The hotel was the kind of place where reservations were made weeks in advance and the chandeliers cost more than most people’s hos. Marble floors stretched across the lobby, polished to a mirror shine. The air slled like fresh flowers and old money. It was, Arianne thought, exactly the sort of place Franz would choose for a Valentine’s Day dinner—elegant without being ostentatious, private without being secretive.
They walked through the lobby together, her hand resting on his arm. He was wearing a dark suit. His hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped and fallen across his forehead. He looked tired but happy, the way he always did when he first ca ho.
People noticed them imdiately.
Noah Hart and Arianne Sumrs, walking into a luxury hotel on Valentine’s Day weekend. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the lobby like wind through grass. A woman at the bar nudged her companion. A man near the elevators pulled out his phone, thought better of it, and put it away. The attention was a familiar weight now, sothing Arianne had learned to carry without acknowledgnt.
Franz glanced at her. He was checking—she knew the look by now. The slight tilt of his head, the question in his eyes. Are you all right? Do you want to leave?
She kept her hand on his arm and her pace steady. If she was bothered by the attention, she gave no sign of it. Tonight, she had dressed for him. The dress from the anniversary dinner, the one that fell just below her knees, the one he’d ntioned specifically when he told her to change. She’d even put on makeup—not the minimal application she wore to board etings, but sothing more deliberate. A subtle shadow on her eyes. A hint of color on her lips. She’d stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes before coming downstairs, and she’d known, when Franz looked at her, that he’d noticed.
He hadn’t said anything. He’d just smiled, a small private smile, and offered her his arm.
They were seated in a private booth near the back of the restaurant. Candlelight flickered across the white tablecloth. A bottle of wine was already waiting, sothing Franz had ordered in advance. The server appeared and disappeared with unhurried efficiency, and then they were alone.
Franz reached across the table and took her hand. "You look beautiful."
"You said that already. When I ca downstairs."
"I’m saying it again. It bears repeating."
She didn’t pull her hand away. The candlelight caught the edge of her face, the curve of her shoulder, the shimr on her eyelids. "You look tired," she said. "But handso. The hair suits you."
"You said that before too."
"It also bears repeating."
He smiled. The server returned with the first course, and the evening began.
Throughout dinner, Franz talked. Not about anything urgent or weighty—just the small things he hadn’t been able to share during their video calls. The monts that didn’t fit into a ten-minute conversation before he collapsed into bed. The director’s obsession with a particular lighting setup that had delayed shooting for two days. The co-star who kept flubbing the sa line and had to do thirty-seven takes. The catering truck that broke down and forced the entire crew to eat gas station sandwiches for lunch.
"There’s gossip too," he admitted, halfway through the main course. "One of the supporting actors is rumored to be leaving his wife for a makeup artist. Everyone’s pretending not to know, but the tension on set is unbearable. They won’t speak to each other directly. They communicate through assistants."
Arianne raised an eyebrow. "I didn’t expect you to be into gossip."
"It’s not gossip. It’s information." He shrugged, unrepentant. "The entertainnt industry is full of it. You just have to filter out what’s useful and what’s not. The makeup artist situation is not useful. But the producer who’s been fighting with the studio about budget cuts—that’s useful. It might affect the release schedule."
"So you’re a spy now."
"I’m a professional. Professionals gather intelligence."
She chuckled, a low warm sound that made him look up from his plate. "You’re gossiping with your co-stars and calling it intelligence."
"I’m networking. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Networking has business cards."
She laughed again, and he filed the sound away the way he always did. Arianne didn’t laugh often. When she did, it ant she was happy. He’d learned to recognize the difference between her polite amusent and the real thing. This was the real thing.
"What about the agency?" she asked, her voice settling back into its usual calm. "Is there any progress?"
"Daryll is still preparing. The business plan isn’t finished yet. We’re moving carefully, the way you suggested. No announcents. No hints. Just groundwork." He paused. "It’s slower than I expected. Building sothing from nothing takes ti."
"That’s how it should be. If it were fast, you’d be making mistakes."
"I know. Monica keeps saying the sa thing. ’Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.’ She has it on a sticky note on her laptop."
"I like Monica."
"She likes you too. She told you were the smartest person she’d ever t. She said it with genuine admiration. I think she was trying to imply that I married above my station."
"You did."
"I’m aware. I’m very grateful."
Arianne set her fork down. "Do you need a partner?"
Franz looked up. "What?"
"For the agency. An investor. Soone to provide capital while you get started. You’ll need funding for office space, staff, legal fees. Even a small agency requires liquidity."
"I have savings. I told you—"
"I know what you told . I’m offering anyway." She t his eyes across the table. "You made quite a decent amount of money over the past years. The investnts in your early career paid back several tis over. I have no reason to think this would be different."
"This is different. The risk of failure is higher than acting. An agency is a business. I’ve never run a business before. If it fails—"
"Then it fails. And we’ll still be fine." Her voice was steady. "You’re trying to build your own legacy, Franz. Sothing separate from the Rochefort na, separate from the family company. Sothing that’s yours. How can I not support that?"
He said nothing. She continued.
"If it succeeds, the agency could open opportunities for our child in the future. A foothold in an industry that’s difficult to enter. Connections. Resources. It’s not just about you. It’s about what you’re building for the family."
"You already have so much on your plate," he said. "The company. The twins. You don’t need to add my agency to the list."
"I’m not adding it to my list. I’m chipping in to invest. The operations would be solely your responsibility. I’m not taking on more work." She leaned forward. "Let ease the financial burden. Just focus on what you need to do. The rest will follow."
He stared at her for a long mont. The candlelight flickered between them. Then he smiled—a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes and softened the tired lines around them.
"I don’t know what good deed I’d done to have a wife like you."
She almost smiled back. "You waited years. That’s probably enough."
"It wasn’t a good deed. It was selfishness disguised as patience."
"Then your selfishness paid off."
He lifted her hand to his lips. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Thank you."
"You don’t have to thank ."
"I’m doing it anyway."
Dinner ended, the plates cleared, the wine bottle empty. Franz paid the bill while Arianne touched up her lipstick, and then they walked together through the hotel hallway toward the lobby, her hand in his, the evening settling around them like sothing warm and golden.
Midway down the hall, Franz stopped.
Arianne looked up. Two figures were walking toward them from the opposite direction. A man and a woman, dressed for dinner, their arms linked. The man was tall, dark-haired, expensively suited. The woman was dark-haired, elegant, her dress a deep burgundy that matched her lipstick.
Dominic Blackwood. Diana.
The four of them faced each other in the hotel hallway. The chandeliers overhead cast everything in warm gold light. The carpet muffled every sound. No one spoke.
Arianne’s hand remained in Franz’s. Her expression didn’t change. She looked at Dominic, the man she had almost married, the man who had betrayed her in front of everyone she knew, and found nothing inside her. No anger, no fear, no satisfaction. Just a vast emptiness where emotion used to live.
Dominic stared at her. His face was unreadable, but sothing flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. Calculation. Sothing that might have been regret, or might have been irritation, or might have been nothing at all.
Diana’s grip on his arm tightened. She looked at Arianne, then at Franz, then back at Arianne. Her expression was rigidly neutral, but her posture had gone rigid.
The silence stretched. One second. Two. Three.
Franz’s hand tightened on Arianne’s. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She knew what he was asking. Do you want to leave? Do you want to stay? Do you want to say sothing?
She didn’t answer. She just stood there, unmoving and calm, eting Dominic’s eyes across the hallway like a challenge she had already won.
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