It's just after five a.m. when Laura steps out of her apartment, dressed in a breezy white button-up, a cream, ankle-length pencil skirt, and worn ballet flats, soft at the heel—just as if she's heading into the office, just as if it's any other day. But the heat is already pressing in, heavy and sour at the back of her neck, and her blonde hair is swept into a ponytail by the time Tommy Maraschino's town car glides to the curb.

  There is an exception to the saying that New York is the city that never sleeps. Between the slumbering hours of four and six, the streets belong to no one. The city is emptied out, the sidewalks hushed, while the stop lights blink without purpose.

  Somewhere, a dog barks once, sharp and lonely, then falls silent again.

  Laura hadn't slept much last night. Just drifted in and out of a feverish half-dream, the kind where the sheets cling to your skin and the clock seems to breathe beside you, where the room warps and swells with memory, and the air turns thick with all the thoughts you can't settle. The fan had ticked in the corner like a dying metronome, and somewhere, far off, a siren had risen and fallen like a question without an answer.

  She had thought about calling Daniel.

  The phone sat on her nightstand, beige and squat, the coiled cord curled in on itself like a sleeping snake. It looked harmless in the dark, and she'd stared at it for a long time; fingers hovering over the receiver, already imagining the static pop of the line, the sound of his voice—half-asleep, half-curious, fully ready to come over. He would've made a joke, something low and biting, just to hear her laugh. He would've arrived twenty minutes later, his hair damp from a quick shower, shirt unbuttoned, hands sure of her before she could change her mind.

  That was his gift: erasure. He could have made the night disappear if she'd let him.

  But she hadn't called.

  Because she'd been waiting for Tommy.

  The phone had rang, sharp and sudden, at 03:07 a.m, and Laura had answered on the first ring. Tommy's voice came through cracked and low, sanded down by fatigue or something heavier. He'd said his plane would be landing soon. He'd be outside her building by five. Was that too early? No, she'd answered, of course not. She was always up by then anyway. For work.

  So, Laura hadn't slept. She'd watched the ceiling instead, observing the city lights crawling across it and fading again, listening to the bones of the building settle, the hum of a refrigerator that sounded like breathing, the distant sound of a baby wailing in the apartment upstairs—sharp, mocking—then nothing. The kind of silence that makes you feel like you're the only person left awake in the world.

  When the light finally began to pull itself across the windowsill, pale and bleary, she'd got up. Dressed slowly and deliberately in the button-up, the linen skirt, the ballet flats. A neutral uniform. Crisp, clean, correct. As if the right outfit could press the wrinkles out of the day. As if dressing like it was any other morning might trick her heart into behaving.

  Then out she'd stepped into the hush of a city that hadn't decided what kind of day it was going to be.

  And now, here is.

  The car that pulls to the curb is black and sleek, discreet in the way only wealth knows how to be; shined within an inch of vanity, soundless as it glides to a stop. The driver in the front seat doesn't acknowledge her. sitting there like a pale mannequin behind the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead, hands folded at ten and two as if he's seen a hundred women step into the backseat of a car like this, and knows better than to watch them do it.

  The back door opens, smooth and automatic, but Tommy doesn't step out.

  He stays inside, a silhouette to her at first, with one arm stretched across the back seat, the other draped casually over his lap. He sits there with his knees apart, just enough to suggest comfort, not enough to invite anything else. And although he's shadowed by the car's interior, she doesn't need light to know him.

  She'd know him blind.

  Laura leans in, soft and low. "You're not getting out?"

  "I'd rather we didn't make a scene," her husband answers evenly. "I figured neither of us would want the attention, right?"

  He is right of course. In the velvety hush of the car there are no cameras, at least. No advisors. No Birdie. Just the two of them together, at five a.m., in a space thick with heat, and leather, and the kind of cologne that used to unravel her and drive her crazy.

  Unhurried, Tommy leans forward and extends his hand: tanned from the sun, warm and heavy; small, dark hairs curling at his cuff. "Will you get in?"

  Laura wavers. Not visibly, but somewhere inside, where the past still hums too loud. Her fingers hover, not quite reaching, not quite pulling back, and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her.

  Tommy's hand doesn't move.

  Neither does his expression.

  "Laura?" He says quietly, not pushing, just waiting.

  Her hand slips into his like muscle memory. "I never liked town cars," she says, sliding in beside him.

  Tommy's mouth curves slowly. "You used to say they were too quiet," he remembers. "But you never minded when I had you in the backseat."

  Laura lets the door fall shut behind her, sealing them in with a sound that is soft and final. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

  The car starts up again and the city crawls past outside— distant, muted, like a world they've both stepped out of. Inside, the air is thick with everything unsaid. Her thigh brushes his, not quite deliberately, and she shifts, but not away.

  "How was your flight?" It seems polite to ask that.

