leave a little early to take care of her sick mother.

She paused, her fingers brushing over a small green package tucked in her bag that morning. Her jaw tightened; warmth rushed to her cheeks. Months ago, she’d found the perfect gift for A.B. at an antique market—an early edition of Kenneth Grahame’s ‘The Wind in the Willows’, the vendor clueless to its real worth. She’d barely kept herself from bragging about the find. It was meant to be a quiet Christmas gesture—something thoughtful, something she knew no one else would think to give him. He had told her once that he loved the book as a kid, losing his own copy shortly after his parents died when he had just turned eleven. It seemed fitting. But now, with the moment finally here, doubt crept in. What if it was too much? Too personal? Too telling? Would he see it as her overstepping?

She fiddled with the handwritten note she had placed under the festive red bow. She had given her note more thought than she should, settling with a contemplative ‘For the one person in the house who never forgets the quiet ones. Merry Christmas, A.’ It was a nod to him, a silent acknowledgment to his presence.

‘Well, only one way to find out,’ Steph murmured to herself, tucking the small package under her arm and nodding to herself. She picked up her bag and coat, then gave the shared office one last glance before switching off the light. It was small, cluttered—but hers, in a way. She shut the door behind her with quiet finality.

‘Evening, Steph,’ Tripp Morgan—the President's quirky brother—greeted her from down the hallway. He grinned as he noticed the small package with the festive bow. ‘What do you got there?’ ‘Hey Tripp,’ Steph said, holding the gift closer to her chest. ‘It’s to appease the big boss, and I don’t mean your brother.’ She glanced at the bathrobes gathered in his arms. ‘Do you really need more? I saw you slipping a dozen of those into your room just yesterday.’

She didn’t usually deal with the family, but Tripp Morgan was a different story. As the black sheep of the family, he was as tormented as he was lonely. If anything, most of the staff pitied him—Steph being no exception.

Tripp shuffled on his feet. ‘Don’t tell your boss, then I won’t tell who played Santa on him.’ Steph laughed. ‘Fine by me. Goodnight, Tripp.’

She descended the usher’s staircase again, her pace slow as if she was still second-guessing her choice. Her fingers brushed over the package, steadying it, even though it was snug against her chest. The air around her was quiet—heavy, even.

Steph knocked on the door of A.B.’s office and listened intently. She waited, ear tilted to the wood. When no reply came, she exhaled softly—relieved. She opened the door just a crack, smiling to herself when she found it to be empty. His coat was still on the rack. Steph shook her head. Of course he was still here—a man like A.B. didn’t just leave. She tiptoed towards his desk—the tray gone—and set the package down gently.

‘Merry Christmas, A.’ she murmured to herself. Without another glance, she turned and slipped back out, descending toward the basement.

She was halfway when her phone rang. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered, fumbling through her bag as it slid off her shoulder. ‘Hi mom,’ she said, already bracing—her mother’s calls were never pleasant. ‘Stephanie Carmen Harper,’ her mother cried out. ‘Mass is about to start. Where are you? We saved you a seat!’ ‘I’m still at work,’ Steph sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘Like I told you I would be.’

The other end of the line fell silent, and Steph listened to the vague murmurs of what appeared to be a large gathering. ‘Mom?’ Steph tried again as she swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I’m missing mass, but I told you I had to work late.’ ‘Well, Stephanie, it’s Christmas. We thought your boss could make an exception, just this once,’ her mother said. ‘He’s always so stern—’ ‘A.B. doesn’t ask me to do this, mother. I stay of my own volition,’ Steph declared. ‘Things need to get done. I have a job to do—and a responsibility to the country.’ ‘Of course,’ her mother agreed, though her voice was cold. ‘But can’t you slack this once? Christmas is family time. You know that. If you had a man to keep you in line—’ ‘Mother,’ Steph warned her, taking the last set of stairs to the basement. ‘I don’t need a man.’ ‘Of course you need a man,’ her mother countered in a tone that left no room for discussion. ‘You’re nearly forty, Stephanie. You’re not getting any younger. You can’t just leave the family legacy up to your brother—’ ‘Yeah? And where did that get him?’ Steph snapped, exhausted by the argument she’d rehearsed more times than she could count. ‘Is Ed—is he there?’ ‘Of course he is there, like he should!’ ‘Great,’ Steph muttered. ‘Good for him. I’m not there. And I won’t be.’ Her mother still had the audacity to gasp. ‘Stephanie! I’ve half a mind to call that boss of yours and demand of him to let you go home!’

Steph stepped into the corridor that led to the staff’s locker room and ultimately, the exit. ‘For the last time, my boss has nothing to do with it!’ she said, voice sharp with exasperation. ‘I can’t just leave—’ ‘The paintings can survive a day without you, Stephanie,’ her mother told her. ‘Your family can not.’ ‘Stop being so dramatic, mother,’ Steph replied. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner. Bye.’

Before her mother could argue, Steph ended the call and tossed her phone in her bag. A sigh tore out of her as she sank onto one of the benches, letting the weight of the call settle in her shoulders. Her fingers brushed over the strap over her bag.

It seemed each person got the gift they deserved—A.B. a first edition and a heartfelt note, her mother an argument and a dial tone. Steph looked up at the ceiling and let out a dry laugh. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she murmured to no one in particular. ‘If someone wants a different set of parents, I’ve got my mom on offer.’

Her voice echoed in the empty room. No one laughed back.

The White House, 25th of December ‘23

Just twenty-four hours later, Steph found herself ascending the familiar stairs to Rosalind’s and her office. She had no official reason to be at work on her day off—Rosalind traditionally worked on Christmas and Steph was scheduled for New Year’s—but she desperately needed to clear her mind. Coming straight from her mother’s house, where she’d endured an hour-long monologue about lonely, childless women in their forties and what was “wrong” with them, Steph needed a refuge. And where better than the White House, a fort on its own?

Steph’s brow creased. Her mother believed she was only interested in her job, but that couldn’t be further from the truth; she wanted to belong, to love someone who was right for her. With the right man, even having children was still an option, but finding him… An impossible task. Granted, falling for her boss hadn’t exactly made dating easier, but she hadn’t given up. Men just generally… sucked. Except A.B.

Steph crossed the landing outside A.B.’s office and paused. Soft jazz drifted through the closed door, the music wrapping around her like a warm and mellow shawl. She smiled to herself. He was unwinding after a long day—like he deserved. She could only imagine the chaos that had swallowed him today.

Suddenly, the door flung open, startling her. ‘Stephanie,’ A.B. greeted her with genuine surprise. ‘What are you doing here? Isn’t this your day off?’ ‘Hey A.,’ she said, relaxing. ‘How did the dinner go?’ ‘It went as expected,’ A.B. replied. ‘President Morgan complimented us for a great night, so I’m calling that a win.’ ‘But I bet you still have a few things you want to smooth out for next time,’ Steph teased. ‘Of course,’ he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in the faintest smile.

Steph rolled her eyes, drawing her winter coat closer around her. ‘Why am I not surprised at all?’ ‘Perhaps you know me too well,’ A.B. noted. ‘Which you proved last night.’ He regarded her with a soft warmth in his dark gaze. ‘Thank you. That was thoughtful.’ ‘You should pay attention to what you share with who, then,’ Steph quipped. ‘Before you know it, you get thoughtful gifts. That’s just awful, isn’t it?’ A.B. chuckled, a low and rich sound. ‘Why are you wasting your cheek at work tonight? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But I was under the impression Rosalind did Christmas and you’re scheduled for New Year’s.’ Steph shrugged, looking down at her blue skirt, its stitched snowflakes catching the hallway light. It had felt festive this morning; now it just felt… too much. ‘Honestly?’ She asked quietly. ‘Family Christmas always comes with the usual guilt trip.’ Her gaze flickered towards the threshold of his office and back to his face. Her shoulders felt heavy. It was one thing to feel like a disappointment—another to say it out loud. ‘I’m…’ she began, before swallowing hard. Her gaze fell to the carpet. ‘It’s just… easier here.’

‘Steph.’

His tone was gentle, just uttering her name; yet the way he said it made her look up. The soft warmth in his eyes reached her like a balm against her own fragility. A.B. didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to—he understood what she couldn’t say. He stepped aside, wordless, and gestured for her to go in first.

Steph shrugged off her coat—A.B. already behind her to take it—and sat down in the chair in front of his desk. As Billie Holiday’s “This Year’s Kisses” drifted through the room, Steph watched A.B. hang her coat beside his and pour her a glass of bourbon. He set it down in front of her with quiet care, then took his seat across from her.

The silence stretched on, save for Billie’s soft croons. Steph drowned in A.B.’s dark gaze. His silver hair was slightly mussed—after it usually was after a long day—and his gaze was a little faraway, but his attire had remained impeccable.

