@tookmypulse.bsky.social *test*

“Maybe?”

“Are you… okay?”

“Morning, Miss. I.. have Oreo’s?”

“Miss?”, she offered, loitering in the doorway.

@tookmypulse.bsky.social

Comes bearing Oreos.

//Im very much the same. Struggling with it at the moment.

Kate thumbed the intercom, mouth unmoved. “Good morning. If you’re here for Irene, you’re early. And if you’re the man I think you are… you’re not coming in.”

The doorbell didn’t ring. A knock—measured, confident, too familiar—rolled through the flat. Kate’s gaze snapped to the monitor: a man stood just outside the camera’s view, positioned with irritating precision.

She returned to the hall, fingertips brushing the neat line of keys. Everything had its place. Everyone did, too, if Kate did her job properly.

Kate stopped at the bedroom door—close, but not crossing. Not invited. Not needed. Her voice carried soft enough to be permission. “Coffee’s ready. And I’ve moved your schedule back ten minutes. You’re welcome.”

On the island, the folder waited. Kate flipped it open, scanned the top page, then shut it again. The client wasn’t her problem. The man was. Insufferable meant early, entitled, smiling.

NOON. DON’T LET HIM IN. Of course. Kate set the phone down and checked the corridor feed. Empty. Too empty. London loved an entrance.

Kate didn’t need the warning to know Irene was awake. The flat changed when she did—subtle as heat rising. A shift in the air, in the timing of sounds. Kate checked the message again anyway.

“Happy New Year to you, as well, Sir! Quiet, I suppose. There wasn’t a great deal happening. Yours?”

@garethdukain.bsky.social “Evening, Sir.”

@tookmypulse.bsky.social

Kate didn’t open the door. She thumbed the intercom on, voice smooth and politely bored.

“Good morning. If you’re here for Irene, you’re early. If you’re here for me… you’re mistaken.”

On the monitor: the corridor. Too bright. Too empty. Then—movement. A figure stepping just out of frame, as if they knew exactly where the camera couldn’t see.

Still, her hand hovered over the chain. Irene liked her cautious. Irene liked her thinking.

Kate stared at the initials, then at the door, then at the security monitor she’d installed and Irene had pretended not to notice. Of course.
She set the tablet down, rolled her shoulders once, and crossed the room. The locks were the kind that made burglars cry.

Another notification arrived, like London couldn’t stand being left out: You’re going to want to check your peephole. —SH

Kate’s throat tightened—not fear, not exactly. The familiar pull of instruction, crisp as a collar. She typed back: Understood.

PA first. Everything else second. That was the rule. That was the shape of her devotion. A message lit the screen instead of a call: NOON. DON’T LET HIM IN. —I.A.

Her phone buzzed—unknown number, blocked ID. Kate didn’t answer. She watched her reflection in the dark window: composed posture, rooftops under bruised cloud, breath steadying on command.

On the kitchen island, a slim leather folder waited beside two cups—one untouched, one cooling. Kate adjusted the folder by a fraction of an inch, then stopped herself. Irene didn’t need perfection. Irene preferred attention.

Kate’s earpiece clicked once. A calendar reminder slid across her screen: 11:30 — Client. Private. No names.

Irene’s handwriting, digitally stylised, sat beneath it like a smirk.

Outside, Marylebone hummed: buses breathing at the curb, a siren skimming somewhere it didn’t belong. Inside, everything was curated—expensive, deliberate, and just intimate enough to feel like a dare.