Chapter Text
Morning broke soft and golden over Madison Avenue, spilling honeyed light through the long rose-pink curtains at your window and the linen canopy draped around your bed. It shimmered across the carpet, pooled over the cashmere throw, and kissed your bare shoulder with a warmth so gentle it almost convinced you the pounding in your head was just a dream. You began to surface from sleep like rising through champagne: light headed, sticky, and dizzy. You’re not sure what stirred you awake, only that the scent of last night still clung to you, to the room, to your silk sheets tangled around your legs. You breathed in the smell of jasmine and top shelf vodka as you rolled over and faced the sunshine.
You’re grateful, really, that somehow you ended up back home safe and sound. Last night was such a blur you only barely recalled stripping your clothes off the second you walked in, leaving yourself bare beneath the down comforter and silken white sheets. Curled up in your lavish bed, your eyes too heavy and your mouth vaguely tasted like chocolate and alcohol. It wasn’t any surprise. You were well known for raiding the cabinet for something sweet on any given occasion, really. And a night out for drinks was no different.
The light pouring in from the windows and across the bed hurt. Your feet hurt. And God, your head hurt. On the floor, your clothing lay at odd angles, dress draped haphazardly over your pink velvet vanity chair and strappy heels abandoned at the door. Your hand dragged down your face, coming up messy with mascara and smudged foundation, your hair a tangled rat’s nest stuck to your cheek, sticky with lip gloss.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand; you vaguely remembered it doing the same just moments ago, likely what had woken you.
You groaned, turning over to the side of your bed until your fingers slapped on the wood, blindly reaching for the device. As your fingers wrapped around it, you squinted at the brightness when you pulled it into your face. The screen was already crowded with texts and notifications, all of them pinging like little grenades across your vision.
You didn’t even bother clicking the photo from Gossip girl. You already had an awful, awful feeling sinking in your stomach to accompany the nausea. Memories of camera flashes blinding your vision, the crisp night air against your hot skin and stumbling into the car at the end of the night blurred in your mind. You’re almost certain you cursed out the paparazzi as you left too.
More texts came in, more DMs from strangers and someone you swore you’d blocked last week. You sent a welfare check to Blair, letting her know you were safely in bed. Sighing, you looked through the rest of your notifications, thumb frozen above the screen before you decided to throw the phone across the room. It smacked against the glossy pile of Vogue magazines on your desk, sending them falling to the floor until silence folded back over you. Pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, you flopped onto your back, staring at the colors bursting behind your eyes.
Eventually, you knew you’d have to face the world. So you headed for the en suite, shuffling your bare feet across the soft carpet until your toes hit the cold marble. Your head pulsed behind your eyes, body moving heavy as stone as you faced the wreckage in the mirror. You winced at the vision of yourself: tangled hair sticking to your face and black mascara circles beneath your eyes. You looked like you’d slept through world war three.
You began assessing the rest of the damage, pulling a comb through the tangled mess of your hair, brushing your teeth three times and still tasting remnants of the vodka sodas you’d consumed. You wiped away the makeup with a damp cloth that smelled like rosewater, taking your time and dragging yourself through the routine, hoping maybe the longer you lingered, the easier it would be to enjoy the quiet before the storm.
With a fresh satin lounge set on and looking as presentable as you could hope to be in your state, you made your way downstairs, fingers gripping the polished mahogany banister for support. The morning light flooded the room through floor-to-ceiling windows even through the sheer silk curtains. It struck the marble floor, creamy white and veined in golds and gray, the kind of blinding light that made the back of your eyes throb against it.
The dining table came into view and was set for breakfast, a gleaming pitcher of orange juice and kettle of coffee calling your name. Even on a Saturday morning it was fit for a front page of Architectural Digest. A long, lacquered table stretched beneath a low hanging crystal chandelier, the place settings already neatly arranged with heavy silver flatware that caught the light like mirrors. A Baccarat pitcher of fresh orange juice beading gently with condensation sat beside a matching carafe of black coffee, both calling your name.
You squinted slightly against the brightness reflecting off the stone floor, adjusting to the light. Your mother was already seated, picture-perfect in her usual place, a china teacup delicately poised between her fingers, her lips painted the exact shade of peony pink that matched the fresh arrangement at the center of the table.