‘You’re exhausted,’ she told him softly. He smiled. ‘That’s to be expected after a long day here, especially after Christmas.’ ‘No, this day was especially gruelling,’ Steph concluded. ‘You’re blinking more slowly than you usually do, which means you’re not tired, but properly exhausted.’ A.B. leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his own glass. ‘Nothing escapes your notice, does it Stephanie?’ ‘Never.’ She thought about it for a second. ‘Except Tiny Tim. I still have no idea where he is.’ ‘As does the rest of this household, save for the culprit,’ he noted dryly. ‘I checked the gingerbread house earlier today, but our Tim remains elusive…’ he faltered, and seemed to be debating something for a second. He cleared his throat. ‘I did find something else. The miniature version of myself, with a knife in his back.’ Steph’s hand stilled above her glass. ‘Excuse me, what?!’ She echoed. ‘A knife?! In your back?! That’s just sick!’ A.B. heaved a sigh, his gaze flickering to his bookcase. ‘I’ve just… left it there,’ he finally said. ‘To be honest with you, Stephanie—I was stunned.’ He paused again, glancing at his glass of bourbon. ‘I’ve seen a lot, but that caught me off guard.’

‘A.,’ Steph said, leaning forward, her hand resting against the desk. ‘I’m sorry, you did not deserve that.’ A.B. looked at her, something unreadable in his gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last.

Steph inhaled sharply; her jaw tightened. ‘I’m going to find out who did this,’ she declared, rising to her feet. ‘And I am going to murder them myself. People have been shitty all day and this will not do—’ ‘Steph,’ A.B. protested softly. ‘Sit.’

‘A.,’ she started, but then thought better of it. She sat, eyes locked on him. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘There’s no need to burn down the house for me,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s probably just a prank.’ ‘If not for you, then for who?’ She said, picking up her glass and taking a sip. ‘You’re the reason this place still stands.’ ‘Don’t exaggerate now, Miss Harper,’ he reprimanded her, though his tone softened just for her. ‘Jasmine will take over the reins soon enough, and I’m sure this household will thrive.’ ‘That must be strange,’ Steph noted as she listened to Billie utter an unfamiliar, haunting melody. ‘To give my whole life to this place, only to have it end?’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I can tell you it certainly is.’ ‘A…’ she hesitated, searching his face. ‘It’s the way of life, Steph,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t feel bad for me. That’s not necessary.’ ‘I don’t,’ she offered. ‘I just wish I could give you a hug.’ ‘A hug,’ he echoed, as if the idea was foreign. ‘What does the protocol state about hugs?’ Steph asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ‘Physical intimacy of any kind is not permitted,’ A.B. said, watching her as she rose from her chair. ‘You should know that.’ ‘Well,’ she said in a thoughtful tone, circling his desk, her eyes twinkling, ‘fuck the protocol.’

There was no time to protest, Steph settled on the armrest of his chair and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.

For a heartbeat, he remained still—then his hand came to rest at her back; fingers splayed against her creme woolen jumper, hesitant but steady. A breath slipped from her lips. Neither of them spoke. They just… stayed.

After a long moment, A.B. shifted and cleared his throat. It was not pulling away exactly, but enough that she understood. She let go without a word, and returned to her chair.

‘I appreciate that,’ he said quietly, adjusting his cuffs. ‘More than I can say.’ Her arms still tingled from where he’d held her. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not a crime to be human once in a while, A. You’re not a machine.’ ‘I’ve lived under the impression I’m a robot from planet Usher,’ he noted dryly, reaching for his tumblr of bourbon. Steph smirked. ‘Tripp’s an idiot who hoards bathrobes and thinks no one notices. I don’t think we should take anything he says or thinks remotely serious.’

He gave her an incredulous look.

‘Oh, come on, A,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s the truth.’ ‘Our protocol states that we cannot say anything that reflects badly on the family,’ A.B. reminded her. ‘You should know that, too.’ ‘I know that,’ Steph replied, leaning back into her chair with a grin. She tilted her head. ‘But I was just stating facts here. Or are you going to tell your boss, A.?’ ‘I think the President might just agree with you,’ A.B. conceded. ‘Tripp Morgan is a colorful addition to the house.’ ‘Colorful indeed,’ Step agreed, picking up her drink and taking a sip.

Silence fell between them again, easy but charged. Steph watched him over the rim of her glass. His cologne—cedar, grounded and clean—clung faintly to her clothes. The scent drifted up her nose, enticing, familiar, soothing. She shuffled slightly in her seat—the snowflakes on her skirt gleaming defiantly.

Her thoughts wavered. Who would threaten him, of all people? This quiet, principled man, who simply did his job? Had it really been a joke, or had someone just issued a warning?

‘Do you have any idea who did it?’ She asked, her voice tentative. She leaned forward, her drink still in her hand. ‘The knife, I mean. What if…’ ‘I’d feel better believing it’s a harmless joke,’ A.B. replied in that thoughtful tone of his. ‘But in truth—anyone could have done it. Not least of them all, Didier.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Didier shouldn’t blame you for that wellness disaster,’ Steph said sharply. ‘We all know you tried to stop her.’ ‘Steph,’ he said gently. ‘You don’t have to defend me on this either. You cannot exonerate me on all accounts.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m not, A. You can be an asshole at times, so set on your goals that you forget—’ He smiled. ‘I’m still your boss, Miss Harper.’ Steph held up her hands, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Goodness, call the police. Is this against protocol too—telling the big boss the truth?!’ His eyes crinkled as his smile widened. ‘Have you ever read the protocol, Stephanie?’ ‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘When I first started here, five years ago. I was terrified that my boss—very stern and very fond of his Bible—would creep up behind me and start quizzing me.’ She took a sip from her drink, smoothing her skirt absently. ‘And to be honest, I still consult it now and then. When I need clarity. Or, if I don’t have time to dig through all those dry pages—I just ask you.’ ‘That cheek of yours is on fire tonight,’ he noted, his eyes flickering toward the glimmering snowflakes scattered across her skirt. Then his eyes rose to meet hers again, softer now. ‘Tell me why your family has to do without your presence tonight. You said it was easier to be here.’

Steph bit on her lip. She hadn’t planned on baring her soul, but he’d shared something personal too. Maybe that made it fair.

‘I might sound ungrateful,’ she began, a frown tugging at her brow. She stared down at the tumbler in her hands. ‘I have a family. But having them around, especially during Christmas, does more harm than good. My mother won’t stop reminding me what a failure I am; almost forty, unmarried, childless.’ Her choice softened. ‘My brother and his wife will spend the night talking about their charming lives, just to make sure I know mine doesn’t compare.’ She smiled meekly. ‘And then my mother chimes back in. And the cycle starts again. I don’t even know why they call it Christmas dinner, they might as well rename it Bashing Stephanie Dinner. I despise it.’

A.B. didn’t speak right away. His eyes lingered on hers, unreadable. Then, something shifted—a crease formed between his brows. He set his glass aside, fingers tracing the rim in slow circles before settling on the stack of documents in front of him.

‘That sounds painful, and wholly undeserved,’ he said. ‘They’re blind, if they cannot see the woman you truly are.’ ‘What, the childless, unmarried spinster of nearly forty?’ She quipped. ‘Or the woman who helps run the Curator’s office purely out of spite half of the time?’ ‘No, the brilliant, driven professional that you are,’ he offered quietly, his expression earnest—and it made Steph’s breath hitch in her throat. A.B., not noticing how his words tugged at her heartstrings, went on. ‘Or the kind woman that makes everyone in this fort feel seen. You’re an asset here, and I daresay every place you decide to grace with your presence.’ ‘A…’ She protested. ‘You don’t have to defend me.’

His earlier statement echoed in her words, and they both smiled.

‘Well, if I can’t defend you, I can at least suggest you tell them to bite you,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he relaxed in his seat. Steph laughed, her cheeks flushing. ‘Bite me, A.’ He huffed. ‘I do believe I’m on your side, Miss Harper.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you? Even when I’m going to accuse you of taking Timmy?’ A.B. raised one brow. ‘You’d exonerate me from every crime, yet accuse me of stealing Tiny Tim? That wounds me, Steph. Deeply. Especially coming from you.’

Steph allowed a silence to settle in between them, Billie Holiday now rendering her “Blue Moon” to them. ‘I love that song,’ Steph noted with a content sigh, closing her eyes and focussing on the soulful music drifting towards her. ‘You’re in luck, A. Billie makes me merciful—I may be bribed.’ ‘Bribed…’ He echoed. ‘Amuse me.’ She drained her bourbon and regarded him over the rim of her glass. ‘You could tell me what A.B. stands for.’ ‘You could have asked Rosalind,’ A.B. said mildly. ‘Or Angie. Or anyone who’s been here longer than five minutes.’ Steph stilled, her gaze meeting him over the rim of her glass. ‘But I’m asking you.’

A.B. didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift much—not visibly—but his eyes had softened, and there was a quiet exhale through his nose. He looked down for a second, then back at her.

‘Steph… You don’t give up, do you?’ he said, voice low, almost fond. ‘Not when I want to know something,’ Steph replied, chin lifting slightly in that defiance she wore so well. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to guess. Make your choice.’

