The morning of the interview broke bright and sharp — one of those rare London days where sunlight hit the skyline like glass. Anna Lewis sat in the makeup chair, her reflection multiplied across the mirrors, surrounded by the hum of the studio preparing to go live.
Technicians moved like clockwork, murmuring into headsets, testing sound levels. The air smelled faintly of hairspray, coffee, and nerves.
Anna's hairdresser was finishing the last few curls when a quiet knock came at the door.
"Come in," she said without looking up.
The door opened and Ryan — the young catering runner — stepped in, balancing a tray. "Your usual, Ms. Lewis. One black coffee, two sugars, and a croissant you'll pretend you're too busy to eat."
She turned then, meeting his smile in the mirror. "You remember too much."
He shrugged, setting the tray beside her. "You've got a big one today, right? The billionaire guy?"
"Ethan Garrison."
"That's the one. Everyone's talking about it. Good luck, though I doubt you need it."
She offered a small smile, careful, professional. "Thank you, Ryan."
He hesitated, hands in his pockets, that familiar softness in his expression. "You look… different today. Kind of radiant."
"Make-up and nerves."
He tilted his head slightly. "It's more than that."
Their eyes met briefly in the mirror — and in that flicker of silence, everything unspoken between them seemed to shimmer into being.
Then Anna broke the gaze with a practiced, polite ease. "Ryan, could you make sure the water bottles are set out on set, please?"
He straightened, nodding. "Of course."
As he left, she exhaled, steadying herself. That part of her life — the reckless, hidden part — had no place here. Not today.
In the corridor outside, the studio lights bled through frosted glass panels, creating slivers of brightness along the floor. Anna walked through the bustle, her heels precise on the tiles, her producer, Charlie, matching her stride.
"Ethan Garrison just arrived," he said, scrolling through his tablet. "He's in green room two. Very calm, very collected. Refused makeup."
"Of course he did."
Charlie smiled nervously. "You've got twenty minutes before we start. Want a final run-through?"
"I've memorised it," she said.
He grinned. "Naturally. You're terrifying."
"Efficient," she corrected, though the corners of her mouth softened.
They reached the studio doors. From inside came the sound of crew adjusting camera rigs, lights humming overhead. She could already see the set through the glass — two chairs angled toward each other, sleek and minimalist, with the city skyline shimmering through the backdrop.
A perfect frame.
And in a few minutes, she'd be sitting across from Ethan Garrison.
She took a moment alone in the corridor, hands clasped loosely in front of her. She'd done thousands of interviews. Presidents, artists, CEOs. She knew how to command a room, how to lead a conversation, how to control a narrative.
But none of them had made her pulse behave like this.
"Anna?"
She looked up. Ethan stood at the end of the corridor, flanked by a pair of assistants who seemed to hover a respectful distance behind him. He looked the same as the other night — maybe sharper, more deliberate — in a charcoal suit that caught the light as he moved.
"Good morning," she said, her voice perfectly steady.
"Morning," he replied. His gaze took her in, quick but lingering. "You look… formidable."
She smiled. "Occupational hazard."
"Seems we have that in common."
Charlie appeared again, breaking the moment. "We're ready for sound check."
Ethan nodded. "Let's do it."
Ten minutes later, the studio lights dimmed slightly, and the red recording sign blinked on.
"Three, two, one…"
They began.
The opening questions were smooth, rehearsed — her voice calm, controlled, perfectly modulated. Ethan answered with quiet precision, his phrasing deliberate, but never dull. He was intelligent without being showy, charming without effort.
The chemistry between them was immediate, almost visible.
When she leaned forward slightly to press a point, he mirrored her without realising. When he smiled at something she said — not with amusement, but recognition — it felt like a secret exchange.
At one point she challenged him on a controversial project: his company's expansion into developing regions.
"Some say it's philanthropy," she said, "others call it empire-building. Which is it?"
His eyes held hers, steady and unreadable. "Maybe it's both. Maybe we build empires because the people who could be doing good aren't doing enough."
The words hung between them. There was something raw in his tone — something that reached beyond the talking points and into truth.
Anna felt it — that sudden click of understanding, the pull of two minds recognising each other in real time. For a split second, she forgot the cameras, the audience, the millions watching.
It was just them.
When the red light blinked off, the crew exhaled in collective relief. Charlie clapped his hands. "Brilliant! That was lightning in a bottle."
Ethan stood, buttoning his jacket. "She made it easy."
Anna rose too, smoothing her skirt. "You were… unexpectedly candid."
He smiled faintly. "You asked the right questions."
The air between them felt charged again — subtle, but undeniable.
"Thank you for doing this," she said, extending her hand. "I appreciate your time."
He took it — warm, firm, lingering half a second longer than necessary. "It was worth it."
Then he turned and left, surrounded by his assistants, leaving her standing in the soft echo of the moment.
Ryan was waiting near the dressing rooms with a fresh bottle of water. "You were incredible," he said quietly. "Everyone's talking about it."
"Thanks," Diane said, accepting the water. Her hands were trembling just slightly.
"You okay?" he asked, searching her face.
"I'm fine. Just… adrenaline."
He hesitated, eyes full of that same cautious devotion she'd once found thrilling and now found painful. "You sure that's all it is?"
She met his gaze — kind, uncertain, far too young. "Ryan, listen."
He straightened instinctively, like a child about to be scolded.
"This… whatever it was — was fun, but it needs to stay in the past," she said softly. "You've been wonderful and I care about you as a person, but I need to focus on my work. And you deserve something uncomplicated."
He swallowed hard, nodding. "I know. I wasn't going to — I just wanted to say you did great. I really admire you."
Her expression softened. "Thank you."
He smiled, small and sad. "You're incredible."
When he left, she sat down in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection — flawless makeup, steady eyes — and felt a faint tremor run through her.
For a moment, she almost reached for her phone to message Ethan. Just to say something simple, professional, harmless.
Great conversation today.
Thank you for your honesty.
But she didn't.
Instead, she opened the drawer, slid her phone inside, and shut it firmly.
That night at home, the house was loud with the usual Friday chaos — the boys arguing about pizza toppings, Will trying to referee with a laugh.
She kissed them all, slipped off her heels, and poured a glass of wine.
"How did it go?" Will asked, handing her a slice of pizza.
"Good," she said, smiling. "Really good."
He smiled back. "You always make it look easy."
She laughed lightly, taking a sip of wine. "That's the trick."
Later, after the boys had gone to bed, they watched a film. Will dozed off halfway through, his head resting against her shoulder. She stroked his hair absently, her eyes on the flickering screen, but her mind elsewhere — replaying every moment of the interview, every glance, every word, every small shift in the air when Ethan had looked at her.
When the credits rolled, she turned off the TV and sat in the dark, listening to Will breathe.
Her phone was on the coffee table. A new message glowed on the screen.
Ethan Garrison:
That was the most honest conversation I've had in years.
Her heart stuttered.
She didn't reply. But she didn't delete it either.