Anna Lewis woke before her alarm.
The sky outside the bedroom window was a pale, unfinished grey — that in-between hour when London hadn't quite decided if it was morning yet. Will's side of the bed was already empty. She could hear the faint hum of the kettle downstairs, the scrape of toast.
For a few moments she lay still, staring at the ceiling, the remnants of a dream dissolving — something about bright lights and a voice that wasn't Will's.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself back into the real world. Work. Coffee. Emails. The interview.
Her phone blinked on the bedside table: 5:47 a.m. She reached for it, scrolling through her overnight messages — a dozen from the production team, two from her editor, and one from Maggie Montgomery, timestamped just after midnight.
Lovely evening, darling. You and Ethan looked positively electric. He's still talking about your questions. Let's have lunch before Friday x M
Anna read it twice. Then headed to the bathroom to take a shower.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and buttered toast. Will was at the counter, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, glasses slipping down his nose as he graded essays.
He was an impressive looking man. Broad shoulders, toned muscles, kind eyes and a shy smile.
"Morning," he said, looking up with a smile that had never changed. "You were restless last night."
"Too much caffeine." She crossed to the coffee pot, poured herself a mug, and leaned against the counter.
"How was dinner with Maggie?"
Anna hesitated a beat too long. "Fine. Loud, as always."
"And the billionaire you're interviewing?"
"Ethan Garrison. Brilliant. Arrogant. Probably the most interesting person I've met in years."
Will chuckled. "That's saying something."
She smiled faintly. "It is."
He came around the counter, kissing her on the temple before heading toward the hallway. "Don't forget Tom's football game this weekend."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"I won't," she repeated, softer this time, almost a promise.
He smiled again and disappeared upstairs to wake the boys.
Will sipped her coffee and stared at the kitchen window, where the reflection of her own face hovered ghostlike over the faint drizzle outside. She looked tired, older somehow. The kind of woman who held too many versions of herself in her skin.
By nine o'clock she was in her office at the network, surrounded by a half-drunk latte and notes. The newsroom hummed around her — phones ringing, producers hurrying past, the scent of hairspray and coffee mingling in the air.
"Morning, Anna," called her assistant, Debbie, poking her head in. "Legal approved your question list. And Ethan Garrison's PA confirmed the shoot schedule for Friday."
"Perfect. Anything else?"
Debbie hesitated. "Just… you might want to check Twitter. There's some chatter about Maggie Montgomery and the foundation. Something about misuse of funds."
Anna looked up. "Is it credible?"
"Hard to tell. But if she's tied to Garrison, it might come up."
"Keep an eye on it."
Debbie nodded and slipped out.
Anna leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen against the desk. Maggie, already in the headlines — of course. And now she'd positioned herself neatly between Anna and Ethan, playing both sides as if it were a game.
She opened her laptop and reread her notes on Ethan Garrison: founder of a renewable energy empire, youngest billionaire in Britain, famously private. He'd built a clean-energy network that was revolutionising infrastructure. He was, by all accounts, brilliant — and difficult.
And last night, sitting across from him, Anna had felt something she hadn't in years. Something that had nothing to do with career.
A current. A pull.
It had unnerved her more than she wanted to admit.
That evening, home was chaos — the good kind, mostly.
The boys were arguing about leaving their football kits in the hallway; Will was at the stove making spaghetti, humming tunelessly. The house smelled of garlic and tomato and warmth.
Anna dropped her bag on the table and toed off her heels. "That smells incredible."
"Simple," Will said. "Comfort food."
"Comfort sounds perfect."
He glanced at her. "Long day?"
"Just busy. Trying to get this interview right."
Tom, their eldest, looked up from his phone. "You're interviewing that Ethan Garrison? The guy who's building those solar things in Kenya?"
"That's the one."
"Cool. He's all over YouTube. You should ask him if he's an alien."
"Noted," she said, smiling despite herself.
Will set the table while she poured wine — just half a glass — and for the first time that day, she felt herself exhale.
Dinner was messy and loud and ordinary. Tom teased Ben about his crush; Ben retaliated by flicking pasta sauce on Tom's hoodie. Will laughed, shaking his head.
It was domestic, unpolished, human — and part of her ached at how separate she felt from it, like she was watching her own life through glass.
Later, after the boys had gone upstairs, she helped Will load the dishwasher. He glanced at her. "You okay?"
"Of course."
"You've been somewhere else lately."
She shut the dishwasher door gently. "It's just work. The pressure. You know how it gets before a big one."
He nodded slowly. "I do. I just miss you, that's all."
Anna touched his arm — lightly, briefly — and forced a small smile. "I'm right here."
But they both knew she wasn't.
After he'd gone up to bed, she stayed in her study. The rain had picked up outside, tapping softly against the windowpane. Her desk lamp threw a warm pool of light over her notes.
She scrolled through the research file again. Every photograph of Ethan Garrison seemed to hold that same quality — self-contained, sharp, faintly amused. He didn't pose; he simply existed, as if cameras were an inconvenience.
And she remembered his eyes last night — the way he'd watched her not as a public figure, but as if he were cataloguing the truth beneath her posture.
Her phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number:
I enjoyed last night. Thank you for not asking me the usual nonsense.
Ethan Garrison
She stared at the words, her pulse quickening. Then another message arrived.
And for listening the way most people don't.
She typed, erased, typed again.
Likewise. Looking forward to Friday.
A pause. Then his reply:
So am I.
She locked the phone, set it face-down, and sat back.
Through the half-open door, she could hear Will brushing his teeth, humming softly under his breath. The sound of home.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, willing her mind to quiet, to focus. But the image of Ethan's eyes lingered, steady and uninvited.
Later, in bed, she turned away from Will's warmth and stared into the dark.
The boys' laughter drifted faintly from down the hall, a comfort and a weight all at once.
She thought of her father — his clipped voice on the phone yesterday, asking, "This interview — you won't mess it up, will you?"
No, Dad. I won't.
She never did.
She'd built her entire life on not messing things up — on being composed, prepared, perfect. But lately that perfection felt like a cage she'd built herself.
And somewhere, in the quiet between her heartbeat and the soft snore of her perfect husband beside her, she heard Ethan's voice again in memory — that low, curious tone:
"Do you live inside it?"
She didn't know anymore.
Sleep took her slowly, the rain whispering against the window.