You slid into the chair across from her. She didn’t speak, just turned a page of the Financial Times with quiet practiced precision, her expression unreadable.
“Morning, Mom,” you grumbled, reaching for the juice. But before she could respond, another voice cut through the room—low, baritone, and unmistakably commanding in its presence.
“And how was your night, young lady?” your father asked as he sat to your right at the head of the table.
His face was freshly shaven, the blue suit pressed to perfection, tie knotted snug at his throat. Every inch of it tailored within a millimeter of precision. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with gel even on a Saturday morning. He looked like he was on his way to a board meeting, not sitting down to breakfast with his hungover daughter.
“Fine.” you mumbled, sipping the juice in the hopes it would quench your suddenly dry throat.
“Indeed,” he said. He reached for the coffee, poured himself a cup, added just a touch of cream, everything meticulous as always. He stirred slowly, the spoon tapping against the porcelain like a clock ticking down.
He took a slow sip, and you realized he hadn’t even looked at you once this entire time.
Setting down his mug with a soft clink, he pulled out something from his jacket, “Sure seems like you had fun.”
The sudden slap of the tabloid section of the morning paper hit the spotless glass table sharp and final, the sound making your already throbbing head pulse harder and a fresh wave of nausea creep up your throat.
Your father leaned forward, fingers steepled as his elbows rested, his fingers pressing into his lips as if to hold back the true wrath behind his lips. His voice was controlled and low when he finally spoke.
“Imagine waking up this morning, reaching for the paper to catch up on the weekend markets, maybe check my emails before my first call, and instead finding this.” He dropped his hand, forefinger pointing hard into the black and white photo at the headline.
You dared a glance at the paper, and there you were. Mid-laugh, eyes glassy, the car window rolled halfway down. Your smile was wide and your hands were caught in motion, lifting the hem of your blouse up to your clavicle. Right beneath it, the photo was censored, two blurred circles stamped across your bare chest. You winced, heat flooding your cheeks, shame blooming fast and sick in your stomach.
“My own daughter—shirt off, flashing the damn paparazzi on a night out.” His voice was low and precise, a man delivering a verdict. “What in the world were you thinking?”
You slumped deeper into your chair, the cool leather sticking to your bare thighs. Your palms, clammy with guilt and hangover sweat, came up to shield your eyes.
Your mother exhaled a high, theatrical sigh as she set down her mug across from you.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady.” your father commanded.
You dragged your hands down your reddening face, turning towards him with a pout. Everything about him looked freshly pressed, polished, and perfect. He looked so severe as he glared at you—the picture of legacy and discipline, like you were supposed to be.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice wavering.
He was watching you when your eyes met his, his anger sliding into disappointment, something like sadness in his eyes.
“I’m sure you are, pumpkin.” he said, the heart of his palm swiping across his face, “But don’t think you can wipe this clean with some half-assed apology.” he tapped a stern finger on the tabloid again. The photo bended under his sharp pointed digit.
“What do you want me to say?” you said, voice thick, “I had too much to drink, I was stupid. It won’t happen again, daddy. I’m sorry.”
Your mother let out another sharp tut, but your father kept going.
“Something needs to change. You’re not a teenager running around Ibiza anymore. You’re the face of this family’s future, whether you like it or not. You think this is what I worked my whole life for? That I built our name so my daughter could be treated as a punchline? You think those diamonds in your ears, your Hermes bags, your Amex black card all pay for themselves?”
You had half a heart to tell him your brother actually was the one who was the face of the family name, but you didn’t think you could stomach the look that would cross his face. So instead, you shook your head, shameful, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Good. Because starting now, it’s over.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach, and you sat bolt upright in your seat, “Wait–what? No, Daddy, no, Blair and I are flying to Greece this weekend! We have the yacht ready, the hotel in Santorini—everything’s already planned, I can’t just cancel.”
“You can,” your mother finally said, voice sharp and throwing her napkin down after dabbing the corners of her mouth, “And you will. Enough of this. Enough crying your way out of trouble. You're in your twenties, for god sake! This isn’t some harmless mistake, you acted like a downtown slut and got plastered across the front page.” she waved her hand in the air, “You can forget about your cover with Forbes. Vogue sure isn’t going to take you back after this little stunt…you can forget it all. This is a disgrace.”
