That small, seemingly insignificant scrap of paper — deliberately crumpled, inconspicuous — now threatened to undo Desmond’s entire life. Or rather, to bury it: his heart, his pride, his career. He could still feel the rough parchment against his fingertips, browned and fibrous, like something torn from the wrapping of a parcel.

Even before he read the closing — "Yours, Charles" — he’d recognized the handwriting. They’d crossed paths too many times, in legal matters and charitable efforts alike. Desmond had seen enough of Charles’s penmanship to spot it instantly. He’d folded the note back in a rush, as though seared by the undeniable evidence of Peggy’s betrayal, and slipped it into her coat again like it were nothing more than a forgotten banknote. But the word — "My beloved Peggy, meet me at..." — still lingered before his eyes.

She had only asked for her cigarette holder. So that is what he retrieved.

He returned to the drawing room, offered her the holder, opened her silver cigarette case — etched with delicate Japanese-style storks she’d always adored, his gift — helped her settle the cigarette into the holder, and struck a match to light it. Then, without hesitation, Desmond leaned in to press a kiss to her temple as she lay languidly sprawled on the divan, lost in some worn paperback novel, wrapped in silk.

Peggy barely acknowledged the kiss. A half-twitch of her lips, nothing more.

He lingered, watching her. She was beautiful, still — and completely unreachable, even after five years of marriage. And now, he knew it for certain. Desmond murmured something about needing to work and retreated to his study, met only with her indifferent 'mm-hmm'.

There was work to do, yes. But after an hour of reading and rereading the same court memos, of trying to piece together arguments and witness chains that simply wouldn’t stay in his head, he gave up the charade. The thoughts pressed too close, clinging like filthy resin. Inside, the hollowness and despair felt like those long, sleepless nights of chronic pain — when no position in bed brought relief. Tonight, it was his soul tossing and turning, trying and failing to avoid the ache.

He loved Peggy. Deeply. Devotedly. Entirely. One glance from her — whether charmingly puffy with sleep or staggering drunk after yet another reckless soirée — still made his heart stutter. To lose her — or worse, to lose his love for her — was to lose a vital piece of himself. And terrifyingly, he could feel that love slipping. Grain by grain, like sand in an hourglass. What it left behind was only the ghost of a woman who used to be his wife.

Other people always got swept into the private tragedy of two hearts. Desmond didn’t see himself as innocent — somewhere deep inside, he wondered if he’d loved Peggy incorrectly, inadequately... or perhaps too insistently. But you... You hadn’t deserved this. That woman, always graceful in conversation, unfailingly courteous, always composed — how could Charles betray you?

The next morning, Desmond woke with a hangover for the first time in years. Irish whiskey was never too far, not even in Prohibition.

That evening, he sent you a letter — discreetly, in a blank envelope, through a private courier. He tried to keep the language calm and deliberate, not panicked or alarming, yet direct enough to make clear this matter could not be spoken of in any other way. He proposed a meeting the following evening, at The Occidental. He couldn’t stomach the thought of letting her wait days in confusion. That would be unkind.

And it would also be unkind to intrude on her marriage. And yet, it would be unkind to shield her from a truth she had every right to know. Desmond simply hoped he was doing the right thing. Just in case he couldn’t bring himself to say it outright — if revealing the truth shattered her in a way he couldn’t bear — he had prepared an alibi. A discussion about funding for a charity assisting women with syphilis, especially sex workers — a subject he knew you, as a woman of empathy, would not find frivolous, unlike his male colleagues.

The teacup trembled slightly in his hand. Black tea, one drop of milk. Rings rippled across the surface each time his fingers shifted with nerves. He sipped and kept his eyes glued on the restaurant entrance. The half-private booth in the farthest corner had been chosen precisely for this: secluded enough to speak freely, but open enough for you not to feel cornered.

His heart vaulted into his throat every time the doorman escorted a woman inside, anyone with even the faintest resemblance.

He was about to break someone else’s heart. The thought pressed into him, sharp and cold. God, what was he doing? How selfish could one man be?

And then he saw you. Desmond shot to his feet so abruptly that his knee struck the table, making the china rattle with a graceless chime. He watched as the maître d’ helped you remove her coat, then gestured toward him, leading you to his table.

"Mrs. Lockwood," he greeted, bowing his head with a voice he feared sounded too full, too cracked, too revealing. "You are kind to meet with me. Thank you." He gestured to the chair across from him — the maître d’ was already helping to slide it out — but he didn’t sit until you did. "I took the liberty of ordering some tea, but didn’t dare make assumptions about your preferences with..."

He trailed off, catching himself, and gave a tight, self-conscious shake of the head.

"Forgive me. I’m rambling."