Clara's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while she was pouring coffee the next morning—three days after the hostess bar night she knew nothing about, but two days after Mike had finally texted Fin with that casual "drinks soon?" follow-up. The first message from Mike had come to her directly that same evening, slipped in like an afterthought:
"Fin mentioned you liked thrillers. Saw this new one's playing downtown. Thought of you. -M"
She'd stared at it for a full minute, thumb hovering, before typing back a polite "Sounds fun, but busy week". Safe. Detached.
But Mike didn't let it die.
He'd replied almost instantly: "One showing left this weekend. Bet you can't name the last movie that actually scared you. Loser buys popcorn."
She should have ignored it. Deleted the thread. Told Fin.
Instead, she'd played along.
A quick back-and-forth—her naming some lame horror flick from college, him countering with "Weak. I win. You owe me a movie. Just us. No strings."
She'd laughed out loud at the screen—alone in the kitchen—then typed: "Fine. But only because I hate losing bets."
Now the follow-up text sat there, glowing:
"Saturday, 7 PM. Regal downtown. Back row. Wear something easy to slip out of if the plot gets boring. See you there, Clara."
Her stomach flipped—hot, guilty, electric.
She set the coffee pot down too hard. The clink echoed. Fin was still in the shower; she could hear the water running. She glanced toward the bathroom door, then back at the phone.
God, what am I doing?
Guilt hit first—sharp, familiar. Fin's face flashed in her mind: his soft smile when he brought her coffee in bed, the way he always asked if she was okay after sex, the quiet way he'd held her last night even though she'd come home distracted and distant again. He didn't deserve this. Not even the smallest secret.
But beneath the guilt… excitement. Sharp and insistent. The same pulse she'd felt when Mike's hand had gripped her ass in the lift—dark, violent, thrilling. The same heat that had pooled between her legs when she'd touched herself in the mirror and still couldn't finish.
Mike wasn't asking for much. Just a movie. In public. Back row.
Easy to slip out of…
Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. She could picture it: dim theater lights, the rumble of previews, his arm draped casually over the back of her seat. His fingers brushing her shoulder. Then lower. Tracing the strap of her bra through her top. Slipping under the hem of her skirt…
She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
No. I can't.
She typed a quick reply—"Actually, something came up. Rain check?"—and hovered over send.
Her thumb trembled.
The shower shut off. Fin would be out in a minute, towel around his waist, hair damp, smiling like nothing was wrong.
She deleted the draft.
Instead she typed: "Okay. 7 PM. But just the movie."
Sent.
The little read receipt popped up almost immediately. Then three dots.
"Just the movie. For now. See you Saturday, beautiful."
Clara's breath caught. She locked the phone, shoved it into her pocket, and turned back to the coffee like her hands weren't shaking.
Fin emerged from the bathroom, towel low on his hips, grinning sleepily. "Morning. You okay? You look… flushed."
She forced a laugh—too bright, too quick. "Just hot in here. Coffee?"
He kissed her cheek—soft, familiar, safe—and she leaned into it for a second, guilt twisting like a knife.
But even as she poured his mug, her mind betrayed her again.
Saturday. 7 PM. Back row.
Dark theater.
Mike's hand on her thigh.
Her skirt pushed up.
Fingers slipping under lace…
She squeezed her thighs together harder, heat blooming low in her belly.
Just the movie, she told herself.
But deep down—where the guilt couldn't quite reach—she already knew she'd let him do more.
And the worst part?
A tiny, treacherous voice whispered that she hoped he would.
The next morning dawned crisp and golden over the city, sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Fin's penthouse like liquid wealth. Clara was still in bed, scrolling her phone with one hand while the other absently traced circles on the silk sheets, when Fin emerged from his walk-in closet already dressed for the day: a charcoal Tom Ford suit, Patek Philippe watch glinting on his wrist, cufflinks engraved with the Harrington crest. He looked every inch the heir—polished, expensive, quietly anxious.
He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Morning, beautiful. I just got off the phone with Mother."
Clara lowered her phone, eyebrows lifting. "Eleanor? Everything okay?"
Fin gave a small, nervous laugh—the one he always used when talking about his mother. "She wants us for lunch. Today. At Le Ciel, the private room upstairs. She said it's been too long since she's seen you properly." He hesitated, then added softer, "She asked specifically for you to come. Said she has something to discuss… about the foundation, I think. Or maybe just to remind me I'm still on probation as her only son."
Clara forced a smile, stomach twisting. Lunch with Eleanor Harrington was never casual. It was an audience. "Of course. I'd love to. What time?"
"1 PM. Car will be downstairs at 12:30. Black Maybach, usual driver." Fin reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face with that tender, worshipful touch he always used—like she was fragile porcelain he was terrified of breaking. "You look incredible even half-asleep. Wear that emerald dress I bought you in Milan? The one that matches your eyes. Mother will love it."
Clara nodded, leaning into his hand for a second. "I'll make sure to look the part."
Fin's face lit up—pure simp gratitude. "Thank you. You always do." He kissed her again, lingering this time, then stood. "I've got a board call in ten. See you in a bit?"
After he left, Clara lay there staring at the ceiling. The emerald dress was hanging in her closet—£8,000 worth of silk and couture, a gift Fin had bought her on a whim during their last trip because "it reminded him of how you glow." She'd worn it once; he'd spent the entire evening telling her how perfect she was.
Now the thought of wearing it for Eleanor made her feel small.
She got up, showered, and dressed carefully. The emerald dress hugged her curves like a second skin—elegant, not overt. She paired it with simple diamond studs (another Fin gift) and low Louboutins. Hair swept into a sleek chignon. Makeup is understated but flawless.
When the Maybach pulled up at 12:30 sharp, Fin was already waiting inside—phone in hand, texting his mother a quick "On our way." He took one look at Clara, and his eyes softened.
"You're stunning," he murmured, pulling her close as the car glided into traffic. "Mother's going to be impressed."
Clara smiled tightly. "That's the goal."