Her voice was so crisp and cruel, her tea cold and forgotten at her elbow and her fury taking up every inch of space in the room. She sat stiffly at the table in a bright Lululemon set that looked untouched by actual exercise, posture perfect.
You watched her, feeling so unbearably small under her eyes, and turned back to your father, “Daddy, please—”
“Your mother is right,” he cut in. There wasn’t even anger in his voice, just something worse like resolve.
You pressed both hands over your eyes again, “Just…just tell me what I can do. To make it right.”
Your voice cracked around the words, all your plans for beachside Aperol Spritzes disintegrating into nothing. You could practically feel the sea breeze slipping through your fingers with it.
He leaned forward, and you watched him through split fingers, his elbows on the glass like a man making a deal, “Here is what’s going to happen. I’m giving you two months. Eight weeks without your credit cards, without store allowances. I want you to get yourself together. Maybe find a job, your own apartment, I don’t know. Something useful, something that puts your head back on your shoulders. Prove to me you can handle yourself, that you can be something other than this.”
“And maybe a nice man to settle you down,” your mother chimed in, suddenly calmer. “That’s what you need. I can call up the girls from tennis. They all have sons. Trust fund babies around your age and handsome, polished—”
“God, no,” you snapped through your tears. “I don’t want any of those preppy assholes.”
“Enough,” your father said, voice cutting clean across the room. “Finding someone respectable isn’t a punishment. It’s a step in the right direction. A partner keeps you grounded. Gives people less reason to talk. And frankly, right now, anything that helps the press take you seriously again is worth considering.”
“I’m not some PR campaign, Dad,” you muttered. “And I’m not going to date someone just to make you look better.”
He ignored you, “You get eight weeks. That’s the offer. Find some stability, and maybe someone who brings out the version of you I used to be proud of. Do that, and I’ll restore your accounts. If you don’t…”
You swallowed hard, wiping your eyes.
“...if I don’t?”
He shrugged, already standing. “Then you’re cut off. You’ll turn in your cards, your keys. You’ll find a new apartment on your own dime. And you’ll learn the hard way just how far your name alone gets you.”
The polished wood table sat between you like a mirror, reflecting everything you were about to lose.
“Okay,” you whispered, throat thick and tight.
He paused, adjusting the cuff of his suit like the conversation hadn’t hollowed you out. His tone softened slightly, not warm but almost… performative.
“I love you, honey. This is for your own good.”
That night, you nursed your gin martini at the hotel bar like it was medicine. It was the kind that didn’t fix anything but at least made you forget it for a few hours. The ice-cold glass sat heavy in your hand, the drink perfectly dirty, just how you liked it—briny and bitter. You chuckled, thinking that’s exactly how you felt too.
When you’d finally had the nerve to leave the house and walk down the street to the Rosewood Hotel, you’d made yourself at home at the bar as the rest of the city lived their lives behind you.
You’d tipped the bartender a handful of cash to keep the martinis comin’, using the emergency stash that had been stuffed into your closet drawer since Christmas, courtesy of your grandmother.
Buy something nice, or get that nose fixed, whichever comes first, she’d told you, as she'd handed you the envelope. A nose job would do numbers, honey. It’s only a couple weeks of rest, anyway.
You’d laughed her off, taking the money and stashing it for emergencies like this.
And now, sitting at Belmans Bar inside the hotel on the Upper East side in your red bottomed heels and all black attire, you half heartedly stirred your drink, hoping to God the bartender didn’t recognize you.
Your phone sat facedown for a while, but eventually, boredom and self pity rang louder than your pride and you picked it up and started to scroll.
Your own downfall was everywhere. Flashbulb-lit screenshots from the afterparty, that blurred-out photo of your chest from the curbside car door, a thousand IG stories captioned with your name, half of them mocking, the other half pretending to be concerned.
As you scrolled, you finally got a small relief of a post that wasn’t your blurred out tits and a headline. But this photo looked different. It was grainier, taken from behind a car tinted window late at night. A teenage girl, maybe fifteen, ducking into a black car with a hand covering her face. She looked…miserable.
CASTILLO DAUGHTER ESCORTED INTO REHAB FACILITY?
