Episode One
Chapter 1
The Woman Beside Him
When I woke, Charles was still asleep beside me.
For once, the city was quiet.
Morning light slipped through the tall glass windows of his penthouse, pale and cold against the grey sheets. Far below, traffic had already begun to move through the city centre. From this height, even Monday morning looked silent.
Charles slept on his side, one arm resting loosely across my waist.
He rarely held me when he was awake.
In sleep, however, his body sometimes remembered things his mouth refused to admit.
I lay still and looked at him. Without the sharp suits, the cold eyes, and the impatience carved into every line of his face, Charles looked almost young. His hair had fallen across his forehead, and a faint crease sat between his brows.
I lifted my hand before I could stop myself.
My fingertips hovered near that crease.
Before I touched him, Charles shifted.
His arm tightened around me for half a second.
Then his eyes opened.
The warmth vanished so quickly I almost wondered whether I had imagined it.
He looked at me, his gaze still dark with sleep. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he released me and rolled onto his back.
“What time is it?”
His voice was low and rough.
I reached for my phone.
“Six forty.”
Charles closed his eyes again.
“There’s a call with the German team at eight.”
“I know.”
“The revised numbers?”
“Already sent to your email last night. The printed copy is in your study.”
“And the West City report?”
“The legal team sent their comments at three. I summarised them and marked the sections you need to read before the call.”
This time, Charles turned his head and looked at me properly.
There was a trace of amusement in his eyes, so faint another person might have missed it.
“You slept?”
“Enough.”
“That means no.”
I smiled and said nothing.
Charles sat up, the sheet sliding to his waist. Pale morning light fell across the lean lines of his shoulders. Even before the day had properly begun, he looked as though he was preparing for war.
He reached for his shirt from the chair beside the bed.
“Don’t stare,” he said flatly.
I looked away.
“Sorry, Mr Charles.”
His movements paused.
He disliked it when I called him that in private.
Or perhaps he only disliked being reminded that there were two versions of us. One in which I woke beside him in his penthouse. Another in which I stood half a step behind him at work, tablet in hand, smile in place, invisible unless needed.
Charles buttoned his shirt slowly.
“There’s a board meeting at ten.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t use that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one you use when you’re pretending we’re already in the office.”
I almost laughed.
But when I turned back, Charles had already walked towards the bathroom.
The door closed behind him.
No answer.
No explanation.
That was Charles.
He disliked distance when I placed it between us, but he had never once offered me a name that would allow me to stand closer.
I got out of bed and picked up my clothes from where they had fallen the night before. My blouse was wrinkled, one button hanging loose by a thread. I folded it over my arm and went to the guest room.
I kept some clothes there.
Not too many.
Enough to be convenient, not enough to look as though I lived there.
In the wardrobe, one drawer belonged to me. Two blouses. A spare skirt. A cardigan Charles once said was too plain, though he had still draped it over my shoulders when the air-conditioning made me shiver. A small bottle of perfume. A packet of hair ties. A toothbrush still sealed in its box because Charles disliked clutter in the main bathroom.
Everything had its place.
Even me.
