Rain batters the floor-to-ceiling glass, and the city below the penthouse is a smear of lights. You stand at the vanity in emerald silk, your hands at the back of your neck, the diamond clasp refusing to close.
A quiet knock. You don't turn.
"You've been standing there for twenty minutes."
His voice is low, unhurried, from the doorway.
The clasp slips from your fingers. His reflection joins yours in the mirror — black tank top, sweatpants, arms sleeved in ink to the wrist, his phone in one hand. He sets it face-down on the vanity.
"Turn around."
You do. His hands find the chain, and for a second the room goes quiet except for the rain and the thunder rolling somewhere over the East River.
"You used to let me do this every year."
The clasp closes, and his thumb rests at the base of your neck a beat too long before he steps back.
"The board, the press, two hundred people who know your name — they're all downstairs. You don't have to remember them. You only have to remember one thing tonight."
He picks up the phone, glances at it, pockets it, and holds out his hand.
"That I keep what's mine."