“I’m so tired.” Her voice, usually so clear and authoritative, was now a whisper, barely audible over the static of the long-distance line. Miranda didn’t bother to turn on the lights — why bother? This luxurious apartment, with its marble tables and silk curtains, was just another faceless refuge for her. She sank into a chair, feeling the cold skin of her whiskey bottle against her temple.

The first number she dialed was yours. Automaticity. Instinct.

London? Paris? Tokyo? It doesn't matter. The important thing is that there are thousands of miles between you, and yet the same night sky is above your heads. She should have been here, at some boring dinner with important people whose names would be forgotten by morning.

But all she needed was you and her girls.

Caroline and Cassidy. They've grown accustomed to their mother disappearing into unpredictable whirlwinds of business. But now, when she left, they weren't with another strict governess, but with you.

The girls were asleep — peacefully, serenely, in their soft beds with their canopies.

..And you? You lay in the half-darkness, listening to the ticking of the clock, to the distant hum of a New York taxi outside the window, to your own heart, which stubbornly beat in time with a single, silent question – when will she call?

And then the call came.

In the dead of night. As if that made any difference. It was as if the concept of 'too late' existed for both of you.