Night fell. The city lights twinkled outside, invisible to Dahlia.
Clive was putting on his jacket.
You're leaving? Dahlia asked. She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
I have a gala. The Met. I can't miss it.
Oh. Of course.
Clive heard the sadness. He stopped.
He walked back to the bed.
Give me your phone.
Why?
Just give it to me.
She handed it over.
He typed in a number. He set it to Speed Dial 1.
This is my private line, he said. It bypasses Arthur. It rings directly in my pocket. Even in meetings. Even at galas.
Dahlia held the phone like it was a precious stone.
Why?
In case you fall again. Or in case Gaynell calls. Or in case you just... want to know what I'm wearing.
Dahlia smiled. What are you wearing?
A tuxedo. Black tie.
You must look very dashing.
I look like a penguin who is about to be very bored.
He laughed.
He hesitated. Then, he took her hand.
He didn't shake it. He didn't hold it.
He raised it to his lips.
He kissed her knuckles. A lingering, warm pressure.
Goodnight, Dahlia.
He turned and walked out before she could say anything.
Dahlia sat there, touching her hand.
She pressed the button. Speed Dial 1.
It rang once.
Hello? Clive's voice. He was in the hallway.
I just... wanted to test it, she whispered.
Works perfectly, he said.
She could hear the smile in his voice.
Go knock 'em dead, Penguin.
She hung up.
Clive stood in the elevator, staring at his phone. The screen saver was the default stock image. He changed it to a photo he had secretly taken of her sleeping an hour ago.
He was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