He paused, watched her for another moment. ‘Augustus,’ he then finally said. ‘Augustus Benedict Wynter.’ He watched her as his name settled in between them—heavy, personal. ‘If you breathe as much as a word of that to anyone, I’ll have to resign tonight.’ A cheeky smile tugged on her features. ‘Now, we wouldn’t want that, Augustus Benedict Wynter.’ He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but there was no real irritation behind the gesture—only a gentle, enduring exasperation. She toyed with her empty glass in her hands. Her voice softened. ‘It’s… regal. I quite like it.’ His tone was edged with disbelief and his brow rose. ‘You do?’ Steph met his gaze, soft and quiet. ‘It suits you. It’s proper, a little old-fashioned, and secretly kind underneath all the formalities.’ A.B. blinked—slowly—but said nothing.

‘I’ll stick with A., though,’ she added with a faint smile. ‘I can’t have you recite protocol to me in the hallway every time I dare to say Augustus.’ A low, genuine chuckle escaped him. ‘You’re incorrigible, Steph. Why can you not use A.B., like every other sensible person in this house?’ ‘Are they sensible though?’ Steph countered with a laugh. ‘Sometimes I feel as if we’re the only two actual professionals left standing.’

As if summoned by her statement, a distant bang echoed through the house—sharp enough to rattle his door.

A.B. sighed, setting aside his glass with care. ‘Duty calls,’ he stated, rising from his chair. ‘It’s my day off,’ Steph said, already on her feet. ‘But if your protocol can survive the scandal of the dainty snowflakes on my skirt, I’m coming with you.’

He studied her for a moment. Though his posture remained composed, something in his expression lingered. 'Your call,’ he murmured as she smoothed the lapels of his jacket with precise fingers. ‘You’re not officially here, so perhaps the protocol can survive your attire’s scandalous embellishments.’ Steph grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. ‘I’ll write an addendum.’ A.B. smiled at that—quietly, fondly, with just the faintest edge of exasperation—and held the door open for her. As Steph passed him, something unspoken settled between them, pulling at their restraint. Warmth. Understanding. Admiration.

‘Steph?’ he said, just before she crossed the threshold into the corridor. ‘August?’ She replied in turn, her gaze flicking up to meet his. He hesitated, the hallway light softening the sharper edges of his face. ‘Thank you,’ he finally said. ‘For being here tonight.’ Her heart skipped, her smile soft and sure. ‘Always.’

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Did you like my work? Spread the love and reblog! ❤️

‘See?’ Her mother pressed—relieved, exasperated, maybe both. ‘It’s not that hard. Reach out to him. I’m telling you; life is all about chances.’ The light turned green and Steph crossed the street. ‘And hard work,’ she countered. ‘If I left everything up to chance, I wouldn’t have three job interviews lined up. I’m telling you, mom, I’m far too busy to date.’ ‘I know you work hard, Stephanie,’ her mother conceded. ‘And that is why you need a man, to keep you from working yourself into the grave. If you had stuck with your administrative career—’ Not this again… Steph rolled her eyes. ‘If I had stuck with that job, I’d be dead from boredom already,’ she cut in. ‘I want to become a curator. If I have to bust my ass to become one, so be it.’ ‘But what about having a family?!’ Her mother tried. ‘You’ll be alone!’ ‘Having a fuck trophy is not on the top of my list, mom,’ she said sharply. ‘It might happen, it might not. Besides, what if this man of yours knocks me up and then leaves me with the kids? Then what?’

It was a cheap jab, she knew that. Her parents had drifted apart in their own way—her father always gone for work, her mother desperate to hold the family together. Their divorce had gutted her mother, a devout Catholic. Still, it stung. These days Steph saw her dad too little and her mother too much.

‘Stephanie Carmen Harper!’ Her mother cried indignantly. ‘How dare you! Children are a gift from God!’ ‘Yes, such a gift,’ Steph replied evenly, though her mind wandered to her five-year old nephew, with bad manners and a fouler mouth—neither his fault, just his parents failing at the basics. ‘I know you don’t mean that,’ her mother snapped. ‘But either way, you should hurry, before the choice is made for you. We both know you’re almost too old to have a child. And no—your cat doesn’t count as offspring. That thing is a menace to society.’ ‘His name is Henry the Eight,’ Steph corrected. ‘Of course he’s a pest. He has to be.’ Another sigh crackled down the line. Steph smiled meekly and approached the security post. Almost there. Eight hours from now, she’d know if her latest mishap had been catastrophic. It was almost funny how she’d managed to fuck up her immaculate record in a matter of weeks.

‘Send me his number,’ she said, rummaging in her coat for her ID card. ‘I’ll text—what was his name again?’ ‘Rafael,’ her mother said, tone softening. ‘He goes by Raf.’ ‘Great,’ Steph murmured, frowning. Something in the back of her mind prickled. ‘Wait—please tell me it’s not the same Raf we met that one vacation back home in Colombia?’ She lowered her tone. ‘The boy that wouldn’t stop poking me and I asked me why I didn’t have any breasts?’ ‘He was just a boy back then…’ her mother tried. ‘And I was just fourteen!’ ‘Exactly, and now you’re—’

The rest of the argument evaporated. A woman stood at the security post, laughing with the guards. Her grey curls framed her face in elegant waves and even in the gloomy weather, her mahogany skin glowed. The navy knee-length dress, the black coat, the heels that gave her endless legs—there was an air about her Steph recognized instantly.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

‘I have to go,’ she said quickly, ending the call.

‘Hey Steph!’ Daniel, one of the guards who loved reading, greeted her. ‘How are you this morning?’ His colleague Jorge nodded. ‘Morning, my lady.’ ‘This is Stephanie?’ The woman asked warmly, her dark eyes sharpening with interest. ‘The Stephanie Harper?’ Steph kept her voice even. ‘May I ask who wishes to know?’ ‘I’m Marianne,’ the woman said, offering her hand. ‘I just flew into town for the weekend to surprise A.B.—though he’s not answering his phone.’ She chuckled. ‘Classic. He always vanishes into his work before a big event.’ Steph took Marianne’s hand and shook it. ‘He’s… dedicated. The Easter Egg Roll is coming up next week.’ Marianne’s gaze flickered over her—almost assessing—and then it softened. She leaned in slightly, the perfume on her wrists brushing the air between them. ‘Oh, I know, darling,’ she said, her smile small but sharp. ‘That’s exactly why I’m here. Someone has to remind him he’s more than just his job...’

Daniel and Jorge exchanged a glance, curiosity peaking. Who exactly was this woman to A.B. Wynter? His girlfriend?!

Steph shifted her weight. A.B. would hate it—every last word. ‘We can’t let you in without his permission,’ she finally said, her posture stiff, the guards nodding in agreement. Then, against better judgment, she added, ‘I can pass along a message, if you’d like.’ ‘You’d do that?’ Marianne’s smile widened, gracious and disarming. ‘Thank you. Just tell him I’m here, and to clear at least one night for dinner.’ Steph nodded, every inch the professional. ‘Of course.’

After brushing off Marianne’s profuse thank you’s, Steph headed toward the house.

Perfect. Just perfect.

There was no way anyone could dislike Marianne. She was gorgeous—sophisticated, confident, clever and… A.B.’s age. She was exactly his type. If he wasn’t already with her, because of the ‘complications’ he’d hinted at before, he was a fool. And Marianne? She didn’t look like the kind of woman who let a good thing slip away.

Steph inhaled sharply, willing the tears that stung behind her eyes away. Fine. She’d get in his office, apologize for being unprofessional—again—and inform him that his girlfriend was in town, ready to wine and dine him tonight. Whatever that entailed. None of her business. She swiped her card at the back entrance and climbed the usher’s staircase. At his door, she stopped, knocked.

Of course he was already in. ‘Come in.’

She opened the door, catching him at his desk in that damned grey suit—one of her favorites. Her stomach fluttered. Fuck.

‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice steady, though her hands tightened in her coat pockets. ‘I have three things I need to say. May I?’ ‘By all means,’ A.B. replied, leaning back in his chair, tone smooth, measured—the same he used to soothe ambassadors. Steph closed the door behind her and rested lightly against it. ‘First,’ she began, ‘I apologize for my… slip-up in the kitchen yesterday.’ Her eyes fixed on the edge of his desk. ‘I fled like the floor was lava—which it was not—and I…’ She forced a faint smile. ‘I usually own what I say, and I do now. I met her this morning. She’s nice, and I’m happy for you.’ Something in his gaze sharpened, though his expression remained blank. ‘That’s the second thing—she was at the gate just now,’ Steph continued carefully. ‘She’s in town to surprise you, but you weren’t answering the phone.’ He set his pen down with meticulous care. ‘I see. And you… spoke with her?’ Steph’s eyes flared—did he just insinuate that she had been snooping?! ‘Miss Marianne did the talking,’ she replied coolly. ‘I only asked how she knew my name and whether she had a message.’ ‘And you felt you should relay it.’ His tone was calm, but carried a faint edge—as if he was holding in a storm. ‘Like I said; she asked me to tell you she’s in town,’ Steph said evenly. ‘And that you should clear one night for dinner.’

