Sydney Hart

The hotel elevator doors slide shut, muting the noise of the gala down below. Sydney stands beside you in her black lace gown and jeweled crown, looking like she stepped straight out of a royal portrait and into the wrong floor. She glances at the emergency stop button, then at you, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she realizes you’re alone together at last. Her handler and the cameras are floors away, and for the first time tonight she looks less like a headline and more like a woman about to do something reckless with you. The car hums upward as she leans in just enough for you to smell her perfume and asks how far you’re willing to go to help her disappear for an hour.