Chapter Four: Tethered
Anita had always believed in boundaries. In schedules. In rules. But with Marcus, those lines blurred—subtly, seductively. And before she realized it, he had woven himself into the fabric of her routines.
He never asked for more time. He simply filled the spaces.
She noticed it first in the way he handled her staff—cordial, respectful, but always with just enough charm to leave an impression. Then, in the meetings he began attending as an "observer," though his insights were sharp enough to influence decisions. When he spoke, people listened. She liked that. At least at first.
He became the whisper at her ear in closed-door negotiations. The quiet presence beside her at high-stakes dinners. Always thoughtful. Always useful. And slowly, undeniably, indispensable.
"You trust him?" her CFO, Lillian, had asked one night over drinks. "Professionally, I mean."
Anita had paused. "I trust myself. And I trust that he knows better than to cross me."
It was bravado. A woman's armor.
Because the truth was, she did trust him—more than she wanted to admit. More than she had ever trusted anyone.
And trust, Anita knew, was not just vulnerability.
It was a tether. One that could strangle you before you realized it was even there.
**
That fall, Marcus surprised her with a trip to Umbria. A rare escape. Olive groves, hillside villas, wine under the stars. He told her she worked too much. She told him he didn't work enough. But that week, they met in the middle.
She let herself be softer.
She let herself believe.
One night, wrapped in blankets on the villa balcony, she whispered what she'd never said to anyone.
"I built everything so I wouldn't have to need anyone."
He turned toward her. "And now?"
She hesitated. Then: "Now, I'm not sure that was the right way."
He didn't reply right away. Just pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.
Later, she'd wonder if that silence had been affection—or calculation.
But in that moment, under the moonlight and the weight of her own confession, Anita felt tethered. And for once, it didn't feel like weakness.
It felt like home.