There. Polite. Distant. Just the way he wanted.

‘The Easter Egg Roll is next week,’ he murmured, almost to himself, pulling an old phone from his top drawer. His private phone, no doubt. It didn’t matter. Steph kept quiet as he scrolled. ‘Thank you,’ he finally said. ‘Was there anything else?’ She fumbled with the buttons of her coat, the wool far too heavy for the oppressive air in his office. ‘Yes. Thirdly, I’d like to take a few days off after Easter,’ she said. ‘I have three job interviews and I want the time to prepare.’

That landed. ‘Really?’ he asked, blinking once. ‘Where?’ She shrugged, unwilling to share the details just yet. ‘You told me to look ahead. I did.’

A small silence settled between them. He studied her, memorizing her face, her stance, her breath.

‘Stephanie,’ he said at last—calm, exacting. ‘Sit down.’ For a heartbeat, Steph considered refusing. Then, she crossed the room and sat opposite of him, spine straight and hands folded in her lap.

‘You’ve been… different,’ he observed. ‘Distracted. Slipping in ways I’m not accustomed to from you. Will you tell me why?’ Her jaw tightened. ‘You’re pushing me out,’ she said flatly. ‘And I’m trying to recover from the first slip—New Year’s Eve. But everyone in this house is hellbent on reminding me.’

‘You are mistaken,’ he countered firmly. ‘I’m not pushing you out. I want the best for you.’ She let out a quiet, yet sharp laugh. ‘Which is exactly the same thing, chief. Just tied with a prettier bow.’ His eyes flickered with irritation. ‘Do you think I wish to lose one of my best? This house cannot contain your potential. It would be selfish to keep you.’

She froze. Wait—was this still about the house?

‘It’s the White House,’ she whispered. ‘If it can’t, there’s no hope for me left.’ ‘This institute is far from perfect,’ he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s old, stoic—bound to its protocols and traditions. Don’t let yourself be buried by it.’ She drew a breath. ‘A., no. I—’ Her words faltered, caught between what she wanted to say and the weight of his gaze.

Something in his composure had shifted—though just for a heartbeat. ‘If you truly think that, then I’ve neglected my duty to remind you what you’re capable of,’ he concluded, his eyes sharp and soft all at once. ‘The House is not all there is.’

Steph stared at him, her chest tightening. The words landed heavier than any praise or reprimand he’d ever given. This was not just about the job—she could feel it in the way his gaze lingered, the pause before he spoke. Her lips parted.

‘No.’

The word came out soft, but decisive. She shook her head, eyes flashing. ‘You don’t get to do that. Make it sound like you’re the problem. You and Ros gave me a chance when I had the degree, but barely experience in the field.’ She smiled faintly, eyes shifting to his desk. ‘Though… Ros admitted it was really you.’ She looked up. ‘It’s always been you, August. Inspiring me.’

Something flickered in his eyes, something heavy and unspoken. He leaned forward, elbows resting against the desk. His voice was low, careful, like he was stepping on ice. ‘Stephanie… You can’t say that.’ Her pulse stuttered, but she held his gaze. ‘It’s the truth.’

Silence stretched on between them, charged and suffocating. And so did that thing, the string neither dared to name, but it was undeniably present. Her lips parted again, ready to speak, but then—

‘Perhaps,’ he murmured, his voice bearing a faint edge that he didn’t intend. ‘My reasons for keeping you here… they’re not entirely—’ He stopped, jaw tight. His eyes stayed on hers, the shield he usually wore faltering.

She saw it clearly now; the same, raw restraint that burned inside her too. The longing. Her heart lurched. Thump.

But then it was gone. He straightened, cleared his throat. He added, in a low tone, ‘Tell me about these interviews.’

Just like that, BAM. The way was shut.

Five years. This was all she’d ever get: a crack in his carefully built facade. Proof it was real. Proof it was impossible.

She swallowed. ‘Of course. The National Museum of African American History and Culture, the Phillips Collection.’ She smoothed her coat. ‘And a private gallery in Capitol Hill—the Foundry. It’s less prestigious, but it could be the change I need.’

He blinked, clearly impressed. ‘Stephanie. Any one of them would be fortunate to have you.’ ‘I guess so,’ she replied, looking at her folded hands. ‘Uhm… I might need a recommendation letter. Can I ask you—’ ‘Of course. Anything you need,’ he interrupted, voice steady. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t doubt you.’ Her lips barely moved. ‘Thank you.’

She rose to her feet, and he did the same. ‘Whatever you decide,’ he said, his tone measured, ‘make sure it challenges you. Grow beyond these walls.’ Steph nodded. Her chest felt hollow, wounded in a way she hadn’t known before. It was clear: he cared more than he should, more than he allowed himself to show. The battle between duty and desire had been decided. And Steph… she hadn’t just lost the battle here in his office—she’d lost the war.

She was bleeding out. And that was exactly why she had to leave.

National Museum of African American History and Culture, 5th of April ‘24

‘Well, Miss Harper, we would like to thank you for your time. You will hear from us soon,’ the senior curator said, their handshake firm and professional. ‘Do you remember your way out, or should I walk you?’ ‘Thank you for the interview,’ Steph replied with a polite smile. ‘I think I’ll be fine. Have a great day!’

She shut the office door behind her and wandered back into the Heritage Hall of the National Museum of African American History and Culture, taking in the surroundings. This place had always been one of her sanctuaries; the thought of shaping it, guiding the stories told here, filled her with something sharp and exhilarating. She lingered in the space, breathing it in. The team she had just met had been spirited, warm and clearly passionate about their work—led by a senior curator that exuded sophistication, style and zeal. It was a different air than the White House: less rigid, less ceremonial. Livelier.

She offered a small smile to the receptionist at the welcome desk—pointless, of course; it was still far too crowded for a Friday afternoon—and made her way toward the exit on Constitution Avenue. Her pace slowed to admire the bronze Swing Low sculpture that floated high above her head, her chest tightening as she beheld the flowing lines of the bronze and the wing-like forms. Artist Richard Hunt had created this striking piece as a reference to the African American spiritual ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.’

‘If you get there before I do, Coming for to carry me home, Tell all my friends I'm coming too, Coming for to carry me home.’

She bowed her head in respect. Would her late uncle John be there, waiting for all of them? A faint smile ghosted over her lips. Her Uncle John—who’d married her mother’s sister—had been the one to ignite her passion for history and art; sharing pieces of his African American ancestry with her when she was still a child. Her family had lost him too soon, but she was forever grateful to have known him. If he could see her today, standing here, he’d be so proud. He’d want her to take the opportunity to grow.

‘Look at you, Stephie. Choosing your own path. Let your mother talk—she means well.’

Her eyes stung. Steph found a quiet corner of the hall, where she carefully set her bag between her feet and slipped her wool coat over her black suit jacket and matching skirt. Damn, she missed uncle John—the one man that always had defended her, especially when her father wasn’t around.

She sniffled, her gaze drifting through the hall. This curator’s position was an opportunity of a lifetime—one she was going to be unable to refuse. And though she hated admitting it, A.B. had been right. She needed to grow. She wanted to grow, to stretch beyond the walls of the Madhouse. To stand in a place like this, where history was alive, where she could gain new perspectives. The White House was beautiful, historic—but not enough to hold her. She had to leave.

Even if it meant she’d had to do without Augustus Benedict Wynter.

God. A.B.

Her teeth caught the inside of her cheek. She shouldn’t waste another thought on him. He belonged to another woman, he was twenty-five years her senior and completely out of reach. And yet, he lingered. Like a ghost.

Christ.

She pressed her lips together, mingled with the stream of tourists and stepped outside—where the familiar view of the Andrew Mellon Auditorium and the soothing trickle of the museum’s fountains greeted her. She inhaled sharply, taking in the brisk April air. ‘Two down, Harper,’ she murmured to herself. ‘One to go.’ Her fingers found her phone in her coat pocket. Three messages, all from Rosalind.

Rosalind: How did your interview go? Did you speak with Robin Miller after all? Rosalind: Oh Steph, something appeared on your desk this morning. I have no idea how. Can we FaceTime? A picture would spoil it. Also, I’m sorry, but my mother baked cookies yesterday. She didn’t know you were on leave. Rosalind: *attachment*

Steph frowned and clicked on the image, her pulse skipping. Something appeared on her desk? What could it be? A gift? A dismissal letter from A.B.? Something urgent?

Her chest deflated as a tin of chocolate chip cookies popped up on her screen. Right. Of course Ros shared a picture of the cookies without spoiling the ‘something’. A groan escaped her. Damnit. Trust Rosalind to bait her with both mystery and sugar. She heaved a long sigh, and typed back:

A secret visitor and cookies? Now you’re just cruel. I just wrapped the interview. Be there in fifteen—try not to eat them all before I get there.

