Chapter 20: The Affair Begins
The city blurred past the taxi window, a smear of neon and dusk. Matthew pressed his forehead against the cool glass, the ghost of Tony’s touch still burning on his skin, Rossi’s accusation echoing like a gong in his skull. All roads lead back to you. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Joe. Again. He’d ignored three calls already. With a hand that trembled slightly, he pulled it out. The screen illuminated his face in the dim cab: Joe 🖤: Hey, you ok? Radio silence all day. Miss you. Dinner?
The lie tasted bitter, metallic. He typed quickly, fingers clumsy. Crazy day. Still slammed at the Mission. Going to be late. Really late. Don’t wait up. Sorry, love. xo. He hit send before he could second-guess. A fresh wave of nausea washed over him. Discreet. Maintain the affair. Tony’s smooth, dangerous words. He pictured Joe’s face – the flicker of disappointment he’d surely hide, the forced understanding. "Of course, babe. Your job comes first. Just… text me when you can?" That’s what Joe would say. Always accommodating. Always there. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. Stop.
"Change of plan," he rasped to the driver. He gave Tony’s Upper East Side address, the words scraping his throat. The cabbie grunted, swung a sharp U-turn. Matthew slumped back, exhaustion warring with a sick, thrumming anticipation. He was walking into the fire. Voluntarily.
Tony’s apartment building was old-world grandeur – limestone facade, brass fittings gleaming under discreet lighting. Matthew bypassed the startled doorman with a curt nod, took the elevator up, the silent ascent amplifying the frantic beat of his own heart. He knocked, the sound too loud in the hushed hallway. The door opened almost instantly.
Tony stood there, tie loose, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of amber liquid in hand. He didn’t smile. His dark eyes swept over Matthew, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the hunted look he couldn’t quite mask. "Wasn't sure you'd come," he said, his voice low.
"Neither was I," Matthew admitted, stepping past him into the warmth.
The apartment was a stark contrast to the sleek minimalism of Tony’s office. It was lived-in, intellectual chaos. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowed, spines cracked and faded. Abstract paintings in bold colors fought for space on the walls. An antique desk was buried under stacks of papers and leather-bound journals. The air was rich with the comforting scents of old paper, good whiskey, and the faint, lingering aroma of Tony’s cedar cologne. Matthew noticed a large, detailed map of Manhattan pinned to one wall. It looked… annotated. Tiny, precise marks clustered in certain neighborhoods, near the UN, near MoMA, near… Matthew’s own apartment building. A chill, unrelated to the warmth of the room, prickled his skin. Reconnaissance? Tony’s diplomatic instincts? He pushed the thought away.
Tony handed him a glass of whiskey, their fingers brushing. The simple contact sent a jolt through Matthew. "Rough day?" Tony asked, studying him.
Matthew took a long swallow, the whiskey burning a welcome path down his throat. "Rossi ambushed me outside the Mission. Jake Ryan again."
Tony’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "What did she want?"
"Same thing. Implying I know more. Said I was the last one who saw him. Said…" He faltered, the words sticking. "Said all roads lead back to me." He looked at Tony, seeking… what? