Corridor Collision

The electronic chime of the penthouse door sealing shut sounded like a judge’s gavel. I stood in the center of Nathaniel Morrow’s living area, the rain-slicked glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting my rigid posture back at me. It was 2:25 in the morning, and the city below was a smear of neon and headlights, muted by the downpour. My pulse hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs. I touched my lower lip, feeling the waxy residue of my red lipstick, checking my reflection in the dark glass. My hair was damp from the rooftop terrace, my silk blouse clung uncomfortably to my shoulders, and the flash of that tabloid photographer’s camera still burned like a ghost on my retinas. Nathaniel stood a few feet away, running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair. He looked exactly like the bad-boy tech founder the press loved to hate: tie discarded somewhere in the After Dark corridor, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with lean muscle. He paced a tight circuit around the leather sofa before he finally stopped and looked at me. “So, Ellery,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp. “Are we going to make them believe we’re in love, or are we going to let them ruin us?” I turned to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “That photo looks like a messy affair and a backroom deal happening simultaneously. Do you understand how bad that is?” “We bumped into each other,” he said, leaning against the edge of his glass coffee table. “You were storming away from the mixer, I was trying to get to the elevator.” “Try explaining that to Vivian Hartley.” Right on cue, the phone on his kitchen island buzzed. Marcus Ellington’s name lit up the screen. Nathaniel sighed and hit speaker. “Marcus,” he said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this hostage situation?” “The pleasure is entirely mine, Nathaniel.” Vivian’s sharp, clipped voice came through the line, and she sounded entirely too awake and entirely too pleased. “Though I imagine your evening is about to become significantly less enjoyable.” I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. “Vivian. What do you want?” “The tabloid reached out to me for comment twenty minutes ago,” she said smoothly. “They have the photo. They’re running it at dawn. The narrative is quite compelling: Calliope Ellery, the pristine crisis manager, caught compromising her ethics in a dark…