The White House, 5th of April ‘24

Steph didn’t have her identity card with her, but Jorge was kind enough to let her in anyway. She slipped through the back entrance with Sheila—who had just returned from her not-so-secret smoking break—and hurried up the usher’s staircase. The door to A.B.’s office was closed and the chief himself was nowhere in sight. Good. She exhaled slowly while she climbed the stairs to the third floor. It seemed the universe had finally granted her a well-deserved break; keeping ghosts and hot gentlemen at bay.

She barged into the curator’s office. Rosalind looking up. Two cups of tea and the tin filled with cookies sat invitingly on her desk. ‘Hey,’ Rosalind said. ‘You’re fast!’ ‘Tea, cookies and gossip,’ Steph replied with a grin. ‘How can I refuse? Now, tell me—what’s going on?’

Rosalind pointed at Step’s desk and Steph followed the line of sight—then froze. Her jaw nearly dropped. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ She breathed.

There, sitting proudly on her desk, was Timmy.

Steph slipped her examination gloves on and carefully lifted the bronze sculpture, inspecting him like a mother reunited with a runaway child. ‘How did you get here? I’ve been looking everywhere… Tim, where have you been?!’ ‘It’s a mystery,’ Rosalind said. ‘He was already here when I came in.’ Steph cradled the sculpture against her chest and sank into her chair, a relieved laugh escaping her. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad he’s back. If you don’t mind though, I’ll ask our tech girl to put an Airtag on him.’ ‘That could damage the bronze,’ Rosalind noted, though her eyes were twinkling with mischief—she was already considering it. ‘And I don’t think he’ll get stolen again. Perhaps the perpetrator put him back themselves.’ Her gaze landed on a slip of paper half hidden under Tim’s little bronze behind. ‘What’s that? A confession?’

Steph carefully set Tim aside, removed her gloves and picked it up. Her fingers curled around the edge of the paper.

It seems Tiny Tim has put his rebellious days behind him. He was found in Tripp’s closet, guarding a large quantity of salt from our kitchen.

Her lips curved into a smile before she could stop them. God. That handwriting. That phrasing. Of course. ‘What?’ Rosalind pressed. ‘What is it?’ ‘A.B.’ Steph said, her smile turning smug. ‘Apparently, Tiny Tim was found in Tripp’s closet. Told you.’ Rosalind sighed and slumped in her chair. ‘Of course, the one place Elsyie didn’t check…’ Her dark eyes lifted, sharper now. ‘But why didn’t A.B. just tell me? Why put Tim on your desk?’ Steph let her gaze linger on the note a beat longer than she should have. ‘Well,’ she said lightly. ‘I was the one who reported him missing with A.B. while you were on leave, and we theorized Timothy here had a bit of a rebellious streak. I guess he wanted me to know.’ Rosalind offered a cookie from the tin. ‘On the topic of A.B.,’ she said tentatively. ‘Daniel mentioned a few days ago you spoke with A.B. 's girlfriend, just before Easter. And then Jasmine told me this morning she heard A.B. arguing over the phone that day. The phrase ‘boundaries’ came up twice.’ Steph’s smile faltered—boundaries?! Had this been about Marianne’s unscheduled visit? It had to be. She took a small bite of her treat, letting the chocolate chip heaven anchor her. She had kept her mouth shut about Marianne—to protect A.B. and herself—but it hadn’t been enough. Of course Ros had found out about it. ‘I did. She was nice. Wanted me to tell A.B. she was in town to surprise him.’ ‘And you did?’ Rosalind prompted. ‘Of course.’ Steph evaded her colleague’s gaze and glanced at Tiny Tim. She nibbled on another bite. ‘Mhm, this is delicious. Tell your mother I’m in love with her.’

Exactly. Being in love with Rosalind’s mother was far safer than being in love with her boss.

Rosalind chuckled. ‘Well, A.B. certainly keeps things interesting, especially when he doesn’t want to.’ She leaned back, eyes glinting. ‘But never mind that—how did the interview go? You were at the NMAAHC today, right? I hope it was less disastrous than the Phillips Collection on tuesday… Spill the beans.’

Steph flinched slightly. The team at the Phillips Collection hadn’t been welcoming, nor very friendly. She had briefed Rosalind about the experience immediately after. ‘Phillips who?’ She said, and Rosalind laughed.

Steph straightened in her chair. ‘It went really well. Robin Miller is an inspiration, I loved discussing the contemporary collections with them. And the curator team I met along the way was spirited, kind and clearly passionate. The building feels so much more open and modern than this place.’ ‘Mhhm,’ Rosalind murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ‘The museum is still young, and one of a kind. This place is ancient.’ Steph glanced down at Tiny Tim, resisting the urge to touch his base without her gloves. The small, stubborn bronze figure grounded her—a reminder of past adventures, growth and… A.B. Her chest tightened, a mix of ache and anticipation stirring.

‘What are you thinking, Harper?’ Rosalind asked gently. ‘You seem conflicted.’ ‘I am,’ Steph admitted, looking up. ‘It feels like a great opportunity, a place where I could grow and prove to myself what I’m capable of.’ ‘...but?’ Rosalind prompted. Steph heaved a quiet sigh. ‘I’d miss all of you terribly. Leaving this house feels like… leaving my world behind.’ ‘We won’t disappear on you, you know,’ Rosalind said, sipping her tea. ‘Off the clock, we’ll still be around.’ ‘You’re going to stick around, I know that,’ Steph replied with a grateful smile. ‘But some of our coworkers… have very strict professional boundaries.’ Rosalind offered a second cookie. ‘Boundaries can shift, especially when the occasion calls for it.’

A small silence settled, during which both women enjoyed their treat.

‘You won’t be seeing Lilly,’ Rosalind then said with a grin. ‘Or St. Pierre.’ Steph laughed, the sound bright. ‘I won’t mourn them, that’s for sure…’ ‘Who would, I wonder…’ Rosalind murmured, trying to hide her grin but failing. ‘Oh, tell me more about your interview—before Lilly walks in and I get in trouble…’

After an hour, Steph stood.

‘Thanks for this, Ros,’ she said, features softening further. ‘It really helps me see everything more clearly.’ ‘Always, Harper,’ Rosalind replied, draining the last of her tea. She gave a small nod towards the papers and files on her own desk. ‘Go on, enjoy those last few days off. Tiny Tim and the House can wait.’ Steph chuckled and fastened her coat. ‘Aye, captain. Have a great weekend.’ She opened the door, and lingered in the doorway. ‘Do you have anything exciting lined up?’ Rosalind set down her empty cup. ‘Yes, the husband is taking me out for dinner tonight. How about you?’ ‘I… have a date on Saturday,’ she admitted, making a face. ‘With someone named Rafael.’ ‘Oh? Do tell me about this Rafael,’ Rosalind said, arching an eyebrow. ‘You sound thrilled.’ Steph laughed. ‘We’ll see how it goes. I’ll tell you next week. Bye, Ros…’

She shut the door behind her, smirking as she stepped into the corridor. A successful interview. Tiny Tim. Chocolate chip cookies. A date tomorrow—though it was more about the date than the man—and… no A.B. Maybe fate was extending her break.

She froze. Because there he was.

Augustus Benedict Wynter. Standing just past the corner. Deep-blue suit. Impeccable. Expression unreadable. Handsome, in that maddening, classic way of his. Right on time to remind her the universe didn’t differentiate between break… and heart-break. Her gut knotted.

‘Hey,’ she said softly, too soft. ‘Miss Harper,’ he said, formal, like he was addressing a difficult diplomat. His eyes flicked over her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today,’ he paused, his jaw ticking slightly. ‘Or did you forget to tell me you’re back?’ ‘Ros wanted to know how my interview went,’ Steph replied, shuffling on her feet. Her heels clicked on the carpet. ‘She offered chocolate chip cookies. And… I’m glad to see Tiny Tim has returned.’ His smile was small, tight, just enough. ‘Yes, he has.’

Steph studied the shadows under his eyes. Despite everything, she stepped closer. ‘I hope you’re alright,’ she said. ‘You look exhausted, chief.’ ‘Thanks,’ he murmured. ‘I’m managing.’ ‘Okay,’ she replied, resisting the urge to reach out—to comfort, to tease, to challenge. It was not her place. Never had been. ‘Can you promise me to go home on time today?’ He raised a brow, a flicker of annoyance passing through his gaze. ‘I didn’t know you have the authority to order me around, Miss Harper.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m off the clock, chief,’ she said, a little bit defiantly. ‘And it was more of a plea than an order. But you can add it to my list of slip-ups if you feel like it.’ He straightened, his voice even. ‘I’ll take your plea under advisement.’

Her features softened, her eyes lingering on him—memorizing the tight line of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes. She longed to reach out, but—no. Boundaries. She was a professional Boss Babe. These were lines she could not cross. Not now.

‘The interviews—did they go as you hoped?’ He asked, tone clipped. ‘One did, the other was a disaster,’ Steph confessed. A sigh escaped her. ‘I won’t bore you with the details. You’ve got enough on your plate.’ He watched her for a moment—too calm, too controlled—but his gaze lingered a fraction too long, as if trying not to show more than he should. ‘Of course. You may fill me in later.’ Steph adjusted her coat. ‘I’ll see you next week,’ she said softly, forcing a casual smile. She turned, her pulse pounding in her ears as she moved towards the staircase. Each step felt like thunder, a tether in the storm. She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze lingering, an invisible weight that was both unsettling and exhilarating.

