to garner the
attention of the horde. There never was a camera that didn't love Seth
Morgan.
Excitement ripples
through the crowd, and all the lenses turn toward the obscenely wealthy real
estate heir. His smile stays firmly in place as he makes a show of ambling
around the car to open Vera's door. He takes her hand to help her out into the
night, and the murmurs of the crowd get louder. The flashing bulbs double, and
Seth rests a hand on Vera's lower back as he leads her through the madness—so comfortably,
as though they've been on a thousand dates to a thousand galas.
Vera does her damnedest
to play it cool, to keep a smile like her nerves are not a riot in her gut.
She's only ever been on the other side of this coin, a reporter trying to get the
scoop. And, damn him, he’s right. They're going to be the biggest news in
tomorrow's gossip pages; she can tell by the rabid frenzy of the press. Some of
them know her, have probably worked with her, but she can't make out their
faces for all the lights. One of them gets brave, yells, “Who's your date,
Seth?”
Seth flashes that
million dollar smile, that suave, sure curve that could disarm the sovereign
Queen of England. All he says is, “Isn't she lovely?” And he passes them by.
By the time they make it
inside, Vera can only see spots. Seth stays close by her side, hand on her back
as he smiles into the many greetings that plague their progress. Even the mayor
stops to shake the Morgan son's hand, and the old man manages to maintain his
smile as he recognizes Vera. He's not a fan of her work.
Her smile comes easier
after that, and her nerves calm. She reminds herself that though she is on the
arm of someone who far outreaches her socially, he is also the same man who
fucked her in a service hallway at this very same event some five years
previous.
How different it all is
now—she's here as a date. She's not working. She doesn't even want to work,
which is a rare thing for her. And the greatly coveted Seth Morgan is leading
her with his arm around her by choice. Not because he wants anything from her,
not because he is rebelling against anyone.
He snags two glasses of
champagne from a passing server, and hands one to her as he exchanges small
talk with a member of the city government. She marvels at his social facade,
his cool demeanor as countless policemen and women surround them, proudly
wearing their uniforms for the masses who have come to support them. This, she
thinks, this is how the Morgans stay out of the heat. It really is as simple as
buying the enemy.
The journalist in her
squirms to take notes, to start forming her generation's great exposé on the
corruption of New York's upper crust. But the woman in her balks at that
thought. She can never write that story, and not only because it would get her
killed, but because that would be the highest betrayal of Seth that she could
possibly contrive. For once, the woman beats the reporter, and she forces down
her muscle memory of fact-collecting and prioritizing her lede. The whole world
be damned. Tonight, Seth Morgan is hers.
“Mr. Morgan! And – eh –
Miss Rohan.”
It's the commissioner,
parting the crowd on his way to his new arrivals. Seth pulls away from Vera to
shake the older man's hand. The surprise at Seth’s date choice is quite obvious
on the commissioner’s face, and he leans in for a polite kiss on her cheek.
Again, he’s certainly no stranger to Vera Rohan’s tenacious reporting.
“Good to see you, sir,”
says Seth.
Sir? Vera is sure she's
never heard him use that word before. Spare nothing to impress a man who could
bring the Morgan Syndicate crumbling down.
“I wasn’t sure if we’d
see you tonight, I had heard you were out of the country,” says the
commissioner.
“I was, briefly. It's
been a . . . rough couple months,” Seth answers, his tone leaking raw grief
that he hasn’t shown her tonight. His honesty is heart-wrenching.
Vera only just
attention of the horde. There never was a camera that didn't love Seth
Morgan.
Excitement ripples
through the crowd, and all the lenses turn toward the obscenely wealthy real
estate heir. His smile stays firmly in place as he makes a show of ambling
around the car to open Vera's door. He takes her hand to help her out into the
night, and the murmurs of the crowd get louder. The flashing bulbs double, and
Seth rests a hand on Vera's lower back as he leads her through the madness—so comfortably,
as though they've been on a thousand dates to a thousand galas.
Vera does her damnedest
to play it cool, to keep a smile like her nerves are not a riot in her gut.
She's only ever been on the other side of this coin, a reporter trying to get the
scoop. And, damn him, he’s right. They're going to be the biggest news in
tomorrow's gossip pages; she can tell by the rabid frenzy of the press. Some of
them know her, have probably worked with her, but she can't make out their
faces for all the lights. One of them gets brave, yells, “Who's your date,
Seth?”
Seth flashes that
million dollar smile, that suave, sure curve that could disarm the sovereign
Queen of England. All he says is, “Isn't she lovely?” And he passes them by.
By the time they make it
inside, Vera can only see spots. Seth stays close by her side, hand on her back
as he smiles into the many greetings that plague their progress. Even the mayor
stops to shake the Morgan son's hand, and the old man manages to maintain his
smile as he recognizes Vera. He's not a fan of her work.
Her smile comes easier
after that, and her nerves calm. She reminds herself that though she is on the
arm of someone who far outreaches her socially, he is also the same man who
fucked her in a service hallway at this very same event some five years
previous.
How different it all is
now—she's here as a date. She's not working. She doesn't even want to work,
which is a rare thing for her. And the greatly coveted Seth Morgan is leading
her with his arm around her by choice. Not because he wants anything from her,
not because he is rebelling against anyone.
He snags two glasses of
champagne from a passing server, and hands one to her as he exchanges small
talk with a member of the city government. She marvels at his social facade,
his cool demeanor as countless policemen and women surround them, proudly
wearing their uniforms for the masses who have come to support them. This, she
thinks, this is how the Morgans stay out of the heat. It really is as simple as
buying the enemy.
The journalist in her
squirms to take notes, to start forming her generation's great exposé on the
corruption of New York's upper crust. But the woman in her balks at that
thought. She can never write that story, and not only because it would get her
killed, but because that would be the highest betrayal of Seth that she could
possibly contrive. For once, the woman beats the reporter, and she forces down
her muscle memory of fact-collecting and prioritizing her lede. The whole world
be damned. Tonight, Seth Morgan is hers.
“Mr. Morgan! And – eh –
Miss Rohan.”
It's the commissioner,
parting the crowd on his way to his new arrivals. Seth pulls away from Vera to
shake the older man's hand. The surprise at Seth’s date choice is quite obvious
on the commissioner’s face, and he leans in for a polite kiss on her cheek.
Again, he’s certainly no stranger to Vera Rohan’s tenacious reporting.
“Good to see you, sir,”
says Seth.
Sir? Vera is sure she's
never heard him use that word before. Spare nothing to impress a man who could
bring the Morgan Syndicate crumbling down.
“I wasn’t sure if we’d
see you tonight, I had heard you were out of the country,” says the
commissioner.
“I was, briefly. It's
been a . . . rough couple months,” Seth answers, his tone leaking raw grief
that he hasn’t shown her tonight. His honesty is heart-wrenching.
Vera only just
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