Icons
Tonight, she’s draped in head-to-toe The Row—a sculptural black coat over a high-neck silk blouse and wide-leg trousers. Her red hair is swept into a loose chignon, her makeup pared back to the essentials: clean skin, defined eyes, a whisper of rose. No one stops her. But people look.
“Hey, bartender,” she says, spotting Shane mid-pour behind the bar. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?”
Shane looks up, ready with a comeback, until he recognizes her.
“Raf! Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
Her lips curl, glossed and amused. “Figured I’d try your version of therapy.”
“Pull up a stool,” he says, already reaching for a bottle of Cabernet. “You’re in good hands.” He pours her a glass, their fingers grazing. “The best hands, actually.”
“Not bad,” she says, meeting his gaze as she takes a sip.
“Stick around.” He leans across the bar, topping her off. “I might surprise you.”
“We’ll see,” she hums, swirling the wine, unaware that his gaze has already shifted to the entrance. Wendy stands just inside the doorway, motionless for a beat, eyes sweeping the bar. She sighs, looking at Leah beside her.
This wasn’t how she’d pictured the night going. Earlier at the office, Leah had leaned into her doorway. “Come get a drink with me,” she’d said, too familiar, as if they were close friends. “Let’s go to Icons. It’s kind of the building’s unofficial clubhouse. The owner, Shane, is our neighbor. I’ll introduce you. And I’ve got a few client ideas to run by you, too.”
“I’ve already been to your little clubhouse,” Wendy said, almost offended by the implication she hadn’t. “Shane and I know each other. I don’t need help finding clients. Just stick to the tasks I give you, okay?”
Leah caught the edge in Wendy’s tone, but played it cool. “Noted.” She paused, calculating. “So… that’s a no?”
It should’ve been. But after a day of calls, meetings, and endless posturing, the idea of a drink and, if Wendy was honest, the idea of seeing Shane again, had edged past her better judgment.
“Why not? I could use a drink,” she said, grabbing her Margaux.
“Well, well, look who it is,” a voice calls, pulling Wendy back to the room. Daphne greets them from the hostess stand, clad in a body-skimming black Escada dress with a plunging keyhole cutout. She folds her arms, and Wendy can’t help but notice how skinny she is, bordering on frail.
“Wait,” Leah says, freezing as she sees her. “What the hell? Daphne?”
“Yep! Shane needed help. I needed a gig. Left the flower shop. Voilà.”
“He just… hired you?”
“Some of us have a gift,” Daphne says, tossing her hair with a smirk. Her gaze flicks from Leah to Wendy. “So, how do you two know each other?”
Leah laughs a little too fast. “She’s my boss. At NDA.”
“Wait, seriously? You live in the same building as your boss?” Daphne mock-shudders. “Adorable. Do you guys carpool too?”
Leah fires back: “Don’t you live in the same building as your boss?”
“Shane? Please. He’s like a brother.” Daphne rolls her eyes. Then, with a glance at Wendy: “You, on the other hand, give more… mid-level manager energy.”
Wendy’s lashes flutter with mock innocence. “You should try managing something,” she says, giving her a once-over. “Besides that eating disorder.”
Leah freezes, glancing between them—Daphne, stunned into silence, and Wendy, calm and unbothered, like she hadn’t said anything at all.
“She always like that?” Daphne murmurs. “Or did I get the VIP treatment?”
Leah clears her throat, trying to break the tension. “Should we, um… get a table, Wendy?”
But Wendy’s attention is already gone. Because there he is. Shane, at the bar. And he’s not alone. A redhead sits beside him, poised and elegant. Even Wendy can admit it. She’s stunning.
She watches them for a beat longer than she means to, just long enough to catch the easy lean of Shane’s body, the way he smiles at something the woman says.
Whatever. She lets it go. Follows Leah toward their table. “This place is ridiculously incestuous,” she mutters.
Leah tosses Wendy a knowing look. “Welcome to the tangled web.”
They settle in. Leah catches Wendy’s gaze drifting, again, toward the bar. Shane’s there, refilling the redhead’s wine, leaning in just enough to hear her.
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Raf is telling him about the business she once ran—interior design, the dream homes she created for other people. How it all eroded after marrying Ethan, until her own life felt like a showroom for someone else’s success.
Shane leans in, tone casual but curious. “What kind of space are you looking for now?”
Raf tips her head, letting the question hang. “At least two thousand square feet. Open layout. Lots of light. No compromises.”
“You don’t settle,” he says with a nod. “My place isn’t much. Just a crash pad.”
Raf picks up on it. He’s testing the waters. “Maybe time for a revamp?”
“Could be,” he says, smiling. “You free for a consultation?”
“Depends. You paying my rate?”
“Depends. You open to bartering?”
Their laughter folds into the low hum of the bar, while across the room, Leah rambles on about office politics.
Wendy doesn’t bother pretending to listen. “I’m bored,” she says, standing. “I’m heading out.”
Leah flinches, just barely. “Oh. Okay.”
“You’ve got the check?”
A pause, then Leah nods, quietly shocked. Seriously? WTF. She’s the one with the corporate card.
“Sure… I guess,” she says, reaching for her Amex Black. “See you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” Wendy calls over her shoulder as she walks away.
But she doesn’t rush. Not yet. She catches Shane’s eye across the bar, noting the flicker of recognition, the casual wave he throws like he’s not half-flirting with the redhead pressed a little too close to his side.
