Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rae had heard the word divorce too many times to count.

It floated through the apartment like smoke, whispered behind closed doors, murmured in late-night silences when she was supposed to be asleep. It was the magic word that stopped the yelling. The threat that ended every argument between her parents. Divorce meant her mother’s voice turning cold, her father’s face going pale. 

Sometimes it ended with slammed doors. Sometimes with her dad sleeping on the couch. And sometimes, in the early years, it ended with her mom zipping up suitcases and dragging Rae onto planes bound for Paris or Barbados. Rae used to think of divorce as a secret password to adventures. Rae would be whisked away, clutching her plush lion and sipping juice boxes in private jets while her mother stared out the window, sunglasses hiding her red eyes.

The trips always ended the same. With her father arriving with forced cheer, collecting them from the hotel lobby. Sometimes he was waiting when their flight landed, his smile stretched out too thin, gathering them back home like missing pieces of a puzzle.

This morning felt different.

There was a black suitcase by the door with her mother’s blazer draped neatly over the handle. No swimsuits. No boarding passes. No adventure. Just Siobhan Roy leaving again, this time not for a holiday escape but for Washington, D.C., where she now ran the White House as the President’s Chief of Staff. 

Rae padded toward the voices, heart thudding in her chest, as she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes.

“You can’t just decide things without me, Tom!” Shiv’s voice cracked across the living room like glass shattering.

Her father stood by the window, his tie crooked, his face pale from a sleepless night. “I’m not deciding anything! I’m trying to keep us together –”

“Together?” Her mother’s laugh was sharp, brittle. “That’s fucking rich coming from you. We’re done.”

Rae froze in the doorway. The words didn’t sound like a bluff this time. It didn’t sound like the magic password to a trip away. It sounded final.

Her father flinched. Once, years ago, he might have begged. Rae had overheard those nights too, when he had been all apologies and soft concessions, desperate not to lose her mom. But Tom wasn’t begging now. He looked wounded, but he stood straighter than she remembered ever seeing.

“Shiv, please –”

“I want a divorce.”

The words sliced through the air.

Rae hugged her arms around herself, toes curling on the cold floor. Her mom bent to grab the suitcase handle and swept past, heels clicking. She didn’t even glance toward the hallway where Rae stood, hair tangled from sleep. The front door slammed, rattling the picture frames on the wall.

Silence fell into the apartment.

Tom sank onto the couch like someone had unplugged him, staring blankly at the plush rug. The CEO of Waystar Royco who could command rooms, silence investors, and spar with politicians, looked smaller than Rae had ever seen him. After a moment, he ran a hand down his face.

“Well,” he muttered hoarsely, to no one at all, “that went well.”

Once, Tom had been the one chasing Shiv’s attention, desperate for scraps of affection. Now it was Shiv who had walked out, leaving Tom stunned in the same silence he’d once filled with apologies.

Rae pressed her cheek to the wall, staring at the closed door. Her chest ached. For once, there would be no jet, no trip, no bright distraction. Just her and her dad, and a silence that didn’t fit inside the apartment.

Rae’s feet made soft shuffling sounds on the hardwood as she stumbled out of the hallway. She loved how Shiv’s perfume lingered in the air, soft and warm, but it was a stark contrast with her absence. 

The light in the living room was too bright for this hour, the kind of pale morning light that made everything look harsher and less forgiving.

Tom was on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, his head buried in his hands. His tie dangled loose, his shirt wrinkled like he’d slept in it. When he heard Rae’s footsteps, he jerked upright, swiping at his eyes so fast it was almost cartoonish.

“Hey, cub,” he said, his voice too chipper, too sharp around the edges. “You’re up early. Did – uh, did you sleep okay?”

Rae blinked at him, bleary but alert. “Where’s mom?”

Tom hesitated, then pasted on a smile. “She’s, uh… off to D.C. Very important work stuff. You know how it is.”

“But her suitcase was by the door.” Rae clutched her hands around herself tighter.

“Right. Because she’ll be staying longer this week. Big meetings. She won’t be back until Saturday.”

Rae narrowed her eyes. Ten years old wasn’t that old, but it was old enough to know when an adult was lying. Especially her dad, whose face went weirdly soft when he fibbed.

“So she’s not coming back before Saturday?” Rae asked slowly, disappointment shining from her face.

His smile faltered. “Nope. But that means we get some quality time together. Ice cream for dinner? Movie marathon? Maybe I’ll even let you pick the movie this time.”

He grinned too wide but the cheer reached neither of them. 

Rae climbed onto the couch beside him, setting a pillow across her lap to hug as she pondered. She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re sad.”

“What? No, no.” He waved it off too quickly. “Just dad stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Rae leaned back against the cushions, her gaze steady in a way that made Tom shift uncomfortably. She didn’t argue, but she didn’t nod, either. She just sat there, watching him try to smile, watching the sadness leak through no matter how tightly he screwed on the mask.

And she didn’t buy a word of it.

Tom cleared his throat and stood quickly, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “You know what,” he said, forcing brightness into his voice, “I think today calls for pancakes. Blueberry ones with extra blueberries. What do you say, huh?”

Rae’s eyes followed him as he shuffled toward the kitchen, shoulders stiff under his shirt. Pancakes were his default cure for everything. To rainy days, bad report cards, stomachaches. Blueberry one’s especially. They were his favorite, which Rae guessed made them her favorite too.

She trailed after him, climbing onto a stool at the counter. Tom banged around in the cupboard like the clatter of pans could drown out the quiet in the room.

“Best pancakes in Manhattan, coming right up,” he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder. His eyes didn’t match the grin. They were red-rimmed, pooling in the corners. His ridiculously long lashes were damp in the light. Rae hated it, hated seeing her dad look like that, all sad and small when he was supposed to be big, strong and important.

Because he was important. He reminded her all the time, though never in those words. A CEO. A very busy man with a very big job. The kind of job that made him miss bedtime sometimes, or sit through endless phone calls while Rae ate dinner in front of the TV with her Au Pair Gwendoline. But when he was around, he tried to be the best dad. Really tried.

Rae swung her legs against the stool and watched her dad try to find all the ingredients they needed.

Tom cracked an egg too hard, swore, and then shot her a guilty look. “You didn’t hear that.”

Rae rested her chin in her hands, watching him stir the batter like whipping it harder could fix everything. She decided she’d eat every pancake he made, even the burnt ones, just so he wouldn’t have to look at her with those eyes again.

The kitchen smelled like blueberries and butter by the time Tom slid the first stack onto Rae’s plate. He drowned them in syrup. It was way too much, the way she liked, and sat across from her with his own plate. The silence pressed too heavy between them.

“Are you and Mom really getting divorced?”

The question landed like a plate hitting the floor. Tom froze, fork halfway to his mouth. His jaw worked, but no sound came out at first. Then he set the fork down, carefully choosing his words. “Rae… sometimes grown-ups need space. To think.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His shoulders slumped. He looked at her then, raw and tired. “Your mom and I don’t always get along. And sometimes when people can’t figure out how to be together, they… split up.”

Rae’s throat burned. “So mom wouldn’t come back?”

“Not like before,” Tom admitted softly. “But she’ll be home Saturday. I promise.”

She shoved her fork down, syrup splattering. “So that’s it? She leaves and you just let her go?”

“Rae –”

“You didn’t even stop her! You just sat there. You didn’t even try.” She snapped. Her fists clenched in her lap.

Tom rubbed his neck, looking older than she’d ever seen him. “I have fought,” he said quietly. “I’ve fought for a long time. More than you know.”

But Rae didn’t believe it. Not when her mother was out there making decisions like the President of the world, and  her dad was here sitting on his hands. 

She shoved her chair back, the legs screeching. “Whatever.”

She stormed down the hall and slammed her door.

Tom sat in the kitchen, staring at the cooling pancakes. The CEO mask was gone. What was left was just a man, sagging with the weight of being a father and a husband and not knowing how to hold either role together.

Rae flopped onto her bed, face buried in her pillow, her chest hot and tight with anger. At her mom, for leaving. At her dad, for letting her go. At both of them for being so stupid. The air in her room was heavy with that sour mix of anger and sadness she didn’t have words for. After a while, when her heartbeat stopped thumping quite so hard in her ears, she rolled onto her side.

The bookshelf stood against the wall, crammed with trophies she barely remembered winning, stacks of dog-eared books, and picture frames. She dragged herself up on her elbows and squinted at the trophies. Swimming, tennis, and ballet competitions. She was good at sports, though she didn’t brag about it. 

Sometimes at family dinners, dad would beam about her “perfect turnout,” while mom would smirk, adding something sharp like, She doesn’t get that from you, Tom.

Rae thought maybe she did. She was grateful for her dad’s genes.

Like the way she could play by the pool for hours without wilting in the sun. The freckles would come up across her cheeks and shoulders, but at least she wasn’t doomed to sit in the shade under an umbrella all day like mom. Though Rae had to admit, the giant sun hats Shiv wore on their travels were magnificent with their wide brims and colorful silk scarves. 

Her dad’s side had given her long legs too, limbs that ballet teachers praised for being “made for the stage.” She was lithe and tall for her age, almost coltish, with arms and legs that sometimes felt too long for her body but worked just right when she danced or swam. 

On the shelf above her trophies sat the framed photo she loved the most: a photo of her as a baby on her mother’s hip on Christmas.

They looked almost like twins. Mom with her full cheekbones and Rae with the round softness of a baby, both with pale lashes and tufts of bright red hair. In the photo, Shiv was smiling, her eyes sparkling while Rae was drooling on her silk dress. Still Rae thought that it was the most beautiful her mom had ever looked.

Her own eyes had once been startling blue. The kind of clear blue you only saw in summer skies, the color everyone said she got from her dad. But with each year, they had darkened, slowly, stubbornly, until they matched her uncles’. Her hair had stayed red, though streaked with hints of brown, which Uncle Roman never let her forget. Uncle Roman teased that she was going to end up looking like grandmother Caroline. But Roman should watch his mouth, because Rae would soon surpass him in height.  

She pressed her face into a stuffed lion's neck, her chest tight with the thought.  A sinking feeling that maybe, this time, the word divorce actually meant what it was supposed to. 

What would happen to her family?

A knock broke through Rae’s brooding. Three soft raps, like her dad was practicing the knocks on the other side of the door.

“Rae?” His voice was muffled but gentle. “Hey, kid. Gwendoline’s here. We’ve got about thirty minutes before school, so start getting ready, okay?”

Rae groaned into her pillow, hugging the lion tighter. “I don’t want to go to school.”

There was a pause, long enough that she thought maybe he’d given up. Then the doorknob turned a fraction, and Tom poked his head in. He’d straightened his tie and changed his shirt, but his eyes were still tired, still soft around the edges in that way Rae hated.

“You’ve got to go,” he said, trying for cheer. “Education, remember? Very important. Unless you’re planning to take over Waystar tomorrow, in which case – hey, actually, maybe I could retire early…”

His voice trailed off when he saw her face, red-cheeked and sullen on the bed.

“I’m not going,” Rae muttered. “Not today.”

Tom sighed, stepping inside. “Rae, c’mon. I know things feel weird right now, but school doesn’t stop just because…” He broke off, searching for the word that wouldn’t make her flinch. “…just because things are different at home.”

“It’s not fair,” Rae said sharply, sitting up. “Why do I have to sit in stupid math class while everything’s a mess?”

Her voice cracked at the end, betraying more than she wanted.

Tom’s expression softened again. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. 

“Cub,” he said quietly, “I promise we’ll talk more about this later. After school. Okay? But right now, I need you to get dressed, brush your teeth and be ready when Gwendoline takes you.”

Rae scowled, crossing her arms tight over her chest. “You’re just making me go so you don’t have to deal with me.”

“That’s not true,” Tom said quickly. He reached to ruffle her hair, but she ducked away. His hand dropped uselessly to his knee. “I just… I want you to have a normal day. Even if I can’t give you one right now.”

Rae’s throat ached. She hated him for saying that, for acting like school and Gwendoline could fix anything. She wanted him to fight, to storm after her mom, to slam the door open and demand she come back. Not to sit here looking tired, forcing pancakes and schedules like it was any other morning.

But Tom only patted the mattress once before standing. “Half an hour,” he reminded, his voice tired but firm. “Uniform on, teeth brushed. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

He gave her one last look that was half hope, half apology, before leaving the door cracked open behind him.

Rae fell back against the pillows, glaring up at the ceiling, her chest burning with anger. It wasn’t fair. Not any of it.

.:.:.

Tom’s mornings at Waystar had been a blur for ten years. Meetings stacked on meetings, conference calls bleeding into interviews, decisions about markets and talent and scandals that could sink the stock price in an afternoon. It had been rough and exhausting, sometimes humiliating, sometimes lonely, but it had also been worth it. Worth it because he was still standing. Because he’d held onto the top job longer than anyone thought he ever could.

Today, though, he couldn’t concentrate. Numbers blurred, voices drowned. His mind was back in the apartment, where his wife had stormed off, again, and the door had clicked shut between them.

When the meeting broke, he slipped into his office, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Shiv’s name before he finally typed.

We need to talk. Please.

I’d prefer if you’d call earlier, but at the very least let’s talk Saturday when you’re back.

He stared at the message before pressing send, the glow of her name on the screen like a bruise he couldn’t stop touching.

It was the same ache he’d carried for years. It hurt to be with Shiv almost as much as it hurt to be without her. Being near her meant bracing for sharp edges, for that flash in her eyes that could slice him in two. But being away meant a silence that hollowed him out from the inside. There was no version of his life where he came out unhurt with her.

By noon, his day had filled again with calls about quarterly earnings, questions about strategy, a crisis in ATN that needed immediate sign-off. He buried himself in the rhythm, letting the weight of responsibility pull him forward. Until his assistant Sara came into his office with a phone in hand.

She showed him the screen. The caller ID flashed Rae’s school.

Tom’s stomach dropped. He took the phone and picked up immediately. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was brisk and too polite. “Mr. Wambsgans? This is Principal Greene. We’re calling regarding Rae’s behavior today. She’s been… distracted. Agitated. Causing disruptions in class.”

Tom pressed a hand against his temple. “Right. Okay. She’s ten. Sometimes she –”

“Mr. Wambsgans,” the principal interrupted gently. “She refused to participate in lessons, shouted at a teacher, and knocked over a chair. It’s very unlike her to act this aggressive. Miss Giraud came to collect her earlier than intended.”

Tom’s pulse hammered in his ears. “I’ll – yes. Thank you for informing me. I’ll talk with her.”

He hung up, staring at the phone. A rush of shame hit him. They couldn’t keep their voices down that morning, and now Rae was the one unraveling in the middle of a math class.

The knock on his office door made him jolt. He stuffed the phone into his pocket just as Greg leaned in, asking about an investor call. Tom forced a smile, forced the mask back on.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, though his chest was heavy. “I’ll be right there.”

But his thoughts weren’t in the boardroom anymore. They were already back home, on his little girl who needed him more than quarterly earnings did.

And on Shiv. Always Shiv.

.:.:.

Shiv’s days began before sunrise. A motorcade had pulled up to the Ronald Reagan to pick her up. By eleven a.m. she’d already had two strategy calls, three coffees, and one tense hallway briefing that left her head buzzing.

This was the life she’d chosen. Not the slow suffocation of Waystar boardrooms, not the endless game of proving herself against her brothers. Washington was different. Here, her word mattered. Here, she didn’t have to play daughter or sister or wife. Here, she was Chief of Staff to the President of the United States. Here she was her own person.

And yet her phone burned in her pocket.

She hadn’t even looked at it after walking out the door this morning. She couldn’t. If she’d let herself meet Rae’s eyes in that hallway, if she’d let herself stop, she might not have left at all.

By the time her aide slipped her a note in a senior staff meeting, Shiv already knew what it would say. She pulled her phone from the table, thumb hovering.

A message from Tom.

We need to talk. Please.
I’d prefer if you’d call earlier, but at the very least let’s talk Saturday when you’re back.

Her chest tightened. She locked the screen, turned the phone face down.

Tom had always been easier to hurt than to love. For years, he bent himself into whatever shape she needed. He was soft, pliant, begging without saying the word. And she had no respect for him, even as she clung to the safety he gave her.

But that version of Tom was long gone. He had power now, weight of his own. When they fought, it wasn’t sparring with a subordinate. It was the collision between equals. And she didn’t know how to stop wanting that even as it tore her apart.

She’d walked out this morning because of that, because she couldn’t stand the way he looked at her, hurt, but unbroken. Because he wasn’t willing to bend for her anymore. And the awful truth was that it only made her want him more.

Loving Tom had always been a constant push and pull, a war between her need and her pride. And the sick, humiliating fact was that he had been the love of her life. Still was. And maybe always would be.

But then there was Rae.

The thought sliced deeper than any fight. Shiv loved her daughter in a way she hadn’t known she was capable of loving anyone. Rae had cracked her open, stripped her armor bare, made her feel things she didn’t always know how to carry. Leaving Tom was one thing. Leaving Rae, even for work, was something else.

She told herself it was temporary. That every hour she gave to Washington was for Rae’s future. That ambition was a kind of love, too.

But guilt sat heavy under her ribs, sharp every time she pictured her daughter’s face, wide light brown eyes that had once been Tom’s.

Sometimes, in the silence after a slammed door, she heard echoes of the past she couldn’t ignore. Her mother, neglectful and detached, choosing to rather have had dogs over her children. Her father, demanding loyalty so fierce, it made his kids crawl before him just to be seen. Shiv had sworn she wouldn’t become either of them. And here she was, flown to D.C with a suitcase in hand, splitting herself away from the two people she loved most in the world, and still terrified she was failing them both.

Her phone buzzed again, dragging her back to the present. This time, it was a White House group chat. Shiv straightened her blazer, smoothed her expression, and answered.

Saturday, she told herself firmly. Saturday she would face Tom. Saturday she would face Rae.

Not today.

.:.:.

Tom let himself into the apartment with his keys, the red sunset streaming through the tall windows. His tie was loose, his shoulders tight, the weight of the call from Rae’s school still dragging at him.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Wambsgans,” Gwendoline Giraud greeted him in her lilting French accent as she stepped out from the kitchen. She was in her mid-twenties, with dark hair twisted neatly at the nape of her neck. They had hired Gwendoline when Rae started school to replace her nanny. Gwendoline’s job was to teach her French and keep Rae company while they were working late. She was wearing the same composed expression she always did, even when Rae was at her most difficult. 

“Rae is in her room. She is…” She paused delicately. “Very unhappy.”

Tom sighed. “Yeah. That about covers it.” He set his briefcase down by the table and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks for picking her up.”

“She was very angry at school,” Gwendoline said gently, folding her hands. “She wouldn’t even touch her homework. It is not like her. She is usually…” She searched for the word, then brightened. “Focused.”

Tom managed a faint smile. “That’s good to hear. At least she saves the tantrums for me.”

He moved down the hallway and paused outside Rae’s room. The door was closed, a thin strip of light seeping out beneath it. He knocked once, softly.

“Rae-cub? Can I come in?”

A muffled groan came through the door. “No.”

Tom leaned his forehead briefly against the wood, exhaling. “Okay. But I’m coming in anyway.” He opened the door and stepped inside.

Rae was curled on her bed in her uniform, still in her skirt and socks, her backpack discarded on the floor. Her school work was spilled on the carpet. Her well loved lion plushie was tucked under her arm like a shield. She shot him a look, all stormclouds and indignation.

“Hey,” Tom said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Tough day?”

She turned her face away. “You made me go to school, and then I got in trouble at school, and then Gwendoline had to come get me early, and it’s all your fault.”

Tom blinked. “My fault?”

“Yes.” She sat up suddenly, her eyes hot with tears she didn’t want to shed. “If you and mom weren’t so… so stupid, mom would come home.”

The words hit harder than he expected, and for a moment he had no answer.

Rae glared at him, breathing fast, and then flopped back onto her pillow with a huff. “I hate school,” she muttered into the stuffed lion. “And I hate you and mom.”

Tom closed his eyes briefly, pain tightening in his chest. “Rae…”

Then Rae added, quieter: “At school Elton told me his parents got divorced and he never saw his dad again. Ever. He was just gone.” Her voice cracked. “Is that going to happen? What if I’ll never see mom again?”

The bottom dropped out of him. He hadn’t thought it would get in like that. The way other kids’ stories lodged themselves in her chest, made her imagine the worst. He reached toward her but stopped just short of touching her arm.

“Rae,” he said softly, steadying his voice even though his throat hurt. “That’s not going to happen. You’re not going to lose us.”

But she didn’t look at him. She buried her face deeper into the lion’s mane, her shoulders stiff.

From the doorway, Gwendoline cleared her throat softly, offering him an out. “Perhaps dinner, Monsieur? Something simple.”

Tom nodded without looking back. “Yeah. Thanks, Gwendoline.”

He stayed on the edge of Rae’s bed a moment longer, staring at her stubborn little face half-buried in the pillow, and wondered how he was supposed to hold it all together, when it already felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

He stayed there, silent, watching the small rise and fall of her back. The lion’s mane muffled her sniffles, but he could hear them anyway.

Finally, he tried again, his voice low, almost careful. “Rae … look at me?”

Nothing.

He leaned down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. 

“I’m not going anywhere. And your mom – she’s not either. Even when she’s in D.C., she’s still yours.”

Rae shifted a little, eyes still buried in the lion. Her voice was muffled, thick. “You promise?”

Tom swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “I promise. Cross my heart, hope to – well, not die, because that would defeat the point.”

That earned him a tiny, reluctant laugh that was wet but real. She turned her face just enough to peek at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“Come here,” he whispered, opening his arms.

For a moment, she stayed where she was, testing the offer like she might refuse it. But then she let go of the lion and slid into his chest, small and shaking. He wrapped his arms around her and held on, one hand cupping the back of her head. Her breathing slowed against him. Each exhale cut him open and stitched him back together all at once.

“You’re stuck with me, cub,” he murmured into her hair. “No matter what.”

And though she didn’t answer, her arms tightened around him, enough to tell him she believed it.

Chapter Text

The days after her mother left blurred together, stretching thin and sour.

Rae stayed angry. At school, at home, at everything. She refused to get out of bed in the mornings until Tom threatened to carry her, uniform and all, into the car. At school she talked back, snapping at teachers who asked if she was alright. She let her homework rot at the bottom of her bag.

By midweek, Gwendoline had a permanent crease in her forehead. “She is not herself,” the au pair told Tom one evening, after Rae had slammed her bedroom door so hard the picture frames rattled.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, voice flat. “Yeah. Join the club.”

Rae didn’t care if they were worried. She wanted her mother to be worried.

But Shiv didn’t call.

Every night Rae checked her phone. No text, no voicemail. Not even an emoji. She checked Tom’s phone when he wasn’t looking. Nothing. No “How are you?” No “Goodnight, cub.” Not even one of those quick voice memos Shiv sometimes recorded between meetings when she was guilty about missing bedtime.

The silence was worse than the fights. Silence meant she wasn’t even trying.

So Rae tried harder.

She “accidentally” spilled orange juice all over her math homework so she could tell her teacher she couldn’t turn it in. She stomped into ballet rehearsal late, bun lopsided, and refused to stretch properly. In swimming, she cannonballed into the pool during someone else’s lap, soaking the instructor.

Each call from school or practice was another nail in Tom’s coffin of exhaustion. He’d answer with that brittle, polite voice, apologize profusely, and by the time Rae got home, he looked older than she’d ever seen him.

“Cub, please,” he said one night, pressing his palms to his eyes while Gwendoline assembled the table. “Help me out here.”

Rae crossed her arms, heat rising in her throat. “Maybe if mom came back, I wouldn’t have to.”

The words landed like knives. She saw it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he turned away too quickly.

Rae didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. Because if her mother could leave and pretend Rae didn’t exist, then Rae would make sure she couldn’t ignore her forever. She’d burn the whole world down if she had to. And every day without a message from D.C., the fire inside her burned hotter.

.:.:.

Shiv sat at her desk in Washington, papers stacked in neat towers, her laptop open to a draft memo. The glow of the afternoon sun spread gold across the rug. For one fragile second, it reminded her of the light in their New York apartment. She shoved the thought aside, the way she had all week.

It was only five days. Not unusual for her. She’d spent longer stretches away on campaigns, conferences, foreign trips and during her early months in the West Wing. Rae was resilient. Rae would manage.

Shiv told herself that like a mantra. That distance was cleaner than half-measures. That silence hurt less than interruption. That contact would only make leaving harder.

Still, her phone lived face-down on the desk. And every night, when the townhouse was quiet, she would flip it over, thumb hovering. She even typed once Goodnight, cub. Be good for dad. She stared at it until the words blurred, then deleted them, ashamed of how much she wanted to send them.

By Friday afternoon, she was behind on emails, her head pounding. When her phone rang, she grabbed for it like a rope.

Tom.

Her hand hovered. She could let it ring. She could say she’d been in a briefing. But something in her stomach twisted, and she pressed accept.

“Tom.” Her voice was crisp and businesslike.

“Shiv.” His voice, on the other end, was not. It was tired, and stretched thin. “We need to talk. Now.”

Her pulse jumped. “I told you, Saturday –”

“No. Not about us.” The sharp crack in his tone made her sit straighter. “About Rae.”

Shiv froze. “What about her?”

“Her school’s been trying to contact you all week. They’ve called, emailed. Apparently you’re unreachable.”

“I’ve been –” Busy, she almost said. Important. Focused. None of those words felt right. “What’s happened?”

“She’s been acting out. Distracted. Angry. She’s knocked over chairs, screamed at teachers, refused everything they ask. Gwendoline’s had to pick her up early three times this week.” Tom’s voice broke. “She’s miserable, Shiv. She thinks it’s her fault.”

The words hit her chest like stones.

“It’s just five days,” Shiv tried weakly. “She can manage –”

“She’s ten,” Tom snapped. “She needs her mother.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy and unbearable. Shiv pressed her fingers against her eyes, her throat tight. She loved Rae with a kind of terrifying ferocity she barely knew how to hold. And yet she’d convinced herself that pulling away was better. Now it was blowing up in her face.

“Shiv?” Tom’s voice softened. “She needs you. And if you don’t – if you can’t –” He stopped, but the weight of it hung there.

Shiv opened her mouth, but no words came.

.:.:.

The Roy-Wambsgans apartment was dark when Shiv unlocked the door. Outside, the city hummed with its usual late-night life, but in here the silence felt cavernous, like the rooms themselves were holding their breath.

Her heels clicked softly against polished floors as she stepped inside, suitcase trailing behind her. The place smelled faintly of takeout and laundry detergent. A lived-in, domestic mix that hit her harder than she’d expected.

The lamp in the living room glowed dimly. Tom was slouched on the couch in a t-shirt, a glass of whiskey dangling loosely in his hand. His tie and jacket were nowhere in sight. He looked up when she entered, his expression tightening like a man bracing for impact.

“You came back,” he said.

It wasn’t sarcastic. If anything, it was said in disbelief.

Shiv set her purse on the counter, her voice sharp to cover the ache rising in her chest. “I said Saturday. It’s Friday night. Congratulations – you got me early.”

“Don’t.” His voice was low, tired in a way that made her stomach twist. “Don’t make it a joke.”

Her jaw clenched. The retort was on her tongue, something cutting, something safe, but a sound stopped her.

A door creaked open down the hall. Rae padded into the living room in her pajamas, hair plaited by Gwendoline, lion plush pressed tight to her chest.

Shiv straightened, instinct bracing her for a rush into her arms. But Rae didn’t rush. She stopped short, chin lifting, shoulders squared like armor too big for her small frame.

“You didn’t call,” Rae said. Her voice was thin, wobbling, but there was steel at the edges, steel that stabbed Shiv clean through.

“Rae –” Shiv stepped forward, arms half-raised.

“No.” Rae hugged the lion tighter. “You could’ve called. You didn’t. Not once.”

The words landed harder than any insult Shiv had ever weathered, harder than anything Tom had said in the past five days.

“Cub,” Tom murmured softly from the couch, a warning in his tone.

Rae ignored him. Her eyes, shining now, stayed locked on Shiv. “Do you even care? Or do you just care about your stupid job?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Shiv’s chest ached. Her hands twitched uselessly at her sides.

“I do care,” she managed at last, her voice cracking despite her best effort. “More than you know.”

Rae’s lips trembled, but she turned on her heel before Shiv could say more. The slam of her bedroom door reverberated through the apartment like a gunshot.

Shiv stood rooted, arms heavy at her sides, throat burning. The ache under her ribs was sharper now, sharper than it had been in D.C., sharper than she could bear.

Across the room, Tom leaned forward and set his glass down carefully. The clink of crystal on wood was too loud in the silence. He looked at her then, pale with exhaustion, but his eyes alive and blazing.

“Do you get it now?” His voice was low, shaking.

Shiv bristled, instinct rising like armor. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He shot to his feet, but there was no real force in it, just desperation stretched thin. “Shiv, she begged for you. All week. She was a wreck at school, she’s furious at me, at you, at everything. She’s unraveling. And you didn’t even pick up the phone.”

“I was working,” Shiv snapped, but the words sounded hollow in her own ears.

Tom laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Of course. Working. There’s always something bigger than us out there, isn’t there?”

Her stomach twisted. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t care about my daughter.”

“I’m not saying you don’t care.” His voice cracked, quieter now, raw. “I’m saying she can’t see it if you act like this. She’s ten, Shiv. She doesn’t know how to read between the lines. All she knows is that her mom disappeared on her.”

Shiv’s breath came uneven, sharp. “You think I don’t feel that?”

“I think you don’t let yourself feel it,” Tom said. His jaw tightened, but his voice was frayed at the edges, not furious so much as pleading. “Because if you did – if you actually let yourself, you’d have been on the first flight back Monday night.”

They stared at each other, the space between them thick, electric with everything unspoken. Shiv’s chest heaved. Tom’s eyes glistened with the anger he was barely holding back, but beneath it was hurt. The exhaustion. The love that was still there, bleeding out in every word.

Shiv sat on the edge of the guestroom bed, suitcase unopened, her reflection in the mirror staring back like an accusation. Her blazer was buttoned, her pulse still thrumming from the fight. She pressed her palms to her knees, but the restlessness under her ribs wouldn’t let her sit still. She couldn’t let it go.

Finally, she rose and walked down the hall.

Rae’s door was shut tight, a thin strip of nightlight glowing beneath it. Shiv knocked softly. “Rae?”

No answer. She turned the handle anyway.

The room was dim, heavy with the lavender spray Gwendoline used at bedtime. Rae lay curled on her side, clutching her pillow like it was the only thing holding her afloat. Her cheeks were blotchy, lashes spiked with tears.

Shiv’s throat constricted. “Hey,” she whispered, stepping inside.

“Go away.” Rae’s voice was muffled against the pillow.

Shiv sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re angry. You should be. I should’ve called. I should’ve…” Her voice faltered. “I should’ve been here.”

Rae turned over slowly, eyes glassy with exhaustion and hurt tangled together. “You didn’t want to.”

“I did.” The words spilled out of Shiv too quickly, too raw. “Every day I wanted to. I just thought if I stayed focused, if I didn’t let myself… slip – I’d be doing the right thing. For you.”

Rae’s lip wobbled. “The right thing is being here.”

The knife of it went straight through her. Shiv reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s forehead with a hand that trembled. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

For a long moment Rae didn’t move. Then, slowly, she shifted closer, pressing her head into Shiv’s chest. Shiv wrapped her arms around her daughter, laid down and held her tighter than she had in weeks. 

Rae’s breathing evened against her. Shiv’s perfume clung faintly in the sheets, her heartbeat steady beneath Rae’s ear. Her heavy breathing lulled her, each rise and fall pulling her deeper into the warmth she had missed so much. She wished she could just disappear into her mother, vanish into her warmth so she would never leave again. 

But soon it would be Monday, and her mother would be needed in D.C.

Tom passed the hallway and glanced into Rae’s room. He stopped.

Shiv lay fully dressed on top of the covers, one arm wrapped protectively around Rae. Their hair, two shades of the same copper-red, was fanned together across the pillow. Both were asleep, breathing in sync, faces turned toward each other as if the world outside didn’t exist.

The sight punched something loose in Tom’s chest. Hope, because Rae was finally resting. Because Shiv had finally given her what she needed. And hurt, because this was what it was supposed to look like. This was his family, whole, and he knew it was temporary. By Monday Shiv would be gone again, and he’d be left to stitch the pieces together.

His hand tightened on the doorframe. For thirteen years he had fought for his place in this family, fought for Shiv’s love, fought to hold things together when everything was designed to break apart. And here it was, right in front of him, the thing he wanted most. And it was still slipping away.

He watched them for another moment, the lump in his throat too thick to swallow

Shiv woke with a gasp. She had dozed off next to Rae, one hand tangled in her daughter’s hair. Rae was still tightly curled against Shiv’s side, breathing heavily. Shiv took a pillow and gingerly stuffed it into Rae’s arms as a poor substitute for her mother. She rose from the bed, quiet as a mouse and tiptoed out of Rae’s bedroom.

The apartment was hushed, the kind of quiet that only came when Rae was finally asleep. Shiv padded into the living room, where Tom sat under the lamplight, sleeves rolled up, laptop forgotten at his side.

She sank into the chair opposite him. For a long while neither spoke. The clock ticked toward midnight, the sound unbearably loud.

Finally, Tom broke the silence. His voice was rough. “She needs us. Both of us. And we’re… failing her.”

Shiv swallowed. Her throat felt raw. “I know.”

He glanced at her then, eyes bloodshot, lashes wet. “I don’t think we can keep doing this.”

The words sliced through her, though she had known them all along. She folded her arms across her chest like she could hold herself together. “We can’t.”

The silence pressed down, thick and unyielding.

“I’ve fought for so long,” Tom said after a moment, staring at his hands. “For us. For… something. But being with you hurts so fucking much. Being without you hurts. And Rae’s stuck in the middle.”

Shiv shut her eyes, pain tightening under her ribs. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Neither do I.”

They sat there, the truth of it laid bare between them: that love just wasn’t enough. That what tethered them was also tearing them apart.

“It’s best to let go,” Shiv said softly, her voice trembling despite her iron jaw. “We both know it.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged, as if the fight had drained out of him. “Yeah.”

Neither of them cried. They were too practiced, too trained in swallowing the ache. But the silence throbbed with it, heavy with everything they were losing.

“We’ll figure out the logistics,” Tom said finally, voice hoarse. “For her.”

“For her,” Shiv echoed, though the words nearly broke her in two.

They sat there in the half-light, not touching, not looking at each other, just two people unraveling in slow motion. It fucking hurt to let go. But there was no way left to hold on.

“How could a snake and a scorpion ever work?” Shiv laughed bitterly.

Tom didn’t have to answer the question. They'd seen it all come down before their very eyes, crumbling into their hands.

The smell of coffee and toast woke Rae before her alarm. She lay still for a moment, her lion tucked under her chin, listening.

Voices drifted from the kitchen. Not fighting, not laughing. Just low and flat. It was worse that way.

She padded down the hall, bare feet whispering against the cool floor. The light in the kitchen was pale, a grey wash that made everything look tired. Her parents sat across from each other at the table, mugs in hand. They weren’t speaking when she walked in, but the air was full of words that had already been spoken.

Tom looked up first. His smile flickered on, thin and unconvincing. “Hey, cub. You’re up early.”

Shiv turned too, her expression softer but guarded. “Morning, sweetheart.”

Rae slid into her chair. Her eyes moved between them, trying to decode the silence. They were both still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes shadowed, shoulders slumped. Something had shifted.

“What?” she asked bluntly.

Tom and Shiv exchanged one of those adult glances they thought was secret. It never was.

“Nothing,” Shiv said quickly. “We were just talking.”

“About me?” Rae asked.

“Always,” Tom said gently.

But Rae wasn’t stupid. She was ten. Old enough to feel the way their voices were thinner, their faces heavier, their bodies leaning not toward each other but away. They’d been loud before, fiery, alive with arguments. Now they were quiet. And it was worse.

She stirred her cereal, the spoon clinking against the bowl, a sound too loud in the silence. Her chest ached with certainty. Something had been decided. Something final.

Shiv set her mug down. “Rae,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

Rae kept stirring.

Shiv exhaled. “Your dad and I… we need some time apart.”

Rae’s shoulders twitched, but she didn’t lift her head.

“It doesn’t mean we don’t love you,” Shiv went on, her voice steady but too practiced. “It just means the way we’ve been doing things isn’t working. And we need time to figure out what does.”

“Sounds like divorce,” Rae muttered into her bowl.

Tom flinched in his seat. 

Shiv pressed on, her hands trembling against the mug. “You’ll stay here in New York. Your school is here. So are your friends, ballet, swimming, tennis. All the things you love. You’ll still see me. It won’t be so different.”

Now Rae did look up, eyes sharp and wet. “That’s a lie.”

“Rae –” Shiv began.

“It is,” Rae snapped. “I don’t believe you!”

The silence after was heavy enough to press on her chest. Tom stared at the table with his head hung. Shiv sat straighter, pale-faced, but her grip on the mug shook. Rae blinked fast, then shoved her chair back with a screech. She stomped down the hall and slammed her door closed. The kitchen fell quiet again.

Tom dragged a hand down his face. “Well,” he muttered hoarsely, “that went about as well as expected.”

Shiv didn’t answer. She just stared into her coffee, the steam long gone.

Rae threw herself face-first onto her bed, her lion crushed beneath her. She stayed there, breathing hard into the pillow until her face was damp and sticky.

She hated them. Both of them. Her mom with her smooth voice and neat explanations, like Rae should just nod and swallow it. Her dad with his tired silence, sitting there while mom said things Rae didn’t want to hear. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her bookshelf loomed in the corner, crowded with trophies and photographs. Ballet medals, tennis ribbons, vacation smiles, proof that once, at least, her family had been whole. Her eyes burned, but no new tears came. Just anger. Anger that felt too big for her small room, too big for her body.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew her parents loved each other. She’d seen it in the way her dad still looked at her mom when he thought no one noticed. In the way her mom’s voice softened, just barely, when she asked about him. They were just too stubborn, too proud, too grown-up to admit it.

So if they couldn’t fix it, she would.

Her parents thought she was a kid, too young to understand. But Rae understood plenty. Families weren’t supposed to blow apart like this, not when love was still there.  She pressed her face into the lion’s matted fur, whispering into its ear like a secret vow. “I’ll make them love each other again.”

The lion didn’t answer. But Rae felt steadier anyway. Her anger stopped boiling. It hardened into something sharp and clear. If her mom and dad thought they could just decide to end things, they were wrong. Rae would stop them. She’d make them see what they were about to lose.

This was her family. And she wasn’t going to let it break.

Shiv stood in their bedroom, suitcase open on the bed.

She moved briskly, as if speed could make it hurt less. Blouses folded with mechanical precision. Shoes lined like soldiers in their bags. She pulled her favorite silk scarf from the closet, the one Rae had once worn as a cape, parading through the apartment, and laid it carefully on top. Then her perfume, half-empty, the scent Rae had buried her face in just last night.

The room already felt hollow, as if it knew she was peeling herself out of it.

At the nightstand, her eyes caught on a photo. Rae at six, gap-toothed and grinning, Tom behind her with his hand on her shoulder, his smile almost boyish. Shiv’s throat tightened. She lifted the frame, hesitated, then set it back down. Some things belonged here.

She could hear the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Tom was keeping himself busy, pretending this was just another mundane Saturday morning without the help. Pretending he wasn’t watching her carve their life into parts that could fit into a carry-on.

Shiv sat on the bed for a moment, hands still. It was supposed to feel clean, decisive. She was good at making tough decisions. But this wasn’t clean. It was tearing roots out of the ground. She blinked hard, forced the burn in her eyes away, and zipped the suitcase shut.

The bedroom door creaked.

Tom leaned in the doorway, sleeves rolled, hair mussed, handsome in a way that made her chest twist. He didn’t speak at first. His eyes flicked from the suitcase to her, then back.

“You’re packing,” he said finally.

“Observant,” she replied, sharper than intended.

He didn’t flinch. He stepped in slowly, as though she might bolt. “Taking everything you love, then?”

The words were light, but his voice wasn’t.

Shiv’s hand smoothed the scarf on top, stalling. “Just the essentials.”

Tom gave a short, humorless laugh. “Funny how I’m never on that list.”

Her head snapped up, eyes hot. “Fuck off.”

He shook his head, moving closer. The man in the photo on the nightstand felt like a ghost. “I’m not trying to fight. I just…” He gestured weakly at the suitcase. “God, Shiv. We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

The fight drained out of her, leaving something heavier. She stared at the suitcase like it belonged to someone else. “I need to think about it. But I’m afraid it’s the right thing,” she said, her voice cracking on right.

“Maybe,” Tom murmured. “But it feels like hell.”

She looked at him then, and for one fleeting second, she saw the man she’d once wanted more than anything, the one who’d cried in the hospital room, holding their newborn daughter like the world’s most fragile treasure.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

She stood abruptly, dragging the suitcase upright. If she met his eyes too long, she’d falter.

“Shiv.”

Something in his voice stopped her. Softer than it had been all week, stripped of armor. Just her name, small and worn.

She lifted her chin but didn’t turn. “What?”

He came closer, close enough that she felt the warmth of him at her back. Hesitating, he brushed his fingers against her hand on the handle, tentative, as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

Her throat constricted. He wasn’t commanding. Not bargaining. Just asking for now. One more moment. One more weekend. For a heartbeat, she wanted to fold into him, to believe that they could still work this out. But the ache in her chest was too deep, the years too heavy.

“I have to,” she whispered.

His fingers tightened, then fell away. When she finally looked back, his lashes were damp, though he blinked fast to hide it.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he said, voice breaking.

Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t answer. Instead, she tugged the suitcase forward. The wheels thudded over the hardwood like a verdict. Tom didn’t stop her again.

Rae sat curled on the couch arm, iPad slack in her lap, when her mother wheeled the suitcase toward the door. The wheels clicked against the floor like a countdown. Shiv crouched in front of her, smoothing a hand over Rae’s red hair. Her eyes looked tired in a way Rae didn’t like, all soft and shiny, not sharp and sure like they usually were.

“I’ll call,” Shiv promised. “Every day if you want. I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll see each other plenty.”

Rae clutched her lion tighter. “You always say that.”

Shiv’s smile faltered. “This time I mean it.”

For a second, she looked like she might cry. Rae hated it. Hated how much she wanted to throw herself into her arms anyway. Instead she muttered, “You shouldn’t go.”

Shiv’s hand lingered on her shoulder, warm and heavy. “I have to, cub. But it won’t be forever. Saturday, okay?”