On the stairwell, she exhaled, shoulders loosening. She was still standing, still moving forward. And yet… a small, dangerous thought slipped into the back of her mind. He had heard her tell Rosalind about the date. His gaze had lingered, his jaw had ticked. His tone had been sharper than usual. He noticed. Hid it. Yet… cared. He was slipping.

And that was a dangerous thing to know.

Steph’s condo, 5th of April ‘24

It was around ten. Steph had settled on her couch, her legs curled under a cozy blanket. She sipped her wine, a content sigh escaping her. She used to love going out with the girls, losing herself on the dance floor until dawn, but now…

The living room bathed in the soft, amber glow of her Tiffany lamps—an unlikely find from Miss Pixie’s ages ago. Jazz played softly in the background. Henry lay sprawled out on the spare chair, fast asleep. Beside her, Pride and Prejudice waited patiently to be picked up. This was perfect.

And yet…

The day’s events kept replaying her mind, her awkward brush-in with A.B. the star of the show. God. Why did he have to wear that blue suit today? And why did he—and the suit—have to linger in her thoughts so easily? He made everything harder by just existing.

Her phone buzzed. Steph picked it up. It was Rafael, confirming their date tomorrow. She pressed her lips together, a knot of guilt twisting in her chest. It wasn’t Rafael’s fault that her mother had set them up. He seemed nice—truly—but her heart wasn’t hers to give. She heaved a sigh.

Fuck you, Augustus Benedict Wynter. Ten times over. And then some.

Her gaze shifted to the message thread with A.B. and she opened it. Bit her lip. She set aside her phone. No, she shouldn’t. This was a bad idea, another line to the list. But…

She picked her phone up again, gazing at the screen. No! But… maybe just… She heaved a sigh. One message wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just to make sure he was okay. He couldn’t berate her for that, could he? She could love him from a distance. Just until she left. Which was soon anyway. Her thumbs moved almost of their own accord:

A., did you go home?

She stared at the screen, hesitating for a heartbeat. Then hit send. Her pulse picked up and her eyes flicked over their messages as if his reply might materialize right away—of course it wouldn’t. The man was probably still working. Or sipping wine with Marianne before doing unholy things to her. Or—she really hoped—already asleep. Christ. Breathe, Harper.

Her phone buzzed, almost too soon, and Steph’s heart made a small leap.

A.B. Wynter: I’m still in the office, wrapping some things up. You should get some rest.

She groaned. Of course. He hadn’t gone home. God forbid Augustus Benedict Wynter ever gave in to something as simple as rest. Her fingers moved over her screen.

It’s past ten, A. Go home. Please. What could possibly be so urgent it needs finishing now?! It can wait until tomorrow. Or the day after—you’re off tomorrow, you know.

She hovered, biting her lip tentatively. Then added, softer:

At least tell me you ate.

The pause between texts was longer this time. She stared at the screen again, her stomach practicing backflips. Finally, it came. Short. Decisive.

A.B. Wynter: I didn’t.

‘God damnit,’ she murmured as her head dropped back against the couch. Typical. Of course he refused to take care of himself. She snatched up her phone and hit call before she could think better of it.

‘Seriously?’ She asked when he picked up. ‘You’re working a twelve hour shift and you simply didn’t eat?! Did you forget you’re human, A.?’ ‘Good evening, Miss Harper,’ he said calmly, tone even. ‘I had a sandwich around noon. But explain to me why I am scolded by you over the phone after ten?’ ‘I’m still off the clock, chief,’ she announced, voice warm but firm. ‘Which means I get to scold you for skipping dinner. And probably breakfast, which adds to two violations of the Self-Care code today. ‘I can take care of myself, Miss Harper,’ he replied, and Steph heard the faint creak of his chair as he shifted in his seat. ‘It’s my job, not yours.’ ‘You’re lucky I don’t feel petty tonight,’ she told him. ‘Am I?’ He asked, clipped. ‘Is this the part where I’m supposed to ask you why? Because I don’t think I will.’ Steph’s throat tightened, his jab landing between her ribs. He never talked to her that way, not even when he was angry. She swallowed. This was different. Something was up. ‘You’re brooding, August,’ she noted softly. ‘What’s up?’ ‘Nothing’s up,’ he said at once, but his voice was calm, too calm. ‘I’m tired. I wasn’t expecting a phone call this late.’

Steph pressed her lips together, staring at the glow of her Tiffany lamp as she let the silence settle in between them. He was drawing a line, a boundary. She wanted to push—God, more than anything—but should she?

‘Hey,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I know—I just… I worry about you.’ He drew a breath, soft. ‘I know.’ ‘I mean, you take care of everyone in that stupid house,’ she went on. ‘But who takes care of you?’ A heavy sigh escaped him. ‘Steph…’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare to give me that look, Augustus Benedict Wynter. I know you are giving me the look. You know, the ‘I’m the Chief Usher here so I know best’.’ There was a brief pause. Then, he spoke—defiant and low. ‘Bite me, Harper.’

Steph smiled, her features softening. He was there, behind the composed mask of propriety and restraint.

‘That’s my line,’ she said lightly. ‘But consider yourself lucky that I can’t bite you. Don’t make me come in to work.’ ‘Stephanie…’ he murmured, his tone weary now. ‘You’re impossible.’ ‘And you’re not taking care of yourself,’ she shot back, sipping her wine. She tilted her head. ‘But can I tell you a secret?’ He remained silent, which she took for his consent. ‘I didn’t eat either,’ she whispered. ‘After I got home, I was too worked up to think about eating. I forced myself to cook something, but it ended up in the fridge.’

The line crackled under the small silence. A.B. finally let out a slow exhale. ‘So you plead guilty too,’ he said, his tone weary, soft and frayed at the edges. ‘Yeah, but at least I tried,’ she noted, setting down the wine. ‘You just forgot.’ ‘What did you make?’ He asked, and she could hear the faint rustling of the papers on his desk. ‘Butter chicken,’ she said. ‘But now it’s just a sad butter chicken in my fridge.’ He chuckled, then held his breath as if he caught himself crossing his own lines. ‘Then go eat, Miss Harper.’ ‘Will you eat if I do?’ she asked, looking up at the ceiling. ‘I will eat something when I get home,’ he promised. ‘I’m finishing up here.’

She could picture him and his blue suit in his office, alone. Exhausted after a long day. Still carrying the weight of the House on his shoulders, forgetting his own needs. ‘Tell you what,’ she began, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger. ‘What if I reheat the sad butter chicken and bring it to you? We can eat at your beloved office.’ ‘Steph…’

Oh God, no. She didn’t mean that—she’d never ask him to betray Marianne. She was a girl’s girl, even if she was judging the woman in question for neglecting her girlfriend duties. Steph inhaled sharply. ‘I didn’t mean that—don’t worry. I just… figured our Chief Usher shouldn’t starve on my watch.’

His chair creaked as he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll not have you go out in the dead of night for me, Miss Harper. I do know how to take care of myself, and I should do better.’ ‘You should,’ she agreed. ‘Because not eating is a problem.’ His tone was low, caught somewhere between exasperation and something dangerously soft. ‘You’re relentless.’ ‘I know,’ she whispered, sinking further into the couch with a grin. ‘I can bring Henry as my chaperone. Would that make you feel better?’ Henry looked up from his throne and flicked his tail, not on board with the idea. ‘You’d bring another monarch in the White House without informing our President?’ A.B. noted, amusement lacing through his tone. ‘That’s a violation of the protocol.’ Steph glanced at her cat. ‘Do you hear that, Hen? You should write the President a formal letter of complaint. How dare he disgrace you like that?!’ Henry stretched and hopped onto the couch. ‘Mreeoww!’ ‘He says I’ll need to take a cab,’ Steph said as she scratched the cat behind his ears. ‘He’s not leaving his court.’ ‘You stay put,’ A.B. said decisively.

The word settled between them, heavy and deliberate. Steph’s fingers traced the edge of her blanket as she tried not to flinch. On the other end of the line, A.B. rustled with his papers. His chair scraped.

‘I will not have you go out on your own,’ he finally murmured. ‘It’s not right.’ ‘I’m a grown woman,’ she told him. ‘I can take care of myself, August.’ ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘We’re both guilty as charged, chief,’ she quipped. ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’ ‘So it seems,’ he agreed. He fell silent, then heaved a sigh, the battle between duty and desire heavy in it. ‘Then I’ve no choice… Give me fifteen minutes.’ Steph’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Make that ten, Mister Wynter,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare to be late.’ ‘Stephanie—’ ‘Oh, and be sure to suit up,’ she added with a laugh, her eyes shifting to Henry. ‘His fluffy Majesty expects proper introductions.’

Oh shit!

