The lights faded. The red "ON AIR" sign blinked out, and Anna Lewis' face — calm, measured, impossibly composed — relaxed for the first time in hours.
"Goodnight," she said into the camera, her voice still silk-smooth, perfectly modulated. The studio director gave her the familiar nod. The outro music rose; the credits rolled; the screen faded to black.
Applause rippled softly through the control room — polite, perfunctory. Monday night's broadcast had gone clean, seamless. No last-minute stumbles, no technical glitches, no slips of the tongue. Anna could already hear her father's voice in her head: That's what I expect. No mistakes.
She smiled faintly, unpinning the microphone from her lapel as a sound assistant approached. "Perfect as always, Ms. Lewis," the girl chirped.
"Thank you, Emily," Anna said, handing over the mic. "Good work tonight."
She moved through the narrow corridor lined with screens and cables, the faint hum of the studio still vibrating in her bones. Outside, the city glowed beyond the glass; London in soft amber and silver, the river bending like a long, slow breath.
Her heels clicked across the floor, each step a rhythm of discipline. Routine. Control.
Inside her dressing room, the quiet was immediate and thick. She closed the door, exhaled, and leaned against it for a moment. The woman in the mirror was immaculate; hair perfectly waved, lipstick precise, eyes steady. But there was something hollow behind the gloss, a kind of tiredness that makeup could never soften.
She slipped off her blazer and hung it neatly on the chair, then reached for her phone. Two missed messages — one from her husband, Will ("Boys finished homework. Dinner waiting for you ❤️"), and one from the station's senior producer confirming tomorrow's lineup.
Anna typed a quick reply to Will — On my way soon. Don't wait up if you're tired x — then set the phone face-down on the counter.
A soft knock at the door.
She turned, half-expecting a production assistant. But when the door opened, it was him — Ryan, the catering runner.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Always polite. Always lingering a fraction too long when handing her coffee. Tonight, his shirt sleeves were rolled, forearms tanned and jeans that fit him just so.
He smiled — that uncertain, youthful smile. The kind that carried no promise, only the unspoken understanding of what they were.
Anna's pulse gave a small, traitorous flutter. "Hi," she said quietly.
He closed and locked the door behind him, and the air seemed to change; thicker, smaller, edged with something illicit and alive.
"Hi." His voice was low, almost apologetic. "You were great out there. "
"Thanks." She cut him off, though not unkindly. The reflection in the mirror caught the faintest movement behind her — his quick step closer, the nearness. The air between them crackled with danger and relief, as if every rule she'd ever obeyed were suspended for a few stolen minutes.
When it was over, there were no words. Just the faint rustle of clothing, the quiet reassembly of the armor she wore for the world. She dabbed her lipstick, adjusted her blouse, smoothed her hair until the woman in the mirror looked flawless again.
He was already gone.
Anna checked her reflection one last time — steady, perfect, unreadable — and left the building.
Outside, the night air was cool, threaded with the smell of rain. The driver opened the car door and she slid into the back seat, the weight of exhaustion pressing in as the city lights blurred past. She texted Will again: Leaving now. See you soon.
The drive home was long enough for her to shift back into the other Anna — wife, mother, dependable presence. The house was dark except for the soft glow of the kitchen light. She stepped inside quietly, toes aching from the heels, her body humming with residual energy she didn't want to name.
Will appeared in the doorway, tea towel over one shoulder, his expression soft with relief. "You're home."
She smiled, automatically. "Barely."
He crossed to her, kissed her cheek — gentle, familiar. His hands smelled faintly of dish soap and lemon. "You were brilliant tonight," he said. "You make that broadcast the best on TV."
"Thank you." She slipped out of her coat. "Sorry I ran late again."
"Part of the job." He gave a small shrug. "You hungry? I kept your dinner warm."
She didn't hesitate. "Starving."
The kitchen was tidy — as it always was. Clean plates stacked by the sink, one other still covered in foil. Her dinner: roast chicken, vegetables, a small glass of white wine beside it.
Will busied himself putting the leftovers away as she sat down. "Boys went up around half nine," he said. "They've got early hockey practice."
Anna nodded, fork in hand. "How was school?"
"Same as always. Tom got the responsibility award again." He smiled faintly. "You should have seen him telling off a sixth-former twice his size. The boy just stood there, stunned."
She smiled — genuinely, this time. "I'd pay to see that."
"You'd be proud," Will said. "Both of them. They're good kids."
"I know."
The silence between them was comfortable, familiar. She chewed slowly, mechanically, feeling the warmth of home seep into her bones. Will chatted a little more; the kind of gentle domestic conversation that made their life look enviably simple.
She finished half her dinner, told him she'd eat the rest in bed, and kissed his cheek before heading upstairs.
The boys' doors were both ajar, soft breathing behind each one. She paused, leaned into the doorway of Ben's room and looked at the scattered clothes, a football by the bed, the faint glow of his laptop. Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
For all her restlessness, her craving for escape, this was still her sanctuary. Her sons, safe and sleeping, unaware of the chaos simmering just beneath her calm exterior.
In the bathroom, steam rose around her as she showered. The hot water pounded her shoulders, washing away the hairspray and studio makeup and everything that didn't belong in this house.
When she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of her father's face; stern, critical, unimpressed. The man used to quiz her on her diction, posture, even the angle of her smile during her early broadcast days. You don't get to fail, Anna. Ever.
She'd succeeded beyond his expectations. But his approval, when it came, was rationed like air. One wrong step — a rumour, a whisper — and it would all be gone.
By the time she stepped into the bedroom, her hair was damp, her nightdress on. She sat on the bed, plate balanced on her knees, watching the muted news rerun — her own face speaking from the screen, immaculate and detached.
The irony almost made her laugh.
Will came in quietly, collecting her empty glass. "You sure you don't want me to warm that up?"
"I'm fine," she said. "I'll finish it like this."
He leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and went to brush his teeth. She listened to the water running in the ensuite, the soft rustle of drawers. It was all so ordinary, so safe — a world she'd built brick by brick, year after year.
And yet, part of her wanted to smash through it, just to see what would happen.
She finished eating, set the plate on the nightstand, and slid beneath the duvet. The sheets were cool and smelled faintly of fabric softener.
Will took the plate downstairs to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later, turning off the light before slipping into bed beside her. He moved close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar.
"You're tired," he murmured.
"Mm." Her voice was already heavy with sleep. "It was a long day."
He kissed her shoulder, a quiet gesture of care that went straight to her chest — and somewhere, deep down, guilt stirred. But she was too tired to unpack it. Too tired to be anyone else.
"Goodnight, love," he whispered.
"Night."
Anna closed her eyes, breathing slow and steady until his did the same.
The house was silent except for his faint breathing and her mind whirring. Somewhere beyond the windows, the city kept moving — lights flickering, cars passing, the endless hum of other lives.
Anna lay awake a few minutes longer, eyes open in the dark. Her mind drifted — to the studio, to Ryan, to the thrill and the risk and the endless weight of what could be lost.
Her throat tightened. She turned onto her side, facing away from Will, her hand curled beneath her chin. The tears never came. They rarely did.
Tomorrow she would wake up, go to work, put on the same careful face, and do it all again.
And no one — not Will, not her colleagues, not her father — would ever know how fragile that perfect picture really was.