Rae didn’t answer.

Shiv rose, straightened her jacket, and glanced once at Tom. He stood in the doorway, silent, unreadable. The door opened. Cold air rushed in, going straight to their bones. Then Shiv was gone, the suitcase wheels bumping over the threshold, the door clicking shut behind her.

Rae stared at the space where her mother had been. She didn’t believe the promises. Not anymore. If she wanted her parents in the same room again, she’d have to do it herself.

Chapter Text

The second week without mom was strange.

It wasn’t that mom wasn’t usually away, because she was. She had important work to do. But this time it was different. This time Rae knew she was gone gone. The apartment felt too big, too quiet, even with the TV running in the background and Gwendoline humming somewhere in the kitchen. 

Dad tried his best. Rae had to give him that.

On Saturday night he ordered three different pizzas because he couldn’t remember which toppings were her favorite. He made a big deal of letting her pick the movie, then fell asleep halfway through, his head tipped back on the couch. His mouth slack, softly snores filling the movie room.

On Sunday, he came home from Fifth Avenue with a glossy shopping bag, tissue paper bursting from the top. Inside was a hoodie glittering with sequins and a pink tennis skirt.

“See?” he said, grinning too wide. “Nailed it.”

Rae hugged him and mumbled thanks. She liked the skirt well enough. But the way he watched her face, waiting for approval like it might save him, made her stomach twist because she saw it. Behind the pizza and the gifts and the corny jokes, her dad was lonely. Sad. His eyes gave him away. No matter how loud he laughed, his lashes always looked wet, his face sagging in ways she hadn’t noticed before.

By Tuesday, the routine had somehow settled back to normal. Gwendoline did mornings, making sure Rae got dressed and ate something more nutritious than cereal before school. Gwendoline picked her up from school and took her to the hobby of that afternoon. Tom swept in late, dropping his briefcase by the door, asking about her day with half his mind still stuck at Waystar. He hovered, trying to be present, but his phone never stopped buzzing. Meetings. Calls. Always Matsson.

Rae didn’t exactly blame him. He was the CEO. A very important man at work. She knew because he said it, because everyone said it. But the more she watched him try and fail to be everywhere at once, the angrier she got.

Because mom had chosen to leave. And dad was here, but never fully here. At least now mom had texted her back on several different occasions. 

Late one night, Rae lay in bed listening. Dad’s footsteps moved down the hall, slow and heavy. They paused outside her door for a long moment, then kept going. It wasn’t fair. They were both miserable without each other. Anyone could see it. Anyone except them.

.:.:.

Tom stood in Rae’s doorway late on a Wednesday night. The light from the hall spilled over her bed. She was asleep, curled up on her side, shoulders hunched, the lion plushie tucked hard against her chest. Its mane was a matted mess now, its paw still carrying the crooked stitches he’d sewn years ago after Mondale had almost slaughtered it. 

Something in his chest ached when he remembered the day they’d gotten the plushie for her.  

Rae was two, maybe two and a half most, wobbling more than walking. Her words were still rounded at the edges but it didn’t stop her from babbling all the time. The three of them had ducked into a toy shop in SoHo. Shiv was on the phone, pacing by the window, the rhythm of her heels sharp against the wooden floor.

Tom had crouched in the aisle of stuffed animals, Rae perched against his knee, hazel eyes wide at the shelves lined with fur and glassy eyes.

“Pick one,” he said, grinning, “anyone you want. We’ll rescue it.”

Rae toddled forward, serious as a judge, as she seized the aisle full of furry friends. She stumbled forward and grabbed a soft lion almost half her size. She hugged it to her chest and plopped down right there in the aisle. Its mane was a riot of reds and golds, wild but soft with some sparkle woven in between the strands of hair. She wrapped both arms around it and looked up at him with fierce certainty.

“Mama,” she said.

Tom blinked. “Mama?” He turned around to point at Shiv pacing by the window. “Mama’s over there.”

Rae buried her face in the lion's mane and patted it with her tiny hand. “Mama.”

Tom followed her gaze. The lion’s mane caught the light, red and copper like Shiv’s hair.

His eyes softened as he laughed gently. “That’s right Rae,” he said softly. “It looks exactly like mama.”

Rae hugged the lion tighter, her small voice muffled in its fur. “Mama.”

Tom crouched lower, heart kicking hard as he ruffled Rae’s own mane of hair. “And you’re mama’s cub, huh?”

She nodded seriously, eyes bright. 

When Shiv finally snapped her phone shut and came over, Rae lifted the lion toward her, triumphant. “Mama!”

“She thinks the lion looks like you.” Tom smirked at Shiv. 

Shiv blinked, then laughed, almost shy. “Is that so?” She ran a finger through the lion’s ridiculous mane. “Well. She’s not wrong. Except that Rae, that is a boy lion.”

Rae didn’t seem to be bothered about the wrong sex of the lion, as she carried it around the store proudly towards the cashier. 

That same rainy night, Tom tucked Rae into bed with the lion clutched under her arm. He smoothed her hair back and whispered the name for the first time: “Goodnight, cub.”

It stuck. Through tantrums, ballet rehearsals, the roar of divorce and silence of absence. No matter how much Rae grew, she always carried the lion with her.

And even now, Tom thought, standing at her door, the name still fit.

“Goodnight, cub,” he whispered.

She didn’t stir. But the lion’s mane, ragged and loved, still caught the light like Shiv’s hair once had.

.:.:.

Rae’s ballet shoes slapped softly against the studio floor as she tried not to bounce out of her skin. This was the day they had been waiting for the whole summer. The teacher Madame Volkova was reading the cast list of their annual Christmas recital. This year they were playing The Nutcracker. Her voice was loud with her thick accent, rolling through the endless list of names. Rae clutched the barre, heart hammering. The best parts were always announced last, and Rae hadn’t heard her name yet. The tension kept rising in the room. 

“Snowqueen…, The Mouse King…” Madame paused, squinting at the sheet. “And… Rae Roy-Wambsgans. Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Rae’s mouth dropped open.

For a second, the whole world seemed to pause. The whisper of tights, the squeak of shoes, the faint hum of the voices around her. All of it just hung there, waiting for her to catch up. Then the room erupted.

“Congrats, Rae!”
“No fair!”
“You’re gonna wear the pink tutu, right?”

Rae tried to say something, but her throat had turned to fizzy soda. She just nodded, too stunned to breathe properly.

By the time she clambered into the back of the town car, her cheeks hurt from smiling. She threw herself across the seat, limbs everywhere, still in her leotard and tights.

“What is this excitement?” Gwendoline asked.

“I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Rae blurted. “The Sugar Plum Fairy! The biggest part, Gwendoline! I get the tutu and the crown and the wand and everything!”

“Ah!” Gwendoline clapped her hands softly, her eyes bright. “Ma chérie, that is magnifique. Your mom and dad will be so proud.”

At that, Rae’s grin faltered, just for a heartbeat.

She pulled her knees up, hugging them. “They both have to come to see the show. They have to.”

“They will,” Gwendoline said gently, smoothing a stray red curl back into Rae’s bun. “They would not miss this. Even if the world tries to keep them away, they will come.”

Rae leaned her forehead against the window, watching the city streak by. She whispered it again under her breath, like a promise she was making to herself: “Sugar Plum Fairy.”

And maybe, if she sparkled hard enough, danced hard enough, she could make them both see what she already knew: that their family was better when it was whole.

The car pulled up to the curb, and Rae shot out before Gwendoline could remind her to grab her bag. She thundered through the lobby, into the elevator, colourful hairpins coming loose from her bun like confetti. 

“Dad!” she shouted the moment the apartment door swung open.

Tom looked up from the couch on his laptop. He barely had time to set the office down before Rae crashed into him.

“Whoa! What’s on fire?” he asked, half-laughing, steadying her by the shoulders.

Rae’s face was split in two by her grin. “Dad, guess what – guess what – guess what!”

“What?” He leaned in, mock serious. “Tell me before I combust.”

“I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy!” she squealed, bouncing on her toes. “In the Nutcracker. It’s the biggest part!”

For a beat, Tom just blinked, and then his face broke into the kind of smile that melted Rae’s insides. He scooped her up, spinning her once in the air like she was still little enough to carry.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy?” he repeated. “Rae, that’s like the queen of Christmas! That’s – amazing!” He pressed a kiss on her forehead, breathless. “I’m so proud of you.”

She laughed, clutching his shirt collar tight, the familiar safety of his hug wrapping all the way around her. For a moment, everything felt right.

“Can we call mom?” Rae asked suddenly from his arms, eyes shining. “Right now? I want to tell her.”

Tom’s smile wavered just a little, but he nodded, setting her back down. “Of course. She should hear it from you.”

Rae darted to the side table where her phone was left charging. She flopped onto the couch, dialing with quick fingers. Tom busied himself with taking the laptop away, trying not to hover but listening anyway.

When Shiv answered, crisp and distracted, Rae’s excitement tumbled out in a rush.

“Mom! Guess what! I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy! In the Nutcracker! Madame Volkova picked me! Can you believe it!”

There was a pause on the line, then Shiv’s voice softened, sharp edges blunted by pride. “Rae… that’s incredible. Sugar Plum Fairy. I knew you’d get it.”

Rae bit her lip, fighting the lump in her throat. “You’ll come to the show, right? You both have to.”

Shiv’s silence stretched long enough that Rae’s stomach dipped. Then Shiv said firmly, “Yes. I’ll be there. Nothing could make me miss it. You can forward it to my iCal.”

Rae grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. She didn’t care that her dad was pretending to focus on the paper and not on her phone call. For once, they’d both promised.

And now… now she just had to figure out how to make sure they kept that promise together.

.:.:

The thirty-second floor looked like a church that worshipped glass. Manhattan glittered on all sides. Inside, it was all hums from screens that never slept.

Tom adjusted his cufflinks like they might hold the rest of him together and stepped into the conference room. The table was already full. Karolina with her legal-pad neatness and expressionless eyes. Greg pretending not to smile. Two board members whose smiles were teeth.

On the wall was a muted video tile from Stockholm. Matsson in a hoodie, AirPods in, that lazy grin Rae had once called “gremlin.”

“Tommy,” Matsson said when the sound clicked live. “How’s my favorite custodian of the slow death of linear television?”

“We prefer ‘diversified legacy platform,’” Tom said smoothly. He sat. “Let’s do this.”

Numbers flicked across the screen. Softness in ad sales. “Normalization” in streaming. Language a surgeon would use to describe a wound that wouldn’t close. The board pounced in turns. 

Why isn’t the market excited, what about the regulator’s letter, will the settlement number stay where you say it will?

Tom held the line. He could do that now with his voice level, eyes steady, a tone that made anxious people blink slower. He deflected with facts and arranged the rest with confidence, and when confidence strained, he stacked more on top of it until no one could see the cracks.

His phone buzzed under the table.

GWENDOLINE: Rae left her math workbook at home. Again. Should I bring it?

He typed with his thumb, Yes, please, thank you, and slid the phone face-down. His chest had that small, traitorous pull: the part of him that wanted to leave a meeting like this and carry the workbook  into a school office, just to see his kid’s face light up.

“Tom.” A board member to his left, Laird had a question that wasn’t a question. “If the Street doesn’t buy the Q3 story, what’s your lever?”

Tom gave him three levers that were credible, and rehearsed. Karolina’s pen stopped moving. Matsson’s mouth tilted, amused or bored. It was hard to tell with him.

The door cracked open and Sara slid in sideways, clutching two coffees and radiating apology. “Traffic, sorry –” She caught Tom’s look and set the coffee at Tom’s elbow like a peace offering.

The hour stretched. When the call finally ended, the glass room exhaled. People gathered their papers with that brittle, relieved energy of a plane that had landed but still smelled like smoke.

“Good,” Karolina said, which in Karolina was a parade.

Tom nodded, already standing. “Karolina, work the language for the Street. Laird, I’ll circle back this afternoon.” Heads bobbed. Doors hissed.

He was almost alone again when he turned his phone over. A photo from Gwendoline. It was  Rae at her locker, hair escaping its braid, workbook in her hands, mouth twisted in a private little smile she used when she was trying not to look pleased.

His thumb hovered over her name. Good luck on the quiz, cub. He typed it. He stared at it. He deleted it. He typed again: Proud of you. Deleted that, too. He should reward her being forgetful, that’s what Shiv always used to say. 

Greg had drifted back, hovering like a particularly tall question mark. “You okay, boss?”

Tom slid the phone into his pocket. “We’re fine,” he said. “Book me out until six. Then clear six.”

Greg blinked. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Tom said. “Dinner with Rae.”

Greg nodded, earnest and clumsy. “Copy that. daddy-daughter time. Love that. I –uh –.”

“Leave the room, Greg.”

Greg left.

Tom stood at the glass and watched the city. Its cranes and taxis and the river. He had climbed for this view. He’d bled for it. And still, at 1:07 p.m., the thing he wanted most in the world was to send a text that said I’m proud of you and to mean it louder than the rest of his life.

He took out his phone again. Knock ’em dead, cub, he wrote.

He hit send before he could make it perfect and therefore too late. Then he turned back to the table and got to work.

.:.:.

Shiv strode down the White House corridor, heels clicking against polished floors, briefing folder tucked under her arm. She wore the armor well: sleek blouse, tailored suit, chin high, voice clipped and commanding when aides rushed up with questions. To everyone else, she looked unshakable, the kind of woman who could balance the President’s schedule, a looming crisis, and a room full of restless senators without blinking.

Inside, she still felt the ache.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t think about the Manhattan apartment. Not about Tom’s eyes, rimmed red and tired. Not about Rae’s door slamming hard enough to rattle the frames. Not about her daughter’s voice, thin and sharp: You didn’t call.

But it clung to her like smoke.

Monday blurred into meetings and calls, her calendar back-to-back until she could barely breathe. She deflected questions about polling numbers, drafted language for a bill, and fielded three different reporters asking for “anonymous background.” She did it all flawlessly. And yet when her aide slipped her a printout to sign, Shiv’s pen hovered just a beat too long, her mind not on foreign policy but on whether Rae had eaten breakfast that morning.

Tuesday brought a late-night session on the Hill, the kind that stretched until her eyes burned. She traded barbed comments with committee chairs, made promises she wasn’t sure she could keep, then went home to her Georgetown townhouse and stood in the quiet entryway, staring at the scarf Rae loved to borrow. She picked it up, pressed it to her face, and hated herself for the way her throat tightened.

On Wednesday, she was in the Roosevelt Room, her voice crisp as she walked the President through strategy notes. Cameras flashed when she escorted him into a press gaggle, her face calm, composed. Later that evening, Politico ran a photo with a headline calling her the most powerful unelected figure in Washington. She shut her laptop without reading the rest of the article. She sent Rae a message asking about her day with a pink emoji heart. 

Thursday night, she floated through a Georgetown reception, champagne flute in hand. Senators leaned closer when she spoke, donors scribbled her words like gospel. She smiled when she had to, her laughter pitched at the right register, her posture perfect under the chandeliers. But when she ducked into the powder room and caught her reflection, her lipstick smile looked crooked. She stared at her phone for too long, thumb hovering over Rae’s contact, before forcing herself to slip it back in her clutch. It was too late to text her. 

By Friday, the pace hadn’t slowed. She was a machine. She drafted memos, bending schedules, snapping instructions that made junior aides scatter. But every so often, in the lull between calls, the ache returned. Shiv told herself she was doing the right thing. That focus was love, that ambition was sacrifice, that someday Rae would understand. But as she strode down another endless corridor, her heels clicking like a metronome, the ache refused to let go.

By Friday afternoon, Tom texted her: Sending her down with Gwendoline.

And so Rae finally came to D.C.

Shiv was waiting on the South Lawn when the helicopter touched down, wind whipping her hair, and a camel trench coat pulled tight against her body. Staffers stood at a discreet distance, but Shiv barely registered them. Her eyes were fixed on the door as Rae climbed out behind Gwendoline, her long legs awkward on the steps, backpack straps slipping from her shoulders.

For a heartbeat Rae’s gaze swept past Shiv, scanning the motorcade, the guards, and the grass stretching wide.

“Mom!” she called, her voice pitched between relief and uncertainty.

Shiv crouched, arms open. Rae stepped into the hug, but her shoulders stayed stiff.

“I thought we were going to pick you up and go home,” Rae said when Shiv finally pulled back.

Shiv tucked a strand of red hair behind her daughter’s ear, her hand lingering there. “You are home, with me.”

“I mean Manhattan,” Rae pressed. “With dad.”

The words tightened something in Shiv’s chest. She straightened, voice firmer than she felt. “You’ll stay here with me for a while. Just us girls. I need some time away from your dad.”

Rae frowned, confused. “Why?”

“Because sometimes space is good,” Shiv said, the words landing flat even to her own ears.

Rae’s gaze darted back toward the helicopter, as if wishing it might take her back to New York. Her silence weighed heavier than the wind still tugging at Shiv’s hair.

Shiv guided her toward the waiting car with a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get you settled. We’ll have a fun weekend.”

Gwendoline gave them a small wave before climbing into a taxi. The motorcade pulled away. Shiv, sharp and composed in front of staff, felt the cracks widening, the ones only her daughter could see.

The Georgetown townhouse smelled like coffee and paper. Not the warm kitchen-coffee smell Rae loved on Saturdays in Manhattan when dad made pancakes, but sharp and bitter, clinging to the polished wood and stiff drapes. There was a tang of dry-cleaned blouses, the faint must of old leather chairs.

Rae stepped inside slowly, her backpack tugging on her shoulder. She hadn’t been here much. Maybe a night or two, when mom was too swamped to travel back. They’d spent a couple of election nights here with dad. But it was always mom who came home. This place had never felt like home for her. 

The ceilings were high, the rooms too white, too still. A mirror in the hallway with a vase of flowers perched on the edge of the old fireplace. If the Manhattan apartment was sometimes chaotic and cluttered with their everyday life, this place was the exact opposite. Everything was curated and untouchable, like a magazine spread of a house no one really lived in.

Shiv set Rae’s small suitcase by the stairs and smoothed her jacket sleeve. “So,” she said briskly, “Welcome. You’ll stay in the guest room. It’s all made up for you.”

“Guest room?” Rae frowned. “Why not your room?”

Shiv hesitated. “Because… you’ll be more comfortable there. More space. Better lighting.” She forced a smile. “You’ll like it.”

Rae trailed behind her mother up the stairs, each creak beneath her socks loud in the silence.

The guest room was neat. Fresh bedspread, curtains matching the lilac fuzzy rug, a desk set at a precise angle. Rae set her backpack on the bed and looked around. It didn’t smell like mom. It didn’t smell like anything.

Shiv put her hands on her hips, surveying the room as if she were presenting it. “See? Not bad. We’ll make it yours this weekend. Just us.”

Rae thought of dad back in Manhattan, probably eating takeout over the sink, the apartment too quiet without them. She wanted to be there, not here. She wanted mom to come home, like she always had before.

Dinner was takeout. Shiv had ordered from the most popular French bistro. They had lamb shank, duck confit and pommes frites wrapped in wax paper. She’d even asked the driver to include crème brûlée for dessert.

“Fancy, right?” she said, unpacking the containers onto the kitchen counter. She set Rae’s plate with deliberate care, arranging the food like presentation might win points.

Rae slid onto a stool, eyeing the plate. The duck glistened under the lights, rich and heavy, nothing like the pizza she and dad had eaten last weekend. She poked at it with her fork. “Do they have chicken nuggets?”

Shiv forced a laugh. “Not here. But pommes frites. You like fries, don’t you?”

Rae shrugged. “Dad gets the good fries. From the place on Eighth.”

The words stung more than Shiv wanted to admit. She speared a piece of lamb and kept her tone even. “Well, these are better. Trust me. Your dad still has peasant’s taste buds.”

They ate in silence. The townhouse kitchen felt cavernous compared to their Manhattan’s breakfast nook. Here, every scrape of Rae’s fork against porcelain echoed.

After dinner, Shiv carried the crème brûlée to the table, tapping the caramelized top with a spoon. “You’ll love this. It’s like magic. Crunchy on top, creamy underneath.”

Rae cracked the sugar shell, tasted a bite, then pushed the dish back toward her mother. “It’s fine.”

Shiv smiled, too tight. “You don’t like it?”

“I said it’s fine.” Rae’s voice was flat, the way kids sounded when they wanted to close a door without slamming it.

Later, Shiv suggested a movie. Rae flipped through them without interest, then muttered, “Dad lets me pick whatever I want.”

Shiv exhaled slowly through her nose. “Okay. Then you pick.”

Rae scrolled through the TV menu and landed on an animated film Shiv hadn’t heard of, something loud and garish. They watched it in the living room, Shiv perched on the edge of the couch, Rae curled against her lion with arms crossed. Halfway through, Rae’s head kept drooping sideways, exhaustion winning. Shiv glanced down. For a moment, she thought Rae might lean into her. But Rae’s head tipped away, pressing into the couch cushion instead.

Shiv’s chest ached. She reached out, hesitated, then rested her hand lightly on her daughter’s back. Rae didn’t move, but her breathing evened.

By the time the credits rolled, Rae was fully asleep. Shiv sat frozen, watching her daughter’s small shoulders rise and fall. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table with a text from the West Wing scheduler about a Sunday briefing. She silenced it with a swipe, eyes never leaving Rae.

The townhouse was so quiet she could hear the clock ticking in the hall. Shiv smoothed a strand of hair from her daughter’s face, careful not to wake her. For a moment all the years folded in on themselves. Rae would never remember the endless nights when her cries wouldn’t stop, when colic knotted her tiny body in misery and Shiv was the only one pacing the floors, hour after hour, whispering and humming until her throat was raw.

It didn’t feel that long ago, when they’d both been laid low by the same brutal winter virus, marooned together in the apartment like castaways. Rae burning with fever on the couch, Shiv dizzy and aching herself, yet still rising for every glass of water, every cool cloth, every middle-of-the-night thermometer check. She’d made a huge nest of blankets on the living room floor so Rae wouldn’t feel alone, dosing them both with tea and whispered reassurances until the worst passed. Rae had drifted in and out of sleep, murmuring half-coherent dreams, never knowing that Shiv stayed awake beside her, counting each breath.

Rae would never know how many tantrums ended in her mother’s arms, how many scraped knees were soothed by her mother’s voice, how many first words Shiv coaxed out with stubborn, patient repetition. Rae was too small then to keep those memories, and so now it seemed to her that her dad was the softer one, the safer one. But Shiv remembered every second. She remembered it so clearly her chest hurt with it. She hadn’t wanted this. Not at first. She’d told herself she wasn’t built for motherhood, that it was a trap disguised as a virtue. She’d watched her own mother wander off into her own ambitions, her own father turn affection into a weapon, and she’d sworn she’d never set a child up for that kind of failure. Better to stay untethered than to repeat the cycle.

But then Rae had arrived, small and furious and unreasonably perfect, and every argument had fallen apart.

What no one tells you, Shiv thought, was that love this deep is just another kind of terror. It wasn’t the sleepless nights or the politics of preschool admissions that had scared her. It was the way Rae had looked at her, utterly trusting, as if Shiv knew how to build a world that wouldn’t break.

Shiv had spent too many nights cataloging her own inheritance. Caroline’s cold detachment, Logan’s sharp edges, and all the ways she’d learned to mistake control for care. She feared them like old ghosts. Feared she’d pass them on without meaning to. Feared Rae would grow up and see right through her, the way Shiv had seen through her own mother.

Rae murmured in her sleep on the couch. 

“I’m trying,” Shiv whispered into the quiet, though Rae couldn’t hear her. “I’m trying my best baby.”

It wasn’t a promise, but it was the closest Shiv could get to prayer.

By Saturday afternoon, the townhouse felt like a waiting room. Shiv had spent most of the day pacing with her phone in hand, firing clipped instructions into it, her heels ticking across the wood floors. Every few minutes she glanced at her calendar, red blocks stacked like bricks against her weekend.

Rae sat on the guest room bed, staring at the pale lavender curtains instead of the book open in her lap.

Then Shiv came upstairs, brisk as ever, phone still glowing in her hand.

“Cub,” she said, as if she were about to announce a state secret. “Change of plans. I have dinner tonight. Business.” Her tone softened a fraction. “You’re coming with me.”

Rae blinked. “I can’t just sit at a table with you and… senators or whatever.”

“No,” Shiv agreed easily. “Which is why we’re going shopping first. You’ll need a dress.”

For the first time all weekend, Rae felt something spark.

The boutique was all mirrors and sparkly chandeliers, and rows of dresses like candy wrappers glinting under the lights. A wonderland of beautiful fabrics. Shiv guided her through the racks, pulling options, holding them up against Rae’s lithe frame. Rae wrinkled her nose at anything frilly, shook her head at ruffles, but paused when her mom held up a sleek navy dress with a sash at the waist.

It made her look even taller, older like she belonged in the kind of room her mom owned with a glance. When she stepped out of the fitting room, Shiv’s eyes softened in a way Rae hadn’t seen in weeks.

“That one is perfect,” Shiv said without hesitation.

Rae smoothed the fabric down her sides, trying to hide her smile. For once, she didn’t feel like the kid in the corner. She felt important, like an adult. Then Shiv held up a dress for herself. It was a deep emerald, clean lines, with strong shoulders. Different from Rae’s navy, but somehow the two dresses matched together.

“Not twins,” Shiv said as if reading Rae’s mind. “But a team.”

Rae looked at her mother in the mirror as she emerged from the dressing room. They stood side by side in their dresses in front of the huge mirror. They looked like they belonged together, powerful and polished. Like a team.

Rae twirled around in her new dress. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Back at the townhouse, shopping bags were strewn across the bed, Shiv surprised Rae by pulling out her cosmetic bag. It was heavy, stuffed with different compacts. Rae had seen it a hundred times in passing, but she’d never been invited to sit in front of it, because she’d been “too young.”

Mom never let her wear other makeup than lip gloss. It was unfair because some of her friends at school were allowed to use mascara.

“Sit,” Shiv instructed, pointing at the vanity stool.

Rae obeyed, her dress already slipped over her head, the fabric cool against her skin. She watched in the mirror as Shiv unwrapped tissue paper from a little box. It revealed new ballet flats in glossy black. “These will go with the dress,” Shiv said, setting them at Rae’s feet.

“Mom, I can do my hair,” Rae protested as Shiv reached for the brush.

Shiv gave a short laugh. “Not like I can. Trust me. You’ll thank me when you see the photos.”

Rae rolled her eyes, but when the brush moved through her hair she went still. Shiv’s touch wasn’t tentative, but it wasn’t rushed either. For once, she was solely focusing her attention on her, as she brushed Rae’s long hair into a neat French twist.

Shiv caught her own reflection behind her daughter’s. Her nails were short and neat but unpainted as usual. Growing up with three brothers had taught her how to fight, how to keep her words sharp, and how to hold her own in a room where she was always a minority. Femininity had been more of a burden than blessing in her life. She’d never been the girl who practiced lipstick shades in the mirror. But now, watching Rae’s eyes brighten at the sight of the little pots and brushes, Shiv felt something shift. Maybe this was the one place she didn’t mind being a little girly, because she was doing it with her daughter.

“You’ve got my hair,” Shiv murmured after a while, almost to herself. “My nose. But those cheekbones, those are all your dad’s.”

Rae smirked at her reflection. “So I’m fifty-fifty?”

Shiv’s lips twitched. “More like sixty-forty. Heavy on the Roy.”

When Shiv was satisfied, she hairsprayed the updo. Then she dusted a bit of glittering blush on Rae’s cheeks and nose, just enough to make her look sun-warmed. They brushed her eyebrows into an order with a spoolie brush, and added some pink lip gloss to match her blush. Rae’s eyes widened at the change. It was like meeting a new version of herself in the mirror, one who could walk into a room full of grown-ups and not feel small.

Shiv knelt in front of her, straightening the sash at her waist. “You look… incredible. My baby.”

Rae shifted, embarrassed but glowing under the words. “So do you.”

Her mother was glamorous tonight in a way that made Rae stare. The hair team had swept through earlier, curling her into old Hollywood waves that shimmered under the lamplight. Her blood red lips matched her emerald dress perfectly. Shiv liked to draw her eyes very cat-like. It made her gaze even sharper, even more intimidating, like she could see straight through you. 

Shiv smiled then, the sharp lines of her face softening in a way Rae didn’t see often. For a heartbeat, it felt like the townhouse wasn’t just hers, it was theirs.

“Team,” Shiv said quietly, almost like a promise.

“Team,” Rae echoed.

For the first time since her mother had left, Rae felt lighter. Maybe tonight could fix something. Maybe if dad saw them like this, he’d understand too.

The restaurant was all velvet with every table glowing under low amber light. Waiters in crisp jackets moved like clockwork. The room buzzed with laughter pitched just a little too loud. It sounded like the cadence of people trying to impress. Rae followed Shiv inside, her new flats clicking softly against the marble. For once, no one looked at her like a kid. Heads turned at Shiv, of course, but also at Rae beside her in navy. She felt taller, sharper, as though the dress itself gave her armor.

“Darling,” one senator’s wife cooed as they arrived at the table. “Is this your daughter? She’s beautiful.”

Shiv’s hand rested on Rae’s shoulder, firm and proud. “Yes. This is Rae.”

Rae ducked her head, heat rising in her cheeks as she curtsied. But she caught the flicker in her mom’s eyes, not the polished political smile, but something softer. Pride.

They were seated at the long table, Rae between Shiv and a woman who smelled of gardenias and pearls. Shiv’s emerald sleeve brushed Rae’s navy one every time she shifted, an anchor in the sea of strangers.

The courses came in waves. They had oysters glistening on ice, tiny lamb chops, and salads arranged like artwork. Rae tried a bite of everything, though some things tasted sharp or strange. Shiv leaned down now and then, whispering, “Skip that one,” or “Try this instead, it’s good,” like they were conspirators sharing secrets.

Across the table, men in suits laughed too hard at their own stories. A donor slapped the table, spilling a splash of wine, while another droned about polling numbers. Shiv laughed at the right places, cut in at the right moments, her voice smooth as glass.

Rae watched her mom with wide eyes. The way people leaned toward her, waiting on her words. The way she could cut through a conversation with one precise remark. Rae had never seen her like this up close. So commanding and untouchable. But then, Rae noticed the small things. The way Shiv’s wine glass emptied faster than most. The way her smile slipped the moment she turned her face away. The faint lines at the corner of her eyes when she thought no one was watching.

At one point, a senator leaned in, saying something about “sacrifice in service,” and Shiv’s jaw tightened. Her hand slipped under the table, brushing Rae’s knee briefly. It was a silent tether, a reminder she was still there. Others followed. A governor with a booming laugh. A lobbyist with a shiny watch. Men who leaned in when Shiv spoke, their gazes slipping lower than her eyes, their smiles just a little too interested.

Rae noticed. She always noticed. It was the same look she’d seen before, the one that made her stomach twist. Greedy. Like her mom was something to devour instead of a person. It wasn’t like dad. Dad looked at mom differently. Like he couldn’t believe she was real, like standing next to her was the top of the world. Yearning, not hungry. When Tom looked at Shiv, it was like he wanted to love her forever. These men looked at her like she was dessert.

By the time the waiter cleared their plates, Rae couldn’t breathe right. The table buzzed with talk of bills and campaigns, but all she heard was the pounding in her chest. When a congressman with ruddy cheeks leaned too close, brushing his fingers against Shiv’s wrist, something hot shot through Rae’s veins.

“Excuse me,” she blurted, pushing back her chair.

Shiv’s eyes flicked to her, surprised but composed. “Of course.”

Rae hurried down the hall to the bathroom, heels and laughter echoing after her. She locked herself in a stall and sat on the closed lid, hugging her knees to her chest. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright. She pressed her face into the cool silk of her dress, breathing hard.

She wanted her mom home. She wanted her dad back at the table. She wanted to scream at those men for looking at her mom like that. Mostly, she wanted her family whole again, so her mother could stop being a trophy in someone else’s room and go back to being the woman her dad still looked at like she was the whole world.

The bathroom door creaked open. High heels tapped against the tile.

“Rae?” Shiv’s voice carried, softer than it had been all night.

Rae stayed curled, silent as a mouse.

Shiv’s steps paused outside the stall. A gentle knock. “Rae. Can I come in?”

There was a lock between them, but Rae knew her mother would wait her out. With a sigh, she slid the latch open. The door swung just enough for Shiv to push inside. She didn’t scold. Didn’t press. She crouched awkwardly in her emerald dress until her eyes were level with Rae’s. Her eyebrows were curved in question.

Rae’s face burned. “They were gross.”

Shiv tilted her head. “Who?”

“All of them. The senators. The congressman. The lobby guy with the ugly watch. They kept looking at you like – like you weren’t even a person.” Her throat tightened. “I hate it.”

For a moment Shiv just studied her daughter’s flushed cheeks. Then she sighed, low and heavy.

“You’re not wrong,” she said quietly. “Men like that look at me and see something shiny to win. A prize to own. They don’t really see me.”

Rae sniffed, pressing her forehead to her knee. “Dad sees you.”

Shiv’s breath caught.

Rae lifted her head, eyes fierce through her tears. “He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. Not like …  dessert.”

The silence stretched, thick and aching. Shiv swallowed hard.

“You notice too much,” she murmured, brushing a strand of red hair from Rae’s face.

“I’m not stupid,” Rae shot back, her voice breaking.

“No,” Shiv said softly. “You’re not.”

For once, her mother had no polished answer, no perfect line to smooth it over. She just wrapped her arms around Rae and let her lean in. The scent of her perfume wrapped around them, sharp and familiar. They embraced like that for a beat, Rae’s cheek against the silk of her mother’s dress.

Finally, Shiv spoke, voice quieter now, more measured. “Listen, cub. It’s important for the Democrats to get the bill we’re working on through Congress. If it doesn’t pass, a lot of people will lose out. Families, kids, people who don’t have the kind of safety net you do.”

Rae frowned, not lifting her head. “So you have to sit with those men?”

Shiv hesitated: “I’ve had to learn to live around men like them. To smile, to play the game, even when it’s wrong. That’s how things get done in this town.” She tilted Rae’s chin gently until their eyes met. “I don’t like it. But sometimes changing things means putting up with people you’d rather throw out the window.”

Rae’s eyes shone with stubborn anger. “They shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

Shiv’s throat tightened. “No. They shouldn’t.”

Shiv kissed the top of her head, lingering there. “I’m sorry you had to see it. But I promise you, I’m not theirs. I’m mine. And I’m yours.”

Rae wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and squeezed tight. She wanted to believe her.

The car ride back through D.C. was hushed, the city sliding past in hues of autumn leaves. Streetlights flickered across the glass, throwing patterns over their faces. Rae sat pressed against the door, her new navy dress rumpled. Shiv sat beside her, phone dark in her hand for once. Neither spoke. The driver kept the radio low, some faint jazz humming under the rhythm of tires on asphalt. Finally, Shiv shifted, reaching across the space to brush her fingertips over Rae’s knuckles. Her touch was light, almost cautious.

“You know,” she said carefully, “you carried yourself better than half the senators in that room tonight.”

Rae’s mouth twitched. “That’s not hard.”

A faint laugh escaped Shiv, low and genuine. “True. But still you were brilliant. Composed. You looked like you belonged.”

Rae answered, her voice small. “I didn’t feel like it.”

Shiv didn’t hesitate. “You did to me.”

The words landed heavier than Rae expected, settling in her chest like warmth and ache at the same time. She let herself lean into her mother’s arm, staring out at the blur of headlights and monuments. She still hated those men, hated the greedy way they’d stared at her, hated that her mother brushed it off like it was normal. But she liked this. The dark car, the silence, her mom warm and steady beside her, the phone locked away. For once, it was just them.

Shiv bent her head, pressing a kiss into Rae’s hair. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Team, remember?”

Rae didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either. The city lights passed over them, fleeting and bright, and for the length of the ride, it almost felt like enough. 

Shiv stirred awake to sunlight spilling through the blinds, a thin gold line cutting across the white ceiling. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. Then she shifted and felt the hot weight pressed across her stomach.

Rae.

Her daughter was curled against her side, head pillowed on Shiv’s lap, red hair tangled into knots. At some point in the night she must have tiptoed from the guest room, burrowing close until she was wrapped in her mother’s warmth. Shiv smoothed a hand down her back, careful not to wake her. Rae’s breathing was deep and steady, her long legs sprawled awkwardly across the duvet. Too tall now for the crib Shiv still remembered, too grown-up in her navy dress at last night’s dinner. But here, like this, she looked small again.

Her chest ached. For once, she let herself stay still. No phone. No calendar. No speeches to rehearse. Just her daughter’s slow breathing filling the quiet bedroom. 

By the time Rae stirred awake, the sun was higher, flooding the townhouse with warm light. She stretched, blinking blearily, then grinned when she realized she’d snuck into her mom’s bed and hadn’t been sent back. Shiv was already propped against the pillows, hair mussed, iPad in hand. She set it aside and smoothed Rae’s hair. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Rae mumbled around her pillow. Then she perked up as her stomach growled. “Can we get breakfast? Real breakfast. Not boring grown-up breakfast.”

Shiv arched a brow. “Real breakfast? What’s that?”

“Acai bowls,” Rae declared. “With bananas. And mango. And honey.”

Shiv chuckled. “Alright, Queen of Brunch. You’re in charge.”

An hour later, the dining table was covered in colors of the rainbow. Bowls of glossy acai, sliced fruit in jewel tones, granola spilling from cartons. Rae dug in happily, spooning blueberries and mango into her bowl.

“This is better than pancakes,” she announced with her mouth full.

Shiv smirked. “Don’t tell your dad. He’d take it personally.”

Rae giggled. “He’d still make them anyway.”

For a while, they just ate, sunlight pouring through tall windows. Rae felt… normal. Like they could be any mother and daughter, without a thousand miles and a dozen arguments between them.

After breakfast, Shiv let Rae braid her hair on the couch, twisting red strands with more determination than skill. Later they walked around the fancy boutiques in downtown. Shiv carried the shopping bags while Rae skipped ahead in sneakers, cheeks flushed with crisp air. 

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t New York. But it felt close to how things used to be.

The doorbell rang just after dark. Rae was sprawled on the sofa watching a cartoon when Shiv glanced at the clock and rose to answer. The sight of Tom in the porch light made Rae spring to her feet.

“Dad!” she squealed, barreling forward before Shiv could step aside.

Tom bent to catch her, lifting her clean off the ground. He smelled of cologne and cool night air. “Rae,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against her hair. “Missed you.”

“You’re here!” she grinned. “Wait, you drove?”

Tom winked. “I did. Helicopter’s waiting outside the city. Thought we’d drive out together.”

“That’s so cool,” Rae whispered. She imagined the roar of the blades, the lights glittering beneath them. But then she looked past his shoulder to Shiv, still standing in the doorway, arms folded, her face unreadable.

“Can mom come with us?” she blurted.

Shiv’s lips parted, but Tom answered first, voice careful. “Not this time, cub. Mom’s got work here.”

The helicopter suddenly seemed less exciting. Rae clutched at her velour pants. “But I want both of you.”

Shiv crouched, brushing a strand of hair from Rae’s cheek. Her eyes looked softer than they had all weekend. “You’ll see me soon. This isn’t forever.”

But it didn’t sound convincing.

Rae nodded anyway. She hugged her mom fiercely, burying her face in Shiv’s shoulder. She wished she could freeze time, hold both her parents in the same room forever. But the world never stopped for wishes.

“Ready to go?” Tom asked gently.

Rae dragged her little suitcase down the steps, the wheels bumping against each riser. Tom carried it the rest of the way, tucking it into the trunk. As they drove through the quiet streets toward the helipad, Rae pressed her forehead to the glass. She watched the lights of D.C. flicker past, then fade behind them.

The helicopter was loud and thrilling. The blades roared, the city shrinking below. But as she stared out the window, one thought cut sharper than all the excitement: It would be cooler if mom were here too.

The blades still rang in her ears when they landed outside the city. Tom steadied her with a hand at her back, and Rae forced a smile so he wouldn’t see how heavy her chest felt. Back in the car, lion squashed between her and the door, she stared at the blur of New York lights. Her parents were the right people, she knew it. She’d seen it in dad’s eyes when he said her mother’s name, in mom’s reflection in the mirror last night, their dresses side by side. 

Rae hugged her lion tighter, her mind buzzing. If her parents were too stubborn to see they still loved each other, then she would do the seeing for them. Push them into the same room. Make them laugh. Remind them what it felt like to be a family.

She pictured it as clearly as a math problem:
Mom + Dad = Together.
Together + Rae = Family.

Problem solved.

Her lips quirked into a smile as the plan took shape. She wasn’t sure how yet, maybe a dinner, maybe a trip, maybe something sneakier. But she’d figure it out.

Chapter Text

Monday morning, Rae sat at the kitchen counter with her cereal untouched. Gwendoline fussed with her lunchbox, humming in that patient way she always did. Tom was pacing with his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, already talking about numbers and “Matsson this, Matsson that.”

It was exactly the problem. Her parents were never in the same room anymore. Never laughing over coffee the way they used to, never trading eye rolls across the table. They were just fragments spread around the east coast. Dad here, mom there, and Rae in the middle. She had to do something.

The first scheme was simple. Family dinner. If her parents sat down together maybe they’d remember how it felt to be a family again. So she set the trap.

On Friday evening, Rae told her dad she really wanted sushi  “from the place on 54th, the one mom likes.” Tom, harried and tired, agreed without thinking, telling Gwendoline to make the reservation. Then Rae texted her mom herself: Can we do dinner? Just you and me. Sushi place on 54th. Please don’t say no.

It worked. Almost.

When Rae and dad arrived, the smiling hostess led them toward the table, Rae’s heart leaped. Mom was already there, coat draped neatly over her chair, phone face-down beside the menu. For a second, Rae saw it all. The three of them in a booth, laughing over edamame, the fight between her parents dissolving like it had never happened. Instead, her parents froze.

“Shiv,” Tom said flatly.

“Tom.” Shiv’s tone matched, clipped and cool. Her gaze flicked to Rae, sharp with realization.

Rae forced a smile, too bright. “Surprise! I thought it’d be nice if we all ate together. You know… family dinner.”

Neither moved. Tom’s jaw flexed. Shiv’s mouth pressed thin. The silence stretched until Rae’s cheeks burned. Shiv’s coat was over her arm before Rae could find the words to stop her.

“I can’t. Not like this,” she said softly, though her eyes were cold. She bent to kiss Rae’s forehead quickly and then was gone. Heels clicking on tiles. The door swinging shut behind her.

