The Beaumont bar was all gold and shadows — that soft, expensive hush of places where everyone talks quietly because everyone matters. Anna arrived five minutes early, as always, perfectly turned out in a black silk blouse and a tailored skirt that skimmed her knees.
She'd chosen the outfit with precision — polished but not ostentatious, the kind of elegance that whispered authority without trying. Her hair framed her face in careful, dark waves. Her lipstick was the same deep red she wore on camera.
Maggie Montgomery was already there.
She occupied the corner banquette like a queen on loan from another century — sequined jacket, statement earrings, and a glass of champagne she'd clearly been holding for effect.
"Anna, darling!" Maggie's voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "You look divine."
Anna smiled, leaning in to air-kiss her. "So do you. I hope I'm not keeping you waiting."
"Not at all. I always arrive early — it's good to be seen, don't you think?" Maggie's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Sit, love. We'll order something strong; it's been a ghastly day."
Anna slid into the booth across from her, setting her clutch beside her. A waiter appeared almost instantly and Maggie ordered martinis for them both before Anna could protest.
"So," Maggie said, swirling her champagne. "Ethan's running late. He texted — some emergency at the office. But he'll join us soon."
"Of course," Anna said evenly, though her heart gave a tiny, ridiculous flutter at the sound of his name.
Maggie studied her with feline curiosity. "You're interviewing him Friday, aren't you? How thrilling. He hates journalists."
"I'm aware," Anna said, smiling lightly. "But I'm hoping I can persuade him otherwise."
"Mm. I'm sure you can." Maggie leaned back, the picture of lazy amusement. "He's quite the creature. Terribly intense. But charming, when he chooses to be."
Anna sipped her drink. "And you know him well?"
"Oh, we've shared a few drinks and far too many galas. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, everyone listens. You'll see."
They chatted for a while — about the upcoming interview, mutual acquaintances, the latest awards event Maggie was co-hosting. On the surface, it was all champagne politeness, but beneath it Anna felt that old edge of rivalry — the careful dance of two women who smiled with their teeth.
Maggie was pretending to be warm, but Anna could feel the subtle condescension in her tone, the glint of amusement when she asked about Anna's schedule, her children, her "adorable husband who must miss you terribly."
"Yes," Anna said smoothly. "He's very patient."
"I imagine he'd have to be," Maggie murmured.
Before Anna could respond, a low ripple of movement passed through the room — the unmistakable shift in air that happens when someone magnetic walks in.
She turned.
Ethan Garrison had arrived.
He was taller than she'd expected, dressed in a simple dark shirt and jeans that somehow made everyone else look overdressed. His hair was slightly tousled, his tie loose, as if he'd left some crisis midstream. Yet there was an ease about him — a quiet confidence that didn't need performance.
He scanned the room once, spotted them, and crossed over with unhurried precision.
"Ladies," he said, voice smooth, but unforced. "Apologies for the delay."
"Ethan!" Maggie's tone dripped honey. "You're forgiven, of course. We were just gossiping about you."
"I can imagine," he said mildly, eyes flicking to Anna. "You must be Anna Lewis."
She rose, extending a hand. "Mr. Garrison. It's a pleasure."
His handshake was firm — not showy, not limp, just exact. His palm was warm, his eyes sharper than she'd anticipated: a deep, unreadable grey.
"Likewise," he said. "Please, call me Ethan."
When she sat down again, she was acutely aware of herself — the angle of her spine, the soft pulse at her throat. Something in his gaze unsettled her, as though he saw more than she intended to reveal.
Maggie motioned to the waiter. "Another martini, and a whiskey for Ethan — neat, isn't it?"
"Always," he said. "Thank you, Maggie."
She reached to touch his sleeve — casually, possessively — and Anna noted it with a flicker of something she didn't want to name.
"So," Maggie said brightly, "our Anna is interviewing you on Friday. Quite the coup for the network."
Ethan looked at Anna, and something electric passed between them — not visible, but tangible enough that her breath caught. "I'm not sure who it's a coup for," he said quietly.
"Hopefully both of us," she managed, her tone even, professional.
He smiled — a small, precise curve of the mouth. "I've watched your broadcasts. You're very good at keeping people honest."
"It's my job."
He studied her a moment longer, the corner of his mouth tilting slightly, as if he could already see beneath her calm exterior. "You're good at it. I imagine you enjoy it."
Maggie broke in, laughter a touch too loud. "Oh, she's more than good. Anna's television royalty. Every household in Britain trusts that face."
"Do they?" Ethan asked softly, eyes still on Anna. "That must be… heavy."
"I'm passionate about the truth, but sometimes it'sa cage" she said, holding his gaze. "You learn to live inside it."
"Do you?" His tone was curious, not mocking. But something in it made her heart stumble — the sense that he was peeling away the surface layers, not with malice, but instinct.
She smiled thinly. "You sound like a journalist."
He smiled back, slow and deliberate. "Occupational hazard. I build things; I like to know how they work."
Maggie clapped her hands softly. "Well! You two sound like a match made in media heaven. I should just leave you to it."
"Don't you dare," Anna said lightly, though she could feel the warmth creeping into her cheeks.
They talked for another hour — about innovation, philanthropy, media narratives. But beneath every exchange between Anna and Ethan ran a quiet current of energy, like the hum beneath a power line.
When she challenged him on his company's data policies, he grinned — genuinely amused, impressed. "You don't pull any punches."
"Would you prefer that I did?"
"Not at all," he said, voice low. "I like people who speak directly."
Maggie's eyes flicked between them, assessing, her smile growing a little too fixed. "Ethan," she said, "darling, you should be careful — Anna can charm even the most meticulous of men."
"I don't doubt it," he murmured, still watching Anna.
The tension was so palpable now that Anna had to look away, reaching for her glass just to steady herself. She felt reckless and alive in a way she hadn't in years — and it terrified her.
At one point, his hand brushed hers as they both reached for the menu and the contact — brief, accidental — sent a rush of heat up her arm. She withdrew quickly, pretending to adjust her sleeve, but she could feel his faint smile even before she met his eyes again.
By the time the evening wound down, Maggie was animated with stories about her next charity gala, her laughter floating over the table like perfume. Anna half-listened, every nerve still tuned to Ethan — the cadence of his voice, the way he listened more than he spoke, the effortless quiet power he carried.
When they finally stood to leave, Maggie insisted on hugs and photographs — "For the socials, darling, nothing serious" — and Ethan politely obliged.
At the curb outside, London shimmered under streetlights, the night thick and warm. Maggie's driver was waiting.
"This was lovely," she said. "We must do it again soon."
Anna smiled. "Absolutely."
Maggie turned to Ethan, her voice lower, possessive again. "You'll come to the gala in a couple of weeks?"
"I'll try," he said.
"You'd better." She air-kissed his cheek, then swept into the car, leaving a cloud of perfume behind.
Anna was suddenly aware that she and Ethan were alone on the pavement.
He turned to her, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. "So," he said softly, "Friday."
"Yes." Her voice came out quieter than intended.
"I'm looking forward to it."
"So am I."
She gestured for a cab and one pulled up beside them.
For a long moment, neither moved. The city's hum seemed to fade, replaced by a stillness that thrummed with possibility.
Then he smiled — a quick, knowing flash — and opened the door. "Goodnight, Anna."
"Goodnight, Ethan."
He shut the car door and walked away, disappearing into the glow of the street, and she sat there a moment longer, her pulse racing.
She'd told herself this interview was about ambition, about career, about proving something to her father. But as the cab pulled out, she knew, with a sudden and dangerous clarity, that it had already become something else entirely.
Something that scared her more than failure ever had.