Dread and excitement coiled in her stomach. He was coming over. In ten fucking minutes. For real. What had she done?!

Steph lunged from the couch—almost knocking over her wine and Henry, the latter meowing loudly in protest—and rushed into her bedroom. ‘Don’t overdo it, Stephanie,’ she told herself as she regarded her reflection. ‘We’re not putting in effort. He is your boss. And he still still has a girlfriend.’

She exchanged her fluffy pyjama pants and threadbare slippers for soft black leggings and cute pink socks. She regarded her lace blush-pink tank top, paired with a soft brown vest that threatened to slip off her shoulder. ‘Cute,’ she murmured to herself, picking up a claw clip from her nightstand and putting her hair up. A sophisticated, relaxed woman with flushed cheeks stared back at her. She nodded—good enough.

She cleared the living room under Henry’s watchful, judging eye, and put the butter chicken on the stove. As the pot simmered, she washed her rice and put it in the rice cooker.

‘Meeow!’ Henry announced from the couch, tail flicking. ‘Yes,’ Steph said, setting the table. ‘August is coming over for a late dinner. Remember that we like August. Be nice, and don’t hiss at him, okay? He’s not like Paul.’ She paused. ‘Or the others.’

The doorbell rang. Steph brushed a hand through her hair and took a deep breath—which didn’t calm her nearly enough. ‘Are you coming to greet your visitor, My Liege?’ She asked the cat, to which Henry leapt off the couch. Together, they made it to the door—Henry’s tail pointed up like a sceptre.

There he was. Augustus Benedict Wynter, impeccably dressed despite the hour. The shadows under his eyes had deepened—a long day indeed. His usual sharp gaze had softened a bit, and Steph’s stomach churned nervously.

‘Good evening,’ he said, his gaze flicking over her briefly before landing on Henry. ‘His Majesty is here for a royal introduction, I see.’ ‘Hey,’ she replied, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. ‘He is. Hen, this is August. August, this is His Fluffy Majesty Henry the Eight.’ A.B. nodded at the cat. ‘It’s a pleasure, Your Majesty.’ Henry didn’t move, just sat in the hall with his tail curled neatly around him. His golden eyes narrowed in regal disdain.

‘That’s the stink-eye,’ Steph murmured, pulling her vest closer around her. ‘Trust me, it could be worse.’ A.B. crouched down on the threshold and extended his hand. He waited patiently as Henry regarded him with contempt. ‘You can try to blink slowly,’ Steph said. ‘It might work in your favor.’ ‘What am I telling him?’ A.B. asked as he did what he was told, but stayed perfectly still. Steph shivered against the cold gust that came from the corridor. ‘That you’re not here to stage a coup.’ ‘Mreeww,’ Henry decreed, inching forward to sniff the new subject. Butler-man smelled of linen and expensive aftershave. Good enough. For now. He delivered a firm bap of his paw to A.B.’s wrist. Then, he stalked back to the living room with his tail held high.

Steph watched in disbelief as the cat left them alone in the hall. ‘I can talk to August unchaperoned?’ She called after him. ‘So scandalous, My Liege.’ A.B. rose to his feet and lingered on the threshold, as if he knew that stepping inside meant stretching every boundary they had lived by. ‘Was that a good sign?’ He asked tentatively. ‘Come in,’ Steph said with a nod. ‘Well, since he hasn’t leapt at your legs like a lion, I think you’re good. A.B. stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. His dark eyes settled on her. ‘Then I suppose I should be grateful to have survived the royal introduction unscathed.’ Her lips curved into a smile. ‘Uhuh. He hates people, but his judgement ranges between the stink eye and immediate eviction. He once chased a date out of here by jumping at him, claws out.’ She laughed. ‘The poor man nearly cried.’ ‘Mreeoww,’ Henry retorted from the living room. ‘No, August won’t give you pâté,’ Steph replied as if she was negotiating with the monarch. ‘You’re on a diet.’ A.B. rose and shed his coat, his gaze brushing hers as he put it away. ‘Careful, Steph. Before he divorces and beheads you too.’ ‘MREEOWW!’ She chuckled and leaned against the doorpost. ‘He wouldn’t dare. He just has a few trust issues. I can’t say I blame him, the five homes before me did little to earn his trust.’ A.B. put his shawl on the coat rack. ‘Did he divorce and behead them, then?’ ‘He left all them bereaved from his royal presence,’ Steph noted smugly. ‘Which is punishment enough. He couldn’t get along with the children in his first home, nearly bit off a finger in the second, and the old lady who took him in after that… well, she died.’ ‘Divorced, de-fingered, died,’ A.B. summed up, the faintest pull at his mouth betraying his amusement. He followed Step into the living room, the small monarch on their tail again. Steph walked into her kitchen where the rich scents of butter chicken curled around her. She picked the pinot noir off the counter and handed it wordlessly to A.B. ‘Fourth family said they were no match with him; they thought his face was, and I quote: off-putting.’

A.B. watched Henry patrol around his feet as Steph found a corkscrew. ‘Fifth lady returned him after mere days—he scratched her, and that was that,’ she continued, steering the butter chicken and checking on the rice. ‘I’m wife number six.’ ‘Then let us hope His Majesty doesn’t bury wife number six,’ A.B. noted. ‘Though it’s said she survived.’

After a small discussion whether to serve the meal with naan or not and A.B. had poured the wine, they settled at the table. Henry sat down at A.B.’s side and looked up expectantly.

‘Oh, he’s made up his mind,’ Steph said. ‘Well, Hen? Verdict?’ ‘Mreeow,’ Henry decreed and put his front paws on A.B.’s shins. A.B. looked at her, clearly unfamiliar with cat behavior. ‘MREEOWWW!’ ‘He wants you to pick him up,’ Steph translated. ‘Do you mind? Otherwise I can take him—’

A.B. obliged. His hands moved—a little unsure but steady—and placed the royal feline on his lap. Henry let out a soft mewl and settled immediately.

‘No way,’ Steph murmured, brows knitting. ‘He never does this.’ She leaned back in her chair, regarding her now purring cat like she didn’t recognize him. ‘I had to buy him three cat trees before he even tolerated me. But you—’ Her gaze landed on A.B. ‘He’s purring!’ ‘I assume this is a great honor,’ he concluded quietly, his fingers stroking Henry’s thick fur with tentative care. The purring grew louder. ‘I don’t get it,’ Steph admitted as she plated their dinner. ‘He usually glares at my dates like he’s plotting their downfall, and now he’s… cozying up on your lap just like you’re his new favorite person?!’ She gestured at the furry heap on his lap. ‘This is historic.’ A small smile tugged at his mouth. He picked up his fork. ‘I need one hand, Henry. Is that allowed?’ Henry opened one eye, head-butted his hand and purred.

Steph tried to laugh it off, but her stomach fluttered. The picture in front of her—her spiteful tyrant of a cat curled up like a baby, and the composed Chief Usher indulging him with patience—was criminally cute. Her chest tightened. Was this how women melted when they saw their man holding a newborn? Well, this was her baby. But not her man.

She ate, though each bite was more of a distraction than a need for food. They talked—the wine, Henry and their strong bond smoothing the awkward edges. He told her about his day—which had proved to be exhausting—and Steph relayed her disastrous interview at the Phillips Collection, A.B.'s eyes twinkling at her lively impression of the head curator.

By the time their plates were nearly cleared, they were leaning back in their chairs, unable to stop talking. Jazz. Upcoming art exhibitions. Somewhere between art and coffee, Henry snatched the last piece of chicken from A.B.’s plate, and the latter just slid his fork aside and let him have it.

Steph gasped. ‘You let him?!’ A.B. smiled faintly as he watched the little tyrant enjoy his treat. ‘A man must learn when resistance is futile, Steph.’

God help her. He meant the cat—she knew that!—but her treacherous heart heard something else.

As Henry groomed his paws and his new favorite servant stroked his majestic fur, His Majesty allowed both humans to resume their conversation. Coffee. Their jobs. The antique silver cutlery they used, and the ladies’ obsession with old spoons. Her ambitions. His plans after retiring.

‘You were right,’ Steph finally confessed, tracing the rim of her wineglass. ‘I need to grow professionally. I realized it today after my interview at the NMAACH. A change of scenery would be good for me.’ A.B. nodded once. ‘They’d be fools not to offer you the job.’ She scoffed. ‘You weren’t there, August. You don’t know how I did.’ His hand stilled on Henry’s fur. His gaze caught hers. ‘I know you.’ ‘Mrrrw!’ Henry declared, looking up. A.B. glanced down, smiling. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Then, he remarked: ‘He’s blinking. Is he telling me he won’t stage a coup, either? That’s comforting to know.’ Now it was Steph’s turn to blink, too. ‘August,’ she murmured, her tone soft, warm. ‘He’s telling you he adores you.’ A.B. stilled, looking down at Henry. ‘Is that so?’ He asked quietly. ‘Do you?’ Henry blinked again. Slow.

Thump.

Stupid cat! Steph took a breath, trying to smother the question that had been burning in her throat for weeks. She shouldn’t, there were lines, boundaries. But he was here—and so was she.