The restaurant noise swallowed her absence with clinking glasses and murmured conversations, but to Rae it all sounded far away. Tom lowered himself into the empty chair. He didn’t look angry. Not even surprised. Just tired. He motioned Rae to sit down before he studied her. 

Rae squirmed. “What?”

Tom set his menu down, carefully, like it might shatter. “Cub.” His voice was gentle, but heavy. “I know what you did.”

Rae’s eyes stung. “I just wanted –”

“I know.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. Warm and steady. “You wanted us all together.”

Rae blinked fast, her throat burning.

Tom’s gaze softened, unbearably kind. “I wish it worked that way. God, I do.”

The waiter came by, hovering uncertainly. Tom didn’t move his hand. “We’ll stay for dinner,” he said quietly.

Rae nodded, blinking furiously at her water glass.

They ate in silence. Rae pushed sushi around her plate. Tom watched her in that fatherly way that was all love and no hope. And Rae knew, with a pit in her stomach, that nothing was fixed.

The car hummed through the city, headlights streaking across the windows. Rae slumped against the door, the leftover sushi box heavy in her lap. Suddenly she burst out in full emotion: “You love her. She loves you. You’re just being dumb!”

Tom exhaled slowly before answering, but his voice managed to stay soft. “It’s not just about love. Sometimes… sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Rae stared at him, stunned. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah,” Tom said quietly. “It is. Stupid, and unfair, and – I wish it wasn’t true. But your mom and I… we hurt each other unintentionally. A lot. And when you’ve done that enough times, it doesn’t go away just because you sit down at the same table.”

Rae’s throat ached. “So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“I’ll never give up on you.” He glanced at her, eyes shining faintly in the streetlight glow. “But with your mom… I don’t know how to keep holding on without breaking.”

Rae turned to the window, blinking hard. Neon signs smeared into streaks. Love wasn’t enough? That was grown-up nonsense. Love was the only thing in the world.

Back in her room, Rae flopped onto her bed so hard the lion bounced down to the carpet. She didn’t pick it up. The lion could sulk too. She replayed her dad’s words in her head. Love isn’t enough. Dumb grown-ups. Love was the thing. Without it, what was the point of sushi dinners, or helicopter rides above the city, or any of it? Adults made everything complicated on purpose. They hid behind “timing” and “logistics.” Logistics was just another word for giving up. And her dad had looked at her with that sad face, like he was proud she tried and sad she failed all at once. Rae hated that look. She didn’t want pity. She just wanted her parents back together.

She kicked at her blanket, scowling at the lion on the floor. “You’re supposed to help me,” she muttered.

It didn’t answer. 

In that moment Rae wished that Mondale was still here. He had always made everything better. There was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by cuddling Monny. It was the saddest day of her life when they had to put him down from old age. Uncle Roman helped her to hold a funeral for him at the Summer Palace. Mom couldn’t stop crying during Rae’s service. 

Rae sat up suddenly, her hair wild, eyes sparking. If she couldn’t do it alone, she needed someone who understood her. Someone who lived for chaos. Uncle Roman. If anyone had unhinged, out of the box ideas, it was him. Rae knew her uncle Roman was… complicated. Most adults described him with words like unreliable or inappropriate. Her mom usually just rolled her eyes and muttered Jesus, Roman, like his whole existence was one long mistake. But Rae saw it differently.

Roman was loud and fast and crackly, like he’d swallowed a live wire and never stopped buzzing. He said things that made grown-ups flinch, then smirked because he knew they were too polite to say anything back. He wore expensive suits but always looked a little rumpled, like he’d slept in them or fought a raccoon on the way over. He wasn’t safe, not in the way her dad was. But he wasn’t boring either.

And underneath all the weird jokes and fake punches, Roman noticed things. He’d call her “Red Menace,” but then he’d slip her the last breadstick without anyone seeing. Once, at a family dinner, he’d told a whole story about some guy in L.A. just to distract Uncle Connor long enough for Rae to sneak away from the table. Roman had always taken them in when mom had decided it was time to escape to L.A. 

Roman wasn’t the parent type. He wasn’t the role model type. But he was the only adult in her family who seemed to enjoy a little chaos as much as she did. She scrolled until she found his number. Her thumb hovered. Dad wouldn’t approve. Mom definitely wouldn’t. Which made it perfect.

She pressed call. After a few rings, Roman’s voice crackled through. “If this is the IRS, I already ate my receipts. If it’s Connor, I’m dead. Who’s this?”

“It’s me,” Rae muttered, ducking her head so Gwendoline or dad wouldn’t hear. “Rae.”

A pause. Then Roman lit up. “RaeRae! My favorite little redhead. To what do I owe the honor? Have you finally decided to overthrow your parents and install yourself as Waystar CEO? Because honestly, I’d vote for you.”

“I need your help,” Rae said firmly.

Another pause. Then a wicked grin bled into his voice. “Oh, this is going to be good. Help with what? Arson? Hacking Matsson’s nudes? Tell Uncle Ro everything.”

“It’s about mom and dad,” Rae said. Her fingers tightened on the lion in her lap. “They’re getting divorced, but they shouldn’t. I’m fixing them. I need mom back in New York. And you’re going to help me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Roman whistled. “Jesus. You’re ten and already sound like my therapist. Okay, hit me.”

“I tried dinner,” Rae said. “They froze. Like robots. So I need a real plan.”

“Yeah, dinners are napalm,” Roman agreed. “What you need is drama. A staged crisis. Something that forces them together with no exits. Like… a kidnapping.”

Rae groaned. “I’m not kidnapping my parents.”

“Fine, coward. Plan B: you fake your own untimely demise. A delicate fainting child. They’ll panic, they’ll rush to your side, they’ll lock eyes across your deathbed and bam – family reunion.”

Rae buried her face in her hand. “That’s insane.”

“Insanely good,” Roman corrected. “Cough, swoon, maybe clutch your chest for extra points. Parents love a sick kid. It’s the one time they forget to fight.”

Despite herself, Rae laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“Correct. But hey, you called me. You wanted chaos, kiddo.”

Rae shook her head, but she was smiling. “Fine. But it has to work. Promise.”

Roman’s voice softened for just a beat. “It will. You’re a Roy. And you're a better actress than the rest of us put together.”

On Saturday, Rae stood in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing. She coughed once, then twice. Too fake. She groaned and clutched her stomach. Too melodramatic. Finally, she tried Roman’s script: “I feel faint. The light… it’s leaving me…” She collapsed onto the baby pink bath mat in what she thought was a very convincing swoon.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “Oscar-worthy.”

The plan was simple. Fake sick. Force both parents into the same room. Let the magic happen. She texted her mom first: I don’t feel good. Please come home. Dad’s really worried. Then she shuffled into the kitchen, dragging her feet, pale on purpose.

Tom looked up from his laptop. “Rae? You okay?”

Rae pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I think I might be… dying.”

Tom’s chair screeched back so fast it nearly toppled. “Dying?!”

Before she could blink, he was scooping her up, muttering about hospitals, pediatricians, and emergency rooms. Dad always panicked like that. Within minutes she was buckled into their own SUV they rarely used, as he barreled through Manhattan traffic.

“Dad!” she tried. “It’s fine, I just need mom –”

“Already texted her,” he said, knuckles white on the wheel. “She’s meeting us there. Jesus, Rae, don’t scare me like this.”

By the time Shiv appeared at the hospital, her heels sharp against the linoleum, Rae was crimson with embarrassment. She sat perched on the crinkly paper of the exam bed while Tom paced holes in the floor.

“Temperature: normal. Vitals: fine. Heart rate is a bit high, but that could be all due to stress,” her pediatrician had said cheerfully before leaving them alone.

Shiv folded her arms, eyeing Rae coolly. “So… Dying, huh?”

Rae sank lower into herself. “It… stopped.”

Tom’s brow furrowed, suspicion dawning. “Wait a second.” He crouched in front of her, looking at her with a serious expression. “Rae. Did you fake this?

Her cheeks burned. She curled tighter around herself. “…Maybe.”

“Couldn’t you even stop to check –” Shiv’s rant was cut off short by the look Tom gave her. 

The look her parents exchanged was unreadable. It was somewhere between furious, exhausted, and something sadder. Shiv pinched the bridge of her nose. Tom sat back hard in the chair, head in his hands. Rae groaned, burying her face in her palms. Her big plan had landed her in a hospital room with two annoyed parents and not even a flicker of reconciliation.

Roman was definitely going to hear about this.

The ride home was thick with silence. Tom drove with both hands clenched on the wheel, knuckles pale against the polished leather. Shiv sat in the back with Rae, arms folded, eyes on the blur of Manhattan sliding past. Rae slumped beside her, cheeks hot and splotchy from crying. This was no family drive to the Hamptons. No one spoke. The hum of the tires filled the void, broken only by the squeak of the wipers smearing mist from the glass. Every so often, Tom’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, checking on her. Every so often, Shiv shifted like she might say something but the words never came.

When they finally pulled into the parking garage, Tom cut the engine. He met Shiv’s eyes in the mirror. “It’s late. You should stay.”

She hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah.”

Inside, the apartment felt heavier than Rae remembered. Her mother’s coat went into the closet. Her father’s shoes stayed by the door. Dad poured hot water for tea and slid a mug toward mom without asking what she wanted. It should have felt safe, both of them here. Instead it felt like standing on thin glass, waiting for the crack as they ate in dead silence. 

Gwendoline came and tried to break the ice in vain. Tonight the bedtime couldn’t come early enough. Rae shuffled off to brush her teeth. Dad kissed the top of her head before sending her down the hall. Her parents didn’t look at each other, but for once they moved in tandem, orbiting Rae like two moons around the same planet. Mom ran her the bath and dried her hair after she was done. She plaited her hair in two. Tucking her into the bed, Rae was too exhausted to resist. 

Later, tossing and turning in bed Rae heard the soft creak of the guest room door shutting. Her chest tightened. Finally they were under the same roof. Close, but still not close enough.

Shiv woke with a start, disoriented to the sunlight striping the ceiling. For a second she thought she was in D.C., the solitude of her townhouse, but the smell gave it away. It smelled like home here. She wasn’t in her bed. She was in exile. It was the guest room Tom used to sleep in when her dad had just died and things were rocky between them between the-almost-divorce and the funeral. Even in the worst of it, she always ended up on her side of their bed. Now she was on neutral ground. A guest in her own space.

Shiv swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet brushing the cool wood floor. She got up, smoothed the sheets, and pulled on her shirt. She caught her reflection in the mirror on the way out, hair mussed, face pale, eyes shadowed from a restless night, and forced her features back into composure. 

Shiv slipped out of the guest room barefoot, careful not to wake her daughter, and padded down the hall. Her blouse from yesterday was creased, her suit jacket rumpled on the chair. If she was going to face the morning even just the three of them, she needed fresh clothes.

The walk-in closet off her old bedroom still held plenty of hers. She hadn’t moved her stuff away. Not yet, and Tom wasn’t the one to throw anything out. She told herself it was about practicality, not about sentiment. 

Shiv pushed the bedroom door open slowly, the dim light casting familiar shadows across the bed. The room was filled with the familiar scent of Tom that used to mean safety for her. Through all the horrible days of her life, she could always end the day with her face buried in his chest, listening to the strong beats of his heart. She couldn’t help but breathe him in as she tiptoed across the bedroom. The closet doors were cracked, a sliver of suits and blouses peeking through. She sneaked inside, fingers brushing over hangers, pulling at a light blue silk blouse she remembered buying years ago. Behind her, sheets rustled.

“Shiv?” Tom’s voice came from the bed, rough with sleep.

She froze, blouse half-off the hanger. Slowly she turned.

Tom was sitting up in bed, hair mussed, t-shirt twisted, eyes bleary but fixed on her. The sight punched her with memory. She’d lived through too many mornings like this, when slipping into the closet for clothes had meant nothing more than another ordinary day together.

She cleared her throat, forcing steadiness. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Just needed something clean.” She gestured vaguely to the closet.

He rubbed his face, then dropped his hands, watching her. “You still keep things here.”

Shiv glanced at the row of blouses, the heels lined neatly below them. “Had other things to worry about.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want them gone,” he said quietly.

For a moment, silence filled the room, thick and heavy with all the unsaid. Shiv clutched the blouse tighter in her hand, wishing the rustle of the hangers didn’t sound so loud. It was too quiet, too intimate for them. She could take the melodrama, but the silence between them killed her. Shiv took the blouse off its hanger, suddenly self-conscious about rummaging. She turned toward him fully, arms loose at her sides.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Tom added, voice softer now.

“Where else would I go?”

He gave a soft, humorless huff. “Could’ve left in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t have been the first time.”

Shiv’s chest tightened. She crossed her arms, not defensively this time, just to steady herself. “I stayed because of Rae. She needed… both of us under one roof.”

Tom nodded slowly. He looked down at his hands in his lap, then back at her. “She always needs both of us.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to. Shiv felt them settle deep, where she tried not to let anything stick.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The city hummed faintly outside, the room dim and still. They looked at each other, tired and unguarded, without the sharp edges for once. Just two people who had loved each other so much it still hurt to breathe in the same room.

“You look tired,” Tom murmured finally.

“So do you.” Her voice was softer than she expected.

Shiv broke the gaze first, looking down at the silk blouse in her hand. “I should change.”

Tom nodded, but his eyes lingered on her as she stepped back into the closet, the air between them thick with all the words they didn’t say. The floorboards creaked in the hallway as uneven steps padded closer.

“Dad?” Rae’s voice was raspy with sleep. She blinked at the sight she found. Dad was half-sitting in bed, mom barefoot with a blouse in her arms, peeking from the doorway.

Before Shiv could retreat into the closet, Rae walked into the bedroom, her hair almost escaped out of the plaits. 

Rae rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Shiv straightened, blouse clutched like contraband. “I just needed fresh clothes.”

“Oh.” Rae yawned, climbing up onto the bed without hesitation. She plopped beside Tom, who automatically made space, draping an arm around her shoulders. Rae leaned into him, still blinking herself awake.

Her eyes narrowed. “Wait… were you two talking?”

Tom’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile he quickly swallowed. “Just for a minute.”

“About what?”

Shiv shot him a look. Tom cleared his throat. “About your mom’s clothes.”

“Boring,” Rae declared, already burrowing against his side. “You should’ve talked about pancakes instead. That’s way more important.”

Shiv felt the corner of her mouth twitch despite herself. She slipped the blouse over her arm and leaned against the closet doorframe, watching them. Her daughter curled into her father, her husband smoothing Rae’s hair with a tenderness that cracked something in Shiv’s chest. For a moment, it looked achingly normal. Domestic. A snapshot from a life she’d let slip through her fingers.

“Pancakes, huh?” Tom murmured into Rae’s hair.

“With blueberries,” Rae said, almost half-asleep again.

Tom looked up at Shiv then, lashes lowered, expression unreadable. But there was something soft there, something dangerous.

Shiv swallowed, turned, and muttered, “I’ll start the coffee.” She slipped out before Rae could ask anything else.

The kitchen was too familiar. Shiv set the coffee pot on and leaned against the counter, arms folded tight. The smell of beans, the faint hiss of water, the hum of the refrigerator, it was all exactly as she remembered. She had told herself staying the night was practical. Rae needed her here after the stunt at the hospital. That was all. But slipping into the guest room, creeping into the closet this morning like a thief, seeing Tom half-asleep and unguarded… it had felt like rewinding time. Dangerous. Too easy to remember and slip back into. She rubbed at her temples, willing the ache away. Would it always be like this? Too painful to be together, unbearable to be apart. And Rae, caught in the middle, was pulling against her strings harder every day.

The coffee pot sputtered and clicked, filling the silence. Shiv poured herself a mug and gripped it too tightly, the heat biting her palms. She wasn’t allowed the fantasy. She’d chosen D.C. The bill and the power she’d carved out for herself. And with it came the distance. 

She straightened when she heard his heavy footsteps coming down the hall, slipping her armor back into place. Tom came into the kitchen, Rae still padding around somewhere behind him. His t-shirt was wrinkled, hair sticking up on one side, but his eyes were clearer now, sharper than they’d been when Shiv had startled him awake. He reached for a mug past her. It all came from muscle memory. For a while, the only sound was the pour of coffee, the faint clink of the spoon as he stirred. Shiv sipped hers, keeping her eyes on the window, the skyline gray and soft with morning haze.

Then Tom cleared his throat. “So… Rae says pancakes.”

Shiv’s lips twitched against the rim of her mug. “Of course she does.”

“She was very specific,” Tom went on, his voice low, almost careful. “Blueberries only. Apparently chocolate chips are… beneath her now.”

Shiv huffed a small laugh despite herself. “She gets that from you.”

Tom leaned against the counter across from her, cradling his coffee. For a beat, it was easy. The smell of brewing coffee, the soft joke, the rhythm of two people who had once known every corner of each other’s lives.

“She looks so much like you,” Tom said quietly. “The red hair. The eyes. It’s like… living with a ten-year-old Shiv who’s already smarter than me.”

Shiv swallowed, heat rising in her chest. She wanted to deflect, to armor up with a sharp remark. But something in his tone that was fond and a bit bruised kept her still.

She glanced at him over the rim of her mug and whispered. “And she’s got your heart.”

Tom’s eyes caught hers, lashes heavy, unshed words thick in the air between them. The silence stretched, warm and painful at once, until Rae burst in with a serious question: “Where are the pancakes?!”

The kitchen smelled of coffee and the sweet batter. Tom moved clumsily between the counter and stove, flipping pancakes with too much focus. Rae perched on a stool, issuing instructions.

“Not too many blueberries. You always overdo it.”

“Hey,” Tom said, mock-wounded. “That’s my signature.”

“Signature disaster,” Rae said, deadpan.

Shiv snorted into her mug before she could stop herself. Tom glanced at her, the corner of his mouth lifting like it mattered more than it should.

Rae pounced. “Mom, you have to try dad’s pancakes. Even when they’re too blueberry-ish, they’re still the best.”

“I’ve had them,” Shiv said, arching a brow.

“Yeah, but you haven’t had them lately,” Rae pressed, sliding a plate and fork in front of her mother like a waitress.

Tom plated the second stack with exaggerated flourish. “One Rae-sized serving.”

They ate at their small kitchen nook, sunlight spilling over plates sticky with syrup. Rae chattered non-stop about school, ballet, how Gwendoline’s French accent made even boring homework sound more interesting. Tom listened with his quiet attention, chiming in with dry jokes. Shiv sipped her coffee, adding the occasional comment, her face softer than it had been in weeks. For once, the tension didn’t hum under every word. It was just pancakes and syrup and Rae nudging her parents into smiles.

When Tom leaned over to mop a drip of syrup from the table, Rae caught his hand. “Careful, dad. You’re making a mess in front of mom.”

He chuckled. “Nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

Shiv shook her head, hiding her smile behind her mug. Rae grinned, triumphant, as if she’d pulled off a magic trick. It almost felt like the family she remembered. Rae polished off her last pancake with a triumphant sigh, wiping syrup from her chin with the back of her hand. 

“Don’t eat the rest without me! I’m gonna wake Gwendoline and show her the new part I learned from The Nutcracker.” 

She dashed off down the hall, thumping downstairs where Gwendoline had her own floor. The kitchen quieted with her departure. Tom set down his fork, the scrape of metal against porcelain louder than it should’ve been. Shiv busied herself with her mug, turning it between her hands. For a long moment, the sunlight felt harsh instead of warm.

“Thanks for staying,” Tom said at last, voice even.

Shiv met his eyes. “It wasn’t really a choice.”

Something flickered in his face but he swallowed it. “She’s happier when you’re here. You know that.”

“And she’s hurt when I’m not,” Shiv said, the admission roughened by honesty. “I know.”

Silence swelled. The laughter Rae had conjured with pancakes felt like it belonged to someone else’s kitchen.

“You could –” Tom started, stopped, rubbed his jaw. “Never mind.”

“Say it.”

He exhaled. “You could make more time. If you wanted to.”

The sentence landed with a dull, final weight. Shiv’s spine straightened. “You think I don’t want to? You think this is easy?”

“I think you’re good at choosing work,” Tom said determined. “Better than choosing us.”

Her head snapped toward him. “You think I’m better at choosing work?” Her voice was sharp, low enough that Rae wouldn’t hear. “That’s rich, Tom. Coming from you.”

He blinked, startled, but she didn’t stop. The memory hit her like a rush of cold water – her body wracked with contractions, her phone slipping in her sweaty hand, the line going to voicemail again and again.

She could still remember the pale hospital walls, merciless under the fluorescent lights. The air smelled of antiseptic and metallic, like blood. Shiv’s hands trembled as another contraction tore through her, the weight of it grinding everything else out of focus. Her hair clung to her sweat-damp forehead, her hospital gown twisted, the sheets beneath her slick with sweat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. She had scheduled everything, planned it down to the day. No surprises allowed. She wanted a neat and precise C-section. Not this. Not the chaos of her own body betraying her during her workday and being dramatically wheeled off by an ambulance to the hospital.

She clutched the phone in her hand, slick with effort, her thumb shaking as she pressed redial. Again. Again. Each ring rang hollow, each abrupt switch to voicemail louder than the contraction itself. His familiar voice came from the receiver.

“Pick up, pick up,” she whispered through clenched teeth, as though saying it out loud would conjure him here. She left another message, voice clipped, controlled: Fucking answer to me. It’s happening. You need to come now.

No answer.

She tried again minutes later, the pain climbing, voice sharper now, shaking: Where are you? I can’t – Tom, I need you here.

No answer.

By the time the third message left her throat raw, her voice had crumbled, stripped of the armor she usually wore. Please. Please, she’s coming. I’m so scared. I can’t do this alone.

Connor, Willa and Roman managed to rush by her side in the last minute. None of them mattered. The doctor Hasword’s voice urging her to breathe and push was all muffled noise through the unbearable pain. All she wanted was Tom’s hand in hers, his steady presence, low voice humming close to her ear. The person she had chosen to build this life with. 

The pain was more jarring than she had prepared for, despite all the drugs they gave her. And then after hours of what felt like torture, Rae’s cry split the air. High, piercing, unbearably new as the sound echoed in the room. The sound struck Shiv so hard she gasped, tears stinging her eyes. The weight of her daughter was suddenly wet and sticky on her chest, warm and wriggling, impossibly small. A tiny fist curled instinctively on her robe, anchoring her in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

Shiv clutched her baby close, her whole body trembling. She didn’t even realize she was crying, until the tears wet her paper clothes. Relief and terror were all tangled up together as she hiccuped. She had never felt so powerful, so vulnerable, so exposed. This was her daughter and she’d do anything to protect her. 

The door swung open minutes later but it was already too late. Tom stood there, breathless, tie askew, hair damp from running, eyes wide with horror and guilt.

“Shiv –”

She didn’t bother to look at him. She pressed Rae tighter against her chest, her eyes fixed on the little face she had just brought into the world. Rae had a little tuft of red hair on her, her light eyes still unable to focus on anything.

“Oh Shiv, she looks just like you,” Tom gasped as he crossed the room to them. 

“She’s here,” Shiv said flatly, her voice shaking but sharp, all the heartbreak condensed into three syllables. “Were the fuck were you?”

Tom froze, stricken, his face crumpling as though she’d driven a knife straight into his chest. But Shiv didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t. She was already too busy memorizing her daughter’s every sound, every twitch, every tiny miracle. And trying to forget the empty place at her side where Tom should have been.

Back in the kitchen, Shiv’s breath shuddered out of her.

“I was alone when Rae was born,” she said. No heat, just fact. “I called you until my voice broke. You missed her first cry because you were in a fucking meeting with Matsson.”

Tom flinched like she’d slapped him. Words failed him. His gaze dropped to his hands.

“So don’t lecture me about choosing work over family,” Shiv went on, voice thinning. “You know exactly what it costs.”

The room held its breath. Coffee cooled between them. Tom’s eyes were shiny when he finally looked up. He didn’t defend himself. Couldn’t. The apology hovered on his lips and died there. She had no armor left. Just the raw wound of a moment she couldn’t forgive. Shiv’s throat burned, but the words kept coming.

“All this work we put into this,” Shiv said, the tremor back, “all the clawing and patching and trying again. We keep dragging each other through hell because we think it’s worth it, just for it to fall so fucking flat.”

“Shiv –”

“You remember, don’t you? We broke once before Rae. We didn’t make sense, not really. But we came back. We decided to try again. For her. We kept trying, year after year.” Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “And God, sometimes it was good. But somehow it’s never been enough.”

Tom swallowed hard, his lips parting. “Shiv…”

But she cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. “You don’t get it. We’ve already gone beyond. We’ve already given more than people usually give. And it still broke. It still broke us.”

Her hand trembled against her coffee mug. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if she wanted to throw it against the wall or cling to it like it could anchor her.

Tom leaned forward, his voice ragged. “So what? We just accept that? That all of it was for nothing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was for Rae. Maybe she’s the only good part we made out of all of this. Maybe that has to be enough,” she said, and that hurt more than anything. 

From down the hall, Rae’s laughter carried faintly, oblivious to the weight pressing down on the kitchen. Tom closed his eyes, Shiv turned away, and for the first time in their lives, they were both admitting defeat.

They called Rae into the living room when the dishes were stacked and the table wiped bare of syrup.

“Rae?” Tom’s voice was careful.

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, the cushion between them a small, impossible ocean. Both looked wrecked. Both held themselves upright like they owed Rae the performance of steadiness.

“Sit with us,” Shiv said, patting the space between.

Rae sank down, eyes down. She didn’t like the way their hands twisted together nervously, or the way her dad cleared his throat before speaking.

“Cub,” Tom began, voice catching, “we need to talk about some changes.”

Shiv took the handoff, tone calm and heavy. “Your dad and I …We’ve decided it’s best that we divorce.”

“This doesn’t mean we don’t love you,” Tom added, quick, fierce. “We love you more than anything. That never changes.”

“You’ll live here in Manhattan with dad during the week,” Shiv continued carefully. “Gwendoline will help, and you’ll stay at your school. On weekends… you can choose. You can come with me, or stay here. And if you want to, we’ll have a separate home in New York instead of D.C. so you can still go to ballet on weekends. It’s all up to you.”

Tom squeezed Rae’s hand. “You always have both of us.”

The room went soundless. When Rae finally looked up, what she saw were two people scraped raw, who had built a wall and were asking her to live on the safe side of it.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Shiv exhaled shakily, brushing Rae’s hair back with trembling fingers. Tom kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering. It was supposed to be reassuring. It felt like a goodbye.

The apartment felt hollow after Rae slipped off to her room.

Tom stayed on the sofa, elbows to knees, hands clasped until they ached. He waited for relief to arrive with the decision. It didn’t. All he heard was Rae’s okay cracking down the center of his chest. Shiv rose almost immediately from the couch, retreating down the hall to the guest room without a word to pack up her things.

He stood and went to the window. Manhattan blinked back at him. He’d won so much, but so little of it mattered. There was no winning this. No clean line. Just the ache of loving a person you can’t live next to without bleeding.

Rae. Their girl. The only reason they’d lasted as long as they had. The only reason he still had hope, even when hope felt stupid. Tom had wanted his own family so bad. He’d gotten one. And somehow he was still losing it.

The guest room door clicked shut, and Shiv leaned back against it, eyes squeezed shut. Minutes passed, but she just stood there, palms flat against the wood, her breath shallow and uneven.

The space was the same as last night. Neutral ground. A halfway house in her own apartment. She hated it. Hated how foreign it felt, even though it was inside what used to be her home. She crossed to the bed and sat down hard. The tears came before she could fight them. Hot, unrelenting, angry. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry in front of Rae – not again but alone she could fall apart. The words echoed in her ears, cruel in their finality. She had seen the way Rae folded in on herself, small and still, like she was bracing for a blow. Their daughter had taken it like a soldier. Ten years old, already carrying the weight of her parents’ failure. It was too familiar.

Shiv’s throat constricted as another memory surfaced, one she hated but could never shake. Thirteen years old, standing in her parents’ living room as the air curdled with bitterness. Caroline’s clipped English accent saying she couldn’t do it anymore. Logan, thunderous, threatening that the children would stay with him. Shiv hadn’t hesitated. She had made the choice without a doubt. Walked to her father’s side, leaving her mother behind without even a glance.

The guilt had followed her for decades, cold and sharp, lingering in her bones even when she tried to deny it. And now here she was, sitting in a guest room while her own daughter was left to make her own impossible choice. History looping, cruel and merciless around her family. Shiv let out a ragged sound, halfway between a sob and a curse.

They had tried. God, they had tried. Circling each other like planets bound in a gravity they couldn’t escape. They had fought for this life, clawed it out of the wreckage, even when it hurt. She’d changed, tried to love without repercussions. And still, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled it open. Inside were the things she’d shoved there the night before: her phone charger and iPad. Beneath them there was also a pair of Rae’s forgotten earrings. Underneath all, folded flat, was a photograph. She hadn’t meant to see it again. There Rae was, maybe three years old, in Tom’s arms at the beach, her hair a red halo in the sun. Tom’s face turned toward her, unguarded, lit with joy in a way he never was in public. Shiv herself was just out of frame. She'd be the one who’d taken it.

Her chest caved. She pressed the photo against her sternum and bent forward, sobs tearing through her shoulders. For all the power she wielded in D.C., all the armor she’d built around herself, here she was, undone in the quiet. A daughter who had abandoned her own mother. A mother who feared her own daughter might one day do the same to her. And a woman mourning the family she had fought for and still couldn’t hold together.

Shiv sat hunched for a long time, the photograph pressed flat against her chest, her sobs easing only when exhaustion took over. Finally she drew a deep breath, shaky and uneven, and straightened. The mirror over the dresser caught her reflection. Her hair wild, eyes swollen, cheeks blotched. She looked like a stranger. The thought jolted her.

She splashed water on her face in the tiny adjoining bathroom, combed her fingers through her hair until it lay halfway smooth. The armor didn’t fit as cleanly as it usually did, but it was enough. Rae didn’t need to see her broken. Not now. She slid the photograph back into the drawer, shut it firmly, and walked down the hall. Her steps were light but purposeful.

Rae’s door was ajar. Shiv knocked gently anyway. Inside, Rae was curled on her bed with a book. She turned her head as Shiv came in, her face carefully blank. Too careful.

“Hey, baby,” Shiv said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Rae didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either when Shiv smoothed the hair back from her forehead.

“I have to go,” Shiv said, keeping her voice steady. “I’ll be in D.C. during the week, but –” she hesitated, hating how heavy the words felt, “ – we’ll see each other next weekend. If you want to.”

Rae’s face was carefully blank in that way Shiv recognized all too well. The Roy armor was already settling in too young. Shiv bent down, kissed her temple, and whispered, “I love you. That doesn’t change. Ever.”

She started to stand, ready to force herself out the door, when Rae suddenly sat up. Her arms wrapped tight around her mother’s waist, her face pressing hard into Shiv’s side.

“I miss you already,” Rae mumbled, voice muffled against her.

Shiv’s breath caught. Her arms came down instinctively, holding her daughter close, one hand cradling the back of Rae’s head. She swallowed hard, forcing down the tears that burned her eyes.

“I miss you too,” she whispered back, her voice shaking.

They stayed like that for a long moment, Rae’s small body clinging, Shiv’s chest aching with the knowledge that she was about to break that hold.

Finally, Shiv eased Rae back onto the bed, kissing her once more. “Next weekend,” she promised, though it felt fragile even as she said it. “Be good for dad.”

Rae nodded, burying herself back into her bed. Shiv stood, turned toward the door, and this time she didn’t look back, because if she did, she might take it all back.

Chapter Text

Three months. Ninety-two days. 2,208 hours, if you were into math misery. That’s how long it had been since mom packed her things. Since the talk in the living room that hollowed the apartment. Since Rae decided she’d fix what her parents couldn’t, and then watched her first traps crumble like stale cookies. It seemed like they were really going to divorce. 

The weeks slid into a steady pattern that mirrored her old life. Weekdays with dad and Gwendoline in Manhattan, filled with ballet, tennis, and too much homework. Weekends sometimes with mom in D.C. or New York, sometimes not, depending on “the schedule.” The way they said it, the schedule was God. It did not negotiate.

It wasn’t the same as before. Not even close.

Dad tried to play fun dad. More pancakes, more pizza, a spontaneous Yankees game where he bought a foam finger and pretended he understood their bullpen. He smiled so hard it made Rae’s chest hurt. She saw the loneliness anyway behind the jokes, in the way his shoulders sagged when she turned away to brush her teeth. Sometimes she’d find him in the doorway to her room, just standing there, like he’d come to say something and forgotten the words.

Mom tried to be Superwoman. Weekend flights to D.C., late-night calls from the West Wing, a laptop glowing across the dinner table while Rae colored with her pens. And there were the apartment hunts. The fancy elevators opened onto empty penthouses high above the city, where the air felt too clean and the views too sharp. Mom would walk through each glossy room with the broker, asking questions about light and square footage while Rae ran to the windows, pretending excitement but feeling the knot in her stomach tighten. Every sparkling terrace looked like proof that the divorce was real, a new life being measured in marble countertops and keyed elevators.

And Rae? Rae sulked. Not the dramatic kind. No slammed doors anymore, no tears that made it into anyone’s lap. The quiet sulk that turned to sediment at the bottom of everything. She slept with the lion pressed to her ribs and woke annoyed at herself for needing it. She stopped telling jokes in the car because jokes made everyone expect a laugh.

School carried on like it hadn’t noticed. Gwendoline tried to coax her out with hot chocolate detours, a French song muttered while she braided Rae’s hair. Roman texted on odd Thursdays How’s our plan going? Rae sent him one-word updates. Even the au pair and the chaos uncle couldn’t lift the sediment for long. Only ballet with her friends made her cheer up. 

Every Sunday night goodbyes got heavier. Hug one parent tight while the other hovered by the door pretending not to look guilty. Rae hated them both for it. Hated how tired they looked. Hated how much it hurt that they were not tired together. Hated it even more when it was Gwendoline, who was sent to pick her up. 

She hadn’t given up. Not even close. Rae just… stalled, exhausted by the emotional toll and the vigorous ballet. She was waiting for the right lever instead of yanking every possible switch.

.:.:.

Shiv sat cross-legged on the living-room sofa, the townhouse dark except for the glow of her laptop. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table. Her phone lay facedown beside it, buzzing every few minutes with unread West Wing updates she had no intention of answering. She had been putting this off for too long. The spreadsheet glowed like a battlefield map. Forty-two names, every top-tier divorce attorney in Manhattan. Some she’d met personally at charity galas, others she’d only heard of in whispers from her father’s old legal team. Next to each name was a green checkmark, the quiet tally of calls already made.

“Good evening, this is Siobhan Roy,” she’d said over and over, her voice smooth, pleasant. Pre-engagement consultation was the term, just an hour of “informal advice” about property division and custody. Enough to create a conflict of interest. Enough to lock the door before Tom even reached the hallway.

Her finger hovered over the next number and, unbidden, the memory surfaced. The last time this had happened, she’d been two months pregnant, nerves stretched thin, when her assistant called back with the news “There’s a conflict of interest”. One by one the most powerful firms in New York had declined to represent her. Tom had already been there first, collecting all the attorneys into his pockets. He’d been polite but lethal, answering the phone when she confronted him from L.A. “Just covering my bases,” he’d said, voice low, almost tender. She’d laughed it off at the time, but inside something cold had cracked open. How dare Tom pull Logan’s favorite move on her?

Well not this time. Shiv’s jaw tightened as she scrolled to the final column, Contacted, Awaiting Reply, and made another call. Her voice never wavered, though her stomach knotted tight. Each lawyer she locked down felt like closing a vault door, one more layer of protection for Rae, for herself, and just a little something to piss him off. 

When the last number disconnected, Shiv leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Outside, the city hummed with its usual sleepless energy. Winning a divorce somehow felt nothing like victory. 

.:.:.

Tom found out on a Wednesday, in the bland beige of his lawyer’s midtown office. The associate, who was a too-young guy with a watch that cost more than Tom’s first car, cleared his throat and said the words like they were discussing a parking ticket.

“Conflict of interest. Ms. Roy has already consulted with every major firm on our shortlist. I’m afraid we’re conflicted out.”

For a second, Tom just blinked. The phrase hit like a déjà vu he couldn’t place, until the memory snapped into focus. Just covering my bases, he’d told her on the phone, and listened to her heavy breathing. Now the taste was bitter in his own mouth. He managed a polite nod, but inside his chest something churned. It was a classic Roy play. Brutal, elegant, and inevitable. Of course she’d remember. Of course she’d wait for the exact moment to feed him his own medicine.

Tom walked out onto the street, the cold cutting across his face sharper than it should have. He pictured her making those calls, her voice cool and precise, the same tone she used to dismantle a political opponent. It shouldn’t have surprised him but the thought of her sitting alone, spreadsheet glowing, calling down the list one by one… it hollowed him out.

He’d wanted to believe they were past the old games. That the years, the child, the nights of whispered compromises had built something sturdier than tactics and counter-moves. Instead, here he was, walking through a canyon of glass and steel with nothing but the echo of her voice in his head and the sour certainty that she’d learned the lesson from him.

The worst part wasn’t the loss of leverage. It was the flicker of reluctant pride that crept in beneath the anger. Shiv Roy had played him perfectly. Once again. The traffic roared and blurred around him until he finally thumbed his phone and hit Greg’s name.

“Heyy, Tom,” Greg answered, voice too chipper for a Wednesday afternoon. “Uh… are we lawyering? Or like, what’s happening?”

“Greg,” Tom said flatly. “Shiv just played the most beautiful, ice-cold game of legal whack-a-mole I’ve ever seen.”

“Is… is that good or?”

“She locked me out. All the top divorce attorneys. Every. Single. One. Called them first. I am officially conflicted out of Manhattan.” Tom gave a short, humorless laugh that startled a passing pedestrian. “It’s the exact move I pulled on her before Rae was born.”

“Whoa,” Greg breathed. “Like… she reverse-Uno’d you.”

Tom shut his eyes. “Greg, don’t. This is not a card game.”

“Right, right. Totally,” Greg said quickly. “But… like… that’s kind of impressive, though? I mean, I know it’s bad for you, but… respect?”

Tom leaned against a cold marble facade, phone pressed tight to his ear. “Oh, it’s impressive. I’m somewhat proud. And also furious. It’s a vicious cycle.”

Greg made a sympathetic noise that came out more like a squeak. “So… what’s the, uh, counter-counter move?”

“There isn’t one,” Tom admitted, a bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s the point. She’s sealed every door and left me standing in the hallway with a sad little briefcase. And you know what? Some sick part of me loves her for it. She learned from the best.”

Greg hesitated. “That’s… romantic? In a… corporate warfare kind of way?”

Tom let out a breath. “Exactly, Greg. Exactly. It’s a love letter written in legal pad margins. And I hate that it makes me want her back.”

The line went quiet except for the rush of city traffic. Greg finally said, “Do you, um… want me to, like, Google less-fancy lawyers? Like a scrappy Staten Island guy with… grit?”

Tom laughed then, sharp and rueful, the sound of a man who knew he was beaten but couldn’t help admiring the victor. “Sure, Greg. Find me a scrappy Staten Island guy.”

.:.:.

As the autumn got deeper they started to spend more time in New York in their new apartment. Saturday sunlight crept into the penthouse in clean, cold rectangles, catching on the glass and steel. Usually, Rae would already be padding around in her socks, begging for cereal or rummaging through Shiv’s fridge for fruit. But this morning, she hadn’t moved or made a sound.

Shiv pushed the bedroom door open with her shoulder, balancing a tray with a glass of juice and a small bowl of cut mango. Rae was still under the covers, only a tangle of red hair sticking out, her lion plushie tucked in the bed with her.

“Rae,” Shiv said softly, setting the tray on the nightstand. “It’s nearly ten. You planning to sleep through the entire weekend?”

A muffled groan answered. Rae tugged the blanket tighter around her head.

Shiv sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing a corner of the blanket with her hand. “Rough practice last night?”

Rae peeked out, cheeks flushed, eyes bleary. “We had to run the Grand Pas three times yesterday. My legs feel like… cement.” She flopped dramatically. “I’m broken.”

“You’re ten, not eighty,” Shiv teased, but her hand lingered, brushing Rae’s damp curls back from her forehead. The girl really did look pale, her body stretched thin by the hours she’d been pouring into ballet.

“I don’t wanna move,” Rae mumbled. “I just wanna stay here and never do another plié in my life.”

“Hmm.” Shiv leaned back, studying her. “That would be a waste, considering you’re the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Rae cracked one eye open. “It’s not as fun as it sounds.”

Shiv smiled faintly. “It never is. The crown always weighs more than it looks.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, just the city hum beyond the glass. Shiv reached for the tray and set the mango bowl in Rae’s lap. “Eat a little. You’ll feel less like cement.”

Rae poked a piece with her fork, then leaned against her mother’s arm, too tired to keep up her usual resistance. “Do you ever get tired, mom?”

Shiv froze a second, caught by the question. Then she tilted her head, pressing a kiss to Rae’s hair. “All the time.”

They sat like that in the quiet morning, Shiv’s silk robe brushing Rae’s blanket, the penthouse for once not a place of sharp edges but something softer and warmer. For Rae, it was the closest thing to rest she’d had all week.

.:.:.

On Monday, the PR floor of Waystar was buzzing with people. Tom had just come off his third interview of the morning when Karolina appeared with a woman in a slate-grey dress and a calm, practiced smile.

“Annabelle Cortland,” Karolina said. “Lindstrom & Hale, crisis and brand. She’s helping us shape post-earnings coverage.”

Her handshake was warm, firm without crushing. “Mr. Wambsgans? Thank you for a few minutes.”

“Tom’s fine,” he said, relieved she wasn’t testing him with the title. “And I’ve got about three minutes. They’ll pretend it’s worth five.”

Karolina’s phone buzzed and she was already walking. “Be reasonable,” she called back. Which left them alone in the hallway of glass.

Annabelle tucked a folder under her arm. “I caught your CNBC spot. Better than last quarter. You didn’t look like you were apologizing just for existing.”

Tom blinked. “I do that?”

“Only when you’re trying not to,” she said with a small smile. “May I try a line on you?”

He gestured. Go ahead.

“When they ask about the past, say: We’re cleaning our own house. Judge us by what we fix, not what we inherited.”

He repeated it, slower. It sat in his mouth better than the legal sludge he usually had to swallow. “Not bad.”

“I’m expensive,” she said lightly.

That startled a laugh out of him. “How much for fewer absolutes?”

She thought for a moment. “Then: Judge us by the repairs you can see.” She watched him test it. There was no push in it, no edge. Just… attention.

“Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

They walked the corridor together, Manhattan glittering through the glass. She matched his stride without comment.

“Second line,” she offered. “If someone asks why you stayed through… everything: Institutions don’t change on their own. People do that work. I didn’t want to leave it to someone who didn’t care.”

He tried it under his breath, and for one strange second it sounded like something he might actually believe. “You collect lines, Annabelle?” he asked.

“I collect people,” she said, amused. “Sentences are just the receipt.”

They stopped near a window, the river cutting blue through the skyline.

“You look like someone who forgets to eat when things blow up,” she said gently.

Tom blinked. “Depends on the explosion. Fire, yes. Board member, no. I… chew those.” He trailed off. “Or I don’t. Never mind.”

Her laugh was soft and warm. “I’m good at ordering food that arrives on time. Also at finding quiet bars where phones mysteriously stop working.”

He nodded, grateful and not quite tracking. “Useful.”

She tilted her head. “That was me asking if you’d like a drink sometime, Tom.”

“Oh.” It came out too loud. “Oh.”

“If it helps, we can call it a briefing and lie about it.”

He looked at the city instead of her. Three months, eighteen days. The pale band where a ring had been still ghosted his finger. He was good at staying upright now, at saying the right things, and not letting himself think of her name. Annabelle didn’t fill the silence. She just stood there, steady, not asking for anything.

“Full disclosure,” Tom said at last. “My life isn’t exactly a polished press release.”

“I speak bad drafts for a living,” she answered.

Something in him cracked and he almost laughed. She smiled, not sharp, not hungry. Just… kind. And it startled him. She wasn’t measuring him. Not the way others did. No gleam of opportunity, no calculus. Just curiosity.

“Okay,” he said, careful. “A drink.”

“Thursday?”

He almost said tomorrow. The word stopped short on his tongue. “Thursday. If the alarms aren’t too loud.”

“Text me,” she said, and handed him a plain white card, with just her name and number before she left. 

Tom sat in his office with his tie loosened and his phone screen glowing like it wanted something from him. Annabelle’s number was still fresh in his messages, sitting there like a dare.  He should delete it. He should text something neutral like busy week, thanks for the hallway coaching, then bury himself in board prep. That would be the grown-up move. The married-man-on-paper move, just because the papers weren’t signed yet. Instead, he just stared at the screen. 

Annabelle had been – what? Not dazzling. Not special. Just… present. She’d looked at him like she actually wanted to listen to him. That had been enough to shake him, which was embarrassing at his age. The knock on his door was hesitant, which meant only one person.

“Come in, Greg.”

Greg slid in, a little hunched, holding a binder upside down. His eyes landed on the phone screen, and he froze. “Oh, uh. I wasn’t snooping or anything. But I saw you and that PR lady together. And I have to say – there are vibes.”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Greg.”

“I just mean,” Greg said quickly, coming further into the office, “you’ve been acting like… a monk. Sad monk, not cool monk. And I saw you talking to her. In the hallway.”

Tom shot him a flat look. “And?”

“And,” Greg said, lowering himself into the guest chair, “you should go. On a date. With her. You’re a CEO now. A single CEO in his mid-fifties? That’s, like, a… brand risk. People start writing think pieces about your empty penthouse and your sad bachelor fridge. It’s not… shareholder confidence material.”

Tom huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “Greg. I’m not… a stock price.”

“You kinda are,” Greg said, eyes wide with unfortunate honesty. “You’re, like, human stock. People bet on you. And right now, you’re –” He flapped his hand helplessly. “you’re low volume. And sad. So. Just saying. Dates look good. Dates say, ‘Look, he’s normal, he’s fine, he’s… balanced.’”

Tom stared at him, then looked back at the phone.

Balanced. Sure. That’s what Rae needed, what Shiv demanded, what the board pretended to want from him. Balanced. He tapped the screen once, thumb hovering.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll go.”

Greg broke into an awkward grin. “Yes. Great. Excellent optics.”

“Get out,” Tom said, but without heat.

When the door clicked shut, he typed the words before he could think better of it: Where do you want to meet?

.:.:.

The bar Annabelle chose was quiet in a deliberate way. Booths swallowed sound, the lighting hid them in the shadows. No TVs blaring market updates, no forced noise. Just a low hum that made stillness feel safe. Tom sat opposite her with a gin & tonic. No performance required. Annabelle’s was plain white wine. Her smile soft as if to apologize for asking him to sit still.

“You look like you haven’t done this in a while,” she said, nodding at his glass.

“Sat down?”

“Let your shoulders drop,” she said.

He checked. They had, a little. He smirked. “Put it in the annual report.”

They talked about work without pulling the weight of it onto the table. Annabelle was practiced but not pushy. She knew where the sore spots were and didn’t step on them. She asked about Minnesota winters like they were myths. He asked what PR people read when no one was looking. She said poetry on the subway and fashion magazines at nail salons. He admitted he hadn’t sat through a movie in years without falling asleep. They traded small stories while the drinks worked quietly.

Halfway through her second, she reached over and straightened the corner of his coaster. “Mind if I say something slightly earnest?”

“Only if I can roll my eyes at it.”

Her smile quirked. “You look like you’ve been auditioning for your own life. You don’t have to do that here.”

The words landed heavier than he wanted. He laughed, thin, an escape hatch. “You’re very good at this.”

They didn’t flirt the way he knew from boardrooms and galas, where interest was just another currency. No tests, no scorekeeping. Just conversation that lasted until the staff stacked chairs and dimmed the lights.

Outside, the city air had sharpened. They walked together, slow and unhurried. At a crosswalk she caught his sleeve before he stepped into a bike lane. He barked a laugh.  Her car idled at the end of the street. She turned before getting in. “This was good. We could do… not-briefings again.”

He gave a crooked smile. “Careful. I’ll become a repeat client.”

“We don’t use that word,” she said, eyes warm. “Just… a repeat.”

The flash came without warning. Then another. White bursts echoing off glass across the street, shutters and voices. Mr. Wambsgans, look this way. Annabelle flinched. Tom’s hand moved to her shoulder, instinct before thought. He blocked the angle, shielding her from the lights, from the story they were already trying to write.

“Back up,” he said, not loud but firm.

The cameras clicked anyway. Proximity always reads like a confession. He dropped his hand as Annabelle crouched into the back of the car, the flashes were still going off behind them. 

In the back seat, she winced, then shrugged. “I should have seen that coming. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not –” He stopped, throat tight. “We’ll be fine.”

“Statement?” she asked, slipping back into the professional mode.

“No statement,” he said. “Let it starve.”

She touched his wrist with two fingers, light as punctuation. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Thank you for… not making it a briefing.”

Her smile held. The door shut and the driver pulled away. Tom stood at the curb too long, the flashes still ghosting across his vision, a faint ache in his chest that he didn’t want to name.

.:.:.

The photo landed in her morning clips like a taunt. It wasn’t front-page news, but it still caught her attention. 

WAYSTAR CEO TOM WAMBSGANS SPOTTED WITH “MYSTERY BRUNETTE” AFTER MIDTOWN DRINKS.

The pictures were grainy, but sharp enough where it mattered. His hand was on her shoulder. Her face tilted up and smiling at him. The streetlight turned an ordinary corner into a stage. Another frame caught him laughing, head tipped and unguarded. The caption supplied what the pixels couldn’t.

In D.C., the binder hit Shiv’s desk with the weight of her choices. Top tabs were what mattered, votes, margins, and maps. At the end was a polite slip of color-coded shame: MISC. She flipped the pages. And there it was. Shiv let her eyes do what they always did best, scan for tells. The way Tom held his shoulders when he forgot himself. The way his hand was laid on her shoulder. The way the woman gazed at Tom like he’d brought her the moon. Shiv told herself she’d seen worse. She had.

But then her gaze caught something smaller. His hand. The pale band where the ring had lived was still visible, a faint ghost in the flash. But the ring itself was gone. Her stomach clenched. It was ridiculous, she told herself. There were times she hadn’t worn the damn thing. But Tom… Tom had clung to it. Even when they were at their worst, he’d twisted it around his finger like a nervous tic, as if it anchored him.

Now he’d let it go.

Shiv’s eyes dropped, against her will, to her own hand resting on the desk. The rings were still there. Heavy, unyielding, and mocking her. A relic she’d convinced herself she kept for Rae, or for formality, or because removing it would make the divorce too real. It burned now, like a brand she hadn’t chosen to carry.

Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she ripped them off. The diamonds scraped against her knuckle, harsh and final. She set them down on the desk with more force than necessary, the clink too loud in the quiet. The mark it left behind was deep and red. Her finger held an eternal indent of those rings. She wished she could erase Tom from her skin. He’d gotten in too deep. Even now with the rings off her finger, the carvings would stay. His name was seared into her skin. She pressed her thumb over the empty groove and stared at the photographs again, trying to tell herself the feeling curling under her ribs was anger, not loss.

“Ma’am?” her deputy said from the door. “The Senator’s thirty out.”

Shiv closed the binder. Her face didn’t move. The photo stuck half out of the stack, insistent. She slid it back in, buried with the rest of the evidence. She reached for her pen. The day did not wait for her to stop sulking.

.:.:.

The weekends had become more quiet as Rae had let out most of her initial anger. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t actively plotting on how to get her parents back together. Rae sat at the table near the window, watercolors spread across the glass surface. A small jar of pink rinse water sat by her elbow, brushes fanned out like a bouquet. She was painting roses, each one bold red and beautiful, her tongue poking out slightly as she traced the delicate edges.

Behind her, Shiv’s voice floated from the hallway, threaded with the clipped patience she used when speaking to staffers. “Yes, the draft needs to be in the President’s binder by Monday. No, I don’t care if they – just make it happen.”

Shiv strode into the room still mid-call, a stack of papers tucked under her arm. Without looking, she slid the documents onto the corner of the table. The weight of them thudded against the glass. Rae didn’t need to read the header to know. The divorce papers. The ones that made everything final.

Shiv’s phone buzzed again. She caught it, and turned toward the kitchen. “Give me two minutes,” she said into the receiver, already walking away. Her heels clicked across the hardwood, then softened into silence.

Rae stared at the papers. The pages were crisp, the black type sharp and unyielding. Her brush hovered over the rose she’d been painting. Her stomach twisted. It would be so easy. She reached for the jar of rinse water, pretending to shift it closer to her palette. The brush slipped in a clumsy accident, oops, and the jar tipped forward in a slow, perfect arc. The pink water cascaded over the stack, bleeding across the thick paper in feathery blooms.

Rae gasped, high and startled, just the way she’d practiced in her head. “Oh no!” She snatched a napkin and began blotting furiously as the black letters blurred into smoky clouds.

Shiv’s heels clicked back across the floor. “Rae? What –” Her words stopped when she saw the spreading stain.

“I’m sorry!” Rae said, voice pitched high with panic. “I just – my brush slipped!”

Shiv crouched, hand poised to rescue the papers, then paused. Her Chief of Staff instincts flickered first but her eyes caught the too-careful look on her daughter’s face. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Only the faint drip of pink water cascading on the floor filled the room.

Finally Shiv exhaled, a sound softer than the sharp woman in the hallway a minute ago. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “They’re just papers. Papers can be reprinted.”

Rae kept dabbing at the wet table, her small shoulders tight. “I know,” she whispered.

The pages were soaked through, the ink bleeding in slow gray rivulets across the glass. Any lawyer would tell her to separate them, dry them, call the paralegal for a fresh set. But Shiv didn’t let go, her hands pressed flat against the ruined pages as if holding them there might stop more than just the ink from running.

The city outside the penthouse was a blur of red taillights when Shiv finally stepped onto the terrace, phone in hand. The evening air was cold against her skin. She dialed Tom before she could talk herself out of it.

He picked up on the second ring. “Shiv.” His voice carried that careful, practiced neutrality, the one he used in boardrooms and custody meetings. “Did the courier bring the final papers?”

Shiv leaned against the railing, eyes tracing the sweep of the river. “They did. Briefly.”

“Briefly?” He sounded confused.

“They… had an accident.” Shiv shrugged.

“An accident?”

“Watercolors,” Shiv said, her tone dry. “Pink ones. Someone,” she let the word stretch, “managed to baptize them in a very artistic way.”

On the other end, Tom exhaled a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh. “Rae?”

“Who else?” Shiv said quietly.

The line went still except for the faint hum of Manhattan traffic. Then Tom said, softer than she expected, “Is she okay?”

“She’s… determined,” Shiv admitted. “She claims it was an accident. I didn’t press her.”

Tom gave a small, rueful chuckle. “Our kid. Ten going on Machiavelli.”

“Runs in the family,” Shiv said, as the old rhythm sparked between them, one that was wry, sharp, and oh so familiar.

Tom cleared his throat. “So… we reprint?”

“Yes,” Shiv said, but the word caught slightly. 

Another silence, it was warmer this time. Tom finally said, “Tell her I said hi.”

Shiv let herself smile, small and private in the cold night air. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “Goodnight, Tom.”

“Goodnight, Shiv.”

The call ended, leaving only the river’s dark gleam and the faint, stubborn warmth of a family that refused to dissolve neatly on paper. Shiv slipped her phone into the pocket of her blazer and lingered on the terrace for a beat longer breathing in the crisp air. The methodic breathing always brought her back to mornings blurred by the smell of coffee and nausea. Shiv would wake before dawn with the taste of metal on her tongue, every scent in the apartment too sharp to bear.

Tom was always there first. Somehow he could hear her breathing change even before she stirred. He’d roll out of bed without a word, padding across the hardwood in his socks to fetch the one thing she could stomach that week. Sometimes he brought a cool towel, pressing it gently to the back of her neck while she sat hunched on the bathroom floor dry heaving. On the worst mornings he’d braid her hair, clumsily and unevenly, but carefully, so it wouldn’t fall into her face while she leaned over the toilet. He’d keep up a stream of gentle nonsense, narrating the sunrise or Greg’s terrible date choices until she could laugh through the nausea.

“You’re going to be okay,” he’d whisper against her temple once the worst had passed. “She’s going to be okay. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Shiv could still remember the cool tile under her palms, the smell of Tom’s aftershave, and the quiet steadiness of his hand at the small of her back, holding her up before either of them had any idea what kind of parents they would become.

Inside, the penthouse was hushed except for the faint crackle of the fake fireplace. Rae was still at the table, chin propped on her folded arms, eyelids heavy but stubbornly open. The ruined papers lay where they’d dried into stiff, pink-stained waves, a watercolor battlefield.

“You should get ready for bed,” Shiv said swiftly.

Rae’s eyes flicked up, wary. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Shiv said, crossing the room. She eased a damp sheet free from beneath Rae’s elbow. The ink had blurred into soft gray shadows, the legal words dissolving into meaningless shapes. “Accidents happen.”

Rae sat up a little straighter, searching her mother’s face. “Are you… mad?”

Shiv crouched beside her, smoothing a strand of hair behind Rae’s ear. “I’m not mad.” A breath. “I called your dad. We’re going to… figure it out. But not tonight.”

Something eased in Rae’s shoulders, though she tried to hide it. “Good,” she murmured, eyes falling back to the papers.

Shiv traced a fingertip over the dried pink bloom across the top page. For once, there was no schedule, no staffer waiting, no next call to make. Just her daughter, the faint scent of watercolor, and a stack of ruined documents that bought them both a little more time.

“Come on,” Shiv said, offering her hand. “Let’s clean this all up tomorrow.”

Rae slipped her small hand into hers without a word, and together they left the papers where they lay, the city humming quietly beyond the glass.

.:.:.

The studio smelled of chalked rosin, the familiar scent that usually settled Rae’s nerves. Her friends laughed about something Rae hadn’t heard. Today, her stomach buzzed like it held a secret. She tightened the ribbons of her ballet slippers until the skin around her ankles flushed pink, then rose onto her feet and felt the pull through her calves. It was sharp but somehow steadying. She was deep in thought all through the warm-up until the teacher called for her. 

“Sugar Plum, from the top,” Madame Volkova called, clapping twice.

Rae moved into position, heart pounding. Music swelled from the speakers, bright and sparkling, but her mind flickered back to the night before. She thought of the slow spill of pink water, the way the black letters blurred and disappeared, her mother’s soft voice saying, Not tonight.

She leapt, landing with a precision that drew a small murmur from the teacher. Her arms floated outward, graceful but deliberate, each movement measured like she was proving something only she understood. The other girls giggled between sequences, but Rae kept her eyes on the mirror, watching the determined set of her own face.

When the music ended, she held her final pose a breath longer than necessary. The teacher smiled approvingly. “Beautiful focus, Rae. Very nice.”

Rae only nodded, lowering her arms. Inside, a quiet warmth spread through her chest. Last night had bought her some time, but not forever. Still, in this studio, under the bright lights and the sound of Tchaikovsky, she could hold the balance a little longer. She glanced toward the doorway, half expecting to see her mother’s sharp blue eyes watching from the hall. Instead, the reflection that met her gaze in the mirror was her own, small but unshaken, a Sugar Plum Fairy standing her ground.

.:.:.

Tom stood in front of the mirror with three ties over his arm: navy, black, and a deep green. Karolina had commented that the deep green looked “modern.” He could hear the dishwasher humming, with Rae and Gwendoline talking.

Greg had already texted twice. Are we… calling it a “ball”? Is that gauche??  Karolina once: If you must have fun, do it on brand.  Annabelle’s message had been simple: 8:00 in the lobby? 

He’d typed Looking forward to it and then stared at the words too long, like they were a window he wasn’t sure he should open. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said yes to Annabelle in the first place. She was… fine. Smart, polished, good at parties. She laughed at his jokes. But when she texted him about the gala, he hadn’t thought about her. He’d thought about Shiv.

It hurt to be with Shiv. It hurt worse to be without her. So he said yes to Annabelle, because maybe distraction was better than drowning. He pocketed two ties, left the green behind, and went to the kitchen.

Rae sat at the table, homework spread out with a pencil tucked behind her ear. Gwendoline was at the counter, slicing strawberries with surgical precision.

“Hey, cub,” Tom said, too cheerfully. “Tie consult?”

Rae didn’t bother to look up. “Navy.”

“Excellent leadership,” he said, taking the seat across from her. He laid the ties down between her math and vocabulary sheets. His heart did its familiar pull, the warning before saying something she might not like. He tapped a worksheet edge. “Can I tell you something before you see it somewhere else?”

That got her eyes. Sharp, light brown with almost hints of green. “What screen?”

“Any of them.” He cleared his throat. “There’s a Waystar gala tonight. Fundraising, donors, board people. I’m… taking someone.”

Her mouth tightened. “Mom?”

“No.” He kept his voice gentle. “Annabelle. She works with one of the PR firms. We’ve had a couple of meetings.”

“So a date.”

“Yes,” he said, confessing. “A date.”

Rae put her pencil down slowly, like care could stop the table from sliding out from under her. “Why?”

The answers crowded his chest: because the silence hurts, because laughing with someone else had felt like fresh air, because the waiting for her mother had no end. He swallowed them all.

“It’s a work night,” he said first. Seeing that Rae didn’t buy it, he tried again. “She’s kind. And I thought it was better if you heard it from me than a headline.”

Rae’s chin lifted. “So we’re doing kind now.”

“I think kind is underrated,” Tom said, and for once it sounded true.

Her jaw clenched. “Are you replacing mom?”

The words hit him square. “No. No one replaces your mother.” He pressed his palms to the table, steady. “I’m not making a new family. I’m just going to a party with someone who makes it more fun.”

Her eyes filled, then cleared. “Will there be pictures?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“So mom will see.”

“She might,” he said. “I’ll text her first. She won’t be blindsided.”

Rae stared at her homework, betrayed. “I don’t want to meet her.”

“You don’t have to,” Tom promised. “Not now. Not soon. Only when you want.”

“I don’t want her here.”

“She won’t come here,” he said, and knew it was the only right promise.

“And don’t be different,” she burst out, suddenly. “No weird jokes. Don’t say ‘vibes.’”

“I will never say ‘vibes,’” Tom said solemnly. “And my jokes are already terrible. You’re safe.”

That tugged a thin smile from her. It vanished just as quick. “What if you like her?” she asked.

“I do like her,” he said carefully. “But that doesn’t change how much I love you. Those things don’t take turns.”

Rae’s voice was small. “It feels like they do.”

Tom agreed softly. “I’m sorry.”

They sat in the hum of the dishwasher. He could see the shape of the night ahead, cameras, drinks, handshakes, and the morning after.

“Will you be late?” Rae asked.

“I’ll come home,” he said. “Maybe after midnight.”

Her eyes flicked to his hand, to the missing ring. “What if mom thinks you don’t love her anymore?”

He let the ache open. “I can’t control what she thinks. I can only be decent. I loved your mom for a long time. I probably always will, in some shape. That doesn’t change tonight.”

Rae gave the smallest nod. “Okay.” She slid her worksheet back in front of her, pencil steady. “Navy,” she repeated.

“Navy it is.” He stood, smoothing the table with his palms. “I’ll text you Good Night.”

“Don’t send me pictures,” she said.

“I won’t.”

He made it to the hallway before she added, quiet as a dare: “Don’t let them take one that looks like you’re happy.”

The words landed heavy. “I’ll do my best,” he said. It sounded thin. 

Upstairs, he tied the navy knot. Before the car, he sent a message to Shiv: Waystar gala tonight. I’m bringing a date. Just so you know.

He waited for dots that appeared, vanished, and then nothing. In the elevator, the mirror showed him neat, squared, and ready to go. He looked decent for a man on the throes of divorce. 

.:.:.

Rae sat cross-legged on her bed, the blue glow of her phone lighting her face. Lion lay in her lap, his button eye staring up at her like he was waiting for her to make the call. Her thumbs hovered over the screen.

Mom!! Dad’s bringing a woman to a party. Her name’s Annabelle. She must be awful. Stop him!!

She read it three times, heart thumping. If she sent it, mom would know. Mom would get mad. Maybe even jealous. Maybe she’d swoop back into New York and remind dad who he really loved.

Rae’s finger trembled over the send button. But then she thought about her mom’s face from the last weekend, tired and drawn under perfect makeup, phone buzzing every five seconds. If she sent the text, mom might think she was just being dramatic. Her throat tightened. She deleted the message word by word, and watched the screen go blank.

She tossed the phone aside and flopped backward on the bed, lion clutched to her chest. The ceiling loomed, gray in the dark. If she wanted this fixed, she couldn’t count on mom swooping in. Not yet. She’d have to figure out Annabelle on her own.

.:.:.

The ballroom glittered the way they all did. With white lights strung across the ceiling like constellations, champagne glasses flashing under chandeliers, too many people laughing too loudly, and the string quartet played some slow recognizable hits no one bothered to listen to. Tom adjusted his cufflinks for the third time, his smile tight, his chest aching with the effort of performing.

At the photowall, a photographer called his name. Annabelle’s hand slid lightly into the crook of his arm. Her dress was simple but beautiful. And when she smiled, it was at him, not at the cameras. She knew how to glide through conversations, how to drop the right names with just enough sparkle. Every time she leaned toward him with a laugh, people nodded approvingly. CEO Tom Wambsgans, successful, well-matched, and moving on.

It should have been fine. But every time her hand brushed his sleeve, he thought of Shiv. The way Shiv never hovered politely, never softened herself for a room. She would’ve stood at his side with a drink in hand, her laugh sharper, her gaze daring anyone to look at her the wrong way. She was the storm that people adjusted themselves around. Annabelle was like a calm sea. Smooth. Predictable.

Karolina appeared with a tablet to their table. “B-table in eight minutes. Don’t let Matsson touch a microphone.” She scanned Annabelle in a single sweep, “Good evening,” and moved on.

Annabelle’s hand gave his arm a small squeeze. “B-table,” she said, steering without tugging.

He was feeling nervous. The huge events always did their trick on him. Having someone at his side made it easier not to overthink it.

At the table, he said the lines that made board members laugh and donors relax. When he blanked on a name, Annabelle murmured “Marjorie” and it worked. 

They circled the floor. Annabelle fed him bios in whispers: “She saved a library.” “He hates synergy.” “She’ll ask about your dog.” He felt… steadied. Like someone finally had his back. He studied her profile as she turned back to the crowd, her brown eyes lighting up when someone recognized her. She liked being here, liked being seen with him. And she liked him.

On the edge of the dance floor, Annabelle tilted her head. “Do you dance?”

“I like to call it swaying.” Tom chuckled.

“Well then, will you sway with me?” So they swayed. There seemed to be no agenda, no hidden trapdoors with her.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured from his arms.

“I’ve had practice faking it.” Tom shied away from her gaze.

“Maybe you can stop faking.” Annabelle said, her eyes sparkling.

The song ended before the moment had to deepen. They separated easily. 

He excused himself for air, stepping out onto the balcony, the city spread below him in all its relentless noise. He leaned against the railing, his jaw aching from forced smiles. He should’ve been grateful. Annabelle was kind and uncomplicated. Exactly what people told him he needed. But all he could think about was how her laugh didn’t bite, how her presence didn’t spark that sharp, unbearable longing in his chest. He pulled his phone out, thumb hovering over Shiv’s contact. He wanted to text her something ridiculous, something petty about the party, the way he always used to. He wanted her eye roll in reply, the little smirk she tried to hide. Instead, he slid the phone back into his pocket, swallowing the ache.

Inside, Annabelle waved at him through the glass before coming out. They stopped to take in the view of the sparkling city lights. Annabelle leaned up, lips brushing his ear as she murmured, “You’re the most interesting man in this room.”

Tom smiled, polite but tight, and nodded. It was the kind of line Shiv would have mocked mercilessly, or said to toy with him, but Annabelle meant it sincerely.

“I know what you’re doing,” Tom said. “Hanging on every word. Not making me the punchline.”

“I like your words,” Annabelle said simply. “And you don’t look like the punchline. You look like the man who lets someone else get the laugh so the room doesn’t burn.”

He turned to the park so he didn’t have to face the part of him that wanted to stand still in that sentence. “Sometimes that’s the job.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t have to be.” 

And for a man who had been a punchline even in rooms he paid for, ease he felt with her was more like a win. Maybe this was how it was supposed to work. You didn’t always get the right person. You got the next best thing. Someone who wanted you. Someone who stayed. Because wasn’t this what normal couples did? They went to events, smiled politely, said the right things, and left home together. They didn’t claw at each other, didn’t orbit like planets on the brink of collision. They didn’t leave you raw, exposed or aching.

He repeated it in his head like a prayer, forcing the thought into shape: Annabelle is good for me. Annabelle is safe. Annabelle could be enough.

When she touched his hand, he held hers a beat longer than necessary, letting himself believe it before they kissed.

Chapter Text

The photos were in her morning clippings again, this time with a bigger and even shinier headline. 

WAYSTAR CEO STEPS OUT WITH PR CONSULTANT.

Looks like there’s a new queen bee buzzing around Waystar Royco. CEO Tom Wambsgans, almost free of his Roy-family ball and chain, was spotted Thursday night getting very comfortable with pretty PR brunette Annabelle Cortland at the Waystar gala.

“They weren’t exactly hiding,” one attendee dished. “It wasn’t just boardroom talk. He was leaning in, laughing at everything she said – and she had her hand on his arm the whole time.”

The pair toasted with champagne well past midnight before leaving together through the side entrance. “It looked more like date night than business,” another source added.

And where was Shiv Roy, the ex-Mrs. Wambsgans? According to insiders, she was in D.C., busy playing power broker for the President. “Classic Shiv,” a society observer sniffed. “She’s always ten steps ahead politically, but maybe three steps behind personally. Tom looks like he’s finally figured that out.”

Ouch.

The camera had caught Tom mid-laugh, Annabelle’s hand on his arm, their posture close enough to look easy. Shiv flipped the page, where the pictures from the gala continued, then flipped it back. Jealousy was a feeling she didn’t like admitting she had, but it coiled within her while she looked at the pictures. She pressed the clipping flat on the desk with one hand, as if she could crush it into silence.

At the same time, her phone lit up. It was Matsson. She almost couldn’t be bothered to answer. She could already hear the mocking tone that would be waiting for her on the other side of the line. But she did, because ignoring him was never free.

“Morning, Shiv,” Lukas drawled. “Did you see how much fun we had last night?”

Her silence was the pause he wanted.

“Tall guy, bad tie, worse posture,” he went on as he surveyed the pictures. “He looked… what’s the word? Relieved. Like someone who remembered how to have fun.” He let the sentence dangle as a bait. “Shame it wasn’t with you.”

Shiv leaned back in her chair, the photo still on her desk. “Do you call all your shareholders to do tabloid recaps?”

“Only the fun ones.” He laughed, loose and sharp. “Relax, it’s good optics. CEO looks like he’s getting laid? Stock goes up. Keeps the sharks guessing. Who’s in charge – the man, or the woman next to him?”

Her chest got tighter with anger. Then Lukas’ tone shifted, meaner, even more personal. “If you want to even the score… you know, I could help with that. Give Tommy boy something to really worry about. I’m in town next week. We can eat dinner. Or each other.” 

The laugh was small and mean. 

Shiv’s mouth curled, half disgust, half disbelief. “Wow. That’s your offer? Real creative, Lukas.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, grinning. “But imagine the look on his face. We could fuck on his desk.”

“No,” Shiv cut in, flat. “Not happening.”

He sighed, exaggerated, like a child denied a toy. “Disappointing. Would’ve been fun.”

Shiv let out a slow breath, sharp and steady. “Appreciate the market analysis, Lukas. Next time, send a memo.” She ended the call before he could get another word in.

The binder lay open, Tom’s photo still sitting there like a dare. She smoothed the page flat with her palm, then closed it, pressing hard on the cover as if she could bury the feeling with the paper. It didn’t work.

.:.:.

The apartment smelled faintly of takeout lo mein when Rae trudged in, Gwendoline behind her with the ballet bag slung over one elegant shoulder. Tom was at the dining table, setting the table with the take-out. He looked up, ready with a “Hey, cub –” but the words died when he saw her. Rae didn’t bounce. She didn’t even drag her feet with her usual dramatic flair. She just dropped her bag with a thud, kicked off her ballet flats, and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette with cut strings.

Tom peeked over the back of the couch at Rae. “That bad?”

“Not bad,” Rae mumbled into a cushion. “Just… everything hurts.”

Gwendoline gave a small shrug. “They are running the Sugar Plum Pas De Deux again and again. Too much effort for little feet.”

Tom frowned, glancing at Rae. “You’re supposed to be the fairy, not a demolition project.”

Rae rolled onto her back, hair spilling everywhere, her eyes glazed. “I don’t wanna quit. I just wanna… sleep until like January.”

He sat on the edge of the couch, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. “You know you don’t have to break yourself in half to do this, right? You’re already…” He hesitated, his throat thick. “You’re already amazing.”

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t say anything, just tucked a pillow closer to herself. From the kitchen, Gwendoline cleared her throat gently. “Monsieur, Thanksgiving is next week. Rae should rest more, and eat well. No skipping meals during the holidays.”

Tom gave her a grateful look. “Noted.”

But later, as he tucked a blanket over Rae and listened to her breathing even out, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at him. Thanksgiving was coming, with its careful calendar, its splitting of time and space between him and Shiv. Rae was straining herself thin, ballet pulling at her, family pulling at her harder.

Tom smoothed her hair back, his chest aching with pride and fear all tangled together. He wondered how much more she could carry before something broke.

Walking back to their living room, Tom sat on the edge of the couch Rae had vacated hours ago, city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The papers on the coffee table were still pink-stained from Rae’s “accident,” a small reminder of how messy everything had become. He stared at his phone for a long minute before finally scrolling to Mom and pressing call.

It rang once.

“Tommy,” Margaret answered, brisk but warm, her Midwestern vowels cutting clean through the static. “You don’t call at this hour unless something’s wrong.”

Tom rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Something’s… wrong. Shiv and I – we’re moving forward with the divorce.”

A beat of silence. “I see,” Margaret said, voice steady. “Is this what you want?”

Tom let out a short, humorless laugh. “Define want. I filed because I thought she might. She filed because she thought I might. And now it’s like… momentum. Lawyers and schedules. Poor Rae caught in the middle.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” The sympathy in her voice was soft but never pitying. “Do you have counsel yet?”

“That’s the thing.” Tom leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I tried. Shiv… pre-engaged every top firm in Manhattan. Classic Roy move.”

Margaret’s chuckle was low and knowing. “Never trick someone if you aren’t willing to have it used on you. She’s a smart woman.”

“She’s a brilliant woman,” Tom said, the words heavier than he intended. “And I hate her for it. And I… don’t.”

Margaret shifted into her attorney cadence, calm and precise. “Then here’s what you do. Stop chasing prestige firms. You need someone conflict-free and ruthless, not famous. Staten Island, Brooklyn, even Jersey. I can make calls.”

Tom exhaled, the knot in his chest easing slightly. “Thanks, mom.”

“And Tom,” she added, her voice softening, “remember the paper is just paper. Protect your relationship with Rae. That’s the real case to win.”

Tom swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know.”

“I mean it,” Margaret said gently. “Assets can be divided. Custody can be scheduled. But a little girl only gets one father who shows up.”

For the first time all evening, Tom felt the faint warmth of solid ground. “Thanks, mom. Really.”

A beat of silence, then Margaret’s tone shifted, lower and more deliberate. “Tommy… while we’re talking. I saw those pictures.”

Tom froze. “Pictures?”

“In the Post… and everywhere else. You and that young woman. Annabelle, isn’t it? Leaving some Waystar party.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s nothing. She’s – just a date. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Margaret’s voice carried a lawyer’s precision and a mother’s disappointment. “You’re still married on paper. And you have a daughter watching all of this play out in the media. Optics matter, legally and otherwise.”

“I know,” Tom said quickly. “It’s not serious. I just – needed to breathe.”

Margaret let the silence stretch, then spoke with quiet firmness. “Breathe all you want. But don’t confuse distraction for healing. And don’t give Shiv or the tabloids ammunition to question your priorities as a father.”

Tom rubbed a hand over his face. “I hear you.”

“Good,” she said, her voice softening again. “Protect your relationship with Rae.”

“Yeah,” he said, the knot in his chest tightening and easing all at once. “Yeah, I know.”

“Then start acting like it,” Margaret said gently. “And let me help with the lawyer hunt.”

When the call ended, Tom sat in the quiet, the city’s glow reflected in the window like a thousand unanswered questions. But his mother’s voice lingered, steady and grounding. He set the phone on the coffee table beside the warped stack of pink-stained papers. Paper could be reprinted. Lawyers could be replaced. Rae couldn’t.

.:.:.

Rae sat at the long dining room table, lion propped beside her like an ally on duty. The table was set too neatly with fancy cloth napkins, their prettiest wine glasses, and a vase of fifty roses. It all screamed try hard. And it was all just because Annabelle was coming over. To their house. Rae scowled at the vase. She wanted to push it off the table. Gwendoline had gone all French with the menu: roast chicken, green beans, and a tart.

Tom bustled around the kitchen, sleeves rolled, his voice too chipper. “You’re gonna like her, cub. She’s… she’s nice. Smart and funny.”

“I’m funny,” Rae muttered. “And smart.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder, half exasperated, half pleading reminder. “Just give her a chance, okay? Act properly.” 

Because Tom could still remember her at two and a half, in her daycare classroom. He’d arrived early for a pickup, slipping in just in time to see chaos unfold when another toddler had taken her precious toy lion. Rae had marched up, hands on hips like a miniature Shiv, and when diplomacy had failed, she leaned forward and bit the kid right on the arm. The chaos that followed was enough to bring the teacher running. Tom had frozen in the doorway, horrified, torn between scooping his daughter up and running, or pretending that the feral thing belonged to someone else.

“She’s spirited,” the frazzled teacher had said, trying to pry Rae off the wailing child.

“Spirited?!” Tom had choked, juggling apologies and forms while Rae clung to him with zero remorse, sticking out her tongue at the crying kid. On the car home, she’d hummed to herself, perfectly content, still clutching the rescued lion. Later, when Shiv came home, Tom had told her the story in exhausted disbelief. She’d smirked, poured herself a drink, and said, “Well, at least she’s decisive.”

Now, standing in the dining room, Tom wiped suddenly damp palms on his trousers. Annabelle was lovely. He prayed that Rae had grown out of her feral streak and would be reasonable enough to act civilized. God help him if she hadn’t.

The doorbell rang. Tom smoothed his shirt, inhaled too deeply, and opened the door. Annabelle stepped in with a bright smile, her heels clicking against the wood. She hugged Tom friendly and handed a bottle of wine to Gwendoline. Gwendoline accepted the bottle with professional grace and a smile that said: I am not the test. “Bienvenue,” she said instead, and disappeared toward the kitchen.

Annabelle turned toward Rae with the kind of enthusiasm adults save for puppies and children. “You must be Rae!” Annabelle beamed, crouching slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Rae stared at her unimpressed. “You have nice shoes,” she said flatly. Rae hovered by the table. She’d put on one of her Miu Miu dresses and a face that wasn’t hers.

Annabelle blinked, then laughed like it was charming. “Thank you! You’re so observant.”

“Rae,” Tom said, gently, trying his best to make Rae engage. “This is Annabelle.”

“Annabelle,” Rae repeated, precisely. “From PR?”

“Guilty,” Annabelle said, not too soft. “Thank you for letting me come to your home.”

Rae’s chin lifted a degree to Shiv’s usual angle. “We’ll see.”

They sat. Gwendoline poured them water and the adults some wine before sneaking to her own quarters. Tom tried small talk that would crack the ice between the women: “Was traffic bad?”

“Just the usual,” Annabelle said, smiling at him awkwardly.

Rae pressed her napkin into a perfect square into her lap. “So,” she said, voice cool. “Do you do crisis or brand?”

Annabelle blinked, then smiled. “Both. Mostly I try to get people to say what they mean before someone else says it for them.”

“Do you do… romance?” Rae asked, like she was tasting a lemon.

Tom coughed. “Rae.”

“It’s okay,” Annabelle said, turning slightly toward Rae without turning away from Tom. “No. I don’t do romance. I do calendars and punchlines.”

Rae didn’t soften. “How long are you planning to be nice?”

“Forever, if I can,” Annabelle said, easy. “I don’t always do it well. But I try not to be brave at other people’s expense.”

Tom felt his palms dampen under the table. The cadence in Rae’s speech was all Shiv.

“Green beans?” he offered. But didn’t wait for the answers and put them on everyone’s plate anyway.

Rae speared one and returned to the cross-examination. “Do you think ‘legacy media’ is a slur?”

“I think it’s lazy to always hide behind a legacy when something goes wrong,” Annabelle said. 

“Do you like my dad’s job?”

“I like your dad,” Annabelle said. “His job is… complicated.”

Rae’s mouth made a little line that said correct, continue.

“Chicken?” Tom asked, dropping a thigh on Rae’s plate before she could politicize poultry. 

“Are you here to manage my father?” Rae gave the tiniest blink.

Tom opened his mouth. Annabelle got there first. “No,” she said. “I’m here to have dinner with you.”

“He’s bad at being managed,” Rae said.

“I noticed,” Annabelle said, light as air. “He’s good at being listened to.”

Tom felt a nervous laugh get halfway up his chest.

Rae cut a piece of chicken like it had offended her. “Are you going to hurt him?”

“I will try very hard not to,” she said. “I can’t promise to be perfect. Grown-ups hurt each other when they don’t mean to. But I won’t do it for sport. And I won’t make him a punchline.”

Rae stared. The silence was filled with faraway refrigerator hum and Tom’s utensils scraping against the porcelain. Dessert was worse. Annabelle asked Rae about school, ballet, tennis, nodding earnestly at every answer like it was the most exciting thing she’d heard all week. Tom’s gaze darted nervously between them. Annabelle laughed at every single one of his jokes like he was the funniest man alive. Rae stabbed her tart. Hard. Tom looked almost hopeful. Annabelle touched his hand across the table, and he didn’t move it away. Rae’s stomach burned.

When Annabelle stood to leave, she didn’t offer a hand like a treaty. She said, “Thank you for the questions. I hope we’ll get to spend more time together, Rae.”

Rae bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile. “Me too.”

But inside, her mind was already racing. If Annabelle thought she was moving in on her family, she had no idea who she was dealing with.

When the door closed behind Annabelle, Tom stood in the entryway for a beat, listening to the fading click of her heels in the hall. He exhaled, long and shaky, then pressed his palm against the door as if to ground himself. Dinner hadn’t been… too bad. Annabelle had smiled, laughed at his jokes, and complimented the food. She’d been gracious with Rae, patient even when Rae gave her the grilling of a lifetime. Behind him, Rae sighed loudly while rolling her eyes.

“Okay,” he said softly. “How did that feel?”

Rae pushed a curl behind her ear with more force than necessary. “She’s not mom.”

“She isn’t. She’s not trying to be. And neither should you.” He said, calling Rae’s act out. 

Rae’s mouth wobbled but she didn’t defend her imitation of Shiv. “I don’t want her here again.”

“Okay,” Tom closed his eyes, his smile faltering. “She won’t be here, at least for a while.”

“And no… pictures.” She thought about the yucky pictures she’d seen in the magazine.

“No pictures,” he said. “If I can help it.”

“I’m still mad,” she said with a small voice, stomping down the hallway towards her room.

“I know,” Tom called after her. “You can be.”

.:.:.

The new penthouse hadn’t yet collected the warmth of a lived-in space. But even filled with shopping bags and endless heaps of Shiv’s shoes, it didn’t quite feel like home yet. Rae was sprawled on the green velvet sofa. The TV was on but muted, some movie flickering over her face. Normally she’d chatter about school or make pointed suggestions about where they should order dinner, but tonight, she was quiet. Too quiet.

Shiv set down her wine glass and moved closer, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Alright, Rae. Out with it.”

Rae blinked at her from behind her iPad. “Out with what?”

“You’ve been sulking since you got here,” Shiv said gently, “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

Rae shifted, clutching a cushion tighter against her. For a blink, she seemed ready to deny it, then her lips pressed together in a thin line behind her iPad. “It’s dad,” she muttered.

Shiv’s chest tightened. “What about him?”

“He’s… dating.” Rae spat the word like it tasted bad. She glanced up, eyes glinting. “Her name’s Annabelle. She came to dinner. At our house.”

Shiv stilled. The words landed like a slap. She forced her face neutral, her tone calm. “I see.”

“She’s not you,” Rae said fiercely, sitting up now. “She laughed at his jokes and touched his hand like – like she owned him. And dad just sat there, smiling like it was fine.” Her cheeks flushed with anger. “It’s not okay!”

