Amaya
The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes, casting long, golden lines that pooled across the marble floor. I sat at the glass breakfast table, one hand cupped around my coffee, the other scrolling lazily through my phone. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet for someone who lived in the heart of the city, but that was exactly how I liked it. I had chosen this place for its silence, the way the noise of the streets below seemed to vanish the moment I closed the door behind me.
My inbox was a mix of contracts, event confirmations, and an alarming number of press clippings my PR team insisted on sending. One, in particular, caught my eye—a sleek black-and-gold digital invite for a Women in Power: Philanthropy & Leadership gala. Invite-only. I didn't need to read the fine print to know it had been sent to only the highest rungs of the social ladder.
I set my phone down and glanced at the time. I had the rest of the morning to handle work. Then Hannah.
---
By the time I slid into the driver's seat of my car in the afternoon, the city had shifted into its lazy golden-hour glow. Tinted windows shielded me from curious eyes, and I leaned back into the butter-soft leather as I merged into traffic. Outside, the streets were a slow parade of polished cars, designer storefronts, and the occasional flash of paparazzi.
My fingers tapped absently against my knee as I stared out the window. The invite was still sitting in my messages, unanswered, but I already knew I'd go. It was the kind of event that spoke to me. Powerful women gathered in one room, no performative charity, no empty platitudes.
My mind drifted as I passed the limestone façade of the Chamberlain Hotel, a landmark of old wealth. I thought about Christian. For the past week, there had been nothing. No calls. No texts. No carefully staged appearances. It was as though we existed in two separate worlds again, only tethered by the press that insisted on linking our names.
I didn't mind the quiet. In fact, I preferred it.
---
"Ms. Devreaux," the receptionist greeted with a bright, practiced smile as I stepped into the marble-floored lobby of Hannah's building. "Good afternoon. She's expecting you."
"I should hope so," I replied lightly, accepting the gesture toward the private elevator.
My heels clicked softly against the floor as I crossed the lobby, the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne lingering in the air. I pressed my fingertip to the biometric scanner beside the elevator door, a ridiculous level of security for a residential building, but Hannah had always loved her drama.
As the elevator began its smooth ascent, I couldn't help but smirk. Pretentious. Entirely unnecessary. Perfectly Hannah.
---
When the doors slid open, Hannah was already standing there, barefoot on the glossy white oak floor, a stemless glass of wine in hand.
"Finally," she said, drawing me into a hug. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to drink with you?"
"I'm touched," I replied dryly, glancing past her toward the wall of glass that made up one entire side of the penthouse. The city stretched out beyond it, glittering in the late light. "I'll never get over this view."
"You say that every time," Hannah teased, leading me into the open-plan living space. "And yet you live in a glass box yourself."
"Mine's smaller," I said with mock solemnity. "And it definitely doesn't come with a private elevator. Which, by the way, is ridiculous."
"It's called convenience," Hannah said, waving me toward the plush cream sofa. "Some of us don't like running into strangers on the way home."
"Some of us don't like paying for gold-plated convenience."
"Some of us have taste and standards. You wouldn't understand."
"Screw you," I shot back, grinning. "And your gold-plated elevator."
We settled into the sofa, the kind that seemed to swallow you whole, while Hannah set a small charcuterie board between us.
---
"I got an invite to Women in Power this morning," I said after a sip of wine.
"I did too," Hannah said. "You going?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Same. I already told Sophie to pull options." Hannah grinned over her glass.
I smirked. "Sophie's still your stylist? Didn't she try to put you in a sequined cape last season?"
"It was Balmain, thank you very much."
"It was a crime."
"Whatever. You could wear a bedsheet and Vogue would still call it ethereal minimalism."
"That's exactly why I never tell anyone where my pieces come from," I said. "Let them guess."
Hannah pointed her wine glass at me. "And what about you? Don't tell me you're going to show up in something 'understated.' This is the one event where it's socially acceptable to look like you own the building."
I smirked. "I do own a building. Several, actually."
"That's not the same and you know it. What are you planning?"
"I'll let Elise decide," I said casually.
Hannah's brows rose. "Your Elise? As in the Elise who swears by drama?"
"The very one."
Hannah made a sound halfway between approval and mischief. "Good. Maybe she'll put you in red. Make Christian Knight forget his own name."
I rolled my eyes. "It's a women-only event, Han. I'm sure you remember that."
"True," Hannah said with a knowing grin. "But you can't tell me the press won't be watching. And I know for sure that man would be watching too."
"They can watch all they want," I said, popping a grape into my mouth. "It's none of their business."
We drifted into talk of work—upcoming projects at our company, a quietly successful collaboration that had just wrapped, and the handful of clients we'd both agreed were more trouble than they were worth.
"Honestly," Hannah said, "I don't know why we put up with the Laurent account as long as we did. I was ready to delete his number months ago."
"Because he pays on time," I said dryly.
"Barely worth it. My blood pressure isn't."
Laughter spilled between us, low and indulgent, like the clink of crystal in a quiet room.
---
At some point, Hannah's phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, then flipped it screen-down with a roll of her eyes.
"What?" I asked.
"Tabloids," Hannah said. "Guess who made headlines this morning?"
"I already saw," I replied, my voice mild.
"Ava," we said in unison, Hannah's mouth curling into something sharp. "Leaving a club at three a.m., looking like she'd been dragged out by security. Classy."
My smile didn't quite reach my eyes. "When has Winthrop ever attended anything unless she's causing a scene?"
Hannah snorted. "So you don't think she'll show at Women in Power?"
"Better that she doesn't." I reached for my wine again. "Last time we crossed paths, it wasn't exactly… civil."
Hannah leaned forward. "Oh my God, you crossed paths? When?"
I smiled faintly. "We had an… altercation at the engagement party."
"You're kidding."
I shook my head, the memory flickering sharp and unpleasant. "She cornered me. Told me she'd slept with Christian the day before."
Hannah's eyes narrowed instantly. "She said that to your face?"
"She did. And then she smiled like it was supposed to matter."
The silence stretched for a beat. Hannah blinked once, then her face hardened. "I'd have shoved that smile down her throat. And where the hell was Christian?"
"Inside," I said evenly. "I went to find him right after."
"And?"
"I told him she'd better keep her distance. He didn't argue."
Hannah's laugh was humorless. "Of course he didn't. Even he knows better than to test you in public." She leaned forward. "You do realize she's going to try something again, right? That woman thrives on being seen. If she thinks she can rattle you, she'll keep pushing."
My expression didn't shift. "She's welcome to try."
Hannah sat back, wine swirling in her glass. "You're a better woman than me. I'd have made sure she left with bruised pride, and maybe a limp."
My mouth quirked. "Tempting, but I'm not giving the press that satisfaction."
Hannah studied me for a moment, then leaned back, the protective glint in her eyes still sharp. "Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't let her see you sweat. Not once."
My lips curved slowly. "She won't."
We clinked glasses, the city glittering behind us like a silent witness.