Wendy doesn’t wave back. She just holds his gaze one beat too long.
Raf’s laughter falters. She turns, tracking Wendy’s retreat.
At the door, Wendy glances back. Her eyes lock on Raf’s. Just for a moment, but the challenge lingers. A faceoff. Then Wendy turns, her golden waves bouncing as she walks out without another word.
Raf turns back to Shane, eyes narrowing with a flicker of doubt. “Friend of yours?”
“Who?”
“You didn’t feel that death glare?”
“She’s just my neighbor,” he says with an uneasy laugh. “We barely even know each other.”
They ease back into conversation, lighter now, flirtier, as the night’s pulse slows and the crowd thins.
A Miley remix hums low through the speakers as Daphne sidles up to Leah, tipping her chin toward Raf with a sly glance.
“You know who that is, right?”
Leah’s eyes go wide as Daphne whispers in her ear. Then she leans in to respond, but Daphne’s already gliding away, headed for the bar.
“Hey, boss,” she purrs. “I’m out. Big-deal event.”
Shane nods and sighs, like he saw it coming. “Let me guess? Bottle service and bad decisions?”
“You know me.” Daphne flashes a quick smile. “Always chasing excellence.”
She glances at Raf, registering the look, but doesn’t wait for a reply. A wink, a turn, and then she’s out the door, into the night.
It’s just past ten when Daphne arrives across town—late, electric, riding the high into a room full of beautiful people beneath sparkling chandeliers.
At the far edge, Boots moves along the perimeter, her black Khaite gown trailing behind. She pauses, composed and assured as she scans the room. Across the crowd, her gaze lands on Daphne, mid-toast, champagne sloshing as she waves her glass, nearly clipping a passing waiter.
“Another night, another spiral,” Boots says under her breath.
People look away as Daphne stumbles past, wobbling in her heels, glazed eyes confirming what they already know.
She digs out her phone, thumbing clumsily at the screen: come out. i need a partner in crime. it’s bleak out here. She adds a heart. Deletes it. Sends the message bare.
Across town, Leah hears the ping. She’s in bed, surrounded by stillness, Principles by Ray Dalio open in her lap.
She glances at the screen. Sees the name and sighs. She’s not in the mood to rescue anyone tonight. Daphne, least of all.
There are no partners in crime, she thinks. Just liabilities… and mistakes. Then she picks the book up and turns the page.
One floor above, Gareth leans against the balcony railing, a sweating lowball glass in hand. The ice is nearly gone, but he hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy spying.
Down the courtyard, the Stoneman apartment glows in dim lamplight. Through the shades, he watches Casey, hunched over his phone, absorbed in something that looks important. Then Lili walks in.
Gareth sees it: the way Casey startles before he slides the phone out of sight. How he crosses the room, then pulls Lili into a hug. But it’s too long. Too tight.
Across the building, behind a locked door and blackout shades, another kind of watching takes place—a moment not meant to be witnessed. He sits alone in the cold blue wash of his monitors. On one screen, a Financial Times profile dissects Rafaella Simonetti’s divorce. On the other, grainy footage, secretly recorded from behind the wall clock.
Alexander watches it frame by frame: the flicker in Raf’s eyes, the second she lets him in. She’s almost the same, he thinks. But different. Better, maybe. And with that, he knows—he won’t sleep tonight.
Wendy can’t sleep either. She steps out onto the balcony, barefoot, wineglass in hand, breathing in the cool night air. She leans against the railing, fingers brushing the lace of her sheer Agent Provocateur chemise, one strap slipping off her shoulder. It’s late, but the building hasn’t gone fully quiet. Something always pulses here; by now, she’s learned that.
Below, a light flickers in Shane’s apartment. He moves through the kitchen, shirtless. The fridge opens, casting a pale glow across his chest as he leans in.
Then he looks up. Through his window, their eyes meet across the courtyard. No smile. No wave. But she doesn’t look away.
She sets her glass down. Then turns. Moves. She slips inside, crosses the hardwood to the front door, and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind her as she heads for the stairwell, bare feet quick against the tile. She descends into the courtyard.
“I assumed you had rules about this kind of thing,” Shane says, already waiting as she approaches.
“I do,” she replies. “I’m breaking one.”
His mouth curves—half amusement, half challenge.
“Tell me to stop.”
Wendy steps closer.
“You won’t.”
His mouth crashes into hers. She gasps into the kiss, hands already at his shorts, laughing as he pulls the lace from her chest.
She shoves him. Playful, but enough to send him back to the pool’s edge. He grabs her tighter by the waist, matching the gleam in her eyes.
“Oh, I see how you like to play.”
Then—he jumps, pulling her with him. They crash into the pool. Water erupts. Moonlight fractures across the surface as they disappear beneath.
His hands find her waist. Her legs wrap around his. She bites his bottom lip as they surface, and when he groans, the sound ricochets.
They rise, slick and breathless, in the center of the pool. He pulls her closer. She arches. He presses in. The water thrashes. Waves slap tile. Another moan cuts through the hush. A nearby window lights up, but no one stirs.
Beyond the courtyard, the whole city might as well be asleep… might as well be dreaming. But she feels everything: the shimmer of lights, the crisp spring air, the slow rock of pool water. Shane’s lips trailing her neck as she moans again.
He thrusts deeper. Wendy cries out. The night doesn’t answer. But for one glittering heartbeat—
It keeps their secret.