Shiv swallowed, her throat tight. She wanted to laugh it off, to tell Rae it was nothing, but the thought of some woman at their table sparked a hot, unfamiliar ache in her chest. She smoothed Rae’s hair again, her voice softer, trying her best to be reassuring. “I know it feels strange. I know it hurts. But whatever happens, you still have both of us. That doesn’t change.”

Rae’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like it either. I can tell.”

Shiv froze, then forced a small smile. “I don’t like seeing you upset.”

Rae didn’t look convinced. She sank back into the cushions with her iPad, squinting her eyes in suspicion. Shiv turned away, lifting her wine glass again, but her hand trembled as she brought it to her lips.

Annabelle.

The name echoed in her head long after Rae had curled into sleep in her room with her well-loved lion, her breathing slow and even. Shiv sat on the edge of her own bed, laptop open but forgotten, her phone heavy in her hand.

Annabelle.

The name stuck like a thorn. Pretty, patient, laughed at Tom’s jokes. Touched his hand across the table. Shiv set her jaw, staring out at the glittering skyline. It wasn’t about the other woman, not really. It was about the fact that Tom had brought her into their home and sat her at the table across from Rae. Without a word to Shiv. Without a conversation about whether their daughter was ready to meet his date. That wasn’t just careless. That was reckless.

She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. They had promised each other, when this separation began, that Rae would come first. Whatever happened between them, they’d keep her shielded. Protected. And now Tom was playing house with some PR woman like it was nothing. Her throat tightened. Rae had carried it here, in her sulking, in her fierce little confession. And Shiv wasn’t sure which stung more. That Tom hadn’t told her first. Or that she couldn’t stand the idea of another woman smiling at him across their dinner table, she had chosen.

Her thumb hovered over her phone screen, tempted to text him. What the fuck do you think you’re doing parading some woman in front of Rae?

But she didn’t. That was the old her. Shiv dropped the phone onto the nightstand, rubbed her temples, and lay back against the pillows. Her mind wouldn’t let go. Tom should have known better. He should have known this wasn’t how they handled Rae. He should have talked to her first. And now Shiv Roy lay awake in her penthouse bed, jealousy gnawing at her ribs, whispering a truth she didn’t want to name: she wasn’t ready to watch Tom belong to anyone else.

Instead of sleep, she reached for her laptop, flicked it open, and typed with clipped precision. Annabelle Cortland, PR, New York.

Pages of glossy headshots and LinkedIn profiles filled the screen. Polished smiles, manicured bios, bullet points about “strategic communications” and “brand storytelling.” Shiv’s eyes narrowed. She scrolled, scanning, clicking. A string of charity gala appearances, another with a quote about “authenticity in leadership.”

God she was annoying.

Shiv’s lip curled. The type was familiar. She was polished, eager, exactly the kind of woman who saw Tom as a prize, the kind who mistook his politeness for availability. She shut the laptop, the click sharp in the quiet room. Fine. If Tom wanted to play at moving on, he could. She switched off the lamp, sliding under the sheets again. The city lights pulsed against the window, restless and daring.

.:.:.

Rae thought the fancy apartment still smelled faintly of her grandfather Logan Roy, even though he’d been gone almost eleven years. The scent was leather and something sharper Rae couldn’t name, like expensive aftershave baked into the wood. She wrinkled her nose as she followed her mom inside.

Uncle Connor had gone all out. The dining table was dressed in white linen with too many forks, the kind of setup Rae was used to with Connor. He was fussy about his dinners, almost too much so. A roasted turkey sat in the middle, glossy and massive, flanked by dishes that looked too pretty to eat. Willa fluttered around, lighting candles, smiling in a way that reminded Rae of someone hosting strangers, not family.

“Rae!” Connor boomed when he saw her, arms wide like she was a soldier returning home. He gave her a hug that smelled of cologne and wine. “The Sugar Plum Fairy herself.”

Rae flushed, suddenly shy. “Hi, Uncle Con.”

Roman was already at the table, spinning his knife between his fingers like it might decide the outcome of dinner. He gave Rae a lopsided grin. “Well, if it isn’t the redheaded heir to the family empire of passive-aggressive holiday meals. Congrats, shrimp. Sugar Plum Fairy, huh? You gonna, what, sugar-coat us all into happiness?”

Shiv shot him a look that could’ve snapped glass, but Rae just smirked. “Better a fairy than being a rat.”

Roman barked a laugh, quick and sharp, then went back to demolishing the bread rolls.

At the far end of the room, Rava was saying hi with Sophie and Iverson. Rae liked Sophie. She was much older, but kind enough to explain things without acting like Rae was stupid. Iverson mostly kept to himself, earbuds on even now. But he had connections, and he liked to keep Rae updated on WhatsApp. Rava looked tired, the kind of tired Rae’s mom wore after D.C., like her bones had to hold up the world. Unfortunately they didn’t stay for dinner, because they were needed with Rava’s family. Rae could have used her cousin's company. 

Dinner started stiffly. Connor carved the turkey with an air of ceremony, enjoying his place as the head of the family. Willa beamed like this was a magazine spread, and Roman immediately made a joke about stuffing that made Connor sigh and Shiv kick him under the table. The seat on her left was vacant in the absence of her dad. Rae wished he was here. 

Rae poked at her mashed potatoes, watching the grown-ups play their roles. It was weird. They were all supposed to be family, but it felt more like a stage play where everyone had forgotten their lines, or secretly were mortal enemies. Connor kept talking about “the importance of tradition,” Willa kept agreeing, and Roman kept finding new ways to say “bullshit” without using the word. Shiv stayed mostly quiet, sipping her wine.

Rae felt the weight of her mom beside her, Shiv’s hand brushing her shoulder, Shiv asking if she wanted more turkey, but her chest still ached. This wasn’t how Thanksgiving was supposed to be. This was supposed to be about family, and her dad wasn’t here.

Rae glanced at Willa, who caught her eye and rolled hers in Roman’s direction. Rae stifled a laugh. At least she wasn’t the only one who thought this whole thing was ridiculous.

When the pumpkin pie came, Connor proudly declared it homemade. Rae leaned back in her chair, full and restless. The adults were sliding into politics now, voices rising, words like “policy” and “legacy” and “optics”. The conversation was always about to get heated when someone mentioned “Waystar”. Rae had started pushing the whipped cream around her plate into shapes when Roman’s voice cut sharper than usual.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes glinting. “How’s the whole divorce thing going, Shiv? Smooth sailing? Signed, sealed, emotionally repressed?”

Shiv’s fork froze mid-air. “Really, Roman? You want to talk about this? Now?”

“What?” He lifted his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just curious. You dump Saint Tom, golden retriever of the century, and what – you think the family newsletter isn’t gonna cover it?”

Connor muttered something about keeping it civil for the holidays, but Roman was picking up speed. 

“You know what’s funny?” Roman went on, knife tapping against his glass in a steady, awful rhythm. “Ken dies like, what, ten minutes after you hand Tommy-boy the keys to the kingdom. Drowns himself in the goddamn Hudson because big brother can’t hack it without a throne. And now here you are –” he made a wide gesture, fork nearly skewering the pie, “chucking the marriage too. What was it all for, huh? Ken’s big swan dive for nothing?”

The table went silent as their eyes turned from Roman to the empty seat on his right side. Even Connor stopped chewing. Shiv’s face didn’t move, but Rae could see her mom’s hand tightening around the stem of her wine glass. Her teeth were gritted, a muscle twitching at her temple.

Rae’s stomach lurched. She hated when people said Kendall’s name like that. Uncle Ken hadn’t just been a headline. She had heard many wonderful stories about her dead uncle from her mom, from Sophie and Iverson. Rae knew he had his problems, but there was no excuse for Roman to speak about his big brother like that.

“Careful,” Shiv said finally, her voice low enough to slice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Roman gave a tight little smile. “Don’t I?”

Shiv snapped, louder now. “You don’t. And if you did, you’d shut your fucking mouth in front of my daughter.”

The words cracked like glass. Rae flinched. Roman leaned back, still smirking, but something ugly flickered in his eyes. He twirled his knife between his fingers like it was just another prop.

“Relax, Shiv,” he drawled. “I’m not saying you drowned him with your bare hands. I’m just saying – funny timing, right? Ken hands you his loyalty, you hand Tom the CEO crown, Ken croaks, then what? You decide to torch the marriage too? Circle of life. Hakuna matata.”

Connor muttered, “Jesus, Roman,” while Willa hissed, “Not now.” But it was too late. The words were out, venom curling in the air.

Shiv’s face went still, the way it did when she was holding herself together by a thread. Her nails pressed half-moons into her palm under the table. She could feel everyone watching, waiting for her to snap, to haul Roman to the floor like she did as a kid. But her voice came out level, almost icy. “You think you’re being clever,” she said, eyes locked on him. “But all you are is cruel.”

Roman tilted his head, the smirk twitching but not dying. He couldn’t let it go. “Cruel is the family trade.”

“No,” Shiv shot back, sharper now. “Cruel is what broke us. It killed Ken. And if you can sit there and make a joke out of that in front of a kid –” she flicked her eyes toward Rae, who was pale and silent. “Then maybe you should think about who’s actually repeating history.”

For once, Roman didn’t have a quick comeback. His mouth opened, shut again, eyes darting away. He stabbed a piece of pie instead, chewing like the silence was his punishment. The whole table was frozen. Even the candles seemed to lean into the quiet.

Rae pressed her lips together so tightly they hurt. She wanted to scream at Roman, to defend her mom, but something in Shiv’s expression stopped her. Her mom looked… brittle. Like one wrong word could shatter her. Finally, mom pushed back her chair. The scrape of wood on marble was deafening.

“Dinner’s over,” she said, voice low but final. She stood, smoothing her dress with shaking hands, and laid one hand briefly on Rae’s shoulder. Just enough for Rae to feel the tremor in her touch.

Rae didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She just stared at her pie while her mother walked away, her chest filling with something that was part anger and part determination.

Shiv shut the bathroom door behind her harder than she meant to. The echo rattled the frame, rattled her ribs. She pressed her back against it, breath shallow. Roman’s words wouldn’t stop replaying.

Funny timing, right? Ken hands you his loyalty, croaks… then you torch the marriage too?

Her stomach twisted. Ken hadn’t drowned because she voted Tom into the CEO chair, not exactly. But hadn’t she still chosen one over the other? Hadn’t she tilted the scales between Ken and Tom? She’d thought she was securing her future, her child’s future and Tom’s. But she had underestimated how brittle, hollowed out, and standing too close to the edge Kendall had been. And she hadn’t pulled him back from the edge. She’d watched him fall. And now here she was, letting Tom slip away too.

Her hand shook as she pulled off her gaudy ruby earrings, one by one, tossing them into her clutch. She caught her reflection in the mirror, eyes sharp, mouth a hard line, but her shoulders sagged. Tom. She hated herself for thinking his name at all. But the thought was there, like it always was when her guard broke.

Roman was wrong about one thing. Tom hadn’t been some golden retriever she could throw scraps to. Not anymore. With that vote, he’d stopped begging, stopped bending. He looked at her now with hurt in his eyes and steel in his spine, and God, it killed her how much she wanted him like that. Strong. Her equal. And she’d walked out anyway. 

She pressed her fingers against her temples, fighting the burn behind her eyes. She couldn’t lose them both. The image of Rae’s small face at the table, lips pressed together, eyes darting between them cut deepest. Shiv had sworn she wouldn’t become her mother, too absent, too careless. But wasn’t she doing the same thing Caroline had? Choosing ambition, choosing work, choosing anything over the people who needed her most?

Shiv sat heavily on the toilet seat, elbows on her knees, pressing her hands to her mouth. She thought of Kendall’s last voicemail, the one she never deleted, his voice blurred with static but urgent, insistent that he was still here, still fighting. And she thought of Tom, steadying Rae when she faltered, making pancakes like it was a lifeline, laughing in a way that had once been only hers to summon. The guilt and the longing braided together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

She bent forward, sob racking through her chest, muffled in her palms. Because maybe Roman was right. Maybe she was repeating history by breaking the things she was supposed to protect. And maybe, just maybe, there was still enough time to stop it.

Roman’s last words still hung in the air, brittle and mean, and the scrape of silverware over china felt like nails on glass. Rae slid off her chair as quietly as she could, eyes darting toward the hallway where her mother had disappeared. The door to the powder room had closed with a soft but unmistakable click. Before she could reach it through the never-ending drawing rooms, Connor grabbed her hand. “Hey, Peanut.” His voice was gentle, but his hand rested firmly on her shoulder. “Let’s give your mom a minute, okay?”

Rae blinked hard, trying not to cry. “Uncle Roman was so… mean.”

Connor crouched so they were eye to eye, his sweater bunching up as he balanced on his haunches. “Yeah. He can be like that sometimes. Doesn’t mean it’s about you – or even really about your mom. Roman’s… complicated.”

Rae’s lip trembled. “Why do they all fight so much? And… why don’t we ever get to see Sophie and Iverson more?”

Connor’s expression softened, the corners of his eyes folding in something like sadness. “That’s a good question.” He glanced back toward the dining room, where Willa was distracting Roman with polite small talk, then lowered his voice. “It’s not fair. Your grandfather, Logan, he had these old, broken ideas about family. He thought that because Sophie and Iverson weren’t… well, they weren’t biologically born from Kendall’s blood, they didn’t count as Roys. He didn’t see them as a part of our family. He was wrong, but when Logan decided something, the rest of the family usually went along, even when they knew it was wrong.”

Rae’s brows knit together. “So… how’s that got to do with mom not voting for uncle Ken? Because… she had me?”

Connor exhaled, slow and careful. “Part of it, yeah. When the vote came, your mom chose your dad, because well, he’s your father and because of the old sibling rivalries, she couldn’t just let Kendall win… And well, now you’re the only grandchild who’s a Roy by blood. The only one Grandpa Logan would have called an heir.”

Rae stared at the patterned carpet, her small fingers twisting together. “That’s… really stupid.”

“It is,” Connor said softly. “Family isn’t just blood. Sophie and Iverson are as much family as anyone. Your mom knows that too, even if she couldn’t change everything back then. But Logan didn’t make Rava feel welcome, so that’s why she doesn’t feel comfortable staying, even now when he’s gone.”

Rae swallowed hard, the weight of something she couldn’t name pressing on her chest. “I don’t want to be the only one.”

Connor gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not. Not really. You have a big, messy family, warts and all. And you get to decide what family means when it’s your turn.”

Rae looked toward the closed bathroom door. The sound of running water drifted faintly through the hall. “Can I… wait for mom here? I don’t want to talk to uncle Roman.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, offering a small smile. “Let’s sit right here until she’s ready.”

He stayed beside her in the quiet drawing room, the muted clatter of dishes and Roman’s low mutter carried faintly from the dining room. For the first time all evening, Rae felt the warmth of someone simply staying, no arguments attached. Uncle Connor was a good man.

The leather seats were too slippery against the velvet of Rae’s dress. Outside Manhattan flashed by in oranges and browns, Thanksgiving night was already folding into itself. Rae sat tucked into her corner of the towncar, sneaking glances at her mom. Shiv stared out the window, one hand against her mouth, the other curled tight in her lap. The city’s light skated across her face, showing the shine in her eyes she hadn’t wiped away fast enough. She looked like a stone trying too hard to remember how to be a stone. Rae couldn’t stand it.

“You know,” Rae said, blurting it out before she lost her nerve, “your pie was way better than Connor’s.”

Shiv blinked confused, turning her head. “What?”

Rae lifted a shoulder. “The pumpkin pie. His crust was all soggy. Yours was crispy. And you didn’t even have to try.”

A small, surprised sound escaped Shiv, not quite a laugh, more like the echo of one. “I didn’t even make pie?”

“I know,” Rae said with a grin that was more stubborn than funny. “But if you did, it would be better.”

For a moment, Shiv just looked at her, eyes softening. Then she exhaled, leaning back into the seat. “You’re biased.”

“Yeah.” Rae hugged herself tighter. “I’m allowed to be.”

Silence hummed again, but lighter this time.

“Don’t believe anything that comes out of Roman’s mouth.” Shiv murmured while shaking her head in disappointment. 

“Nope. Never.” Rae answered before she shifted closer, slipping her small hand into her mother’s cold one. Shiv stiffened at first like she almost always did, but then her fingers loosened, weaving tightly around Rae’s.

“You don’t have to listen to Uncle Roman,” Rae said, her voice wobbling with more conviction than certainty. “He’s just mean ‘cause he doesn’t know how to be nice.”

Something broke in Shiv’s face then, enough for Rae to see the hurt crack through the steel. She squeezed Rae’s hand hard, like an anchor. “Thanks, cub,” Shiv whispered, using the nickname she almost never said anymore.

Rae leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder. “You’re not bad at keeping things safe. You’re good at it. You just need to… I don’t know. Try again.”

Shiv swallowed, her throat working. She bent her head to kiss the top of Rae’s hair, her voice thick when she spoke. “I’ll try, sweetheart. I promise.”

The car turned uptown, city lights washing over them. Rae closed her eyes, letting herself believe it.

.:.:.

Tom’s Thanksgiving was quiet and peaceful without the annual dinner with Roy's. They’d gone to a secluded restaurant. Then Annabelle took him for a walk along the river. It was cold but calm, her arm looped through his. She talked about family traditions, first about hers and then his. The apartment felt too still without Rae in it. Normally, weekends meant her ballet bag in the hallway, her books spread dramatically over the sofa, her music ricocheting through every room. Now it was just Tom, two wine glasses, and Annabelle’s perfume lingering in the air.

She stood by the window, looking out at the skyline like it were hers. “You have a beautiful view,” she said, her voice smooth.

“Thanks,” Tom replied, pouring the wine. “It’s… yeah, it’s nice.” He handed her a glass, their fingers brushing. She smiled, leaning in a little too close.

They had already had dinner out. It was easier, and on neutral ground. Tonight she had suggested they stay in. Your place. More private. Tom had hesitated, but with Rae at Shiv’s for the weekend, he hadn’t had an excuse.

Annabelle sat on the sofa, tucking her legs neatly to the side, elegant even in how she sank into the cushions. She laughed easily at his halfhearted jokes, touched his wrist when he refilled her glass, leaned just a little closer each time. It was good. Nice. Normal. That was the word he kept circling back to while assuring himself. Normal. She asked about his family, about becoming CEO, and listened with the kind of interest that flattered more than it unnerved. No sharp retorts, no strategic traps in her questions, no battles lurking under the surface. Just admiration and pure curiosity.

Maybe this was what it was supposed to be like. No storms, no bruises disguised as banter, no fire that left him raw. Just two adults having wine on a quiet Thursday night, soft laughter between them.

Tom glanced at the framed photo still sitting on the shelf. It was Rae on Shiv’s shoulders at the Hamptons, his arm looped around them both, all three laughing into the wind. He should’ve put it away for the night, (like their wedding picture that was still on his bedside), should’ve known better, but there it was. Unmissable.

Annabelle followed his gaze and smiled politely. “She’s beautiful,” she said, meaning Shiv, with her pink, sunburned cheeks.

Tom’s throat tightened. He forced a small laugh. “Yeah. She is.”

Annabelle shifted closer, her hand brushing his knee, deliberate this time. Tom smiled, leaned back and let it happen. He told himself he could learn to want this. Told himself it was good enough. Because wasn’t this what people did when the person they really wanted was gone? They moved on. He drained the rest of his wine, nodded at something Annabelle said, and tried to ignore the hollow ache under his ribs as they kissed.

Tom woke to the pale light of morning spilling across the blinds. It felt like he was still in a dream without Rae’s footsteps pattering down the hall. For a moment he let himself stay there, heavy against the pillow, trying not to notice the wrongness of the body beside him.

Annabelle stirred, propped herself on an elbow, and smiled at him. “Morning.”

Her voice was eager in a way that made him feel both flattered and exposed. “Morning,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

She reached over, smoothed his hair back like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Last night was really nice.”

“Yeah.” He forced a smile. “It was.”

Annabelle sat up, tugging the sheet around herself. “I was thinking – we should do this again. Not just dinners, not just parties. More.” She tilted her head, her smile soft but purposeful. “Unless that’s too soon?”

Tom’s throat tightened. Too soon. Too soon by miles. But he heard himself say, “No. Not too soon.”

Her face lit up, easy and uncomplicated. She leaned down, kissed him quickly, then slid out of bed to hunt for her clothes. Tom watched her move around the room, efficient and polished even naked. This was what normal looked like. Predictable mornings, coffee brewing, a woman humming as she fixed her hair in the mirror.

It was fine. It was good. It was safe.

But as Annabelle chirped something about brunch reservations and a gallery opening next week, Tom’s eyes drifted to their wedding photo still on the nightstand. The hollow ache returned, sharp and insistent. He blinked, forced himself to look back at Annabelle, and smiled.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ll do this again.”

And if he said it enough times, maybe one day he’d believe it.

.:.:.

Rae lay sprawled on her bed, lion plush tucked under her chin, phone pressed to her ear. She’d been rehearsing what to say all day, pacing her room, scribbling bullet points in her homework margins. Finally, when Roman picked up with his usual lazy “What’s up, ballerina Barbie?” she pounced.

“You’re mean,” Rae said flatly.

A shocked pause filled the silence. Then Roman’s chuckle crackled through the line. “Oh, so we’re leading with insults now? Bold move, junior.”

“I’m serious!” Rae sat up, frowning. “You ruined Thanksgiving. You were horrible to mom.”

“Hey,” Roman said, feigning innocence. “I was just ‘keeping it real.’ People like honesty, right? Except apparently when it comes with, you know, turkey and stuffing.”

“You were mean,” Rae shot back. Her voice wobbled, but she forced it steady. “And you don’t get to be mean about uncle Ken. Not to mom. Not to anyone.”

The line went quiet for a second too long. Rae felt her cheeks burn. Maybe she’d gone too far. But then Roman coughed. “You’ve got a mouth on you. Definitely Shiv’s kid.”

“I mean it,” Rae said, gripping the lion tighter. “You’re not invited to help me anymore. With my… plans.”

That got him. “What?!” Roman’s voice jumped an octave. “Hold on, you’re cutting me out of the super-secret operation? After all the free genius I’ve been giving you?”

“It wasn’t genius,” Rae said, biting back a grin. “It was dumb. And mean. And you don’t deserve to be in it.”

Roman groaned dramatically. “Unbelievable.” He stopped himself, then sighed. “Fine. Go play matchmaker without me. But don’t come crawling back when your little Parent Trap act blows up in your face.”

Rae smiled fiercely, even though he couldn’t see it. “I won’t. Bye uncle Roman.”

She hung up before he could answer, flopping back onto her pillows, her little heart pounding, proud of herself for standing up for her mom. 

Chapter Text

Shiv’s phone lit up with Mother as she stepped out of a West Wing briefing. The hallway outside the Roosevelt Room buzzed with low voices and the faint click of staffers’ shoes. She almost let the call go to voicemail. Almost. But it would do no good to keep ignoring her mother’s calls forever. Because yes, she was ancient but not leaving this world any time soon. 

She swiped to answer with a stern. “Hello mother.”

“Well,” Caroline drawled, her accent crisp enough to slice glass. “Imagine my astonishment to hear from Roman, of all people, that my only daughter is divorcing and I had to get the news secondhand.”

“You could have opened any gossip tabloid for the same information," Shiv pinched the bridge of her nose, leaning against the cool marble wall. “But good to know Roman can still work a phone.”

“Oh don’t be clever, darling. It’s unseemly when you’re breaking up the marriage. Tom seemed so… domesticated. I thought the Midwestern blood had finally calmed you, but you’re just like your father aren’t you.”

“Mom –”

“And Rae!” Caroline pressed on, feigning a sigh that rang hollow. “My only grandchild, poor little lamb. How traumatic this must be for her. Were you planning to let me know before the custody lawyers finish divvying up weekends?”

Shiv’s jaw tightened. “It’s not finalized yet. And Rae is doing fine.”

Caroline gave a delicate, mirthless laugh. “Fine. Yes, yes, of course. Children are always fine until they’re not. I suppose I should start clearing my calendar for emergency grandmother duties. Someone must provide a proper English influence before she’s completely Americanized by all this… upheaval.”

“Rae doesn’t need a proper English influence,” Shiv said evenly. “She needs stability, which she has. From me. And from Tom.”

“Oh, darling,” Caroline purred, the faux sympathy curling like smoke. “You sound just like your father when he wanted to prove he hadn’t made a mess. How is it that with all your cleverness, you still manage to repeat his mistakes?”

Shiv let the silence stretch, her free hand tightening around the folder she carried. “If you’re calling to gloat, you’ve done it. Congratulations.”

Caroline gave a soft tsk. “Not to gloat. I’m merely… concerned. And a little wounded. But if you insist on being Roy about it, far be it from me to stand in the way of family tradition.”

“Goodnight, mom.”

“Goodnight, Siobhan. Do give Rae a kiss from grandmama, won’t you? Before she forgets she has one.”

The line went dead with a cheerful chime. Shiv stared at the screen, pulse pounding, then slid the phone into her pocket with a controlled breath. Caroline’s voice lingered like a bitter aftertaste. Sweet on the edges, poison at the core.

Shiv still remembered the cold and harsh sunlight of the early spring when Rae was born. She had sat slumped in the rocking chair, her robe slipping off one shoulder, the small baby cradled against her chest. Rae’s soft, uneven breaths rose and fell, finally, after another night that had felt endless.

The triplex was silent except for the faint hum of their synced breathing. Shiv hadn’t brushed her hair in two days. Her body ached everywhere from birth, from feeding, from sitting too long in the same position. The air smelled faintly of milk and antiseptic wipes. It all made her want to throw up. 

The door creaked open. “Well,” came a familiar clipped voice, “you look dreadful.”

Caroline stepped into the light with her silver-streaked raven hair, wrapped in a linen coat and her usual unflappable poise. Shiv didn’t bother to look up. “Thanks, Mother. You know how to make an entrance.”

Caroline set her handbag on the dresser and surveyed the room. “I brought you two flowers,” she said, glancing toward the counter where a vase of lilies drooped, forgotten. “Or at least I think I did. The driver might still have them.”

Shiv managed the smallest laugh, brittle as glass.

Caroline sat on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other. Her gaze softened just slightly as she took in the sight of the tiny pink bundle sleeping in Shiv’s arms. “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,” she said quietly. “Though you’d never know it from what you’ve been texting RoRo.”

Shiv blinked hard. “I’m just tired.”

“Of course you are,” Caroline said, in that tone that managed to sound both obvious and cutting. “Babies are relentless little parasites. You feed them, they scream. You sleep, they scream. You breathe, they scream. No one tells you that bit before you have them, do they?”

Shiv gave a strangled sort of laugh, half relief, half exhaustion. “You make it sound so lovely.”

Caroline leaned back, her expression unreadable. “It wasn’t lovely with you three, either. You screamed bloody murder every night for seven months straight. Your father fled to a hotel. I considered joining him. Or throwing you out of the window.”

“Thanks,” Shiv muttered.

Caroline’s gaze flicked to her daughter, then down to Rae with her tuft of red hair, whose tiny fingers had curled into Shiv’s robe. “It’s not easy,” she said, her voice dropping lower, the first crack in her usual coolness. “You love them so much it frightens you. But you also want it all to… stop. Just for a moment. To breathe.”

Shiv swallowed hard, the words catching somewhere deep. “Yeah.”

Caroline stood, smoothing her coat. “It passes, darling. You’ll find your way back to yourself. Though you may never quite be the same self again.” She glanced toward the sleeping baby. “She’ll make sure of that.”

Shiv looked down at Rae, her thumb brushing over the soft, impossibly small hand. For the first time in days, her chest loosened.

As Caroline turned to leave, she paused at the doorway. “I'm going to see Roman. Because no matter how old you are, children will always want their mother,” she said, almost offhand. Then she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of her stuffy perfume.

.:.:.

Rae sat cross-legged on the couch, chin resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the red and orange stretch of Central Park beyond the windows. It was an unusual way for her to spend a Saturday night. Tom lowered himself onto the cushion beside her. “Hey, cub,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Rae gave a small shrug. “I guess.” Her voice was thin, like she’d run out of words hours ago.

Tom followed her gaze to the park lights. He’d spent weeks trying to fill these silences with pancakes, surprise Yankees tickets, endless rounds of ice cream, but nothing stuck. Tonight the ache was too big for jokes, because Shiv hadn’t been able to make it back from D.C. to Rae.

“You know,” he said carefully, “I’ve been thinking… maybe we could get a dog.”

That got a flicker of movement. Rae turned her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “A dog?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, grasping at the idea. “A puppy, even. We could… start fresh. This time you’d be in charge of picking the breed. Golden retriever, corgi, something with floppy ears…anything you’d like.”

For a flash Rae's face softened, memory passing over it like a shadow. Mondale had been her shadow from crib to first ballet shoes. She bit her lip.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” Tom coaxed. “Little paws running around again? Someone to greet us when we come home?”

Rae hugged her knees tighter, eyes fixed on the floor as she shook her head. “No.”

Tom blinked. “No?”

“Monny was our dog. If we get another one, it’s like we’re pretending everything’s fine. And it’s not.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not about pretending,” Tom said gently. “It’s just… maybe something happy for us. Something new.”

Rae finally looked at him, her small face set with a seriousness that knocked the breath out of him. “The only thing that would make me happy is if you and mom got back together.”

Tom swallowed hard, the words landing like a stone in his chest. He reached for her hand, but she kept her arms around her knees.

“I miss Monny,” she whispered. “But I miss us more.”

Tom’s throat tightened. He wanted to promise her something, anything, but all he could manage was a quiet, “I know, cub. I miss us too.”

Tom kept his eyes on the park, but his mind slipped backward, past lawyers and custody schedules, to the time when Mondale was still alive and Rae was barely walking.

Mondale had adored Rae from the start, a mutt mixed with a herding breed, who treated the tiny, unsteady toddler like a sacred charge. Tom remembered coming home late from work to find the dog sprawled on the nursery rug, Rae asleep on his flank like a pillow, her chubby hand buried in his fur. Shiv would be slouched in the rocker, phone balanced on her knee, pretending not to watch as Mondale gently nudged their baby into sleep.

Back then the apartment always smelled faintly of baby shampoo. Tom could still hear the slap of Mondale’s paws on the hardwood when he barreled down the hallway to meet him at the door with Rae squealing behind, her wobbling little legs chasing after the dog. Sometimes Tom would scoop her up mid-run, Mondale bouncing circles around them, the three of them a messy tangle of fur, giggles, and relief. He’d give anything to hear that sound again.

Beside him now, Rae shifted, resting her chin on her knees. “I miss him,” she said quietly, as if reading his thoughts.

Tom’s chest tightened. “Me too. He was the best boy.” He swallowed, forcing a small smile. “Do you remember how he used to steal your stuffed animals and then bring them back when you cried?”

Rae’s mouth twitched in the faintest smile. “And how he always licked my toes.”

Tom chuckled softly. “Yeah. He loved his girl.”

They fell silent again, the memory filling the space where promises couldn’t go. Tom let himself remember the sound of paws on the floor and a baby’s laughter echoing down a hallway that felt like home.

Annabelle swept into the triplex with a bottle of red tucked under her arm, heels clicking against the hardwood. She’d dressed down just enough in her cashmere sweater to look “casual,” though every detail was deliberate.

Tom was in the living room fiddling with the remote. “I figured we’d do a movie night,” he said, his smile nervous and searching.

Annabelle set the wine down with a pleased hum but then froze. On the couch, Rae was curled up in her pajamas, clutching a pillow and tapping her iPad. 

“Oh,” Annabelle said lightly, masking the flicker of surprise. “I thought… it was just us tonight.”

“Change of plans,” Tom replied quickly, glancing at Rae. “Shiv got pulled into something in D.C. Rae’s with me for the weekend.”

Rae turned her head, eyes narrowing with suspicion at the stranger in her living room. “Hi,” she said flatly.

Annabelle recovered smoothly, her smile bright. “Hi there, Rae. It’s so good to see you again.” She slipped off her coat, settling beside Tom like she belonged there. “Girls’ weekend with mom got canceled, huh? She must be really busy.”

Rae hugged the pillow tighter. “She had work.”

Annabelle tilted her head, voice soft and warm, the kind adults used when they wanted to sound safe. “That’s hard, isn’t it? She’s got so much on her plate. I’m sure she wishes she could be here, but… well, that’s the life she chose. Important people, important things.” Her hand brushed Tom’s arm as if in passing. “Lucky your dad can pick up the slack.”

Tom glanced at her, distracted by the movie menu, not hearing the barb. But Rae did. Her eyes dropped to the pillow, shoulders folding in.

Annabelle smiled wider, almost saccharine. “Tell you what, why don’t we all watch something together? Popcorn, blankets, the works. Family night.”

She said it sweetly enough, but Rae only sank deeper into the couch cushions. She wished her mom was there even if it meant no homemade pancakes and phone calls answered mid-hug.

It was late, the movie credits still rolling faintly in the living room while Rae slept down the hall. Tom padded into his bedroom, loosening his tie, Annabelle trailing behind him with her wineglass half-full. She moved through the space quietly taking every aspect of it in. Slipping into the bedroom, her eyes landed on the photo on the nightstand. A silver frame, slightly tarnished at the corners. Inside of it was a picture of Tom and Shiv on their wedding day. Both of them younger, laughing in the instant after someone had shouted something obscene from the crowd. Tom’s arm around her waist, Shiv’s head tilted back in a rare, unguarded smile. Probably taken by some of their friends.

Annabelle’s smile froze.

“You still keep this here?” she asked, her tone casual, but the words a little too sharp.

Tom glanced over, half-guilty. “Yeah. I mean… it’s Rae’s mom. I just never bothered to move it.”

Annabelle sipped her wine, then reached out, running a finger over the frame as if dusting it. “History is one thing. But it’s right by your bed, Tom. That’s not history, that’s the first thing you see every morning.”

He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his cuff. “I don’t really notice it anymore.”

“Mm,” Annabelle hummed, clearly not convinced. She set her glass down, lifted the frame, and studied it under the lamp. “It’s a beautiful photo. But maybe it belongs somewhere else. The hallway, maybe. Or Rae’s room. Somewhere… less personal.”

Tom hesitated, torn between inertia and discomfort. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “But it bothers me.”

The words hung there, velvet-soft but edged like a blade. After a beat, Tom sighed and reached for the frame. “Alright. I’ll move it.”

Annabelle smiled, sweet and satisfied, before curling onto his side of the bed. “Good. Fresh spaces need fresh starts.”

Tom placed the frame facedown in the drawer. He didn’t notice Rae’s small figure in the hallway, blinking sleepily from the sliver of light beside the door. But Rae noticed. And when she saw the wedding picture disappear into the drawer, something inside her chest pinched tight.

.:.:.

Shiv sat in her office late on a Tuesday, the glow of her laptop painting her face in cold light. The Capitol hummed outside, distant and impersonal, but her phone was warm in her hand. She hadn’t asked for it. The text had just come from a friend still orbiting Waystar’s world, one of those people who liked to keep her in the loop even now. 

Saw Tom at a gallery with Annabelle. They left together. Looked cozy.

Shiv stared at the screen, her pulse hammering in her ears. The word was ridiculous. Schoolyard. And yet it made her chest ache, made her jaw tighten until her teeth hurt. She set the phone down carefully, as though it might explode if she held it longer. Tried to focus on the bill in front of her, the policy brief she needed polished before morning. But the words blurred, meaningless, replaced by an image she couldn’t quite shake: Tom walking Annabelle out of some glittering event, Annabelle’s hand sliding easily into his, Tom’s smile polite, maybe even real.

Her stomach twisted. She told herself it wasn’t about jealousy. It was about Rae. About boundaries. About Tom being reckless enough to bring someone into their daughter’s orbit before they’d even finalized their divorce. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t just that. It was the idea of someone else in their apartment. Someone else sitting on the sofa where she used to curl her legs under him. Someone else’s perfume clinging to their sheets.

Shiv pressed her fingers to her temples, inhaling sharply. She’d told herself for months that this separation was necessary. That they couldn’t keep hurting each other, couldn’t keep circling the same fight. But now, with one text, the thought of Tom slipping out of reach was unbearable.

She picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over his name in her contacts. She wanted to call. To demand. To ask if Annabelle’s laugh had filled the hollow spaces the way hers used to. Instead she dropped it face down on the desk, breathing hard.

She was Shiv Fucking Roy. She had power. She had control. She did not spiral over her husband dating some no-one PR woman.

But the next day, when a donor event ran late and she found herself being cornered by Richard, Richie, as he insisted. Something in her alcohol-addled brain snapped. She could be reckless. 

Richard was everything Tom wasn’t. Loud, brash, “old money adjacent” in the way only nouveau riche could be. He ordered for her without asking. He bragged about his sports car collection. He explained the wine list to the sommelier like he knew better. He was absolutely obnoxious but very handsome, and broad. So Shiv said yes when he asked her out.

Their dinner was at the kind of restaurant where the menu didn’t bother with printing prices. Richard showed up in a blazer the color of a traffic cone and spent most of the night talking about himself. Shiv tuned out, nodding occasionally, focusing more on sipping her wine than listening to his brash stories of how much of a man he was. 

And yet she kept catching herself comparing him and Tom. The way Richard leaned too close, reeking faintly of cigars? Tom would never. Tom always smelled faintly of soap and paper, comforting and clean. The way Richard bragged about his “business instincts”? Tom had clawed his way up with grit. Even the way Richard laughed loud and self-satisfied, made her miss Tom’s softer, awkward chuckle, the one he tried to cover with a cough.

By dessert, Shiv was waiting for the date to end.

Richard leaned back, widely smirking. “You’re a hard one to impress, Siobhan.”

She forced a smile. “You have no idea.”

The ride back to her townhouse was mercifully short. Shiv had tolerated Richard through his endless boasting, telling herself it was fine. Harmless. But when the car pulled up to her curb, Richard slid out behind her, trailing close.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said. It was not a question.

Shiv’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. She just wanted the night to be over.

At her door, she turned, fishing in her purse for her keys. “Thanks for dinner, Richard.”

He grinned, leaning one hand on the frame. “Come on, Shiv. Don’t be so formal.”

Before she could step back, his mouth was on hers forcefully, all teeth and champagne. His hand gripped her arm too tight as he crushed her against the door. Shiv froze, every nerve firing at once. The world tilted on its axis. She wasn’t here, she was back there, before Tom, in all the worst moments she’d buried deep within herself. The ones where she hadn’t fought back, hadn’t said no loud enough, where she’d convinced herself it was just easier to endure.

Not this time. Her knuckles cracked across his cheek before she could even blink. The sound echoed down the quiet street.

Richard reeled back, stunned. “What the hell –”

“Don’t you ever,” Shiv hissed, her voice sharp, trembling. “touch me again.”

She managed to shove past him, keys rattling, the door of her townhouse finally swinging open and slamming closed. Inside, she tried to suck in breaths, chest heaving, back pressed to the wood. She just stood there frozen, fists clenched, breathing shallow as her whole body shook. It was over. Richard was gone. But the old panic clawed at her anyway, rising hot and suffocating. Her throat burned. Her vision blurred. She pressed a hand hard to her mouth, fighting it, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

It had been years. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She had survived worse. She had Tom, she had Rae. And yet her knees still buckled, dropping her onto the cold floor. It took minutes before she could stand, before her hands stopped trembling enough to pour herself a water.

She hated Richard. But she hated herself more for how quickly the past had come roaring back. There was no-one to protect her.

On Sunday, Tom arrived earlier than planned. Shiv hadn’t expected him until dinner, but there he was at her townhouse, tall and stiff in the doorway. Rae chattered happily about their weekend as she tugged on her uggs.

“Ready, cub?” Tom asked, his smile softening when Rae grinned back.

“In a minute. I forgot something,” Rae said, darting upstairs for her backpack.

That left Tom and Shiv in the foyer, the air heavy with all the things they hadn’t said since. Shiv folded her arms, leaning against the banister, bracing for some polite jab or cool silence. But Tom’s gaze dropped, sharp. Her sleeve had slipped up just enough to reveal the four neat, finger-shaped bruises on her bicep.

His expression changed instantly. The practiced calm, the awkward half-smile was gone. His jaw set, his lashes fluttered once, and then his eyes locked on hers, unguarded and raw.

“Who,” he asked, voice low and steady, “did that to you?” He instinctively stepped closer as if he could protect her from the things that passed. 

Shiv stiffened, tugging her sleeve down too late. “It’s nothing.”

“Shiv.” His tone cut through, gentler than she expected but firm. “That’s not nothing.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to deflect, to lie, to make it a joke about a wild sex date. But the bruises throbbed under her sleeve, a reminder of Richard’s hand, and suddenly she couldn’t summon the armor.

“Richard,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “After dinner. He got… grabby.”

Tom went still. Too still. His hand flexed at his side like he was fighting the urge to put it through a wall, or to grasp her.

Shiv braced for mockery, for anger at her wrong choices. But instead, Tom just stepped closer, his voice softer than she’d heard it in months. “You should never have to deal with that. Not ever. Not again.”

Her chest ached. She looked away, swallowing hard. “I handled it.”

“I know you did.” He hesitated, then added, “But if he ever – if anyone ever –” His voice cracked. “Shiv, you have to tell me. Please.”

For a second, the silence between them was unbearable. And then Rae clattered back down the stairs, lion under her arm. “Ready now!”

Tom straightened quickly, blinking the heat out of his eyes, slipping the careful smile back on. But Shiv had seen it. She had felt it.

Rae had only made it close to the stairs before she froze. Her ears perked at the sound of her parents’ voices drifting up from the foyer. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop. Gwendoline always said it was rude. But Rae had learned something important in ten years of life: if you didn’t eavesdrop, you always missed out on the good stuff.

She crouched, pressing herself against the banister. Their voices were hushed, but she could hear her dad’s voice shift, trembling. They way they moved closer and closer to each other. Rae’s heart gave a little flip. She felt like she shouldn’t be watching this.

Her parents were close together. Eyes flaming and breathing hard. That was it. Proof. Her dad still cared. She clutched her lion tighter, grinning into its worn fur.

By the time she stomped the rest of the way down the stairs, she plastered on her best innocent face. “Ready now!” she chirped, like she hadn’t just overheard the biggest clue in the mystery of her parents’ feelings.

They both turned to look at her, their faces flushed, like they’d been caught doing something intimate. Rae skipped past them out the door, humming under her breath, practically buzzing with smugness. Her plan was still very much alive.

When they arrived back home, Rae ran off straight into her room, all giddy with the possibilities. Rae leaped onto her bed before crashing down. She chewed her lip, thinking. They needed more opportunities. More set-ups to bring her parents together. Situations where mom and dad were forced to be around each other, other than the pick-ups.