Yeesh, at least you weren’t that bad.
As you looked closer, you recognized her. Of course you did. Everyone knew the Castillo name. Your families had circled each other for years—same charity galas, same tax bracket, same stuffy luncheons celebrating some Ivy League degree or another. There’d never really been anyone your age in their family to talk to, just polite nods and mutual attendance at mutual obligations. Wedding season, debutante balls, the usual revolving door of the one percent’s social calendar.
You only kind of knew Camilla. She was younger, sweeter, and much more tame. She was the daughter of Peter and Charlotte Castillo. Always so prim and proper, she was so put together in her ballet flats and perfect posture anytime you saw her. She was the kind of daughter your parents always wished you were. And now, looking so disheveled, rushing into an unmarked SUV, it made your stomach twist, wincing at the thought. She looked how you felt lately.
The internet was still feasting on her photo as you scrolled, headlines dissecting her sad face, the slump of her shoulders, her broken frame as if it were sport.
Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. You switched to Raya, hoping to find something—someone—that might appease your father’s expectations. You swiped through an endless parade of polo-wearing trust fund boys you already knew too well. Every face was another recycled name from childhood birthdays, graduation parties, foundation dinners. Hell really did have its own social calendar.
Then came the celebrities. Too recognizable, too chaotic. All of them too coked out or too committed to their own image to be of any use to your father. Some you’d met, a few you’d kissed, most you knew well enough to stay far, far away from.
As the bartender set down your third martini, you plucked the olive from the glass, chewing slowly. You held the pick between your lips like a cigarette, scrolling with your free hand. And just as you were thinking to gulp down your entire glass and head home, someone slid into the stool beside you.
You heard a low exhale as they fell into the seat, a quiet, polite ordering of tequila on ice. You glanced sideways as the man slid his hand down from his mouth to the nicely trimmed dark mustache and five o clock shadow around his chin and jaw. An emerald green ring gleamed at you, encased in gold on his opposite ring finger.
“Harry,” you muttered in greeting, flitting your gaze between him and back to your phone.
His head turned, molasses brown eyes blinking once before recognition settled in, “Oh,” he said, sitting up a little straighter, “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Oh, it’s me alright,” you said, voice flat as you scrolled. You didn’t stop swiping, just leaned your elbow on the bar, screen casting soft light across your face.
Harry’s drink arrived. He took a sip, slow and steady, and you could feel his eyes watching you over the rim of the glass, then landing on the half empty one in your hand. “And… How many martinis in are you?”
“Don’t judge me,” you quip back. “You came here to drink alone too.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, gesturing lazily with the glass. “Just…making sure you’re…” he couldn’t seem to find the words before finally settling on, “well, especially after the last twenty-four hours…”
You paused mid-swipe and looked at him with a raised brow. “Are you referring to my tits on the cover of TMZ this morning, Mr. Castillo?”
He smirked, eyes flicking back to his drink. “I guess I am.”
“Charming.”
He huffed a little laugh, “But really, are you alright?”
You scoffed back, “Define alright.”
“I mean… not spiraling publicly would be a start.”
“Oh, well, then no. Not alright at all.”
There was a beat of quiet between you, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but wasn’t quite easy either. Just... stale, and a little heavy. You let your gaze move over him—pristine even now, dressed in a navy cashmere sweater that looked simple but intentional, sleeves pushed just high enough to show his silver Rolex. His dark wash jeans were the kind you knew cost more than most people’s rent, and the emerald ring on his right hand caught the light again as he turned his glass between his fingers.
“Didn’t think this was your scene,” you said finally.
“Well, the hotel belongs to my family,” he replied. “I’m here more often than I’d like to admit.”
You bit your lip, setting down your glass, “Right…sorry.”
He sighed again, deep and long as he took another sip of tequila, “Besides…they’re all here. Upstairs in the Penthouse for the night.”
“Why?”
“We had a, uh... ‘family meeting.’”
There was something surprisingly genuine in the way he said it, though it was obvious he was exhausted by it. Harry always had that about him even when he was guarded, when he dressed everything in civility and charm. There was a softness there, something unpolished beneath all the carefully crafted exterior.
“A family meeting?” you asked, finally setting your phone down and turning toward him.
He gave a short nod. “You’re not the only one in the news lately, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Oh.
