Terms and Conditions

Old wounds, New Games

The sun dipped low behind the towers, casting Alison's office in amber hues, but she hadn't moved from her chair in over an hour. The meeting had ended. The team had long since filed out. Even Emily had left, her scent still lingering faintly in the air like jasmine and ocean salt.

But Alison stayed still.

Across the room, on her desk, sat an old photo frame Charlotte had unearthed earlier that week while reorganizing the archive. It was from a summer long gone, a Fourth of July barbecue in the Hamptons. In the image, Maya had her arms thrown around Alison's shoulders, smiling too wide. Charlotte's grin was crooked, Jason's expression flat. Alison, however, wasn't smiling.

She had looked directly into the lens with that early version of her signature expression: unreadable. Composed. The kind of look people assumed meant arrogance, but Alison had always known it was just armor.

Even then, she'd been building it.

She reached forward and turned the frame face-down. There were other things she didn't want to remember. Like the way Maya had always insisted on getting close only to pull away when it mattered most. Like the way Emily had walked out of the room earlier, flushed, quiet, thoughtful and how Alison hadn't stopped her.

She should've. But the truth was, Alison was starting to realize something that unsettled her more than she expected:

She didn't want Emily's loyalty.

She wanted her choice. And choice, by nature, came with risk.

Emily's sneakers hit the pavement hard as she ran through the neighborhood at dusk, trying to clear her head. Her playlist thudded in her ears, but her thoughts outran even the fastest tempo. She hadn't thought about it in so long, the last real night with Maya — but it came back in sharp, brutal pieces now.

It was raining. Always raining in her memory. They were standing outside a club in L.A., fighting quietly in the shadows because Maya hated scenes. Emily had flown across the country to surprise her. But Maya hadn't come home alone. The woman with her had been all red lips and expensive perfume.

Emily had asked, "Who is she?"

Maya had answered, "A friend."

Emily had said, "You only call them that when you're bored of me."

And then it all spilled out. Not just jealousy, but the ache, the loneliness. The letters Maya never responded to. The visits that got postponed. The way Emily felt like she was always waiting for something that never quite arrived.

"I gave up everything for you," Emily had whispered, hands clenched.

"No," Maya had said, not cruelly, but with a flatness that gutted her. "You gave up everything for the idea of me."

Back then, Emily didn't have a reply. And tonight, all these years later, she still didn't.

Later that week, Emily found herself walking beside Alison after a late staff dinner. The restaurant had been all glass and candlelight, the kind of upscale minimalism Alison seemed to prefer. But outside, the world was rawer, rain slicking the sidewalk, the sounds of the city muffled and intimate.

"Want a ride?" Alison asked as they stopped by the curb.

Emily shook her head. "It's not far."

Alison didn't move. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her coat, but her eyes were fixed on Emily's face, searching almost.

"You don't trust me yet," she said.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you expected me to."

Alison looked amused. "I didn't. But I hoped."