Just dinner didn’t work. It would be too transparent and she already tried it once. But she had to find a place where they could be without any other eyes on them. Maybe a “family event.” Something with her at the center. They could fight all they wanted, but if Rae asked for it, they’d show up. They always did.

She grabbed her notebook from the nightstand and scribbled a list in messy pencil:

1. Drop hints to mom about how much Annabelle laughs at dad’s jokes. (gag)
2. Fake “family project” for school – needs mom + dad’s help.
3. Invite both of them to the ballet recital – make them sit together

Her parents thought they’d already given everything. But Rae knew the truth, they still had plenty left to give each other. They just needed a shove. And she, Rae Roy-Wambsgans, was more than ready to do the shoving.

.:.:.

A couple of days later, Rae was hunched over her desk, pencil scribbling across a piece of loose-leaf in her messiest handwriting. The title at the top read in fat block letters:

FAMILY PROJECT –  DUE SOON

She underlined it three times for effect. There wasn’t actually a family project. But her teacher gave assignments like that all the time, and Rae figured if she played it right, mom and dad wouldn’t know the difference. The prompt she’d invented was simple: Write about your parents’ favorite memory of you, then interview them about it.

Easy. Sneaky. Perfect. She pushed the paper toward Gwendoline, who was organizing Rae’s clothes from her bed into her closet. “You think they’ll buy it?”

Gwendoline raised one eyebrow. “Your mom and dad are clever people. They will ask questions.”

Rae crossed her arms. “That’s why you have to help. Like – if dad says he wants to email the teacher, you just… distract him. With something. French-y.”

“French-y,” Gwendoline repeated, amused.

“Yeah, like… croissants. Or cheese. I don’t know. Just make him forget.”

Gwendoline hid a smile behind a dress. “And what is the goal of this ‘project,’ mademoiselle?”

Rae sat up straighter, determined. “To get them in the same room. Talking. About me. About when we were a happy family, before mom moved out and dad started dating Annabelle…” 

Gwendoline’s eyes softened. She set the folded shirt aside and crouched beside Rae’s chair. “You know this is a dangerous game? They may argue. They may not say what you hope.”

Rae hugged her lion plush close. “I don’t care. They have to remember. If they remember how much they love me, maybe they’ll remember how much they love each other too.”

For a moment, Gwendoline just looked at her, half-sad, half-proud. Then she sighed, dramatic as ever. “Okay. I will help you with this… conspiracy. But if they discover, you must say it was your idea alone.”

Rae grinned, triumphant. “Deal.” She smoothed the paper, added a doodle of a stick-figure family holding hands, and tucked it into her backpack.

The plan had three steps.

Step one: invitations. Rae wrote them on pink sticky notes from Shiv’s office stash with big block letters. They had glitter pen borders. 

Family Project Dinner. Attendance Required. Friday 7 PM. Location: Dad’s apartment. Theme: Rae.

She stuck one to the inside of Tom’s briefcase, and one to Shiv’s leather notebook on top of the weekend.

Step two: backup. Rae enlisted Gwendoline, who agreed to set the table with “seriousness appropriate for a summit.” That meant candles and cloth napkins folded into pointy triangles. Rae approved the menu.

Step three: control the narrative. Rae practiced her opening lines in the mirror. “Welcome, mom and dad. Tonight you will complete my family project for school.” She added finger guns. Perfect.

By Friday, her nerves were like sparklers. Tom walked in first after work, loosening his tie. He looked around at the candles, the food steaming at the table and Rae in her best evening dress. “What’s all this?”

“Sit,” Rae commanded, pointing at his chair. “It’s my school project. Very important. Serious academic work.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed. “Of course. School project. That explains the –” He gestured vaguely at the dramatic table setting. “ – romantic hostage vibes.”

Shiv arrived through the door minutes later, still in her D.C. armor of silk blouse and sharp blazer. She stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene. “What’s going on here? Where’s your bag?”

Rae hustled over in her evening gown, pressing the second sticky note into her hand like evidence. “Family Project Dinner. Didn’t you read your invitation?”

Shiv blinked, then glanced at Tom, then back at Rae. “Apparently not closely enough.”

“Sit,” Rae repeated, dragging out Shiv’s chair herself. “You’re both here. Now we eat and you do my homework.”

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Classic Roy-Wambsgans delegation strategy. Get the parents to write the paper for an A.”

Shiv gave him a look that was half warning, half amusement. “And what exactly is the assignment?”

Rae beamed, bouncing in her seat. “You each have to tell me your favorite memory of me. Then I write it down and get an A.”

Shiv’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how grades work.”

“It is tonight,” Rae said firmly.

Tom leaned back, smirking at Shiv. “She’s good. Better negotiator than Laird.”

“Low bar,” Shiv muttered, but her shoulders softened a little.

Rae pointed her fork at them both. “Okay, Dad first. Best memory. Go.”

Tom set his fork down and leaned back in his chair like he was about to give sworn testimony. “All right. Easiest question I’ve ever had.”

Rae squinted at him, suspicious. “Don’t make it a joke.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He held a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Okay. Best memory. Let’s see. Not the cherry pie incident… not the time you cut your own bangs with safety scissors…”

“Dad.” Rae narrowed her eyes.

“Fine, fine.” His face softened, voice dipping lower. “You were three. We’d gone to St. Paul for Christmas to grandma and grandpa. Snow was up to your waist, it was freezing cold. You hated the thick overalls and the boots we put you in. So you threw them off, marched outside in your pajamas, and announced you were going to ‘fight the snow.’”

Rae blinked, then snorted. “What?!”

“You lasted thirty seconds before you got stuck,” Tom said, grinning now. “But the whole neighborhood heard you yelling at the snowdrifts like they’d personally offended you. And when I carried you back inside, your little hands red as cherries, you told me you’d ‘won.’”

Shiv let out a small, involuntary laugh, shaking her head. “God, I’d forgotten that.”

Rae buried her face in her hands. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Tom leaned forward, voice gentler. “Not embarrassing. Brave. You were tiny, and the world was huge, and you still thought you could take it on.”

For a second, Shiv’s eyes caught his gaze. Something quiet passed between them, before she turned her glass in her hand and looked down.

“Okay, mom,” Rae said quickly, eager to redirect. “Your turn.”

Shiv set her glass down, tapped her finger against the stem. “Fine. My favorite…” She let out a small breath through her nose. “It was in Barbados. You were seven. You kept making sandcastles by the pool – not the beach, the pool, and the hotel staff looked at you like you’d lost your mind. But you were so stubborn. You didn’t let us move the castle away to the beach. Everyone thought you were ridiculous, but by the end of the week you had half the resort helping you dig moats. You were so –” She hesitated, then finished softly, “ – happy. Completely in your own world.”

Rae grinned, proud. “I remember! My castle almost flooded the whole snack bar.”

“Almost,” Shiv agreed, her smile faint but real.

Tom’s expression shifted, warm and wistful. “That was a good trip.”

The air thickened between them for a moment. Rae stabbed at her potatoes dramatically. “Okay, let’s not get all mushy about it.”

Tom chuckled, raising his glass. “To Rae’s academic prosperity.”

Shiv’s smile flickered, but she lifted hers too. “To Rae.”

Rae sat back, triumphant. For once, her plan was working. 

Right on cue, Gwendoline swept in carrying a tray with more ceremony than the White House kitchen staff. “Voilà. Chocolate tart. Made with care, and with twice the chocolate so no one can be sad.”

Rae clapped her hands. “You’re the best ever.”

“Thanks,” Gwendoline smiled, setting the tart down and beginning to slice.

Gwendoline handed out the plates with a flourish. “You may continue your… school project while you eat.” Then she disappeared back to the kitchen, leaving the three of them at the huge table, the candles burning lower now.

Rae dug in immediately, corners of her mouth smudged with chocolate in seconds. “Okay,” she said through a mouthful, “New rule. Favorite dessert memory of me. Mom, go.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were ready?”

“Shh, dad,” Rae said, licking her fork. “This is research.”

Shiv tilted her head, playing along. “Your second birthday. You grabbed an entire fistful of cake, looked me dead in the eye, and smeared it all over your face and new dress.”

Rae groaned. “Mom.”

Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Still tracks.”

Shiv’s gaze flicked to him, softer for just a second, then back down to her plate. 

Rae pointed her fork again, triumphant. “See? Look at us. Laughing. Eating cake. We’re amazing.”

“Chocolate tart,” Tom corrected, but his voice was quiet, his eyes on Shiv before he caught himself.

The room held a strange, tender silence then the kind that came when everyone remembered things they weren’t saying.

“Okay,” Rae announced, holding up her notebook like a judge. “New assignment. When did you know you loved me?”

Tom froze, dessert fork halfway to his mouth. Shiv blinked.

“Loved you?” Shiv repeated carefully. 

“Yes,” Rae said, puffing up her chest. “Like, the exact moment you knew. And don’t say ‘when you were born.’ That’s lazy.”

Shiv arched a brow, her tone bone-dry. “Wow. My daughter is a tyrant.”

Rae continued scribbling in her notebook as she commanded. “Now answer.” 

“We’ve always loved you since you were born, cub.” Tom’s mouth twitched, but there was no joke ready. “But my heart was about to burst any time you were with Mondale.”

Rae perked up. “With Monny?”

“Yeah.” Tom’s voice softened. “You were about three or four, and you used to sneak Cheerios under the table to him when you thought I wasn’t looking. One morning I came in and found you asleep under the kitchen table, curled up against him like he was a pillow. Your little arm around his neck.”

Shiv’s face flickered, just briefly. She’d loved the dog despite their rough start. Tom went on, quieter now. “I remember thinking… if this is what you look like when you feel safe, then my whole job is making sure you always feel that way. That was it. That was one of those moments.”

Rae blinked hard, her throat tight. She didn’t want to admit it, but her eyes stung. She still missed Monny so much. She covered it with a huff. “That’s actually pretty good, dad. Maybe I can glue a picture of Mondale here.”

Shiv’s fork was motionless in her hand. When Rae’s eyes landed on her, demanding, she set it down and cleared her throat.

“There’s too many…” She paused, searching. “Once I was really impressed by you. You were five. We were at the doctor’s, and they had to take your blood. You were terrified. I could see it all over your face, your hands shaking. But you sat there, lifted your chin, and told the nurse to go ahead. You didn’t cry. Not until afterward, when it was over. And I thought –” She broke off, her jaw tight. “I thought, my God, she’s much braver than me.”

Rae’s mouth fell open. “I don’t even remember that.”

Shiv’s lips curved faintly, but her eyes were distant. “I do. I’ll always remember it.”

Tom didn’t speak. His hand hovered briefly over the table, like he might reach across the distance, but he stopped himself and wrapped it around his glass instead.

Rae scribbled into her notebook with exaggerated flourish, trying to cut the tension. “Okay. It’s a perfect A+ project. Thank you for your effort.”

Shiv leaned back, expression unreadable. “Mm.” She sipped her wine, then set it down with quiet precision. “So. Rae. Are you coming to my place this weekend, or staying here?”

The grin slid off Rae’s face. “That’s it? You’re just gonna… ask that?” Tom shot Rae a quick look, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face, but he stayed silent.

Rae shoved her notebook closed, suddenly scowling. “Forget it.” She pushed her chair back, muttering, “Family project’s over anyway… I’ll get my bag.” She left the table, her footsteps heavy on the stairs.

The silence she left behind was sharp. Tom stacked the empty plates without looking at Shiv. Shiv reached for her phone like it had just buzzed, though it hadn’t. They didn’t speak, and the words Rae had dragged out of them about love, safety, and bravery hung like smoke in the air, slowly fading.

.:.:.

The approaching Christmas time meant more and more useless societal and business events that were all about appearances. The rooftop had the light dimmed just enough to flatter. Investors were clustered in constellations across the rooms, sharing top secret information with each other. It was one of those parties you had to attend if you happened to be invited.

Tom hadn’t wanted to come. Then he’d walked in with Annabelle, and for once the room didn’t tilt under his feet. She was good at making small talk and remembering people’s names. When a hedge fund manager lobbed a joke shaped like a test at Tom, she smiled just enough to buy Tom a breath.

“Relax,” she murmured once. “You’re bracing again.” He let his shoulders fall. 

They were halfway through a conversation about mid-cap utilities when the air changed. Subtle but undeniable, like pressure dropping before a storm. Tom turned to where others looked, and there she was. Shiv, in all her glory.

Navy silk brought out her voluptuous curves, perfectly curled red hair tucked behind one ear, her mouth a deep red line that didn’t need to curve up to command a room. She wasn’t announced; she didn’t have to be, because everyone had turned towards her anyhow. The host swept her in like a prize, investors leaning in as if proximity were currency. Shiv accepted it with a glance, then let her sharp ice blue eyes land on him. On them.

Tom felt the punch low in his stomach. Beside him, Annabelle clocked the shift instantly. She didn’t clutch tighter at his arm, didn’t shrink back. She simply asked with a low voice, “Do you want to leave?”

He wanted to say yes. Instead, he said, “No. I want to be normal.”

“Okay,” she said, steady.

It took fifteen minutes for the geometry to close in. The host, flushed with bourbon and delight, corralled them together like he’d invented the concept. “Tom, Shiv, – you must Annabelle Cortland, Lindstrom & Hale, the miracle worker?”

Shiv’s gaze slid to Annabelle. Cool and assessing. Her smile wasn’t sharp but it wasn’t welcoming either. “Siobhan Roy,” Shiv said, offering a hand.

“Annabelle,” Annabelle replied, firm handshake, exactly the right length. No squeeze, no flinch.

“Cortland,” Shiv added, the half-question she already knew the answer to. “Crisis and brand.”

“Mostly calendars and sentences,” Annabelle said, the same gentle cadence she always used. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Shiv said, voice flat as polished stone.

The host, sensing no banter nor drama, fled to refill someone’s glass.

Tom cleared his throat. “Congratulations on the bill moving,” he said to Shiv. It was the safest door he knew.

“Better by noon, worse by four,” Shiv replied. The ghost of a smile cut through for a second, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t plan the cake.”

Annabelle, infuriatingly kindly added, “I read long days for a living. I’m sorry.”

Shiv’s eyes flicked to her as a sign to back off. 

Annabelle shifted, graceful as ever. “I’ll get us drinks,” she offered, docilely slipping away and giving some space for the pair.

“She’s… kind,” Shiv said at last, the word curved like a blade. Her eyes lingered on Tom a fraction too long, as if testing the sharpness.

Tom smiled meekly. “She is.”

The silence swelled, thick with old ghosts. Tom shifted his weight, but Shiv held her ground, eyes glittering with a cool amusement that didn’t quite hide the burn underneath.

“Is this serious?” she asked finally, voice low and smooth, her gaze fixed on the knot of his tie instead of his face as though looking at his mouth might cost her something.

Tom cleared his throat. “It’s real.” The cufflinks at his wrists suddenly felt like shackles.

Shiv raised her glass, sipping as if she had all the time in the world. “Of course it is,” she murmured. “She’s just your type. Polished. Eager. Young. Smiles like you invented door-holding. Probably thinks your Midwestern manners are some sort of magic trick.”

Tom blinked, caught between a protest and a laugh. “That’s – no, she’s not –”

Shiv tilted her head, the faintest smirk curling her lip. “It’s fine, Tom. Really. Safe is easier. Safe doesn’t wake you at three in the morning with a fight you can’t win.” Her voice softened just enough to sting. “Safe doesn’t hurt.”

His jaw flexed. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Her eyebrow arched, sharp as a drawn bow. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying very hard to prove something. And not just to her.”

That landed. He met her gaze then, raw and unguarded, and the noise of the party seemed to drop away. For a heartbeat it was just the two of them, the entire messy history laid bare between the glittering champagne flutes.

Shiv’s smirk returned, smaller now, more like a wince disguised as victory. “She’ll do. She’s… nice.” She let the pause stretch, her eyes flicking down to the open collar of his shirt, the skin she knew too well. “But we both know you don’t do nice.”

Then she looked at him, with all the history threaded in. Pride, longing, contempt, and something perilously close to grief. For a moment it was just them and the thousand unsaid things hanging in the space between them.

Before Tom could answer, Annabelle reappeared, weaving back through the crowd with two fresh glasses of champagne. Her smile was bright, but her eyes flicked nervously between them. Tom stood frozen, caught between the woman he’d loved like oxygen and the woman who made it possible to breathe again.

“Here we are,” she said, handing one to Tom. “Hope I didn’t miss anything important.”

Shiv smiled sweetly, all teeth. “Oh, just catching up.”

Tom took the glass with a too-quick “thanks,” his fingers white around the stem.

.:.:.

Tom sat hunched on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, pulse thudding. The party still clung to him with Annabelle’s perfume, Shiv’s voice like glass against his skin. He should have left it alone, but he couldn’t. Not after the way she’d looked at him, or the way her words sliced the air.

She answered on the third ring. “Tom. It’s late.”

“I know.” He rubbed at his forehead, trying to sound steadier than he felt. “I just… I think we need to talk.”

“About what?” Shiv’s tone was sharp, crisp, the kind she used when cornering someone in a meeting.

He swallowed. “About Annabelle. About what this means for Rae. For… us.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You should’ve thought about that before you brought her into our house.”

Tom winced. “You’re right. I should’ve called you first. I didn’t. But now we need to figure it out. Rae’s smart – she sees everything. If Annabelle’s going to be around, we need to be clear.”

Shiv let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Clear? You’re dragging some PR girl into Rae’s life after four months of separation and you think clarity is the problem?”

Tom bristled, then forced himself to calm. “I think pretending it isn’t happening is worse.” There was a pause, taut and electric. He took a breath. “So. I’d like you to come to dinner. At the apartment. Me, Annabelle and you. We should talk it through properly like adults.”

Another silence. Tom could almost hear Shiv weighing her response, the dangerous coil of it. She wanted to refuse, he could feel it. But Roys didn’t back down. Roys didn’t get jealous. And Shiv Roy would rather set herself on fire than let him hear the crack in her voice.

“Fine,” she said at last, cool and clipped. “Set it up. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” His relief was audible.

“Don’t mistake it for approval, Tom.” Her tone was knife-sharp. “I’m not coming for her. I’m coming for Rae.”

And before he could answer, she ended the call. Tom stared at the dark screen, throat tight, knowing full well he’d just set the table for a war.

Chapter Text

Sunday evening draped itself over Manhattan. Shiv stood before her wardrobe, arms folded, the cool glow of recessed lights spilling over rows of silk and wool. Dresses and blouses waited like weapons in an armory, each one a different strategy for the night. Dinner with Tom. Dinner with Tom and Annabelle. In the apartment she’d walked out of four months ago.

She should’ve said no. She should’ve told him to handle his messes without her. But refusing the invitation would’ve made her look weak, small, like she was rattled by his new life. And if there was one thing she’d never be, it was the woman who lost her cool because her ex found someone new. So she would go. She would sit at the table, smile politely, and remind Tom exactly what he’d lost.

Her hand paused on a black dress. It had clean lines and a plunging neckline. The one that made people nervous about meeting her eye. It was too obvious of a choice. She shifted through the dresses into a deep red silk blouse. It had sharp pressed shoulders. Paired with tailored trousers that cut perfectly against her hips, she would look strong, and impossible to ignore without looking like she was trying too hard. As she fastened the last button of the shirt, a memory crept in without permission. From a different life. She had been seven months pregnant, stretched awkwardly across the couch with her shirt unbuttoned, while Tom crouched in front of her like a man consulting an oracle.

“Okay, little peanut,” he’d said to her stomach, voice pitched low and conspiratorial. “It’s your dad. If you can hear me in there, I just want you to know that I already love you more than I love… well, pretty much anything. Even perfectly chilled wine. And I really love good wine.”

Shiv had rolled her eyes, pretending to scroll through her phone. “You know she can’t hear you yet.”

“She can totally hear me,” Tom insisted, pressing his stubbled cheek to her belly. “And she’s obviously brilliant enough to understand every word.”

As if on cue, a sudden flutter tapped against his ear. Tom jerked back, eyes wide. “Was that –? Did she –?”

“The first kick,” Shiv said, startled into a laugh. Her eyes sparkling with amazement. 

Tom’s grin was immediate and ridiculous, all teeth and wonder. “She kicked for me first. She likes me.”

“She kicked because you’re loud,” Shiv teased, but her own hand had already settled protectively over the spot, a smile softening the corners of her mouth.

Tom leaned in again, whispering to the tiny heartbeat beneath his palm. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll always be loud enough for you to find me.”

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving Shiv alone with her reflection. In the mirror, her face looked steady, practiced. Only her eyes betrayed the storm beneath. She pulled her hair back, pinned it tight before deciding against it. She brushed her hair out, curling the ends just slightly. It made her look softer, more ethereal. Then she leaned closer to the mirror to add a darker shade of lipstick than the usual nude.

This wasn’t about Annabelle. It wasn’t even about Tom, not really. It was about control. About walking into that dinner and making sure no one could mistake her for the fragile one.

Shiv Roy wasn’t fragile.

She slipped on her heels and felt the familiar weight of armor settle across her shoulders. If Tom wanted to play house, she’d arrive as herself, impossible to ignore, and impossible to replace.

.:.:.

Rae sprawled on her bed, book balanced on her stomach. Gwendoline had just left her room with a little sigh, muttering about “tonight will be a long evening.”

Rae grinned into the ceiling. Long evening? More like the perfect evening. Because tonight wasn’t just dinner. Tonight was the showdown. Mom. Dad. And Annabelle. All trapped together at the same table.

Rae sat up in bed. “This is it,” she thought. “This is where mom realizes she still wants dad, dad realizes Annabelle is boring, and then – bam, we’re a family again.”

She started pacing, her mind buzzing. Should she wear something nice? Not recital-level fancy, but something that said this is important. If she looked extra put-together, maybe they’d remember what was at stake.

She pulled open her closet and grabbed the blue dress mom had bought her in D.C. It was simple but elegant. She twirled once in front of the mirror, then made a face. Too try-hard? Maybe. But she couldn’t show up in sweats for the battle of the century.

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Iverson: Ur dad’s gf is trending in some fashion blog. “PR Barbie.” LOL.

Rae smirked. Perfect. Mom would hate that. She tucked the phone away, smoothed her dress down, and sat cross-legged on the bed again, lion propped beside her like an eager co-conspirator.

“They’ll thank me later,” she told him seriously. “They don’t know it yet, but this dinner is going to fix everything.”

Her stomach flipped with nerves, but her grin didn’t fade. 

The apartment was spotless, everything aligned like they were auditioning for a lifestyle spread. Poor Gwendoline had spent the whole day running around town and prepping the dinner. Tom knew the table looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop fussing over things.

Annabelle drifted through the living room with a practiced grace, smoothing the skirt of her dress. She had brought a lemon tart from some Upper East Side bakery. She was making an effort, which Tom told himself he appreciated.

“You’re nervous,” she teased, settling on the sofa.

“I’m not nervous,” Tom said too quickly, then corrected himself with a small smile. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s not… your average dinner.”

“Because your ex-wife will be here,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly.

Tom adjusted his cufflinks, throat tightening. “She’s Rae’s mom. She’s important. We have to keep things… civil.”

Annabelle’s expression softened. “I can handle civil.” She reached for his hand, laced their fingers together. “And I can handle her. Don’t worry.”

Tom smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Because no matter how many times he told himself Annabelle was good for him, he couldn’t shake the knot in his chest at the thought of Shiv walking through that door.

It’s just dinner, he told himself. It’s logistics. That’s all.

The doorbell rang. Annabelle smoothed her hair, straightened her spine, and flashed him a reassuring smile. Tom’s palms were damp because he knew, before he even opened the door, that nothing about tonight would be just dinner.

The door swung open, and there she was. Shiv stood framed in the hallway light, her hair a perfect blow-out, red silk blouse glowing against the muted tones of the apartment. She carried herself like she owned the place, because actually she still did. Tom’s breath hitched before he could catch it. His chest tightened, old reflexes firing, the way they always did when she filled a room. He was left like a fish without water under her icy gaze.

“Tom,” she said evenly, her eyes flicking over him with surgical precision. Then her eyes moved past him, sweeping the apartment as if she were inspecting territory she intended to reclaim.

Annabelle rose from the sofa, smile fixed, every inch of her rehearsed. “Shiv,” she said brightly, stepping forward, hand extended. “So nice to finally meet you properly.”

Shiv’s gaze landed on her, cool and assessing. She let the silence stretch, just long enough for Annabelle’s smile to flicker, then took the hand with the faintest ghost of a shake.

“Annabelle,” Shiv said smoothly. “Nice to see you again.”

Her tone was polite, but it was the kind of polite that held teeth.

Tom cleared his throat, flustered, motioning them inside. “Right. Well. Dinner’s almost ready. Rae’s…locked in her room.”

Shiv slipped past him, the scent of her perfume brushing his shoulder, setting his nerves alight. She crossed into the living room like she’d never left, heels clicking against the wood.

Annabelle followed with her perfect posture. She touched Tom’s arm lightly, her anchor in the storm. And Shiv saw it, Tom saw her see it. The air thickened instantly. Tom was caught between them, Annabelle bracing, and Shiv radiating a cool, deliberate fury.

It wasn’t dinner. It was a battle. And Tom knew he was about to watch the two women in his life tear each other apart across the table.

Rae crouched in the hallway just far enough back that no one would see her shadow. She’d heard the door open, heard her mom’s heels, and now she had the best seat in the house. Oh boy.

Mom looked like she was about to run for President, in red silk and lipstick sharp enough to kill. Dad was fidgeting, tugging at his cufflinks like he wanted to disappear into the carpet. And Annabelle was smiling so hard it looked painful, like she’d practiced in the mirror all afternoon.

Rae bit her lip to keep from grinning. This was perfect. Better than perfect. Mom’s handshake had been ice. Dad’s eyes had gone all wide and fluttery like he didn’t know where to put them. Annabelle was trying, but obviously out of her depth.

Yes, Rae thought, This is it. This is where they realize it’s still them. Not her.

She backed up slowly, padding to her room before anyone caught her spying. She flopped onto her bed in her dress, rolled onto her stomach, and kicked her feet in the air like she was watching the best episode of TV ever made.

“They’ll thank me later,” she whispered to the lion. “For now, we just have to wait and come out at the right time with Gwendoline’s sign to help mom out.”

Her heart pounded with excitement. This was more than a plan. This was destiny unfolding in real time.

Shiv had walked in expecting to feel sharp and ready for blood. Instead the air caught her like a wave she hadn’t braced for. The apartment was hers once, though it didn’t look like it anymore. The walls carried his life now with Rae’s newly framed school photos, a watercolor Gwendoline must have insisted on, the faint scent of Tom’s aftershave threaded through the air. The armor she’d buttoned around herself in the mirror began to slip. Every corner held a memory of late-night feedings with newborn Rae, the echo of Mondale’s paws racing around the rooms, Tom’s laugh when they’d argued over the silliest things before making love on the couch. The nostalgia wasn’t sweet, it was heavy, pulling at her chest until standing there felt like wading through water.

Shiv sat down at the table. The plates gleamed, the candles flickered, the flowers on the sideboard were new. The table was overflowing with food. Tom had over-prepared, as he always did, and the perfection of it only made her chest ache. He poured wine with a steady hand, and it hit Shiv like a jolt how much older he looked. Older, but not any smaller. He carried himself differently now. Like he’d stopped bending himself into shapes to please her and had learned, somehow, to stand his ground.

And God help her, it suited him. The blazer fit his shoulders better than it used to. His hair was a little grayer at the temples, but it only sharpened the angles of his face. The years had taken some of the softness out of him, but left something more dangerous. A man she couldn’t dismiss as pliant anymore.

Spearing pieces of salad, Shiv forced herself not to stare, not to notice the way his wrist moved when he reached for the breadbasket. Annabelle brushed back her sleek hair with manicured fingers, smiling at something Tom said. She was beautiful in that polished, feminine way Shiv had never cared to be, with her nails overly done. The kind of woman who always looked prepared for photographs.

Shiv lifted her wineglass, the stem cool against her fingers. When Tom’s gaze flicked toward her, wide and uncertain, she set her eyes on the rim of the glass, anywhere but his. She would not beg. She would not plead. He had invited her here, to her own apartment, with another woman. If this was how it was, she would sit with her spine straight and her lipstick dark and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Annabelle laughed again at some silly story Tom had shared. She touched his arm, then his neck, like she had every right to do so. Shiv forced her face still, but each casual gesture felt like salt in an open wound. She could go and throw up at any second. 

Once, it had been them. Tom fumbling through his ambition, Shiv a mess of sharp edges and restless hunger to prove herself to her dad. They had found each other and clicked. Somehow, amidst all that chaos, it had felt like they were the only two people alive. Despite their hardships, they had managed to build something together. 

Tonight she had come here to win, but looking at Tom with Annabelle made the anger simmered out of her. She was just so tired of this. Somehow numb, watching him happy with someone else in the space they used to share.

Shiv took a sip of wine, and let it burn going down her throat. The wine painted her lips even deeper red, but her heart felt unbearably blue against the ghosts of memories they had shared in this apartment. She kept repeating to herself that she was fine. That she was here for Rae, not for him. That she was above all of this. But when Tom glanced up at her, eyes catching hers for just a beat longer than necessary, the air shifted into something familiar but unbearable.

Shiv looked down at her plate, heart thudding, and told herself she hadn’t noticed it. That she couldn’t feel anything towards him anymore. 

Annabelle stood when the dishes needed clearing, her smile polite as she stacked plates. “I’ll take these,” she offered.

Shiv nodded, wordless. The sound of cutlery against porcelain scraped her ears. Tom left the room briefly to help, and when he returned from the kitchen alone, Shiv didn’t look at him. She fixed her eyes on the wine bottle instead.

“Could I have some more?” she asked, her voice smooth but flat.

Tom poured the wine, careful not to spill. He didn’t overfill her glass, didn’t try to make a joke of it the way he once might have. As he set the bottle down, the motion caught Shiv’s eye. His ring finger was bare, the pale shiny indentation of the band still visible beneath the chandelier’s light. The sight made her stomach drop in a soundless punch that took the air from her lungs. Swallowing hard, she looked down at her own hand, at the empty space that was just as bare as his, and for the first time she let herself feel the loss. It was quiet, deliberate, but still so absolute.

Shiv could feel his eyes on her. Could imagine the deep blue of his eyes sparkling with emotion but she refused to look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the deep red in her glass, her profile carved into cool stillness.

“It helps a little bit,” Tom said wearily. It was a weak attempt at humor, a whisper of the way things used to be. It landed flat.

Shiv took a sip. The taste of her favorite wine was like ashes in her mouth. Taking a deep breath she looked out to the city sparkling on the other side of the windows. The words just spilled from her lips. 

“I thought I’d come in here and…” She let the sentence die, her shoulders shifting in a restless shrug. “I don’t have it tonight.” A flicker of old humor surfaced and fell. “The lines or the steel. I left them in D.C. with the bill and my spine.”

Tom’s lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh. He kept his hands on his knees, knuckles pale, because the muscle memory to reach for her was so damn strong it ached. The silence between them stretched. It was in no way hostile, but worse. Familiar. There had been other nights like this. One’s that usually would end in a much different fashion. 

Shiv let their eyes meet finally, just for a second. He was still Tom. Still hers, in the parts of her that refused to let go. And he saw it too, the ghost of recognition in her eyes before she shuttered it.

“Funny,” she murmured, swirling her glass. “We fought so hard to stay together. And now it feels like we’re rehearsing how to stay apart.”

Tom swallowed. “You were always better at rehearsals.”

Her throat tightened. The sadness clawed at her ribs insistently. She took another sip of wine instead of answering, staring down into the dark liquid like it might explain how to stop wanting him. She didn’t know which one was more haunted: the apartment or her. 

From the kitchen came the faint sound of Annabelle humming, the soft clink of plates and glasses. Shiv and Tom sat frozen at their old table, each pretending not to notice how close they still were, how unbearable it felt to resist the pull between them. Shiv’s eyes flicked toward the doorway and then back to her glass.

Tom cleared his throat. “She likes you,” he said, almost tentative.

Shiv let out a short, humorless laugh. “Annabelle?”

“No. Rae.” His voice stayed low. “She… tolerates Annabelle. But she likes you better. You don’t have to worry about being replaced.”

Shiv scoffed. “And what does that mean, exactly? That Rae should just… learn to adjust? Smile politely at the woman sitting at her table?”

Tom leaned back a fraction, holding her gaze this time. “It means Rae has to know that she’s safe. That we’re steady, even if everything else isn’t.”

Shiv adjusted herself, and then sagged into her chair. “Steady. Right.” She pressed her fingers to the rim of her glass. “You know, Tom, I thought I could handle this. I thought – fine, you’ll date, I’ll work, we’ll split Rae like… like our shared iCal.” She shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “But she’s not a calendar. And she’s starting to notice.”

Tom’s chest tightened. He kept his voice careful. “I don’t want her hurt. I don’t want you hurt, either.”

Shiv’s eyes flicked up at him then, sharp and wet all at once. “You already did. We already did. And now Rae’s the one stuck, trying her best stitching us back together, with her silly little schemes.”

The sadness between them pressed in, thick enough to choke. God, Tom wanted to reach for her, and hug her, to comfort her, but his hands stayed on his knees, iron-bound by restraint.

“So what now?” Shiv asked softly. “Annabelle just… comes along for the ride now? Holidays? School plays? Sitting next to me at the Nutcracker?”

Tom swallowed. “If she wants to… yeah. Eventually.” He faltered, then added, almost whispering, “Unless it’s too hard for Rae. She comes first. Always.”

Shiv’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Always. Until it’s just us again, pretending not to see each other.”

Tom didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The sound of Annabelle moving in the kitchen grew louder, closer. The spell was breaking.

Shiv drained the rest of her glass, set it down carefully, and finally looked at him. “Figure it out, Tom. We have to do what’s right for Rae.”

But her eyes lingered on his lips too long, saying everything her mouth wouldn’t.

Annabelle returned, sliding gracefully into her seat, brushing Tom's sleeve as if to remind him she was here. She asked Shiv something polite about her work in D.C. Shiv nodded once, murmured a short answer, then fell silent again.

The quiet was worse than any argument they’d ever had. Tom sat between them, his smile plastered on, his stomach knotting tighter with every passing minute. He wanted Shiv to speak, to spar, to roll her eyes, to jab at him with that sharp tongue until he bled. Anything but this blank distance. Because he knew her well enough to recognize that the silence meant defeat. And that, somehow, hurt more than her fury ever had.

He reached for his own glass, drained it too quickly, and pretended the wine was responsible for the burn in his throat. Annabelle's voice carried on about a gallery show next week. He nodded, but his eyes kept sliding back to Shiv.

She looked beautiful tonight. It was a terrible word to describe her, never enough for her. Striking, unyielding, the kind of beautiful that made a room bend around her. And yet she sat here in her own home like a guest, like someone watching the last act of a tragedy she’d already known the ending to.

He wanted to tell her he saw her pain, that he hated it, that he still remembered when it had been just them, messy and raw and alive. But instead he adjusted his cufflinks, smiled too tightly, and let the silence stretch on. Because she’d already said everything she needed. He could read the rest from her body language. And he was too much of a coward to answer it.

“I’m going to go say goodnight to Rae,” Shiv said and stood up from the table, having had enough of Tom with Annabelle.

Shiv slipped her coat over her shoulders in the hallway, each movement precise. She would not rush. She would not let Tom or Annabelle see her falter, even though she felt like dying. Her heels clicked softly against the wood as she moved away from the living room, away from the hollow laughter and forced civility.

Hold it together.

Shiv couldn’t leave without seeing her. Not tonight.

The familiar sound of a piano drifted faintly from the back of the apartment, punctuated by the rustle of fabric and a muffled laugh. Shiv followed the voices downstairs to Rae’s own dance studio and pushed the door open.

Rae stood in front of the mirror in her fancy navy dress, arms arched above her head, her hair twisted into a messy bun. Gwendoline hovered nearby, adjusting her posture with practiced care. The Nutcracker was playing from the speaker.

Shiv leaned against the doorframe, her heart softening. “You’ll wear out the floorboards.”

Rae spotted her instantly, lowering her arms. “Mom! Are you done already?!” She padded over, cheeks flushed from practice. “I was just showing Gwendoline my routine. It’s getting better, right?”

“Better?” Shiv crossed the room, crouching to her daughter’s height. “I bet it’s perfect. You’ll put the rest of them to shame.”

Rae grinned, tilting her head. “You’ll come watch, won’t you?”

The question was small, but it lodged deep. Shiv smoothed a strand of hair back from Rae’s face. “Of course. Nothing would keep me away.”

Rae’s eyes searched hers, too sharp for ten. “You promise?”

Shiv’s throat tightened, but her voice stayed steady. “I promise.”

She kissed Rae’s forehead, lingered just a moment longer, then stood. “Keep stretching. Listen to Gwendoline. And no lions in the recital.”

Rae giggled, clutching tightly to her mom’s waist. Shiv gave her one last smile before stepping back into the hallway, her face settling once more into steel. Her heels clicked with each step. She held herself unshaken, but inside, every nerve screamed with the ache of leaving her home behind. She walked up, past the dining room without looking in, past Tom and Annabelle’s voices muffled against the walls, and out into the night.

The door shut with a clean, final click. Tom stood in the vast emptiness it left behind, his hand still resting on the back of the chair Shiv had vacated.

Annabelle moved around the table, stacking plates, her floral perfume trailing in neat little bursts. “Well,” she said lightly, “that went better than I expected.”

Tom blinked at her, chest tight. Better? He wasn’t sure what she’d seen. Because what he saw was Shiv’s wineglass, rimmed with her lipstick, sitting where she’d left it. Her coat missing from the rack. The faint echo of her perfume in the hallway, already fading with her.

He scratched the back of his neck and managed a strained, “Yeah.”

Annabelle leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You were great. And you stayed calm.” She smiled like this was some kind of test they’d passed together. “She’ll come around. These things take time.”

Tom forced a polite and practiced smile. But the air felt thin, the apartment colder and emptier than when Shiv had been in it. Annabelle moved into the kitchen, humming as she moved the leftovers into the fridge, fitting herself into the space like she belonged. Tom’s eyes drifted to the hallway again. He pictured Shiv standing there only minutes ago. Her red blouse sharp against the walls, her voice cool, her smile brittle. And beneath it, something raw.

Annabelle called his name from the kitchen. He straightened, swallowed hard, and walked toward the sound of her voice. “Coming,” he said, his tone even.

But inside, all he could feel was the echo of Shiv’s defeat.

.:.:.

The weeks flashed forwards towards Christmas. The air smelled faintly of pine, though the boxes of ornaments remained untouched in the dining room. Rae had insisted to Gwendoline that they wait for the right night, when the tree would be lit, the carols playing, and the tinsel hung in perfect swoops. They were making paper snowflakes at the kitchen counter, scissors snipping with the same precision she gave her ballet steps. After they finished cutting the shapes, they dusted them with glitter. Suddenly her bedroom was a winter wonderland.

At rehearsal, Rae was even more focused. The studio’s mirrors caught her from every angle, pink tights pulled taut, satin slippers tied into flawless bows. She took her role as the Sugar Plum Fairy with an intensity that made the other girls stare, practicing the same turn again and again until the teacher finally clapped and told her to rest. Rae just nodded, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, but her eyes still locked on her reflection like it was a rival she had to conquer.

At night, she continued to practice in the living room, the lamplight catching her determined face as she turned and leapt, humming the Nutcracker’s score under her breath. The foil crown on her head slipped sideways, but she never stopped to fix it. Rae wasn’t playing at Christmas magic. She was drilling it into being, shaping herself into the Sugar Plum Fairy with a resolve. She wanted everything to be perfect. Only a week and her family would be finally reunited.

.:.:.

The Christmas party was one of those things Tom had grown to dread. No matter what his position was, even after all these years, he couldn’t seem to relax. The atrium of Waystar’s headquarters had been transformed into a winter spectacle. Lukas Matsson held court in the middle of the room, glass in hand, a ring of ass-kissers laughing at whatever crude, brilliant thing he’d just said.

Tom had Annabelle on his arm. She beamed beside him, her sequined dress catching every stray light like it had been engineered to blind. And yet Tom’s chest ached. Because across the dance floor, he’d already seen her. Shiv with her hair a flame under the lights, her dress cut sharp enough to slice. He tried to look away and failed.

Matsson spotted him just as far. “Tommy-boy!” His accent cut through the music like a blade. “Our fearless CEO. Tell me, how’s it feel being the most boring man in the room?”

The laughter was immediate, sycophantic as the whole audience turned to Tom. Tom laughed too, too loud for a joke that was pointed at him. Annabelle tensed, her hand slipping from his arm as though she wasn’t sure how close she wanted to stand when the joke was at his expense. Then Shiv’s voice came cutting through the air. She was cool and pointed. Absolutely deadly.

“Funny,” she said, stepping closer, “I thought being predictable was what you liked best in your CEOs, Lukas. Or has the criteria changed? Someone has to keep your circus in line.”

The air shifted. The laughter faltered. Matsson’s eyes narrowed, but Shiv didn’t blink as she stared him down. Tom swallowed hard, his heart lurching. Because for a second it was like the old times. Shiv with her knife-sharp tongue, but this time turned outward, not at him. For him.

Annabelle gave a polite laugh, too late, already moving toward the bar like she wanted out of the blast radius. Tom didn’t follow. He just couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on Shiv, who stood at his side now, a glass of champagne in hand, as though she’d always belonged there.

“Still got your teeth, Shivvy,” Matsson muttered, smirking before turning back to his circle.

Tom let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Shiv glanced sideways at him, her lips curving in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

And even though Shiv was fast to disappear back into the crowd, Tom felt something like gravity pulling him back where he belonged.

The night stretched on, but the edges had blurred. He had too much champagne, there was too much noise. Tom had lost track of Annabelle somewhere between the DJ booth and the terrace. She’d said something about finding Karolina, but he hadn’t followed. He couldn’t, not with Shiv circling the same rooms, pulling his attention like a magnet every time she passed him.

By the time the crowd thinned, he’d found himself outside on the balcony. Cool air swept across the city, the skyline jagged and glowing in the dark. Tom leaned into the familiar railing, the metal cold against his palms, and tried to slow the frantic thud of his heart. He breathed in deep through his nose like those self-help books had taught him. 

The door opened behind him with a soft click. It wasn’t startling, just certain, like something that had already been written. He didn’t have to turn around. He knew.