  "Uneventful," Tommy responds dryly. "Took a few calls. Tried to sleep. Worked on some speeches."

  "What speeches?" Laura asks, but he ignores the question, skipping by it as if he didn't hear her.

  "You look nice," he says, his green eyes crinkling as they flicker over her; trailing her face, down the line of her neck, then pausing at the dip where her blouse opens slightly. Skin underneath, pale, familiar.

  "Don't," she says, squirming against the leather.

  "What?" Tommy laughs, soft and incredulous, as if she's rebuffed him for something entirely harmless, as if he wasn't looking at her like he remembered everything beneath her clothes. "All I said was, you look nice."

  "You don't get to say that to me." She scowls to mask the hurt that blooms up, hot and unexpected beneath her ribs. It's not the compliment, but the ease of it. The way he says it like nothing's changed. "You don't get to say that after you were the one who ended things. You walked out on me, remember?"

  "So that means I can't say you look nice?"

  "That's right," she says, her heart hammering against her blouse. "You'll just have to control yourself."

  “Not even when it's true?"

  Laura turns slightly, just enough to look at him sidelong, her expression unintelligible. "I didn't come here to flirt with you, Tommy."

  "Is that what we're doing?"

  A beat passes. Quiet. Weighted.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "You asked to meet me," she continues, her voice tighter now. "And I came because I thought—I don't know. I thought maybe you needed me. That maybe you'd come apart a little. I was prepared to sit here and tell you how sorry I am about your father."

  She exhales, sharp through her nose.

  "But I'm guessing this isn't about your father," she says, her eyes narrowing on him. "And I'm guessing you didn't drag me out here at five in the morning just because you 'wanted to see me' either. So why don't you stop with your flirting and your smirking, and tell me what this is really about?"

  Caught off guard by her words, Tommy looks away, out the tinted window, at nothing.

  And for a moment, Laura just watches him.

  He's still absurdly handsome, in that clean-cut, all-American way that seems reserved for magazine covers and campaign trails. His skin, where it peeks out beneath the cuffs and collar of his navy suit, is browned from too much sun, the kind of tan that doesn't come from beaches but from boat decks, from salt wind and shirts left behind. His dark hair is neatly parted, impeccably groomed, but just long enough now to brush the back of his collar. And Laura feels it, sharp and unexpected, the memory of what it used to look like wet, curling at the ends, how she used to rake her fingers through it just to kiss him, tug him closer, anchor herself.

  "You remember that trip to Capri?" he asks finally, his voice low in the lush quiet of the car.

  Laura blinks at the shift in tone, surprised at the sudden swerve away from what she'd asked.

  But yes, of course. She remembers the trip to Capri.

  "What about it?" She sighs, warily.

  "That villa," Tommy reminisces, still not looking at her. "The one up the hill, with the chipped blue shutters and the lemon trees in the courtyard. You said it reminded you of a postcard someone forgot to send. And you wore that white dress with the tie at the back; the one I couldn't undo to save my life."

  Laura turns her face toward the window, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her expression. She remembers how it had fluttered around her knees in the breeze, how he'd eventually given up on the bow and just lifted the hem instead, dragging it up over her hips, backing her against the sunny railing, his mouth still tasting of wine and figs, his hands warm and greedy on her skin. She remembers the way he'd sounded when he pushed inside her, like the wind had been knocked out of him. A quiet, ragged exhale, like he was stunned. Like she still surprised him.

  "We broke that poor railing, didn't we?" He adds.

  "You broke the railing."

  "You were laughing."

  "You were smug."

  "You told me you loved me." He says it like a fact, quiet but unflinching.

  Laura looks down at her hands. "I was twenty-three and stupid, that's why." Her voice is clipped and brittle at the edges. "But I don't understand why you're hashing out something that happened two years ago. What is this really about?"

  "I brought it up," Tommy says carefully, "because after—you told me you wanted three kids and a house with a red door."

  Laura glances at him, something flinching and unguarded in her face. "Don't," she says.

  But Tommy doesn't stop. "Do you remember what I told you I wanted?"

  She looks at him for a long time, her pulse thick in her throat, then turns back to the window, her lashes low. "You said you wanted to run for President."

  "Yeah," he says, "But first, I'd have to run for Senate."

  So what? "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Because I'll be thirty-one in four months," he says, his voice low and steady. "And the seat's open. The party's backing me. It's happening."

  Tommy pauses, just long enough to let the words settle in the space between them.

  "And because it looks better if I still have a wife."

  Laura stares at him.

  For a long time, she doesn't speak, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe. Just stares at him, as if trying to understand whether she misheard him somehow, whether he's joking, or whether he actually said what she thinks he just said.

  When she finally does speak, her voice is flat with disbelief. "You're asking me to be your wife again?"