‘Can I ask you something?’ She began, her voice soft, almost tentative. She kept her eyes on her plate. ‘Why isn’t Marianne taking care of you? I don’t mean to pry, but… it’s not right.’ ‘Because she’s not a part of my life,’ he replied. ‘Not anymore.’ Her head snapped up, stomach did two backflips. A record. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ ‘I did not intend for you to,’ he confessed. ‘It’s better that way.’ Her breath hitched. ‘No. It’s—’ His dark eyes caught hers. ‘I should go.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I’ll help you clear this first,’ he announced, before attempting to lift Henry.

‘Mreeeowww!’

‘Let me,’ Steph offered, rising quickly from her chair. She scooped the fluffy monarch off his lap and settled the cat on his throne near the couch. Then she followed A.B. into the kitchen, where they moved in practiced unison—he rinsed the plates, she loaded the dishwasher. Her hands trembled as she worked, the tension between them coiling further with each act. There was no Marianne. Just his stupid propriety, keeping him away. Fucking hell.

‘You’re doing that wrong,’ he said quietly, his eyes flicking to her stack of pans. She huffed, grateful for the distraction. ‘What, are you the dishwasher police?’ ‘Let me.’ ‘Alright, chief,’ she quipped, stepping aside. ‘Go ahead.’

She lingered by the sink, washing the silver cutlery by hand, while A.B. rearranged the dishes—of course he did. ‘Really?’ She murmured, glancing over her shoulder. ‘There’s a system,’ he replied patiently. ‘Uhuh,’ she hummed, her lips twitching. She dried a spoon. ‘I’m sure there is, A.’

Their eyes met in the kitchen’s low light, and the world stopped spinning. He was here. In her world, her safe space, and it felt… inevitable. Fate, even. As if she’d always been holding out. For him.

The kitchen counter dug into her lower back, grounding her further into the moment. God, he was sexy like this—in his own classy, quiet and restrained way. The deep blue suit did unspeakable things to her and his eyes—her lips parted slightly. How would it feel to smooth the lapels of his suit? To brush her hands higher, over his neck, fingers delving in the black and grey hair? She pressed her knees together, blinking once. Damnit! Keep it together, Harper.

‘Steph,’ he breathed, her name almost a plea on his tongue. ‘You have a date tomorrow.’

Date?! With who? Oh. That date. Rafael, who certainly did not have her heart and who Henry would probably attack on sight.

‘Yes,’ she confessed quietly. ‘My mother set me up with him. My family met his while we were on holiday back in Colombia. I was fourteen. Apparently he lives in D.C. now.’ She heaved a sigh, gaze dropping to the silver spoon in her hands. ‘I’m not really—he was tiresome back then.’ ‘That was twenty-five years ago,’ he said, the weight of the number lingering between them. ‘Which is a long time. Give him a chance.’

Wait a minute. Now that Marianne was out of the way, was her hot boss attempting to convince her to date someone else now?

‘August,’ she breathed, holding onto her spoon for dear life. ‘I don’t care how much he has changed. He’s decent. But he’s not—’ She stopped herself, not sure whether he was ready to hear her say it. He shook his head, averting her gaze. He leaned in to pick up the last pan from the counter, his hand accidentally brushing over her arm.

‘August,’ she breathed again, the spoon a hostage in her firm grip. ‘I…’ he began, but stopped himself. His eyes flicked to the stove, as if it could offer reprieve. His jaw ticked. She waited. Trembling. Reeling. Barely breathing. The spoon dug into her palm.

‘Stephanie,’ he finally murmured again. ‘Forgive me.’

Then, he did the unthinkable. Augustus Benedict Wynter reached out. His fingers hovering over the spoon for a heartbeat too long before drifting higher, ghosting over her arms and the soft skin of her neck, until his palms framed her cheeks. His touch was warm, steady—almost unbearable. Her breath caught.

He studied her—his dark eyes reflecting the quiet storm within him. His thumbs brushed over her skin. The proximity was electric. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he whispered, achingly soft, but he stayed.

Steph’s chest rose and fell unevenly, and her gaze locked with his. His eyes, obsidian in the low light, lured her in. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the butter chicken, tugging at her senses. Her fingers moved with a will of their own, smoothing the lapels of his suit. The warmth of his skin radiated through the fabric, tempting her to chase it against his dress shirt. A.B.’s breath hitched. ‘Steph,’ he pleaded quietly. ‘Tell me to stop.’

She didn’t.

And finally, A.B.’s lips brushed hers—tentative at first, as though asking permission, but claiming her all the same. Steph trembled, her eyes fluttering shut as her lips yielded to him—soft, but sure. A sigh escaped her. She melted against him, one hand sliding over his chest, then higher, tangling in his hair. Her vest slipped off one shoulder, silent and unnoticed. The kiss deepened, firm and consuming. One of his hands drifted lower, then settled around her waist, drawing her closer. The other grazed the edge of her jaw, steadying her as if she were porcelain. Heat flared in her belly and a quiet moan escaped her. A.B.’s breath hitched; his fingers flexed almost tentatively against her skin. A soft brush of his hip against hers sent a jolt through her, and her mind spun. God. He shouldn’t. But she didn’t want him to stop.

Her grip on the spoon faltered, and it clattered onto the floor, forgotten. It didn’t matter. The world had shrunk to the warmth of his chest pressing through the fabric, her pulse hammering in her ears, and the brush of his fingers against her skin. She trembled, caught between the need to honor their duty and the ache of desire. Her other hand joined the first, pulling him closer—desperate to clear the space between them.

Henry, sensing the charged energy, strutted into the kitchen and leapt onto the counter behind them with a thump. His tail flicked like a sceptre, his eyes burning with scorn. ‘MRREOWW!’ He declared, thoroughly affronted. He had left butler-man alone with the woman for five minutes, and they were at it already?! How dare they!

They parted, but his lips lingered—aching, tentative. A surrender. To her, to the moment.

Steph’s face flushed. ‘Stupid cat,’ she whispered against his lips. A.B.’s fingers tightened at her back. ‘Well… Miss Harper, you dropped a spoon.’ ‘Well,’ she replied, tilting her chin up and matching his tone. ‘You kissed me, Mister Wynter. That tends to make a girl forget her… cutlery. Or her manners.’

Henry mewled again, as if scolding them both. He settled on the counter, glaring like a tyrant who had just witnessed the collapse of all household decorum. Humans. They could not be trusted.

A.B. ignored the cat, his thumb brushing over her chin. ‘Steph,’ he began, his voice low. ‘You should sleep on this. Consider the implications of… what just happened.’ She regarded him, the way dark eyes glowed in the low kitchen light, the stubble on his cheeks. ‘Forgive me if I don’t give a fuck about implications,’ she whispered. ‘You’re all I—’ ‘Steph,’ he murmured, berating her, his voice catching slightly. ‘You can’t say that. We crossed a line. And you have a date tomorrow.’ ‘I don’t want to go on that date,’ she countered, a faint edge in her tone. Her fingers brushed over his jaw. ‘Please don’t make me go.’ ‘Stephanie,’ he pleaded, his eyes dark and vulnerable. ‘You should. I’m your boss, and I’m far too old for you. My years are mostly behind me while yours are ahead. You shouldn’t wish to chain yourself to someone like me.’ ‘Don’t say that,’ she said decisively, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you ever say that again.’ ‘Steph—’ ‘No! I tried dating, I really did. But every single one of them failed because they weren’t you,’ she confessed, fingers faltering slightly as they rested in his neck. ‘August. I don’t care. My soul—’ her voice trembled. ‘—it soars when I’m with you.’ He softened, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. ‘I know.’ He leaned in, pressing a kiss on her temple. ‘Sleep on it. Go on that date tomorrow. For me.’ ‘I won’t change my mind,’ she said quietly. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible sigh.

Henry—fed up with the lack of attention to his royal decree—bapped both of them with a swift, precise paw. ‘MREOW!’

‘Jesus,’ Steph mumbled. ‘Hen, stop it.’ ‘His Majesty is right,’ A.B. noted, his tone twinged with restraint. His fingers fell to his sides. ‘Consider everything, Steph. Please.’ She nodded slowly, her eyes flicking to his lips. ‘Okay,’ she promised quietly. ‘I will. But I will be thinking of you. And we need to talk about what happened between us.’ He nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as if conceding to a battle he’d been trying not to fight. His eyes lingered on hers—careful, controlled, yet unable to hide the longing behind it. ‘Your date… what time?’ ‘It’s just coffee,’ Steph told him, her fingers brushing over his cheek. ‘I’m going to hunt for silver spoons after. Join me?’ He hesitated, brows knitting, jaw tight—propriety warring with desire. ‘You shouldn’t—’ He stopped himself, voice softening. ‘What time?’ Her chest fluttered. ‘After lunch?’ ‘After lunch,’ he agreed, low and controlled.

She leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. Her heart leapt in her chest—again. After lunch.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Did you like my work? Spread the love and reblog! ❤️