The air changed the way it always did when she entered a room, a subtle shift in gravity, in temperature as though the world itself exhaled and settled around him. The warmth of her presence cut through the cold, familiar as his own pulse.

Of course it was her. It would always be her.

“Escaping?” Shiv’s voice was low, dry, threaded with a wry amusement he’d once been able to read like a second language.

He looked back anyway. She stood in the doorway, the light from the room spilling around her like a halo she would have mocked. The black dress caught the glow and disappeared into the dark in the same breath.

“Just… air,” he said. His laugh was too thin. “And less Matsson. Or Greg for fuck’s sake. I don’t know which one is worse.”

Shiv stepped onto the balcony, her heels clicking softly against the stone. “God forbid Lukas ever let anyone else get a word in.”

They settled shoulder to shoulder, the skyline spread before them like a secret only they could share. They’ve stood here so many times before, but it was the first time when they did so as separate entities. The silence stretched, charged, full of everything they weren’t saying despite wanting to.

And for one dizzy, unguarded moment, Tom was back here years ago, in another Waystar Christmas, way before everything. He saw it as clearly as if it were playing on the glass before them. Shiv laughing with Kendall, her dress a dangerous red, eyes catching his from across the atrium like she already knew what he was thinking. He’d been no one then, a junior manager in international parks, clutching shrimp cocktail like a lifeline. When her eyes met his across the crowd again, it was like being caught in a spotlight. She smiled. It was just a flicker but Tom forgot every name and talking point he’d rehearsed for the night. Despite him flushing all red, she crossed the room to him anyway.

“You look like you’re plotting an escape,” she’d said, eyes bright with challenge.

He stammered something about the shrimp, about the music, about not belonging. She tilted her head. “Maybe you just need better company.”

They’d slipped away to the mezzanine above the main floor, away from the noise and the glares. Below, the glasses sparkled and the people schemed, but up here, the lights softened, and it felt like the world had tilted slightly off its axis. Shiv leaned on the railing, swirling the champagne in her glass. 

“You know what I like about these things?” she said. “Everyone’s pretending. It’s like theater. And you can walk straight out of the script if you want.”

Tom had laughed, too loud, too nervous. “And what happens when you do?”

“You find someone who doesn’t belong either.” She turned toward him then, eyes bright, predatory and amused. “You don’t belong, do you, Tom?”

He shook his head before he even knew he was answering. “No.” It wasn’t the sort of confession he would usually make. 

She smiled, the kind that made his knees feel unreliable. In a way that made his heart pound. “Good.”

It was the first time she kissed him. It was unhurried, the champagne still sweet on her tongue. Somewhere far below, a string quartet struck up, the sound faint through glass and marble. When she pulled back, Shiv whispered against his mouth, “Don’t tell anyone.”

He didn’t. Not that night. Not for a long time. But when he caught her laughing with someone else across the floor later, glass raised in salute, he felt something he’d never felt before. It was the ache of wanting something he knew he shouldn’t touch. And still, when she glanced back and smiled, he went to her anyway.

The memory was sweet and sharp, the first thread that had ever tied him to her.

Now, years later, she was standing beside him again, the city sprawling beneath their feet.

Tom felt the champagne humming in his blood, an ache that wasn’t entirely because of alcohol. When he turned, Shiv was already looking at him. Her eyes, darker in the half-light, were almost as sparkly as her eyeshadow was. They held a glint he remembered from a hundred late nights, from boardrooms, bedrooms, whispered arguments that always ended in a truce against their better judgment.

“You didn’t have to –” His throat tightened. He tried again. “What you said. To Matsson. You didn’t have to do that.”

Shiv’s mouth curved, but softer than before. “Maybe I wanted to.”

Something in his chest unraveled. His gaze betrayed him, dropping to her mouth, on those blood-red lips he still knew by heart. She didn’t pull away. For a heartbeat the world shrank to the inch of air between them. Too close. He could feel the warmth of her breath, the old gravity drawing him forward.

“Tom.” Her voice was a warning only in theory.

He swallowed hard, every muscle straining. He bent fractionally closer, forehead nearly brushing hers. Her perfume was sharp, warm, maddeningly familiar as it filled his lungs. God, he’d missed this scent, this nearness, this terrible inevitability.

“I can’t,” he whispered, the words torn from somewhere raw.

Shiv’s lips parted as if she might answer, but no sound came.

A burst of laughter spilled out from the party behind them, breaking the spell as the door clicked from the wind. Tom jerked back a step, the cold air rushing painfully into the space between them.

Shiv looked away first, tilting her glass toward the skyline, her expression unreadable. “Better go in before people start wondering.”

“Yeah,” Tom said hoarsely, though the word scraped against his throat.

However he knew people would talk anyway, because he could barely stand there without wanting her. He stayed a second longer, though, staring at the skyline and breathing in the faint trace of her perfume, knowing it would haunt him long after the party lights went dark.

Tom slipped back into the party, his pulse still ragged, Shiv disappearing into the crowd like she was just a figment of his imagination. He tried to steady himself, tried to grab another drink, tried to look normal, but Annabelle was waiting for him.

She intercepted him near the coat check, her smile too sharp, her eyes glittering with something colder than champagne. “Enjoy your little balcony chat?”

Tom froze, adjusting his cufflinks automatically. “It was just –. We were getting air.”

Annabelle tilted her head. “Funny. From where I was standing, it looked like something else.” 

His stomach dropped. “I –” He started too fast, too defensive. “Shiv and I, we… it’s complicated.”

Annabelle’s laugh was quiet, humorless. “Complicated. Right.” 

Tom swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He wanted to deny it, to insist that he was moving forward, that Annabelle was what he needed. But the balcony was still on his skin, the ghost of almost-kissing Shiv lingering in his chest like fire.

Annabelle saw it in his face. Her smile softened, almost pitying. “See you tomorrow.”

She brushed past him, her heels clicking sharp against the marble, and within seconds she was gone.

.:.:.

The penthouse was too quiet, that kind of silence that hummed, alive and needling. Shiv could still hear the echo of the bass pounding against her eardrums. She kicked her heels off next to the door, one, then the other, the sharp clatter echoing down the hallway. The city below her windows still pulsed with the budding Christmas cheer but up here, she was suspended in glass and quiet.

She crossed to the bar without turning on a single light. The skyline poured in instead cold and merciless, outlining her reflection in the window like a ghost. She poured two fingers of scotch, no ice, no hesitation, and sank into the couch as if the alcohol had found her legs all at once.

No matter what she tried to think of briefings, schedules or policy memos the balcony kept cutting through. The air had been so sharp it stung, the way Tom had looked at her, eyes heavy, mouth trembling like he was a second away from forgetting himself. The way she hadn’t stepped back.

She took a swallow that burned all the way down. It didn’t touch the fire in her chest.

“Idiot,” she muttered. It wasn’t clear who she meant him, herself, the both of them tangled together in the same old loop. She set the glass down too hard. The scotch sloshed over her fingers.

She’d promised herself she was past this. That she wasn’t the woman who waited for a man to remember her, or worse, to choose her. She’d built walls of steel and headlines and policy briefings, and still one look from him had reduced her to ash.

It had been so easy to forget everything on that balcony, with the city’s pulse under their feet and his breath close enough to touch, why they’d broken apart in the first place. Easier still to remember the warmth of him. How he always made her feel like she was both the knife and the wound.

Shiv pressed her palms to her eyes until stars bloomed behind them.

She hated Matsson with his smug little smirk, the way he’d mocked Tom like he was disposable. She hated how much it had cost her to step in, how instinctive it had been. Because for a heartbeat she’d forgotten pride, power, everything. She'd only wanted to shield him.

Her glass was empty before she realized she’d drained it. She poured another. She shouldn’t have cared. Not anymore. But she couldn’t stop seeing his face, that flicker of conflict. Couldn’t stop hearing the whisper  I can’t  that had sounded like pain, like it had cost him everything not to touch her.

She tipped her head back against the couch, the second drink burning even hotter than the first. The city outside glittered with the kind of promise she didn’t believe in anymore. She should feel triumphant. She’d stood her ground, looked him in the eye, proved she wasn’t the one left behind. But she didn’t feel victorious. She felt raw. Stripped open. Human in a way she hated.

And beneath all of that, under the cynicism, the armor, the burn of alcohol was hope. It clawed at the edges of her ribs, unwanted and alive.

Shiv let out a shaky laugh, quiet and bitter. “Goddamn idiot,” she whispered again. 

Then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring out at the glittering sprawl of Manhattan. Somewhere across that city, Tom was probably staring at the same skyline, thinking about everything they hadn’t said.

Morning came too soon, too dark, gray and bleak. Shiv woke on the couch, still in last night’s dress, one arm flung over her eyes. The scotch bottle on the table was half-empty, a constellation of glass rings marking where she’d lost track of time. Her head throbbed dully, mostly from alcohol. But the anxiety was the weight of everything she’d thought she’d buried.

She sat up slowly, the silk clinging to her skin, and pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. The city beyond the window was already alive with taxis, deliveries, the ordinary hum of people who hadn’t stood on a balcony and almost destroyed themselves.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere under a cushion. She fished it out. A flood of messages crowded her screen. D.C. scheduling updates, press briefings, and one from her aide. She set the phone down, straightened the cushions, and forced herself upright. The motions that came next were mechanical: rinse her face, brush her teeth, twist her hair into a low knot. Each small act built a barrier between the woman she’d been last night and the one she needed to be now.

By the time she finally arrived to D.C., Shiv was back in her uniform consisting of a navy blouse, structured jacket and black skirt. Her eyes still carried the faint bruise of sleeplessness, but her expression was smooth marble.

“Rough night?” her aide ventured as she handed over the coffee.

Shiv didn’t look up from the tablet she’d already unlocked. “More like a rough year.”

Her aide hesitated, sensing the crackle of tension, then retreated with a murmured “Of course.”

When the door closed, Shiv exhaled. Her reflection in the glass caught her off guard. She looked composed, capable, and unflinching but she saw the ghost of the woman from the night before in the set of her mouth, the faint redness at the corner of her eyes.

She thought briefly of texting Tom, something neutral, something stupid like Good luck with dealing with Greg in that hangover. But she didn’t. She deleted the draft before it could become a temptation.

As she passed the window, the light hit her just so, catching the faintest shimmer of last night’s eyeshadow she’d missed washing away. She paused, rubbed it off with her thumb, and smiled without humor. By the time the elevator doors closed, her mask was back in place. The Chief of Staff. The woman who didn’t flinch. The one who could bury anything, even hope.

.:.:.

That morning the sun didn’t seem to rise at all. Tom sat at the edge of the bed, tie limp in his hands, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. The apartment was quiet. Rae was already off to school, Gwendoline humming faintly somewhere downstairs.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, the balcony replayed in brutal detail: the night air, Shiv’s alluring face inches from his, her voice low, warning but not moving away. The way he’d whispered  I can’t  and meant   I want to, God, I want to.

Tom scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t do this to Annabelle. To himself. To Rae. To Shiv. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Annabelle’s name. For once, he didn’t rehearse, didn’t strategize. He just typed: I want you to come here tonight. We need to talk.

He stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send. Tom let the phone drop onto the bed. His head and chest hurt, but in a different way now. He stood, adjusting his tie with hands that still trembled, and caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked older than he remembered. Worn down. But beneath the exhaustion, flickered resolve.

In the evening, Tom had hugged Rae and sent her off to her ballet practice with Gwendoline. They were slaving the children for the week before the recital. He waited for Annabelle to arrive with sweaty palms. She rang the doorbell and Tom jumped at the sound even though he had been waiting for this moment the whole day. Annabelle stepped in with a polite nod. 

Tom slumped on the couch and Annabelle followed after him. She sat curled in the corner of the couch, with her heels off. She’d been watching him too long for it to be casual.

“Are you going to tell me,” she said softly, “or do I have to say it for you?”

Tom stopped fussing with his cuticles. His stomach dropped. “Annabelle…”

“You almost kissed her.” There was no accusation in her tone. Just the fact of it, spoken clean. “At the party. On the balcony.”

He couldn’t bear to look her hurt face. His silence was an answer enough.

Annabelle let out a small breath, half-laugh and half-sigh. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. I saw it before she even opened her mouth.”

He wanted to deny it, to say the lines he’d practiced about moving on, about how kind Annabelle was, how steady. But the words jammed in his throat. Because she was kind. She was steady. She was probably too good for him, and she deserved better than being a placeholder.

On the side table behind them sat a slim leather folder, the new, not-pink, divorce papers he and Shiv had promised their lawyers they would sign weeks ago. Neither of them had managed it. Twice he’d opened it, pen in hand, only to feel his chest seize. The signatures remained blank, a quiet confession neither of them would say aloud.

“You’re not over her,” Annabelle said, her voice still gentle despite everything. “And I don’t think you ever will be.”

Tom’s eyes found the ceiling with their fancy designer lamps.

“I wanted to be. You have to believe me, I wanted to be. You… you make things so much easier. You make all the sense in the world. You don’t –” He broke off, shaking his head.  “But it’s like I’m faking with you. Pretending I can do normal. And the whole time, Shiv’s…” His voice cracked. “She’s still in every room, even when she’s not.”

Annabelle studied him for a moment. Her eyes weren’t angry nor cruel. Just sad. “You know what that makes me, right?”

He swallowed. “I know.”

“I’m just a rebound girlfriend,” she said. “And I don’t do that, Tom.”

The line landed like a mercy and a knife at once into his chest. He pressed his palms together, fighting the useless urge to apologize. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” Annabelle said, standing. She slid her shoes back on, efficient and practiced. “And neither did you. You just… loved the wrong person at the wrong time. Or maybe the right person, and the time’s still wrong.”

Her coat was over her arm before he’d moved. She leaned down, kissed his cheek. Her touch was never possessive, only light and caring. She kissed him as a goodbye.

“I hope,” she murmured, “for Rae’s sake if nothing else, that you figure out what to do with Shiv. Because she’s not gone, Tom. And pretending she is will only break you both.”

And with that, she left. The door clicked shut. The apartment felt cavernous, full of her absence. But even more full of whispers of Shiv, everywhere he looked, whether he wanted her or not.

Rae knew something was different the second she walked through the door after ballet practice. Her dad was sitting at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, his laptop open but untouched. No cufflink-clicking, no pacing, no distracted half-smiles. And Annabelle wasn’t there. She was supposed to be here.

“Where’s Annabelle?” Rae asked, dropping her backpack with a dramatic thud.

Tom blinked up at her, like he’d forgotten she existed for a second. “She’s… not coming around anymore.”

Rae froze. “Wait, what?” She walked towards her dad. “You broke up?”

Tom hesitated, but he nodded. “Yeah. I broke it off. It wasn’t right.”

Rae’s heart shot straight into her throat. She tried to keep her face neutral, but her lips betrayed her, twitching upward until she was grinning so wide it hurt.

“Yes!,” she whispered, before she cheered as lowkey as she could: “Operation Sugar Plum is back on track!”

Tom frowned, confused. “Operation what now?”

But Rae was already bolting down the hall, nearly slipping on the floorboards as she went for her room. She yanked her phone out of her backpack, thumbs flying before she could second-guess herself.

To mom, she texted with all caps: GUESS WHAT. DAD BROKE UP WITH ANNABELLE! HE’S FREE!!!!

Three dots appeared, then paused, then appeared again. Finally, Shiv replied: Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Rae grinned so hard she thought her face might split. Too late, she typed back. This is destiny.

She collapsed back on her bed, shrieking, hugging the lion tight, kicking her legs in the air. Finally, her plan was moving forward.

Shiv was still in her office when the message came through. the faint buzz sliced through the quiet like a needle. Her desk was a battlefield of policy briefs and briefing folders, the soft blue glow of the West Wing’s after-hours lights spilling across her papers. She hadn’t gone home yet. She hadn’t wanted to face the gaping silence.

She expected a calendar ping, or another flagged memo from her aide. Instead, when she turned the phone over, the screen was lit with Rae’s name and all caps:

GUESS WHAT. DAD BROKE UP WITH ANNABELLE! HE’S FREE!!!!

For a beat, Shiv just stared, blinking like the words were in another language. Then her pulse kicked hard, and traitorous. She should’ve rolled her eyes. Should’ve sighed, typed something neutral and maternal. Instead, her mouth curved before she could stop it.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, then she tapped back: Don’t get ahead of yourself.

The reply came instantly, a wall of determination and emojis: Too late. This is destiny.

Shiv let out a breath that was something between a laugh and a groan, and leaned back in her chair. The leather creaked beneath her. The sound of the city at night pulsed faintly through the window, a heartbeat behind her own. She turned the phone face down on the desk, but the warmth in her chest didn’t go away.

Annabelle. She’d told herself the woman hadn’t mattered. That she’d been a footnote. A blip. But the truth was uglier. Shiv had hated knowing someone else was sitting at her old table, hearing Tom’s low, careful laugh, catching the tender version of him she’d once thought belonged only to her.

And now… he was free.

The thought sent a dizzy rush through her veins, sharp and lightheaded. She pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, willing the flush out of her face, the quickening of her breath. You’re the Chief of Staff, she told herself. You do not grin over your ex-husband’s love life in the West Wing.

But she did. Quietly. Stupidly. The smile spread anyway, tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Her laptop chimed with another policy update waiting for approval but she couldn’t focus on the screen. All she could hear was the soft echo of his voice on that balcony, the whisper that had cracked them both open. 

Maybe he could now.

By the time she finally shut her laptop, the city lights had blurred into smears against the window. She packed up the folders methodically, straightened her jacket, slid the phone into her pocket like it was nothing. 

Chapter Text

The Annabelle situation was officially over, finally! Dad had moped for two days, like someone had stolen his favorite mug, but then he’d gone back to being his regular, sad-but-manageable self. Now both of her parents were single and miserable, which meant prime conditions for Operation Sugar Plum Fairy. 

Rae had come up with the perfect plan. Gwendoline, after much sighing in French, had promised to “look the other way” if things got messy, but Rae assured it wouldn’t. Her plan was water tight.

The most important part was the tickets. They had strictly agreed to do a lottery for the parent’s tickets. Rae didn’t agree. She had marched straight up to the receptionist at the recital theater with Gwendoline in tow, and asked for the best seats. She’d smiled so big her cheeks hurt and bat her long lashes. The receptionist melted like butter on toast. Rae was the Sugar Plum Fairy after all. Rae had hovered near the chart until she saw the perfect spots that were dead center, where you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t seen the other person breathing next to you.

Step two: the sell. Both parents had already promised months ago they’d come. No wiggle room. No last-minute “oh, honey, I have to save democracy” or “sweetie, the board might implode without me.” She had even sent their personal assistants iCal memos. This time, they were locked in.

All that was left was her part. The Sugar Plum Fairy. Center stage. Spotlight on her. Sparkly tutu that would blind everyone. She was going to kill it. Then she’d bow, they’d clap (preferably standing), and afterward they’d look at each other and remember that they were in fact in love with each other. Dad would remember mom wasn’t replaceable. Mom would remember dad wasn’t disposable. They’d go and get some of the best ice cream in town and Rae would have her family back. 

Now all she had to do was dance and wait for the magic to happen.

.:.:.

The snow had just started to fall again, a lazy drift outside Shiv’s D.C. townhouse. She’d worked too late, as always. The holidays were inching closer but they showed her no mercy. Her office lamp was still burning when the rest of the block was dark. Papers were spread across the kitchen table, her phone buzzing with notifications she wasn’t ready to answer.

When the doorbell rang, she frowned. It was nearly ten. Through the peephole she could see a familiar silhouette, shifting his weight, breath fogging the glass.

Shiv opened the door halfway. “Roman?”

“Yeah, uh, hi.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shivering in an expensive coat that wasn’t nearly warm enough for December. “Can I come in? Or do I have to give my dramatic apology in the hall like some Dickensian orphan?”

Shiv blinked. “Apology?”

Roman rolled his eyes, bumping past her before she could stop him. “Don’t make me say the word again, it’s gross enough once.” He glanced around the house. It was neat and impersonal, like any of those designer houses they had once lived in. “Jesus, you really live like a cabinet meeting in human form, huh?”

“Roman,” she said, warning in her tone.

He looked at her then. Shiv had tired eyes, he could see the tension she carried like a second skin. His smirk faltered. “I, uh… I was an asshole. At Thanksgiving.”

“Understatement of the year.”

“Yeah, well, I’m self-aware now. Something like growth.” He spread his hands, half defensive, half joking. Then, quieter: “You didn’t deserve that. About Ken. Or dad. Or… anything, really.”

Shiv’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him.

Roman rubbed the back of his neck, words tumbling out faster now, as if afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I don’t know why I said what I said. I just – you’re my sister, Shiv. And when you start to… I don’t know – I don’t handle sincerity well. Makes me itchy.”

A small laugh escaped her despite herself. “You don’t say.”

He huffed. “And there aren’t that many of us left… We need to stick together.” Roman looked down to the pointed tips of his shiny shoes. “Anyway. I texted Rae last week. She told me about her big ballet thing being tomorrow.”

“Her recital, yes.”

“Yeah, that. Sugar fairy thing? She’s… she’s really excited.” He hesitated. “She asked if I was coming.”

Shiv blinked. “You? At a children’s ballet performance?”

Roman shrugged, trying to play it off. “Don’t act like I can’t appreciate the fine arts. I cried during Shrek 2.”

The smile kept tugging at the edges of her jaw. “You’re serious?”

“I am.” His tone softened. “Look, I messed up at Thanksgiving. I said things I can’t unsay. But I don’t want Rae thinking her family’s just a bunch of psychos who can’t sit in the same room without throwing glassware. She likes me. God knows why. Maybe I remind her of a cartoon ferret. But she asked me to come, so…”

Shiv folded her arms, studying him. There was something small and sincere under all the bravado, a boyish awkwardness she hadn’t seen in years. “You’re really coming.”

Roman met her gaze. “Yeah. I think I’ll be there. Front row, clapping like a lunatic.”

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then she reached out, squeezed his arm briefly. “Thanks, Rome.”

He shrugged, pretending to brush something off his sleeve. “Yeah, well. Don’t make a big thing out of it. You’ll ruin my image.”

He started for the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “Hey, Shiv?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a good mom.”

She froze, throat tightening.

Roman didn’t look back when he said it, just shoved the door open and disappeared into the cold, muttering something about “needing a drink and a new personality.”

Shiv stood there for a long time, staring at the wet snow swirling through the dark, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

.:.:.

The morning of the recital, Rae woke up before her alarm. Way, way before. Like, the sky was still pitch black. Her stomach was doing weird flips. Not the bad kind, like when you eat sushi from a place Greg says has “quirky vibes”. The excited kind. The this-is-going-to-change-everything kind. She lay flat on her back and stared at the ceiling, arms spread like she was about to be carried off by angels. Tonight was it. The night. The night she’d bring her parents back together. And okay, yes, also the night she’d be the Sugar Plum Fairy in front of hundreds of people, but honestly, that part was the easiest.

Her costume was already hanging on the closet door, the tutu fluffed to maximum sparkle. She’d begged Gwendoline to steam it three times until the au pair had muttered something about “dictatorships in miniature.” Rae had decided that was a compliment.

At breakfast, she couldn’t eat more than half a pancake. Dad noticed immediately. “Nerves?” he asked, pretending to be casual but watching her like a hawk.

She shrugged. “Just want it to be perfect.”

“You’ll be great, cub,” he said. “No one’s ever questioned your grand jeté game.”

Rae smirked into her orange juice. Classic dad, trying to say French words and sounding like he was choking on them. Maybe he should be the one under Gwendoline’s tutoring. 

“You still need to eat. Otherwise you won’t have the energy to dance. We don’t want you fainting on the stage,” Tom reminded her.

But underneath the nerves and the tutu and the pancakes, there was the real reason her heart was racing. Tonight mom and dad would be forced to sit together. She’d seen the tickets tucked into their wallets. Row C, seats 9 and 10. Side by side. Trapped by love and assigned seating.

By noon, she was pacing the apartment, lion tucked under her arm like a war general.  Gwendoline finally snapped, “Rae, please, the floor will not change if you keep walking on it. You just tire yourself out before the show.”

Rae ignored her. She was rehearsing the night in her head. Curtain up, her cue, the music swelling, tutu glittering like a disco ball. And then her parents locking eyes, the memory of everything they’d ever been crashing down on them like fairy dust.

It was foolproof. It had to work. 

Gwendoline sighed, setting down the backpack they packed up for tonight. “Rae.”

Rae stopped pacing, clutching the lion closer. “What?”

“Cheriè,” Gwendoline said softly, crossing to kneel in front of her, “I know what you’re hoping for tonight. I do. But sometimes, love doesn’t fix the way people break.”

Rae frowned, stubborn. “But it can! They just have to remember. The Nutcracker is their favorite. Dad always said mom cried the first time I danced to it.”

Gwendoline smiled sadly. “Maybe she did. But this –” she reached out, brushing a stray hair from Rae’s face, “this isn’t on your shoulders, darling. You dance because you love it. You dance for you, not to fix something that isn’t yours to fix.”

Rae’s eyes filled but she lifted her chin, defiant. “But what if it works?”

“Then that’s wonderful,” Gwendoline said gently. “But if it doesn’t…” She hesitated, her voice softening even more. “If it doesn’t, you have to let them go their own way. Promise me you’ll let it be.”

Rae looked away, jaw set. She didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on the lion.

Gwendoline sighed. “You’re just like your mother,” she murmured, standing again. “Once you decide something’s possible, the rest of the world doesn’t stand a chance.”

But as she watched Rae resume her pacing, determination carved into every small movement, Gwendoline knew there was no stopping her. Operation Sugar Plum Fairy was already in motion.

.:.:.

Saturday afternoon, the city light poured pale and wintry through the D.C. townhouse windows. Shiv stood before her bedroom mirror, a half-zipped garment bag hanging open on the bed. Inside lay the dress she’d chosen after far too many discarded options. It was a deep sapphire sheath that struck the narrow balance between elegant and effortless. Not a date dress, not a boardroom suit but something in between.

Her phone lay on the dresser, screen dark. Somehow she kept returning to the message that had arrived a week ago. The one that made her heart pound. It was Rae’s exuberant text, a cascade of exclamation points: Dad’s free!!!

Shiv had stared at it for a long time, the words thudding against her ribs. Tom hadn’t called, hadn’t written anything. He was probably licking his wounds somewhere. But just the quiet knowledge, delivered by their ten-year-old daughter, that he’d finally ended things with Annabelle, sparked something like hope inside her.

Now, as she smoothed the fabric over her hips, her chest tightened with something she refused to name. Anticipation, fear, the dangerous thrum of a door cracking open. The ballet recital was supposed to be about Rae. It was her first real solo as the Sugar Plum Fairy but Shiv knew the night carried a second performance, one no program listed.

She checked her reflection. Hair slicked back into a bun, makeup soft except for the lipstick, a muted berry that hinted at confidence without tipping into provocation. She adjusted a single gold earring, then paused, palms resting on the dresser. It had been a little more than a week since the night on the balcony, since Tom’s voice had brushed against hers in the cold air, since he’d whispered  I can’t  like it hurt to breathe. And now he would be there, the father of her child, almost-ex-husband, man who still haunted the corners of her mind.

Shiv exhaled, steadying herself. This wasn’t a negotiation or a power play, it was a recital, Rae’s night. But as she slid into her coat and caught her reflection one last time, she felt the restless beat beneath her ribs. Whatever happened when she saw Tom again, it would be more than a greeting. It would be the first step toward something neither of them had dared to name. 

.:.:.

The theater lobby smelled faintly of popcorn that had been banned years ago, velvet carpet holding on to every echo. Parents clustered in nervous knots, clutching bouquets, and whispering about costumes and cues.

Tom arrived first, ticket folded neatly in his inside pocket, hands shoved deeper into his blazer than necessary. He’d been early without meaning to be, a habit from years of trying too hard. He was halfway through pretending to study a poster of The Nutcracker when the air shifted. He resisted the urge to look her way but he failed. He could always feel her presence. 

Shiv had chosen a simple emerald mockneck dress. Her hair pinned back into a slick bun, no statement jewelry except the way she carried herself. A few parents glanced over as if she were another piece of the evening’s set design: elegant, untouchable, imported from a better world.

Their eyes caught across the carpet. The beat stretched too long, then Tom cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Shiv’s voice was flat but controlled. Her eyes flicked to the poster in his hand, as if she couldn’t resist checking what he was doing with himself when she wasn’t around.

He lifted the ticket. “Looks like I’m – uh, row C, Seat 10.”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Nine.” She held up her own ticket. “Figures.”

There was a beat where they both seemed to weigh the idea of swapping with someone, inventing an escape hatch. Then, at the same time, they each shrugged the thought away.

“For Rae,” Tom said.

“For Rae,” Shiv echoed, as though they’d signed a contract.

.:.:.

Backstage, the theater buzzed like a hive. Layers of tulle rustled, makeup brushes darted, ribbons were tied and re-tied. The rats were toying around with their tails. Rae stood in front of the mirror, wings trembling slightly with each breath. Gwendoline fussed with her hair, smoothing the bun that had already been perfect ten minutes ago.

“Ready?” she asked.

Rae nodded, chin high, but her stomach swirled. She caught her own reflection. She had frosty shimmer on her cheeks, the glitter dusted on her collarbones and whispered under her breath, This has to work. 

Gwendoline heard her, but didn’t respond. She only rested a steadying hand on Rae’s shoulder for a moment before stepping back.

“Places, everyone!” Madame Volkova called.

Rae took one last breath, clutching her lion before passing him to Gwendoline for safekeeping. Then she stepped toward the curtain, her heart drumming to the rhythm of the overture.

.:.:.

They found their way down the aisle together, the hush of the theater already pressing in. Parents and grandparents shuffled, whispering, program pages rattling. The usher checked their tickets and gestured toward the very center. Side by side. There was no way out.

As they shuffled through the dim theatre, Tom's hand grazed her waist, guiding her forward like he used to do. When Shiv’s eyes found his in confusion, Tom realized his mistake, letting his hand drop with a blush and a mumbled “sorry”. Tom slid into his seat, the armrest suddenly too narrow. Shiv sat next to him, her perfume sharp enough to cut through the velvet air.

“This was her idea,” Tom said quietly.

Shiv’s voice was just as soft. “Everything she does is her idea.”

The lights dimmed, and for a brief moment, just before the curtain rose, they both looked forward, perfectly still, as if being caught in the same frame again was something they hadn’t quite prepared for.

The tension was cut as the orchestra began. Strings, soft at first, rising into something sweeping. The curtain lifted. Shiv felt her chest tighten as the first dancers crossed the stage. Her daughter was somewhere in the wings, waiting for her cue, determined to make magic out of the mess they’d made.

Rae peeked out from the wings, tiara glittering in her hair. The theater was dim, velvet curtains drawn back, the orchestra tuning with little bursts of chaos. And there she spotted them.

Dad, stiff in his suit, perched nervously but excited in his seat. Mom, red hair catching the stage lights, her posture perfect, eyes set forward. Tom blinked, lashes fluttering, Shiv turned her head sharply, lips pressing into a thin line. They didn’t move. Didn’t trade seats. Didn’t escape. Perfect. Rae tugged her tutu into place and smiled to herself.

On the left side, down the back she could make out uncle Roman. He was crammed between uncle Connor and Willa for some reason, looking like someone had dropped him into the wrong species of event. His tie was crooked, his leg probably jiggling like a metronome. She almost giggled out loud. Her whole family was here. 

From Tom’s seat, the air felt too tight. Shiv hadn’t looked at him since sitting down, her gaze trained on the stage, her hands folded neatly in her lap.  He was hyper-aware of everything. The press of Shiv’s sleeve a fraction of an inch from his, the clean line of her posture, the faintest shift of her breathing when the overture swelled. He hadn’t sat this close to her in months. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, dragging him back to all the nights they’d sat shoulder to shoulder at galas, in boardrooms, in their living room with Rae asleep across both their laps.

A row of little rats skittered out onto the stage, tails wagging. A ripple of chuckles passed through the audience. Shiv exhaled, the smallest ghost of amusement escaping before she caught it.

Tom glanced sideways. The dim light caught Shiv’s profile, sharp and serene, but her mouth betrayed her. He’d seen that half-smile a hundred times before. He’d forgotten how much he missed it.

Then came the snowflakes, then the soldiers. Then finally Rae. She was radiant under the spotlight, tutu glittering, every step landing like she had been born on stage. The Sugar Plum Fairy. The part she’d been rehearsing endlessly in the living room, twirling past coffee tables and scattering crumbs of glitter. Tom could recognize some of the steps she’d practiced. 

Tom’s chest tightened. He felt fierce and protective, pride shot through him like current. His daughter. 

Beside him, Shiv leaned forward a fraction. Her fingers tightened around the program, knuckles whitening, though her face didn’t move. She’d been stone all night, but here she cracked just a little as Rae twirled through the stage.

“She’s… incredible,” Tom whispered, because silence couldn’t hold it in.

Shiv didn’t look at him, but her mouth twitched again, softer this time. “Yeah,” she said, low. “She is.”

They both watched Rae spin, leap, land like air itself had caught her. For those minutes, they weren’t ex-husband and ex-wife, CEO and Chief of Staff. They were just two parents in the dark, staring at the best thing they had ever made together.

The orchestra swelled. The dance ended. Rae bowed, cheeks flushed with light. The applause roared. Tom clapped until his palms stung. Shiv did too. For once, they moved in sync. And for a heartbeat, sitting side by side, it almost felt like the past months hadn’t happened.

The lights dimmed again after a short intermission, the buzz of the audience softened to a hush. Then the curtain rose on a world transformed. Gone was the parlor and the snowstorm. Now the stage glowed like a dream with a candied backdrop of pink and gold, clouds of spun sugar, flowers in silk tutus drifting across the floor like petals in a breeze.

Tom felt the shift in his chest as the orchestra swept into the familiar overture of the Land of Sweets. Rae stepped out among the dancers in her second costume, a confection of pale lavender and crystal trim. The Sugar Plum Fairy now ruled her kingdom. Her steps were confident, every movement delicate yet commanding, the way Shiv entered a boardroom when she knew she had the votes.

He glanced sideways. Shiv’s eyes were locked on their daughter, her program forgotten in her lap. The stage lights gilded the edge of her hair, and for a dizzy second Tom could almost see her years ago, glowing under hospital lights as she held a wrinkled newborn to her chest. Shiv’s hand lifted to her lips without her realizing. Every movement Rae made was sure and deliberate, her little body holding impossible grace.  But it wasn’t just the beauty of it that undid her. It was the control, the precision, the fierce determination. That same fire, that same will to make things right by sheer force of belief.

A memory tugged at Tom as vividly as the stage lights. To a time when Rae was five, her hair still baby-fine, bouncing between him and Shiv down the cobblestoned West Village street on their way to a boutique. They’d spent the morning arguing with Shiv, in their quiet, brittle way, about whether ballet was too structured for a child who couldn’t keep still for a second. But the moment they stepped into the little dance boutique, all of it melted.

The shop smelled faintly of lavender sachets. Racks of tiny leotards lined the walls like pastel rainbows, and the floor glittered faintly with stray sequins. Rae stood frozen for a heartbeat, eyes wide, then broke into a gasp so bright Tom swore it lit the room.

“This one!” she squealed, reaching for a cloud-pink tutu that barely fit her arms.

Shiv crouched to help, smoothing the tulle with careful fingers. “That’s a lot of sparkle,” she teased, but her eyes softened as Rae twirled in place, the skirt flaring like a flower. She wouldn’t need one yet, but still they got it for her.

Tom knelt beside them, heart twisting as Rae caught her reflection in the mirror and clapped her tiny hands. He remembered sliding her first pair of satin slippers onto her feet, the ribbons slipping through his fingers like silk. She’d giggled as he tied the bows too tight and Shiv gently redid them, her own hands steadier, more practiced.

“You look like a real dancer,” Tom had said, his voice thick with wonder.

Rae had spun again, nearly toppling, and Shiv steadied her with a palm against her back. “A prima ballerina,” she repeated, pride flickering across her face like a secret.

Back in the theater now, Tom felt that same quiet awe as Rae danced, the baby pink costume glittering under the lights. The little girl in the pink tutu was grown, but the magic of that first day still lived in every step she took across the stage.

From Rae’s view on stage, twirling and leaping as the Sugar Plum Fairy, she didn’t miss a thing. The orchestra swelled, Rae spun into her final pose, the tiara glittering under the lights. Applause roared. She bowed, heart thudding, eyes darting to the center of the crowd.

Her parents were clapping. Together. Rae smiled, her chest full of hope, and whispered to herself from behind the curtain: “Operation Sugar Plum is working.”

As the ballet proceeded towards the end, the orchestra shifted, strings rising in a slow, aching swell. The lights dimmed to a hush of gold, and the descending scale of Pas de Deux began.

Rae stepped forward with her partner, small but regal in her lavender costume, the Sugar Plum Fairy welcoming her prince. The opening notes floated through the theater, pure and weightless, then deepened into something richer, a melody so full it seemed to reach into every corner of the dark.

Shiv felt the music in her bones. It was meant to be joyful, a dance of triumph and wonder, yet threaded through it was grief. The kind that doesn’t shout, but lingers, soft and aching, underneath the sweetness. The melody fell in its slow descent, a sound both tender and haunted.

Tom felt the change instantly, a shiver running down his spine. The music was warm but vast, the kind that made you remember every moment you’d ever loved someone enough to hurt. Rae moved with a grace beyond her years, her steps slow and certain, each turn drawn out like a held breath.

Beside him, Shiv was trying to hold herself perfectly still. At first he thought she was simply concentrating, but when the cellos swelled and Rae was lifted into a soaring arabesque, he caught the quiet hitch in her breath.

Her eyes glimmered in the low light. She blinked once, twice, but the tears slipped free anyway. The music poured over them, aching and sweet, and for a moment Shiv Roy, unflinching Chief of Staff, simply wept. 

Tom’s own chest tightened. He hadn’t seen her cry in years like this. Not without anger, or exhaustion, or defiance, but pure emotion. He wanted to reach for her hand, to tell her he felt it too, that impossible mix of pride, love, and loss that the music carried. But he stayed still, letting her have the moment without interference.

Onstage, Rae and her partner spun through the final lifts, the orchestra swelling to its crest. The last note hung in the air like a held heartbeat before dissolving into thunderous applause.

Shiv wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, quick and discreet, but Tom had already seen. Their eyes met, and for a breath the years of bitterness fell away. There was only the music, their daughter, and the ache of everything they had once built together. 

The whole theater erupted as the ballet ended with their bows. Shiv was on her feet before she knew it, clapping, laughing through the lingering tears. Tom rose beside her, still half in a daze, and for one small, electric moment, their hands brushed.

Neither pulled away.

Their hands moved in perfect rhythm, their cheers indistinguishable. For a heartbeat, Tom let himself imagine the impossible, the three of them leaving together, laughing in the cold night air, the years of hurt dissolved like sugar on the tongue. He didn’t dare look at Shiv to see if she was imagining it too. But when the applause began to fade and their eyes met across the dark, something wordless passed between them, something that felt dangerously like hope. Both of them stood still, too moved to speak, too shaken to pretend anymore that what lived between them was finished.

.:.:.

The crowd spilled into the lobby, voices echoing under the chandelier. Tom threaded through clusters of proud parents and grandparents, flowers in hand, too many flowers, really. He’d panicked and bought the whole damn store. Luckily he had Sara to deliver the flowers for him after the show, so he didn’t take three seats with his flowers. 

Rae was already waiting, tiara slightly crooked, tutu puffed around her like a pink cloud, cheeks flushed with triumph. She spotted him instantly and ran forward, barreling into his arms.

“Dad!”

Tom scooped her up, bouquet and all. “Cub, you were… God, you were perfect. The best Sugar Plum Fairy this theater has ever seen.”

Rae giggled, wriggling down. “Mom said I was perfect too.”

Tom froze. Slowly, he turned and Shiv, standing a few feet away, her red hair gleaming under the lights. She was holding Rae’s jacket, her mouth curved in a small smile. 

Shiv’s gaze flicked to the flowers, then back to Tom. “Going a little overboard?”

He swallowed. “She deserves it.”

Rae wedged herself between them, clutching both their hands, oblivious to the electricity sparking in the air. “Did you see me leap? I didn’t wobble once!”

“You were flawless,” Shiv said, squeezing Rae’s hand. Then, softer, her eyes lingering on Tom’s, “Both of us were proud.”

Tom’s chest tightened. He nodded, unable to trust his voice.

Rae darted between them, still buzzing from the stage, her tutu bouncing with every step. Shiv leaned down to fix the tiara in her daughter’s hair, forcing her hands steady even as her heart rattled. Because Tom was here, holding flowers like he always overcompensated. Looking at Rae like she was the sun, looking at Shiv like he didn’t know whether to speak or run.

The sight of him had unraveled her more than she’d expected. The applause, the curtain call, Rae glowing under the stage lights, it had felt almost like old times, the three of them tethered together. And it hurt. She stood, smoothing Rae’s hair, eyes flicking back to Tom. His cufflinks caught the light, his smile strained but real. For a moment, Shiv saw the man she’d fallen for. Awkward, earnest, and trying too hard but with a heart that had always belonged to her, no matter what he said.

Suddenly Connor, Willa, and Roman pushed their way through the crowd.

“Look at this star!” Connor announced grandly, sweeping Rae into a half-bow. “The Sugar Plum of the century!”

Rae giggled, clutching her bouquet tighter. “You came!”

“Of course we came,” Willa said warmly, kissing her forehead. She had a soft scarf wrapped around her shoulders and that endlessly kind expression that always made Rae relax. “You were beautiful. Every step was perfect.”

Rae blushed so hard she nearly dropped her flowers. “Thank you.”

Roman leaned against the wall beside them, pretending nonchalance but failing spectacularly. His hair was a mess from where he’d dragged his hands through it during the performance. “Eh, you were alright,” he said, waving a hand. “Six out of ten, maybe seven. Needs more pyrotechnics. Maybe a sword fight.”

Rae narrowed her eyes, catching the glint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You cried, didn’t you?” she accused.

Roman blinked, scandalized. “What? No. My –  my contacts were just, uh, emotionally unstable. I’m suing the optometrist.”

Connor smirked. “He was sniffling like an old lady at a soap opera.”

“Eh, you’re just projecting,” Roman muttered, but his grin was already breaking through.

“You got the tickets after all,” Shiv said, her voice calm but softer than usual with appreciation. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Connor said sincerely, taking her free hand for a brief squeeze. “She’s magic, Shiv.”

“She really is,” Willa added, smiling at both mother and daughter. “You must be so proud.”

