The next morning the internal memo had been circulated with the kind of clinical coldness that usually preceded a mass layoff. Instead, it was an invitation to the Sterling family's "Autumn Equinox Gala" in the Hamptons. For most, it was a night of open bars and networking. For Sloane Sterling and Arthur Hayes, it was a mandatory field operation.
"Coordinated," Sloane whispered, staring at her computer screen in the quiet of her cubicle.
The word was underlined twice in the email from their department head. As you are representing the Junior Associate pool for the Sterling account, your appearance and narrative must be impeccable. You are to act as a unified front.
"Unified front," a dry voice echoed from over the partition.
Sloane didn't need to look up to see Arthur's displeased face. She could hear the rhythmic clicking of his pen—a nervous habit he only displayed when he was truly agitated.
"I've already drafted a narrative for our professional history," Arthur said, his voice low enough to stay under the radar of the gossiping interns three rows down. "We met at the New York Bar Association mixer two years ago. We have a healthy, competitive respect for each other's metrics. We do not know what the other eats for breakfast."
"And we certainly don't know that your favorite 'efficiency' meal is lukewarm instant noodles, okay we can do that." Sloane countered, finally turning her chair to face him. "But Arthur, the memo says 'coordinated outfits.' That doesn't mean we just wear black. It means we have to look like we planned our wardrobes together."
Arthur's pen-clicking stopped. He looked at her, his eyes scanning her sharp, tailored blazer. "I am not wearing a matching tie to your dress, Sloane. I have limits."
"It's not about matching, it's about 'the aesthetic,'" she hissed. "If I show up in avant-garde gold and you show up in a traditional black tuxedo, we look like two strangers. The partners want a 'brand.' We need to look like a curated set."
Arthur groaned, a sound of pure soul-weariness. "Fine. We discuss this at... the satellite office."
"Satellite office" was their new code for the 400-square-foot disaster they shared.
***
The "satellite office" was currently smelling like a mix of Sloane's expensive hairspray and Arthur's takeout. Because the studio lacked a full-length mirror, Sloane had been forced to prop a small vanity mirror on top of a stack of moving boxes, while Arthur used the darkened window pane as a reflection.
"The theme is 'Midnight in the Garden,'" Sloane announced, dumping three garment bags onto the daybed. "I've pulled a few options from my 'emergency' collection."
Arthur looked at the bags with deep suspicion. "You have an emergency collection of gala gowns? We can't afford a kitchen table, but you have silk floor-length dresses?"
"Appearances are the only currency I have left, Arthur," Sloane said, her voice dropping its playful edge for a moment. "If I look like I'm struggling, they will take me as a joke. I'd rather starve than look poor in front of the partners."
The honesty hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Arthur softened, just a fraction. He reached out and unzipped the first bag. Inside was a gown of deep, midnight emerald silk—liquid and dark, almost black in the shadows.
"Emerald," Arthur noted. He looked at his own open suitcase, where a classic black tuxedo lay. "I have a forest green silk pocket square. It's subtle. It's not 'matching,' but it's... coordinated."
"It'll work," Sloane said. "Now, the story. We need to be careful. Yesterday, Miller asked me why I smelled like sandalwood. I told him it was a new candle, but I know he saw your cologne on the desk in my background during the Zoom call."
Arthur stiffened. "I told you to blur your background."
"I did! But the blur slipped for a second when the Wi-Fi glitched. We need to be more disciplined. From now on, your toiletries stay in your suitcase. No exceptions."
"My toothbrush is currently in a mug on the back of the toilet because there are no shelves, Sloane," Arthur snapped. "If we're going to talk about discipline, let's talk about your 'skincare graveyard' taking up the entire sink."
"It's a ten-step process for a reason!"
They stood in the center of the room, panting slightly, the tension of the cramped space pulling at their nerves. The proximity was the problem. In the office, they could maintain the five-foot wall of professional rivalry. Here, in the dim light of the studio, they were close enough to see the tired lines around each other's eyes.
"We need a practice run," Sloane said suddenly.
"A what?"
"The 'Unified Front.' We have to be able to talk to each other without looking like we want to commit murder. If we're at the gala and you give me that 'I'm-smelling-something-sour' look you give me in meetings, the partners will know something is wrong."
Arthur sighed, but he stood up straight, adjusting an imaginary tie. He slipped into his "Golden Boy" persona instantly, his expression smoothing into a mask of polite, charismatic interest.
"Ms. Sterling," he said, his voice shifting into a smooth, social register. "A pleasure to see you tonight. I was just telling the Senior Partner how much I admired your work on the Miller acquisition."
Sloane blinked. The transition was terrifyingly seamless. She smoothed her hair and stepped into her "Ice Heiress" role. "Mr. Hayes. You're too kind. Though I believe it was your data analysis that provided the final push. We make quite a team, don't we?"
She reached out, intending to take his arm as they would at the gala. But as her hand slid into the crook of his elbow, the "practice" fell apart.
Arthur's arm was solid, warm, and real. The fabric of his shirt was thin, and she could feel the heat of his skin beneath it. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at her, his gray eyes losing their practiced charm and replacing it with something much more turbulent.
They were standing too close. The studio was too quiet.
"The story," Arthur whispered, his voice losing its professional edge. "We met at the mixer. We're rivals. We... we don't like each other."
"Right," Sloane whispered back, her heart racing. "We don't like each other. We're competing for the same life."
"I'm going to beat you, Sloane," he said, but his hand moved, his fingers brushing against her wrist where it rested on his arm. It wasn't a competitive touch. It was a lingering one.
"Not if I beat you first," she breathed.
The front door of the apartment below them slammed shut, the vibration rattling their thin floorboards. They both jumped apart as if they'd been caught in a crime.
Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in a stack of folders on the floor. "Right. Emerald and forest green. The Bar Association mixer story. No sandalwood candles. Get some sleep. We have a three-hour drive tomorrow."
Sloane turned back to her garment bags, her cheeks flushed. "I'll book the car. We'll meet two blocks away from the office so no one sees us getting in together."
"Two blocks," Arthur agreed. "And Sloane?"
She looked back.
"The emerald. It suits you. It'll make the real Sterlings look like they're wearing rags."
He didn't wait for a response. He retreated to his nook, leaving Sloane standing in the middle of the room with a dress in her hands and a heart that refused to stop pounding.
Tomorrow, they would be in the Hamptons. They would be surrounded by the richest people in the country, playing a game of pretend within a game of pretend. But as Sloane looked at the small, cramped room they shared, she realized the hardest part wasn't going to be lying to the world.
The hardest part was going to be lying to themselves.