“Camilla,” you breathed, stomach sinking, “Is she okay?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers turned his glass slowly, his gaze fixed on the clear liquid inside like he might find something helpful there. When he did look up, his eyes were as big and brown and heartbreakingly kind—eyes that seemed too soft, too honest to belong in your world of trust funds and galas.
“I don’t really know,” he said quietly. “She’s just… going through something.”
“Okay...”
“She’s struggling,” he sighed, a faint roughness at the edge of his voice. “I don’t fully understand it, but I know it’s real. My brother, her own father, refuses to see it that way. Thinks it’s for attention, which I find frankly infuriating. So we had a meeting after everything that happened last night. Everyone is just scared, so they sent her off to that rehabilitation center.”
You blinked, then shook your head. Harry didn’t seem interested in giving you all the details—and honestly, you knew he didn’t owe you any. The two of you barely knew each other outside of events and obligatory paths being crossed. Whatever happened, it was family business, and it wasn’t your place to pry. But still, before you could think better of it, your hand reached out and came to rest gently on his arm, the fabric of his sweater soft and warm beneath your fingers.
“I’m so sorry, Harry. I had no idea.”
He looked at your hand for a long moment, and you wondered if his mind had gone somewhere far from the room, the bar, the entire city, as he stared at the way your manicured fingers curved lightly against his sleeve.
“Yeah, well,” he finally said, tipping back his drink to his lips, “No one was supposed to. And now she’s all over the tabloids.”
You smiled ironically, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes as you pulled away from him. “Right next to little ol’ me, the spoiled party girl who can’t go one day without ending up in Gossip Girl’s daily roundup.”
That pulled a small laugh from him. You took your martini and clinked the glass gently against his, both of you drinking in quiet solidarity.
After a moment, he glanced sideways at you. “So… what’s your plan?”
You exhaled, setting your drink down on the bar top with a soft clink. “According to my parents? Settle down, find a man who can ‘reel me in,’ and fix my image. Make me palatable again. Maybe get a job.” You gave a humorless laugh. “They’re cutting me off for two months to prove I can be respectable.”
His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I’m just... tired,” you said, quieter now. “Tired of performing, of being their favorite liability. I feel like livestock at a charity auction—dressed up, shown off, never actually listened to. God forbid I enjoy myself or go to one little party. Then I’m reckless, I’m a shame. They never…I don’t know. They expect me to be so perfect and that the only way I’ll be respected is if I’m with a man.”
You sighed long and deep. You swirled the last sip of your martini around and shot it back in one last gulp. Staring deep into your glass, you swished the last dregs of alcohol in your mouth before swallowing it. You knew he was still watching you, could feel that piercing stare burning the side of your face.
“I might have an idea,” he said, quiet but sure.
You turned to him slowly, a little suspicious. “Oh no.”
He didn’t smile or look like he was mocking at all, he just leaned back in his seat, calm and composed.
“Date me.”
You blinked, coughed, and full on choked on your drink, your own spit, you weren’t even sure. You grabbed a napkin, pressing it to your mouth as your eyes watered, looking at him incredulously.
Harry raised a brow, unbothered. He sipped his tequila like nothing had happened. “Not the worst response I’ve ever received.”
“Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
You kept staring in disbelief before one final cough and a short and disbelieving laugh. “Harry, come on. Why in the world would I do that? You’re... what, like, a thousand?”
He winced with exaggerated offense. “Not quite.”
You shook your head, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re… attractive. In that polished, middle-aged politician kind of way.”
“Wow, really digging the knife in now. And for the record, I’m forty five.”
“I just don’t see how this helps me.”
He set his glass down, folded his hands, and turned toward you. The amusement left his face, replaced by something quieter like intention.
“Because I can give them exactly what they want. A man who speaks their language. Brunches, art auctions, opening nights. I understand the performance. I know how to present well. You let them believe you’ve finally come to your senses, and perhaps the pressure eases. Perhaps your father gives you back those accounts of yours.”
You frowned, suddenly wary. “And in return?”
He paused for a beat. ““In return, you help me shift the spotlight. Keep Camilla out of the tabloids for a while. If people are busy watching me with a girl like you, they’re not digging into her while she gets the help she needs.”
There it was. A girl like you.