Shiv’s throat tightened, but she managed a nod. “Yeah. I am.”

Tom nodded as a greeting for the entourage. He had that look of stunned, exhausted pride written all over his face. “I think she levitated at one point.” 

Willa laughed, Connor joined her, and even Shiv gave a light laugh. For a fleeting second, it felt like Christmas gone right.

Then Connor glanced at his watch. “We should go – wouldn’t want to miss the reservation. But we’ll see at Christmas Day, right?”

He bent down to hug Rae again, murmuring something that made her beam. Willa followed, gentle and affectionate. 

Roman crouched to her height, eyes sharp but warm. “You did good, kid. Keep that up and you’ll have your own entourage before you’re twelve.”

“I already do,” Rae said proudly. “You’re in it as the rat.”

Roman froze, then barked a laugh, shaking his head. “God help me.”

He stood, meeting Shiv’s gaze for half a second. No words but just a nod. A silent apology again, and something like affection. She nodded back. As a final goodbye Roman winked mischievously at Rae. 

Then the Roy’s were gone, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving the air still and humming with leftover energy. Shiv looked at Tom, at Rae clutching her flowers, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. The crowd noise faded to a dull hum. And just like that, it was only the three of them, the family left to solve what came next.

Rae tugged both their hands at once. “Can we go get ice cream? Together? Please, please, please!”

Shiv hesitated. She wanted to say no, to retreat, to armor herself back up. But Rae’s eyes were bright, pleading, and Tom’s face was open, waiting.

It wasn’t probably the best idea, but Shiv couldn’t bear to deny Rae’s request. “Alright,” she said finally. “Let's go together.”

And when Rae cheered and pulled them both toward the doors with their hands clasped together, she knew they had to do something. 

.:.:.

The ice cream parlor was one Rae remembered visiting ever since she was little. The neon signs in the window, the white and red tiled floor that always looked wet, the smell of sugar thick in the air. It was only a couple blocks away from their home. Shiv hadn’t been here in years, but Rae tugged both her parents inside like she owned the place.

“Three scoops,” Rae announced, pressing her face to the glass case. “Mint chocolate chip. And extra sprinkles.”

Tom chuckled, crouching down beside her. “You have ordered that ever since when you were four. Wouldn’t touch anything else.”

“I still won’t,” Rae said proudly, as if loyalty to mint chocolate was a moral achievement.

Shiv stood a step behind, arms crossed, but her mouth softened as she watched them. Against her better judgment, she added, “And you used to get it all over your face. Every single time.”

Rae grinned. “I was little. That doesn’t count.”

They sat at a sticky booth with their cones and the huge bouquet of flowers. Tom with pistachio, Shiv with black cherry, Rae triumphant with her mint. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal. They teased Rae about the tutu still sticking out under her coat, tiara still perched on top of her head, looking like a prima ballerina. Tom pretended to be scandalized when she stole a bite of his scoop. Shiv reached across the table to wipe a smear of green from Rae’s chin, their fingers brushing accidentally. And then the nostalgia grew too heavy.

The three of them were sitting in a booth, sharing ice cream, laughing too softly at jokes that weren’t funny. It felt too much like a ghost of the life they’d had. The life they were supposed to still have. Rae felt it first. The ache beneath the sweetness, the way her parents kept slipping into deep silence when their eyes met, like they were sinking deep into one another. Rae looked from one to the other, her chest tightening, and suddenly the words exploded out of her.

“You’re miserable!”

Both Tom and Shiv froze.

Rae’s cone wobbled dangerously in her hand as she sat forward, voice rising. “You’re miserable, and you love each other, and this –” she waved at the table, the sprinkles, the ice cream dripping onto a napkin, “ – this is stupid!”

Tom blinked, lashes fluttering like always when he didn’t know what to say. Shiv’s lips parted, but no words came.

Rae’s cheeks burned red, her throat thick. “I hate it! I hate watching you pretend. You sit there like everything’s fine, but I see you. You’re sad. Both of you. And I just want you to stop being dumb and love each other again!”

The whole parlor went quiet as people turned around to look at the source of the drama. A spoon clattered on the floor somewhere in the back.

Tom swallowed hard, his hand tightening around his cone until some of the pistachio dripped down his knuckles. Shiv’s eyes glistened, her mouth opening like she might finally answer. But neither of the adults managed to say anything.

Rae buried her face in her hand, hot tears smearing her cheeks. “You’re both cowards,” she whispered. “And I’m tired of this!”

The silence that followed was sharper than any argument they’d ever had. And for once, Tom and Shiv had nothing to hide behind. Rae couldn’t sit there a second longer. Not with their blank faces staring at her like she’d just said something outrageous instead of the truth.

She shoved her cone onto the table, mint and sprinkles smearing into a sticky mess against linoleum, and bolted from the booth.

“Rae!” Tom’s voice followed her as she darted past the counter, past the families queuing and the couple on their first date, through the tinsel decorated glass doors and into the sharp night air.

The city swallowed her instantly with its bright Christmas lights, honking cabs, the smell of exhaust and roasted chestnuts tangling in the air. Rae ran to the corner of the block, her tutu still puffing under her coat, the tiara slipping sideways in her hair. Hot tears blurred the streetlights into streaks of color. She hated them. She loved them. She hated that she loved them and that they were too stupid to fix what was right in front of them.

Sucking in the tears, her sneakers slapped against the pavement as she crossed the curb, running through the mass of people in their Christmas cheer, half-hoping they’d just let her disappear. 

Tom’s lungs burned as he gasped for air but he didn’t stop running. He couldn’t. Rae was a blur ahead of him, tutu bouncing, her little tiara slipping sideways. His daughter, his whole life, running into the chaos of New York traffic on Christmas because her parents couldn’t stop being idiots.

“Rae!” His voice cracked. “Please, sweetheart, stop –”

She didn’t. She was crying, he could see it even from here, the way she rubbed her sleeve against her face mid-stride. And she was angry, God, he’d never seen her so angry.

“You’re miserable, you love each other, and this is stupid!”

Her words still rang in his ears, each one a knife. Because she wasn’t wrong. She’d put her finger exactly on the thing he tried every day to deny. 

Shiv’s heels clicked somewhere behind him, sharp and relentless. “Rae!” she shouted, her voice trembling with more than fury. “Don’t you dare run from us –”

Tom pushed harder, weaving around a couple with overfilled shopping bags, his chest heaving. How were children so damn fast. When he finally caught up with Rae, because of a parked truck, his hand closed gently firmly around her arm, stopping her at the corner. She twisted, struggling against his hold, her face blotchy with tears.

“No, let me go!” Rae sobbed. “You’re supposed to talk to each other! Not to me, not to Annabelle, to each other!”

Tom’s throat closed. His eyes stung as he crouched down, hands climbing to her shoulders to hold her tighter. “Cub, listen to me – please, listen!” He faltered, searching her furious little face. Behind him, Shiv’s footsteps slowed, her breath coming hard, her presence like a storm around them.

Rae wrenched free and spun toward her mother, her words raw and broken. “Why won’t you just fix it? Why won’t you stop being stupid and love him again?”

Tom turned his head, and his eyes met Shiv’s in the raw open street. No lawyers, no schedules, no Annabelle. Just the three of them, their daughter standing between them like the sharpest mirror they’d ever faced.

Rae’s words hit Shiv harder than any argument ever had, stealing her breath away. And then her fierce, furious, ten-year-old daughter was on her, little fists pounding against her stomach, against her chest, anywhere she could reach. Rae’s face was wet with tears.

“Do it!” Rae sobbed. “Just do it, mom! Fix it, please –”

The blows didn’t hurt. They were frantic, clumsy, more like desperate wrestling than real punches. But they gutted Shiv all the same. She grabbed Rae’s wrists gently, leaning over her, her own vision swimming.

“Sweetie,” Shiv whispered, her voice breaking. “Sweetheart, stop it –”

But Rae only thrashed harder, her cheeks blotchy, her words raw. “You can! You can fix it, you just won’t! You love him! I know you do, why won’t you just say it?”

Shiv’s arms finally wrapped tightly around her, pulling Rae against her chest, holding her close as the girl sobbed and wriggled. Rae’s small body shook violently, rage and heartbreak tangled together. Shiv rocked her, murmuring useless words, but her own throat burned with grief. Because Rae was right. It was easier to walk away, to armor up, than it was to admit what Shiv already knew.

Across the streetlight glow, Shiv’s eyes found Tom’s. He was still kneeling where he’d caught Rae, his face stricken, lashes wet, his whole body taut like he’d been gutted. He looked at Shiv, not with anger, not with triumph, but with the same naked, unbearable sadness Rae had just put into words.

Shiv felt the weight of Tom’s gaze, of Rae’s trembling breath, the cost of every silence they’d ever chosen over love.

Rae’s fight burned out all at once, as if the fury had drained straight through her little body. Her arms went slack as they climbed around Shiv’s neck, her cheek pressed to Shiv’s chest, damp with tears.

“Cub,” Shiv whispered, smoothing back sweat-matted strands of red hair back into her bun. Rae’s breathing hitched a few more times, then settled into small, exhausted gulps. The adrenaline was gone. What was left was just a wrung out, trembling child, heavy in her mother’s arms.

Shiv straightened slowly, Rae clinging on instinct, legs hooked around her hip the way she’d done as a toddler. Shiv staggered for a moment under the weight in her heels, but didn’t let go. She just tightened her arms around Rae as she kept slipping over the silk of her dress.

The Christmassy city roared around them, indifferent. Cabs honked, a siren in the distance, strangers’ curious eyes darting to them again and again. Someone probably took some photos. Shiv ignored it all and began to walk with Rae tucked tight against her chest. Each step back toward the apartment felt endless. She could feel Tom hover close behind, his footsteps steady but heavy, like every stride cost him. He didn’t try to speak. He didn’t try to reach for Rae. He just followed them, silent, the way he always did when he didn’t know how to fix something.

Shiv’s throat was raw. Rae’s words replayed in her head with every block they crossed. She pressed her lips to Rae’s temple, breathing in the scent of sweat and stage makeup, the remnants of sugar still clinging faintly from the ice cream parlor.

God, her daughter. Their daughter. More fearless than either of them.

By the time they reached the building, Rae was half-asleep, her small fists finally unclenched, her breaths deep and uneven. Shiv hit the elevator button with her elbow, clutching Rae tighter, as though letting go might make the child vanish. Her arms were already well past exhaustion, her back slick with sweat, but she welcomed the burn in her lungs.  

Tom stood beside her in the lift, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, his cufflinks still clicking against the metal railing. Neither spoke. The silence pressed between them, thick, and almost unbearable if it weren’t for Rae.

Tom opened the door, holding it open for them. Shiv shifted Rae higher on her hip as she kept slipping with her draining strength. “I’ll put her to bed,” she said, her voice low but steady.

Tom just nodded, giving the mother and daughter the space they needed.

And as Shiv carried Rae down the hall, she wondered if this was what their daughter would remember one day. Not the fights, not the silences, but the way she’d screamed the truth into both their chests and then collapsed, leaving them to decide whether they were brave enough to hear it.

Shiv eased Rae onto the bed, careful not to wake her fully. The tutu was long gone, swapped for pajamas that hung loose on her thin frame. Her stage makeup wiped away with baby towels, leaving some glitter behind on her cheeks. Her tiara lay on the nightstand, next to the lion whose ear was almost chewed through. Shiv’s chest constricted so tightly it hurt.

Rae stirred, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Shiv smoothed her daughter’s hair back, the gesture automatic, grounding.

“Baby,” she whispered, “Go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

Rae’s lips parted. Her voice was barely a breath, thick with sleep. “Mom…”

Shiv leaned closer, thinking she’d ask for water, or the lion, or for the lamp to stay on.

But Rae’s eyes flickered open, tired but intent. “Talk to dad.”

Shiv froze.

Rae’s fingers curled weakly into Shiv’s sleeve, tugging. “Please. You have to. Promise you will.”

The words cracked something open in Shiv’s chest. Her throat tightened so sharply it hurt. How simple Rae made it sound. How impossible it felt.

She kissed Rae’s forehead, lingering there, her voice breaking against her daughter’s hair. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

Rae let go, satisfied, her breathing already evening out. Shiv stayed there for a long moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her sleeping child. She wanted to curl up beside her, vanish into the easy safety of her small warmth. But Rae’s plea still echoed, sharp and unrelenting.

Shiv’s gaze drifted to the doorway, where she could hear Tom moving faintly in the apartment beyond. Her pulse quickened. The thought of walking out there, of facing him raw without their usual armor, it terrified her more than anything she’d done in D.C. There was no evading from this. But for Rae, she would do it. Shiv squeezed her daughter’s hand one last time, stood, and steeled herself for what waited outside the room.

The door clicked softly behind her. Shiv stood in the hallway a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light spilling from the living room. Her pulse was quick, her palms damp against the silk of her dress. 

She forced herself to move.

Tom hovered in the living room, jacket off now, tie loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like a man who’d just come through a war. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, but his eyes were soft and trembling with guilt.

“She’s exhausted,” Shiv whispered, smoothing out her dress. She crossed into the room, her arms folded tight across her chest. She felt brittle, like the slightest wrong word might shatter her completely.

Tom nodded, his throat working. “She’s got your fight.”

Shiv gave a weak laugh, one that broke halfway through. “God help her. She’s going to get in trouble for it.”

They both stood there for a long moment, listening to the complete silence of the apartment. The night outside pressed close against the windows, full of snow and sirens and the Christmas lights twinkling around the panes, but the room itself felt suspended in quiet.

Shiv brushed her fingers once more through her loosened bun. Her eyes met Tom’s. Whatever guard she had left cracked wide open under the weight of his gaze.

“Is she asleep?” Tom asked gently.

Shiv crossed to the armchair opposite him, lowering herself with deliberate control. Her fingers trembled before she clasped them in her lap. “Almost. She… burned herself out tonight.”

Tom nodded, staring down at his hands, then back at her. The silence stretched, heavy, broken only by the city noise pressing faintly through the windows.

“She’s right,” Tom said quietly, his voice rough. “About us.”

Shiv’s breath caught. “Don’t.”

“She is,” he pressed, not louder but steadier. “We keep pretending this is better – this distance, this performance, but it’s killing all of us. You think she doesn’t feel it? Every time we hand her off like a file folder?”

Shiv swallowed hard, every muscle tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never was,” he said, stepping closer. “We just… made it harder.”

She turned away, staring at the faint shimmer of the city beyond the window. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said softly. “To want something so bad and be terrified you’ll ruin it the second you touch it.”

Tom’s voice was gentler now, so gentle it undid her. “I do. I lived it.”

Her shoulders sagged. The silk of her dress clung to her, the exhaustion settling deep into her bones. “I thought I was protecting her,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said. “But maybe what she needs isn’t protection. Maybe she just needs us – messy, stupid, human us.”

That made her turn. His eyes were tired, rimmed red, but clear. There was no pleading in them this time, no desperate need to fix or win. Just truth, quiet and impossible to look away from.

She didn’t move when he stepped closer. His hand came up slowly, as though asking permission, and when his fingers brushed her cheek, it was a soft, trembling touch. She didn’t stop him.

The air between them shifted, heavy with everything they hadn’t said, everything Rae had screamed for them. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet. But it was the beginning of something that might lead there.

Shiv let her forehead rest against his hand for a single breath. Her voice came out small, cracked open. “She deserves better.”

Tom nodded. “So do we.”

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just slow and careful, two people finding the courage to stop running. Tom exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. He stepped back to collect his thoughts, trying his best to verbalize the storm of emotions coursing through him.

“It hurt, Shiv. Being with you… it hurt so much I couldn’t fathom it. But being without you –” He stopped, the words catching in his throat. His eyes lifted to hers, raw and unguarded. “Being without you is even worse. I don’t want to live like that.”

Shiv’s chest squeezed tight. She pressed her palms against her knees, as if bracing herself. “Do you think I don’t know that? That I don’t feel it every time I leave? I tell myself it’s better this way, that it’s cleaner, safer. But the second I’m gone –” Her voice broke. “I can’t breathe, Tom.”

He stared at her, lashes wet, his lips parting like he didn’t dare believe it.

Shiv leaned forward, her words tumbling faster, sharper, desperate. “I love Rae more than I ever thought I could love anyone. And it scares the hell out of me that she sees it, that she knows how much I still…” She stopped herself, biting her lip, then forced it out. “How much I still love you.”

The silence between them rang. Tom’s breath hitched audibly, his hands frozen in his lap.

“I never stopped,” she whispered. “Even when I hated you. Even when we broke apart. I never stopped loving you.”

Tom stepped back towards her slowly, as if afraid the movement might shatter the moment. He crossed the small space between them and knelt in front of her, his hands trembling as they reached for hers.

“I love you too,” he said, voice rough, breaking open. “I always have. Even when it was killing me. Even when I tried to –” He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut. “I thought maybe Annabelle could fix me… but she was just noise. She wasn’t you. She could never fill the hole you left in my heart.”

Shiv let out a sob that startled even her, a sound dragged from somewhere deep. She gripped his hands, hard, pulling him closer.

“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks.

“So are you,” he murmured back, his forehead pressing to hers. “But we’re idiots together.”

Her laugh was wet, broken. His hands slid to her face, cupping her, and finally, finally, their mouths met in a way that was inevitable but oh so familiar.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It was desperate, messy, full of everything they hadn’t said. Years of breaking, mending, losing, finding, all of it crashing together in a single, undeniable truth: they couldn’t live without each other.

When they finally broke apart, Shiv didn’t move at first. Her forehead stayed against his, her breath shivering against his lips. The huge Christmas three twinkled in the corner of the living room, casting them in warm hues of orange. Tom’s thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks, slow and reverent. He looked at her like he was memorizing her every freckle, every jagged edge he’d ever hurt or held.

Shiv drew a shaky breath, her fingers still knotted in his shirt. “We’re a disaster,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “But maybe… we can still fix this.”

She laughed quietly in a half sob, half disbelief and leaned back against the armchair, pulling him with her. Tom settled at her knees, resting his head against her thigh, the way he’d done years ago when the world felt too heavy. She brushed her fingers through his short hair, slower and slower until her hand stilled.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she murmured.

Tom looked up at her, his eyes steady. “Then we’ll learn again. For her. For us.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid her again. She bent forward, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her lips trembling against his hair. “God, I missed you,” she confessed quietly.

He tilted his face toward her, catching her gaze. “Then don’t miss me. Stay.”

For a moment she almost laughed because that was the thing, wasn’t it? She’d spent her whole life leaving first. Beating people to it. But now, looking at him, she wasn’t sure she could anymore.

Shiv exhaled, long and low. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

“Then stop,” Tom said softly. “We don’t have to win anymore.”

The words sank deep, like something she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting years to hear. She closed her eyes, feeling his hand slide into hers, grounding her. The quiet stretched, thick but not suffocating anymore. She felt warm and cared for.

“We can’t just fall back into the same patterns. We’ll wreck her if we do.”

Tom nodded, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Therapy. Together. We’ve never tried that, not properly.” He glanced Shiv through his lashes knowingly. “We need some help to make us stop running in circles around each other.”

Shiv blinked, startled by his steadiness. Stopping to study him, she searched for weakness, for an escape clause. There wasn’t one. Finally, she exhaled. “Okay. Therapy.” Her lips twisted into a faint, broken smile. “Couples therapy. That’s romantic.”

Tom huffed a laugh, wet and shaky, rising to his knees before pressing another kiss to her forehead. “For us? I think it is.”

Shiv let herself smile back. “Then it’s a deal. No more letting go.”

Shiv couldn’t hide the yawn that escaped her jaws. Tom chuckled at her, their showing age and the way they were just as burnt out as Rae was. Shiv looked back at him before whispering. “We should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, rising to his feet, still holding her hand. “But you’re not leaving tonight.”

She didn’t stop him. He led her through the apartment. They moved through the rooms together carefully not to wake Rae. Shiv pulled her hair open by the door, and inched the back of her dress open. The sound of the zipper was small and final. Tom switched off the lights.

In the dark, their fingers found each other again, not desperate but steady, like they were rediscovering something. When they finally crawled into bed, they didn’t speak. They just lay there, Rae asleep in the next room, the city whispering faintly outside. Tom’s arm found its way around her waist, and when she turned into him, it felt less like surrender and more like coming home.

Chapter Text

Rae woke to the total darkness of December pressing against her curtains. The snow had kept falling through the night, muffling the world in silence. She lay still in her bed, the lion tucked under her chin, her body heavy from last night’s storm. The recital, the ice cream, the meltdown in the street, they all blurred together like a dream she didn’t want to replay. Her throat ached from crying, but she was too curious to roll over and continue dreaming. Something felt different. She padded out into the hallway, her socks sliding on the floor. The guest room door was open. Rae peeked in trying her best to be quiet. To her surprise the room was empty. Rae frowned in confusion. That wasn’t right. Mom always disappeared into the solitude of the guest room if she stayed.

Her heart started thumping. Rae crept further down the hall, toward the door that had been shut tight for months. Her parents’ bedroom. She pushed the door open just a crack and there they were, her mom and dad, tangled together in the same bed. Nothing dramatic, not anything you’d see in a romantic movie. Just her mom curled on her side of the bed, her hair messy against the pillow, her dad flat on his back with one arm thrown over her mom like he’d done it in his sleep without thinking. Their breathing was steady and perfectly in sync. 

Rae’s mouth dropped open. She clapped both hands over her mouth to stop the squeal threatening to burst out. The lion slipped from under her arm, thumping softly against the doorframe.

Her parents stirred, but didn’t wake. Tom shifted closer in his sleep, Shiv tucked into his shoulder, and Rae grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. She backed out of the doorway, tiptoeing down the hall, her whole body buzzing.

Operation Sugar Plum was complete!

Or at least phase one.

.:.:.

Shiv woke first disoriented. The light was thin and gray, filtering past the curtains, painting the room in a soft glow.  For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was but she didn’t move, her body warm and lax from sleep. Then she breathed in and caught the faint scent of Tom and his aftershave, and could hear the steady snores of his breath. She snuggled her face against the familiar cotton of Tom’s shirt. His arm was draped across her waist, solid and possessive even in sleep.

Her heart gave a traitorous jolt as she watched him, her fingers twitching with the urge to touch his face, to convince herself this wasn’t another dream her heart had conjured out of want. Every breath he took seemed to pull her closer to the memory of what they’d been, and the terrifying possibility of what they still were. She should have pulled away. Slipped out before he noticed. Put the armor back on before anyone could see the crack in it. But instead she lay there, listening to the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

Tom stirred, lashes fluttering, and she froze. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the light, and then he blinked at her, like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there.

“Morning,” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. The smile that involuntarily curved on his face was satisfied. 

Shiv arched a brow, though her mouth threatened a smile. “Don’t make it weird.”

A crooked, tired grin broke across his face as his fingers found the bared skin of her stomach. “Bit late for that.”

Before she could retort, Tom shifted closer, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He buried his face against her hair, sighing like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her.

Shiv stiffened, rolling her eyes even as her body betrayed her by sinking into the warmth. “You’re suffocating me,” she said dryly, her tone clipped, armor flashing up.

Tom chuckled softly but didn’t let go. “You used to like it when I suffocated you.”

She huffed, turning her face into his neck to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “That was before I remembered how needy you are.”

But her hand, traitorous, slid against his chest, fingers curling lightly into his shirt as she felt his heartbeat. And she let him hold her tighter, his breath warm against her hair. Because the truth was, she had missed it. Missed the weight of him, the stupid way he clung in sleep, the unbearable closeness that felt less like suffocation and more like safety. She didn’t want to push him away.

The bedroom door slammed open.

“Ugh, gross!” Rae’s voice filled the room, high and triumphant.

Tom startled, blinking himself awake, still curled around Shiv like she was his lifeline. Shiv groaned and shoved at his arm, though not very convincingly.

Rae stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lion dangling from one hand like an executioner’s axe. Her nose wrinkled. “You’re cuddling. Disgusting. Absolutely revolting. No child should have to witness this.”

Tom rubbed his face, trying to stifle a laugh. “Morning to you too, cub.”

Shiv sat up a little, glaring half-heartedly. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, I do mind,” Rae shot back, marching across the room with her chin up. “I mind a lot. You’re supposed to be divorced and miserable, not –” she waved dramatically at them, “this.”

Shiv snorted, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Before either parent could properly respond, Rae launched herself onto the bed. She plopped right between them, lion squashed against her chest, tucking herself in and pressing her cold toes against Shiv’s legs.

Shiv shook her head, fighting a smile, and tugged the duvet higher over Rae’s shoulders. Tom’s hand brushed hers in the motion, lingering just a second longer than it needed to. Rae sighed, content, her head finding the space beneath Shiv’s chin. The three of them fit together like something that had always been waiting to realign.

Rae yawned. “Is it Christmas yet?”

Shiv smiled faintly. “Almost.” It would be in two days. 

Tom’s hand squeezed her. “Close enough,” he said.

Shiv looked over Rae’s hair at Tom. He was already looking back at her, blue eyes soft, full of the same quiet awe she felt. His hand found hers above the blanket, fingers threading into a knot. 

For a while, the three of them just lay there, cocooned in warmth. Outside, the world was still white and brightening. The city buzzed faintly, muffled by the heavy curtains and the falling snow, but inside the room there was only breath and heartbeat and Rae’s little hum of satisfaction.

Then, suddenly, Rae’s stomach growled. Loudly.

Tom raised his eyebrows pretending to be shocked. “Was that… an earthquake?”

Rae groaned, burying her face into the duvet. “Nooo…Shut up.”

Shiv smirked, smoothing Rae’s hair back. “Sounds like someone’s ready for pancakes.”

Rae peeked out from under the blanket, glaring at both of them. “Fine. But only if both of you make them. Together.”

“Bossy,” Shiv muttered under her breath, smoothing a stray lock of red hair back from Rae’s forehead.

Tom chuckled. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

Rae didn’t hear him. She was too busy explaining how many blueberries should go on the pancakes, but Shiv did. Her eyes flicked sideways, narrowing, and Tom caught the look full-on.

The world went still around them. The duvet bunched between them, Rae buzzing with energy in the middle, but Tom and Shiv just… looked. No boardroom edge, no courtroom chill, no staged civility. Just the soft, terrifying weight of recognition: We’re still us. This is our family. 

Shiv’s lips curved faintly, the barest ghost of a smile that said she wasn’t going to bite this time. Tom’s lashes fluttered, his mouth twitching into something almost boyish, almost shy.

And then Rae clapped her hands, shattering it. “Pancakes! Come on, before I starve!”

Shiv exhaled, rolling her eyes as she slipped out of bed. Tom followed, slower, glancing at her once more over Rae’s messy head.

The sky outside the windows was pale grey. Central Park was draped in white as the snow had kept falling through the night. Inside, the apartment was warm, filled with the smell of coffee and the sound of Rae humming some half-remembered tune from The Nutcracker. Tom stood at the stove, hair rumpled, wearing an old Minnesota T-shirt that had long since lost its shape. He flipped a pancake with more confidence than skill. Blueberries burst in the pan, sending little purple streaks across the batter.

“Careful, you’re burning them again,” Shiv said from the counter, leaning on her elbows. Her hair was tied back, loose strands escaping to frame her face. She was wearing his loose T-shirt and she looked so good, relaxed sitting there where she belonged.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, pretending offense. “I’m achieving caramelization.”

Rae giggled from her perch on a stool, swinging her legs. “Mom, he’s definitely burning them.”

“I’m aware,” Shiv said, smirking.

“Ungrateful,” Tom muttered, shaking his head. “Both of you.”

The kitchen was a beautiful mess with flour dust on the counter, a thin trail of syrup near Rae’s elbow, and blueberries rolling across the floor. The kind of chaos Shiv once couldn’t stand, but now… she found she didn’t want to clean up just yet.

When the next batch came off the pan, Tom stacked them on a plate and slid them toward Rae. “Moment of truth, Chef Roy.”

Rae stabbed a forkful, took a solemn bite, then grinned, her cheeks dimpling. “They’re perfect.”

“See?” Tom said, triumphant. “Validated by the only critic who matters.”

Shiv rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. She reached for the syrup, pouring a slow drizzle over her plate, then handed it to Rae. “You’re sticky enough already, be careful.”

Rae ignored her and over-poured anyway, drizzling the syrup all over the plate, some of it hitting the table. Tom sat down beside them, and for a moment, everything went quiet again. The silence was full of breath, warmth and the gentle clink of forks on plates.

Rae took another bite, her mouth full. “This is way better than the hotel breakfasts.”

Shiv arched an eyebrow. “You think this is a hotel?”

Tom laughed under his breath. “She’s got a point, though. Service here is pretty good.”

Shiv nudged his knee under the table, a small, secret gesture that made his breath catch.

The snow outside was falling softly. Somewhere in the living room, the lights on the tree blinked, their reflection shimmering faintly in the window.

Rae looked between them, grinning. “So… we’re all together now?”

Tom and Shiv exchanged a look over the top of her head. A thousand answers passed silently between them, but in the end, Shiv only said, “We’re here.”

“Good,” Rae said, satisfied. “Then it worked.”

Tom frowned. “What worked?”

Rae grinned wider. “Operation Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Shiv groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

Tom laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. “You named it?”

“I had to,” Rae said proudly, mouth full of blueberry pancake. “Every serious mission needs a name.”

Shiv looked at her daughter and then at Tom, still laughing, still here. Her heart swelled so suddenly she had to look down at her plate to hide it. “Mission accomplished,” she murmured, almost to herself. Tom heard. His hand found hers under the table, fingers curling around her palm not desperate, nor uncertain this time. 

The last of the pancakes were gone, Rae having devoured most of them with noisy delight. She hopped off the stool, still in her pajamas and tucked the lion under one arm.

“I’m gonna wake Gwendoline, so we can go skating,” she announced, darting out of the kitchen before either parent could protest.

Shiv stood to gather the plates. Tom hovered nearby, moving the dishes into the washer. Their movements were strangely synchronized, practiced in a way they hadn’t been in months. The clink of ceramic against ceramic filled the space.

Tom broke first, his voice low. “You were good with her this morning.”

Shiv glanced sideways, arching a brow. “That a surprise to you?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. Not a surprise. Just… nice. Watching you two together after a long time.”

Shiv washed her sticky hands, water dripping from her fingers. She hesitated, then said softly, “It was nice. The three of us. Felt…” She trailed off, wiping her hands on the dish towel he’d passed her. “…like a memory I didn’t realize I missed.”

Tom swallowed, watching her profile as she reached for her mug. “I missed it too. More than I let myself admit.”

For a moment, Shiv didn’t answer. She just filled her mug, the water running steady. Then she turned to face him, their shoulders nearly touching, her eyes sharp but softer than they had been in months.

“Don’t make me regret this, Tom,” she said quietly.

He held her gaze, his own lashes damp but his voice steady. “I won’t.”

The distance between them felt paper-thin, filled with unspoken things. Shiv looked away first, but she didn’t step back.

The sound of Rae’s voice carried faintly from down the hall, Gwendoline’s accented reply trailing behind. Shiv turned back to the sink, her hands steadying against the counter, but her chest was a storm. And Tom knew it, because his hand brushed hers when he set the towel down. Just a touch but it was more than enough.

Shiv gripped onto the counter, shoulders stiff, as if bracing against the weight of her own admission. Tom stood beside her trying to decide if it was safe to breathe. The hum of the faucet had stopped, but the silence it left behind was louder.

Finally, Shiv let out a low exhale, almost a laugh but too bitter to be one. “God, listen to us. We sound like we’re auditioning for a Hallmark movie. ‘I missed this. I won’t regret it.’”

Tom managed a crooked smile. “If it helps, I don’t think Hallmark makes movies that say ‘Sorry I failed you in seventeen different ways, but I’d still rather die than not love you.’”

Her lips twitched, betraying her. “Maybe they should.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the old silence that used to be sharp, cold, and full of teeth. This one was softer, tentative, like both of them were circling the edges of something they weren’t sure they could touch.

Tom cleared his throat. “Last night, what we said… It wasn’t just exhaustion talking. I meant it. Therapy, trying again… all of it. I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”

Shiv studied him, head tilted slightly, her expression caught between skepticism and something dangerously close to hope. “You always want the impossible, Tom.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice quiet. “But you’re the only impossible thing I’ve ever believed was worth it.”

That made her flinch, just slightly. Her arms crossed over her chest like she was holding herself in.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said finally.

He shook his head, steady. “Not this time. I’ll keep it.”

Her eyes searched his, sharp and probing, like she was waiting for him to slip, to crack, to laugh it off. But he didn’t. He just stood there, steady, with the weight of thirteen years in his gaze.

Shiv’s throat worked. She looked away, reaching for another plate that wasn’t there, then set her hands flat on the counter again. And though she didn’t say it, though her armor stayed mostly in place, Tom could feel the tiniest shift. 

He took a step closer. She didn’t move. The air between them was full of small sounds, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant laughter from down the hall. Normal life sounds. It was domestic, but oh so dangerous.

Tom’s voice was quiet when it came. “I’m not asking for perfect, Shiv. Just this. Us.”

She turned then, slowly, her eyes finding his. Whatever she’d been about to say faltered on her lips. The exhaustion, the months of ache and denial, all of it softened under the way he was looking at her.

Her breath caught. “You always do this,” she whispered, not quite angry. “You wait until I’ve built the walls back up, and then you –”

Tom stepped closer, close enough for her words to stumble. “Then what?”

Shiv exhaled, shaky. “Then you make me want to tear them down.”

He didn’t reach for her immediately. He just stood there, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, close enough to smell the faint trace of coffee in his breath. When she didn’t move away, his hand came up, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then opened again, glassy and defiant. “If you kiss me now,” she murmured, “you’d better mean it.”

“I do,” he said simply. “I love you.”

And then he kissed her. It was slow, deep, full of recognition of years and mistakes and forgiveness waiting to happen. She sank into it, her hands finding his shirt, curling in the fabric like she’d been holding her breath for too long. His thumb brushed along her jaw gently.

When they finally broke apart, the world didn’t rush back in. It just stayed still in the soft light, in the quiet snow, Rae’s laughter getting closer down the hall. Shiv rested her forehead against his chest, eyes half-closed, a faint smile curving her lips.

.:.:.

Inside Connor’s brownstone, the warmth was immediate. The golden lights, the smell of roast beef and cinnamon, a fire crackling in the old marble fireplace. The place looked like it had been ripped from a Christmas card. Everyone knew Willa had done all the design work and Connor had just declared himself “creative director.”

Rae was already spinning in her red velvet dress, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed as they strolled out of the elevator. “Uncle Connor! Aunt Willa! You made a feast!”

Connor straightened, proud as a king at his own table. “Well, technically, Willa made a feast. I made the atmosphere.”

“Which means,” Willa said, amused, “he already ate one tray of cinnamon rolls and gave a monologue about destiny.”

Roman sauntered in with a glass of wine, tie loose, grin lazy. “Honestly, not bad. The man finally learned how to host without emotional collateral.”

Connor glared. “I’ll seat you next to the radiator if you keep that up.”

Roman lifted his glass. “You’d still feed me.”

The banter rolled easily this time with none of the old venom and none of the eggshells. The air was full of laughter and warmth, something fragile that had been gone too long.

Roman noticed him first. He didn’t say anything, just gave Tom a small nod across the room. It was nothing dramatic, just enough to acknowledge he’s back. Connor followed with a clap on the shoulder when Tom came to help to carry in the Christmas gifts. 

“Glad you made it, brother,” he said simply. The word brother landed somewhere deep. Tom blinked with a confused smile on his face, surprised by how much it meant.

Even Willa, who’d always kept a certain polite distance, handed him a glass of mulled wine with an easy smile. “Welcome back to the chaos.”

Tom took it, his throat tight. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Shiv caught the exchange from across the room followed by the easy laughter. She saw Tom as he was meant to be, not the outsider in her family, not the man hovering at the edges of every conversation, but part of the circle. One of the Roy’s.

The pine tree stood slightly crooked in Connor’s living room. It was too tall for the ceiling, its star still missing from the top. Rae was determined to fix that. She called for her dad until Tom ran to the rescue. Tom crouched down, letting Rae climb onto his shoulders, her glittery tights slipping against his sweater as she clung to his hair for balance.

“Careful, cub,” Shiv said, hovering nearby, half ready to catch Rae, half smiling despite herself.

“Don’t worry! I got it!” Rae insisted, the gold star clutched in one small, determined hand. Her tongue poked out as she concentrated, the ribbon brushing her cheek. Tom steadied her legs with both hands, tilting his head back just enough to see her face haloed by the fairy lights. For a second, he thought his heart might actually burst.

“There!” Rae declared triumphantly, pressing the star onto the top branch. The whole tree swayed dangerously for a moment before settling as the adults gasped for a breath.

Applause broke out, Connor’s too-loud cheer, Willa’s delicate clap, Roman’s mock bow. Rae grinned from ear to ear, throwing her arms out on top of her dad, like she’d just completed a grand finale.

Tom laughed, the sound full and unguarded, and when he lowered Rae carefully to the ground, she turned immediately to show Shiv. “Look, mom! It’s perfect now.”

Shiv brushed a stray curl from Rae’s forehead and nodded. “It is.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Tom, his hair tousled from Rae’s hands, his grin still lingering. Something in her chest eased. The years, the distance, all of it dimmed for a moment under the glow of the lights.

Dinner was loud and imperfect and full. Rae insisted on leading a toast (“to family, and to Operation Sugar Plum Fairy, which totally worked!”). Tom laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, and Shiv choked on her wine trying not to get emotional.

After dessert, Roman slipped Rae an extra truffle and whispered, “Don’t tell your mom,” earning a half-hearted glare from Shiv that didn’t quite hide her smile.

When everyone moved toward the living room for coffee, Shiv lingered by the table. Tom joined her, their hands brushing over the almost empty bottle of wine. She glanced up at him, her voice quiet but steady. “They missed you, you know.”

He smiled faintly. “Did they?”

She nodded. “Even Roman. Though he’d rather die than admit it.”

Tom’s eyes softened. “I missed this. All of it.”

“Then don’t let go again,” she said. It wasn’t a warning, or an order. Just the truth.

“I won’t,” he promised.

From the sofa, Rae’s voice cut through the hum of conversation. “Dad, come on! We’re doing Christmas songs!”

Tom looked back at Shiv, and she nodded toward their daughter. “Go. She’s not patient.”

He grinned and joined Rae, who was already waving a candy cane like a conductor’s baton. 

Shiv sank into a chair beside Roman and Willa, watching her daughter sing off-key, Tom pretending to follow along, Connor half-asleep with a Santa hat on. The firelight flickered against the windows, and the snow outside deepened, soft and endless.

For the first time in years, Shiv didn’t feel like she was holding her breath. She just sat there, surrounded by her family that was somehow against all the odds whole again. When Tom looked up across the room and found her watching him, he smiled. This time, she smiled back widely without hesitation. And as Rae’s voice carried over the laughter and clinking glasses, the room felt full of warmth, of forgiveness, of the quiet kind of joy that didn’t need to be named.

.:.:.

The city outside was hushed, the snow falling steady through the dark with each flake catching the amber light from the streetlamps before disappearing. Shiv stood by the window, the faint sound of laughter drifting from the other room.

Rae had darted off to build a fort out of blankets in her room with Gwendoline after they returned from Connor’s. The house had settled into that deep, breathing quiet that only comes at the end of a long, good day.

Shiv watched her reflection in the glass, the faint curve of her smile was softer than she remembered it being. The past still lived here, in this space, in these very walls. But it didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t burn. She thought of all the nights she’d stood in other rooms, in other cities, trying to convince herself that love could be contained or neatly folded away. That if she stayed busy enough, powerful enough, she could live without wanting.

And yet here she was home again, not because they’d forgotten the hurt, but because somehow they’d learned to live with it.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a fairy tale. There were years behind them that still needed mending, wounds that would take longer than a season to heal. But right then, with the smell of pine hanging in the air and Rae’s laughter echoing down the hall, it felt perfect.

Behind her, Tom’s voice came quiet, familiar. “You okay?”

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, the lamplight catching the soft edges of his face. There was a gentleness in his expression that used to undo her completely, and still did.

“I’m okay,” she said, and for once, she meant it. Then, after a pause, her voice dropped softer. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, small and quiet. “That’s new.” He hesitated, studying her for a beat longer, as if to make sure she wasn’t just saying it. “You coming to bed?”

Shiv glanced back at the window, at the city blanketed in white, the reflection of their home shimmering faintly in the glass, and then at him. He was still in his old university T-shirt, hair mussed from the day. The picture of a life she’d once thought she could never have again.

“In a minute,” she said. “I just… want to stay here a little longer.”

Tom nodded, stepping forward just far enough to press a kiss to the side of her head, his hand brushing her arm, “Don’t stay up too late, Chief of Staff,” and disappeared down the hall.

Shiv took one last glance outside, where the snow kept falling, blurring the edges of the city she’d once thought she needed to conquer.

When she turned away from the window, the apartment glowed in golden light. The stockings were hung up by the fireplace, the half-empty plate of cookies Rae had insisted they leave out for Santa, and the faint echo of her daughter’s laughter still caught in the air.

Shiv exhaled, long and even. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel like she was standing at the edge of something waiting to fall. She felt steady. At home. And when she finally turned off the lights and followed the sound of Tom’s quiet rustling down the hall, the snow kept falling outside endless, forgiving, as if the world itself had decided to start fresh. Inside, in the warm light of their living room, they already had.

.:.:.

Okay, so here’s the thing. Lion and I were right all along. Obviously.

My parents? Total disasters. Like, Olympic-level disasters. They did the whole “we’re better off apart” speech, then dad dated some lady who wore too much perfume, and mom tried to be cool in D.C. while pretending she didn’t care. Spoiler alert: she did care.

And me? I had to fix everything. Which I did. Sugar Plum Fairy, mastermind, genius child of divorce (but not anymore, suckers). I set the stage, pushed them together, and, yeah, maybe I had a meltdown in an ice cream parlor and nearly caused a heart attack running into the street. But that’s what heroes do. Sacrifice. Suffer. Get the job done.

Now? They’re back in the same bed. Gross, I know. They hold hands when they think I’m not looking. Double gross. And they’re going to therapy, which is… fine, I guess, as long as they don’t talk about me too much.

Sometimes I catch dad watching mom like she hung the moon. Sometimes I catch mom looking back like she’s mad about it, but not really. And me? I get pancakes whenever I want now. Victory tastes like blueberries and maple syrup. So yeah. Mission accomplished. Operation Sugar Plum is complete.

P.S. If they mess it up again, I’ve got backup plans.