  She lets the words hang there, brittle and sharp, then laughs once; a small, incredulous sound that doesn't contain any real humour. "You've got some nerve."

  "Laura-" Tommy tries to speak but she cuts him off:

  "Don't you dare! You left me, Tommy. You walked out on me. You're the one who packed yourself a bag and disappeared, and now you have the gall to ask me to what—smile for the cameras and play house like none of it happened?"

  "It's not like that."

  "It's exactly like that." Her voice is low but growing, each word more precise and cutting. "You want me to stand next to you while you launch the next chapter of your charmed life, but you didn't even want to be in the room with me when our life fell apart."

  She's breathing harder now, almost panting.

  Tommy rubs a hand across his jaw. "It's not a favour, Laura. It's not a game. It's... complicated."

  "Oh," she laughs. "I'm sure it is."

  He runs a hand through his hair, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You remember the clause?"

  She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.

  Of course she remembers. It had been buried in the prenup, somewhere between the asset disclosures and the non-disparagement agreements. Thick, dense legal language veiled in civility. A contingency clause, proposed by Birdie herself. Her sweet little insurance policy, requiring any divorce between Tommy and Laura to need the approval of his mother. The timing. The language. Even the conditions—all at Birdie's discretion. A political chokehold, wrapped in silk and signed in ink.

  "She's invoking it," Tommy announces.

  "She's...what?"

  "She's not going to approve a divorce. Not yet. Not unless you do something for her."

  "Tell her she can go to hell," Laura snaps. Her shirt feels suddenly damp with perspiration, plastered to her spine, and the heat in the car is all getting too uncomfortable.

  She raps on the driver's divider. "Stop the car, please?"

  "Laura, wait—"

  "No," she argues, jerking for the handle, but before the car even slows, Tommy is reaching for her, his large hand closing over hers. Laura twists, trying to yank free, but he's faster, stronger. Always has been.

  "Let go of me!" she hisses, shoving at his chest, but his arms are already around her, holding her still. Her back collides with the opposite door. The whole world narrows to the sharp press of his body, the solid heat of his chest, the impossible proximity of his mouth to hers. His hand slides down her arm, fingers digging into her waist for leverage, and it's all muscle memory from there—her legs parted by his knee, the friction of his suit pants against her skirt, and the low, unsteady sound he makes as he tries to catch his breath.

  For a dizzying moment, it's like falling into a memory: how it used to be, the way he would crowd her against a wall or a door, greedy and unhurried, their squabbles turning into something else, something she sometimes aches for in the worst way.

  "Laura, stop," he says, but it doesn't sound like an order. He's pleading, barely holding himself back. He's so close she can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the curve of his mouth—God, his mouth. His knee is pressed between her thighs, her hands caught between their bodies, and suddenly all she can think about is the last time he held her down, the last time they gave in to something reckless, sweet, and helpless.

  She stops fighting him. Not because she's given in, but because her body remembers him, remembers this. For a split second, her breath catches and her heart stutters, and she hates him for it.

  He's the first to move away, his hands slipping off her like regret, his breath uneven as he settles back across the seat. He stares down at the floor between them like it might offer a version of this moment where none of it went wrong.

  "All I'm asking is for three weeks, Laura."

  She laughs bitterly, wiping her palms on her skirt. "You say that like it's nothing. Jesus, Tommy."

  "Three weeks," he echoes, firmer now. "That's what she promised. Show up. Stand beside me. Grieve like we're still together. Do that, and she'll approve the divorce. Clean. Quiet. No scandal. She'll let you go."

  "And that's what you want?" Her voice is softer now, but it cuts so much deeper. "To be free of me?"

  Tommy doesn't answer.

  Outside, the city is beginning to wake—the faint thrum of a garbage truck somewhere blocks away. But in the backseat of the town car, it's still dark. Still five a.m. Still just the two of them.

  He runs a hand over his jaw. Then, quieter than before: "I just want to do what's right."

  Laura looks at him for a long time, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Her pulse is still hammering beneath her skin, but the storm inside her has quieted, leaving something sharper in its place. Not peace. Not anger. Just clarity.

  She exhales slowly, her voice cool and clear the next time she speaks. "I'll think about it."

  At that, Tommy looks up, and for a moment, something hopeful crosses his face. But Laura's already turning away, back toward the window.

  "Don't read into it," she adds coolly, before he can speak. "I said I'd think about it. That's all."

  She takes the time to adjust her blouse, smoothing the collar with practiced precision, then raps her knuckles once against the divider. The driver's head shifts slightly. "Can you drop me at Empire Press, please?" she says. "It's on West 43rd."

  Tommy blinks at her. "You're going to work?"

  "I'm dressed for it, aren't I?" she answers, without looking at him. Then says nothing else as the car rolls forward again, silent as ever, slipping back into the rhythm of the city.