You stared at him, something sharp and sour curdling behind your ribs.
“Oh, I see. Because I’m already such a disaster, so what’s one more headline? One more joke?” you stood, grabbing your phone and snatching your black clutch bag, “What’s one more public humiliation for the girl everyone already thinks is a braindead waste of space. Perfect to hide your family dirt behind, right?”
“Wait—”
“No, fuck you, Harry.”
You shoved your chair back hard enough to scrape against the floor, tossing your napkin onto the bar without looking at him. Your heels struck the glossy wooden floor with every step, each one echoing louder than the last, the heat in your chest pulsing toward your throat as you walked out.
Throwing open the door to your bedroom, you flung yourself onto the bed without bothering to take off your shoes. Your body landed hard before sinking into the plush silk duvet, letting it swallow you whole. The room was so quiet, so clean and polished and perfect, everything you felt like you weren’t. Everything you were supposed to be. Your breath hitched once, then again, and then you were really crying. Hot, furious tears spilling into your pillow like a little girl.
Because of course that’s all anyone ever saw now. A spoiled, stupid, dramatic, disposable little girl. The perfect distraction, the party girl. Always staying out late, showing up on Gossip Girl’s headlines day in and day out, always saying the wrong thing at events and making it all look so effortlessly trashy. You were nothing but a walking headline in designer heels to them, and it hurt. It really fucking hurt.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you threw it clear across the room before even bothering a single glance. It bounced off your pile of half-unpacked Chanel shopping bags from two weeks ago and landed face-up on the floor. A second later, it lit up again. This time, Blair.
You peeked over the side of your bed to look as the notifications came in.
You sniffled, wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan, and hit call before you could stop yourself.
“Finally,” Blair answered exasperatedly, “I’ve had to watch you get publicly dragged across the entire internet without your commentary, and you completely ditched me today! Where have you been?”
You didn’t say anything at first, trying to soften the tightness in your throat.
“...Hello?”
“B…” you choked.
There was a pause, then her voice softened. “Aw, babe.”
You laid back, pressing your hand to your forehead while you let everything spill out of you. “Everyone thinks I’m a joke. My parents are going to cut me off, I just stormed out on Harry Castillo, Chuck is texting me for fucking drugs again.” you breathed in shakily, “And I’m so sorry about Greece, B.”
“What the hell were you doing with Harry?” Blair said, and you could picture her perfectly scrunched nose and ruby red lips pulling into a grimace, “Well, you have always had a flair for theatrics,” she said with a sigh, then quickly added, “but no one pulls off self-destruction in vintage Galliano quite like you.”
You let out a soft, wet, miserable laugh.
Blair sighed again through the phone, “Okay, listen, you are not a joke. Maybe a little dramatic, maybe a little insane and allergic to consequences, but you’re not a mess. I don’t care about Greece, I just care that you’re okay. We’ve all been through one thing or another. Do you remember when Gossip Girl told everyone I’d slept with both Nate and Chuck in one week? I threatened to move to France over it!”
You leaned back against the headboard, breathing slow. “God, yeah, that was so long ago I totally forgot.”
“Exactly. So go dry your tears, put on a hair mask, and for God’s sake, block Chuck’s number again please.”
“Do you wanna talk about why you were mad at him at your party?”
“Not today. We’re talking about you right now.”
You nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Okay. Thanks, B.”
“Don’t let these jerks decide who you are, okay?” she said with a softness that she rarely let anyone see, “You’re not just what people post about. You’re my best friend and actually a good person, which none of these assholes can say about themselves.”
You smiled, watery and grateful. “Love you,”
“Love you more, babe.”
You hung up with a breath of something close to relief. For a moment, the silence was still, but less crushing.
You stared at your phone, swiping through your contacts and hesitating before you pressed Harry Castillo.
It rang once, and then again as you held your breath.
“Hey, kid,” he answered, “Listen, I’m so sorry—”
“Are you busy tomorrow morning?”
There was a pause.
“I can… move some things around,” he said slowly, “Why?”
You glanced out the window at the Manhattan skyline still lit up in its usual cold, glittering arrogance. “Meet me at Sant Ambroeus. Upper East Side. Nine.”
There was another pause before you heard a low exhale through the phone.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll be there.”