The gala was a glitter of glass and steel, a rooftop event downtown where Atlanta’s moneyed crowd mingled under string lights and a sky bruised with dusk. Lena stood near the edge, a flute of champagne untouched in her hand, her black dress catching the breeze. It was Elliot’s night—his mixed-use project unveiled, her designs splashed across banners and brochures, a triumph she’d poured weeks into. She’d barely slept, tweaking layouts until her eyes burned, but seeing it now—clean lines, bold colors, her name in fine print—felt like a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

Elliot found her by the railing, his tie loosened, a grin breaking through his usual calm. “You did it,” he said, clinking his glass to hers. “They’re eating it up—investors, press, all of them. You’re a star, Lena.”

She smiled, small but real, the praise warming her despite the chill creeping in. “We did it. Your blueprints, my scribbles—team effort.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “You’re the heart of this. I mean it.”

Her pulse skipped, his nearness a current she couldn’t dodge. They’d been dancing around it for weeks—late nights at his office, takeout cartons piling up, his hand brushing hers over blueprints. She’d kept it professional, mostly, but tonight felt different, the air charged with something she couldn’t name. The city sprawled below, a sea of lights, and for a moment she let herself float in it, free of the weight she carried everywhere else.

“You look happy,” he said, softer now, his eyes searching hers. “Been a while since I’ve seen that.”

She looked away, the champagne trembling in her glass. “I’m… trying,” she said, the truth half-formed. Marcus’s last letter sat unread on her counter—two days old, postmarked with urgency—and she hadn’t opened it, couldn’t face the pull of his words against the pull of this.

Elliot set his glass down, turning her gently by the shoulder. “Lena,” he said, low and steady, “whatever’s holding you back, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

The words cracked something open, and before she could stop it, she leaned in—or he did—and their lips met, soft, tentative, then sure. It wasn’t Marcus’s kiss, all heat and hunger; it was quiet, deliberate, a question she answered with her hands on his chest, the gala fading to a hum around them. Her heart raced, guilt and want tangling tight, and when they pulled apart, his breath warm on her cheek, she didn’t know if she’d just found something or lost it.

Across the state, Marcus sat in solitary, a six-by-eight cell with a steel bunk and a slot for meals, the air thick with mildew and silence. He’d landed there after a fight—some punk mouthing off about debts Kev owed, a shove turned to fists, and now three days in the hole, his knuckles still raw. Big Ray had come through before it went down, whispering in the yard: “Kev’s gone again—Macon’s dry. Word is he’s south, maybe Savannah.” Then the fists flew, and Marcus was here, cut off, the lead slipping through his fingers like sand.

He pressed his forehead to the wall, the cold biting into his skin, and thought of Lena. He’d written her about Kev, about Ray, his pencil shaking with hope, but nothing back—not yet. Her letters had slowed, the space between them growing, and he felt it here, alone, the distance carving a hollow he couldn’t fill. He scratched a line into the bunk with a jagged nail—day three—and wondered if she was still fighting, or if she’d let go without telling him.

Back at the gala, Lena slipped away from Elliot, her lips still tingling, and found a quiet corner by the bar. Her phone buzzed—Jade, checking in—and she ignored it, her mind a mess of Marcus’s scrawl and Elliot’s touch. She’d felt alive tonight, seen, but the cost was a thread snapping, a promise fraying under the weight of her tangled heart. She downed the champagne, the bubbles sharp on her tongue, and stared out at the city, caught between the man she’d kissed and the one she couldn’t reach, the distance growing wider with every heartbeat.

Lena drove home from the gala in a daze, the Corolla’s engine rumbling beneath her as the city lights streaked past. Elliot’s kiss lingered—soft, insistent, a memory she couldn’t shake—mixing with the champagne’s faint buzz and the guilt that clawed at her chest. She’d left him on the rooftop with a murmured excuse about an early morning, his eyes puzzled but kind, and now the quiet of her apartment loomed like a reckoning. The letter waited on the counter, Marcus’s handwriting stark against the envelope, and she knew she couldn’t dodge it anymore.

She kicked off her heels, the dress pooling around her feet as she sank onto the couch, tearing the paper open with trembling fingers. His words spilled out, desperate and jagged:

Lena,

Ray got a line on Kev—says he’s in Savannah now, running from something. Darius lost him in Macon, but this could be it. Tell Ortiz, get him down there. I’m stuck in a mess here—fight, solitary, out soon. Don’t give up, baby. I’m still fighting. Miss you more than I can say.

Love, Marcus

Her breath caught, the pencil smudges blurring as tears welled up. Savannah—another lead, another chance, and he was clawing for it from a cell smaller than their old bathroom. She pressed the letter to her lips, tasting salt and ink, and pictured him—bruised, maybe, hunched over that scrap of paper, holding onto her like a lifeline. She’d kissed Elliot tonight, let herself drift, and here was Marcus, still tethered to her, still believing.

She grabbed her phone, dialing Jade without checking the time—1:17 a.m., too late, but she didn’t care. Jade picked up, groggy but sharp. “Lena? You okay?”

“He’s got something,” Lena said, voice shaking. “Kev’s in Savannah. Marcus is in solitary, but he’s pushing. I need you to call Ortiz tomorrow—tell him.”

“Savannah?” Jade’s tone snapped awake. “Damn, alright. I’ll handle it. You sound wrecked—what’s going on?”

Lena hesitated, Elliot’s touch flashing hot in her mind. “Just… the trial stuff. It’s hitting hard.”

“Liar,” Jade said, soft but firm. “Spill it later. Get some sleep—we’ll fix this.”

She hung up, and Lena dropped the phone, curling into the couch with the letter clutched tight. She wanted to write back, tell Marcus she’d fight, that she hadn’t let go, but the words stuck, tangled with the taste of Elliot’s lips and the life she’d glimpsed tonight. Sleep didn’t come—just a restless drift, her heart split between two men pulling her in opposite directions.

In solitary, Marcus counted the minutes, the slot in the door his only clock. The fight replayed in his head—some kid with a shaved head and a mouth, taunting about Kev’s debts, saying Marcus was a fool to trust him. He’d swung first, a dumb move, and landed here, the walls a gray blur closing in. His lip was split, his ribs sore, but the real ache was Lena—her silence, the letters slowing to a trickle. He’d scratched another line into the bunk—day four—and whispered her name into the dark, a prayer he wasn’t sure she’d hear.

The guard came at dawn, banging the door open, light flooding the cell like a blade. “Tate, you’re out. Keep your nose clean.” Marcus stood, stiff and slow, the envelope gone from his bunk—mailed, he hoped, to Lena’s hands. He shuffled back to the block, Ray waiting by the mess hall with a nod.

“Savannah’s still good,” Ray said, low. “My guy says Kev’s crashing with some dealer. You got a day before he moves.”

“Tell him to hold,” Marcus muttered, his voice hoarse. “Lena’s on it.”

Ray eyed him, skeptical but silent, and Marcus headed for chow, the tray shaking in his bruised hands. He ate alone, the grits tasteless, and felt the distance stretch—her last letter three weeks old, short and careful, like she was slipping away. He’d fight for Kev, for the appeal, but the hollow in his chest grew, a fear he couldn’t name: that she was finding a rhythm without him, one he’d never fit back into.

Lena woke to sunlight, Marcus’s letter crumpled beside her, and stared at the ceiling, the tangle tighter than ever. She’d call Darius today, push for Savannah, but Elliot’s face hovered too—a promise she hadn’t made but couldn’t unfeel. The distance wasn’t just miles anymore—it was her, and she didn’t know how to close it.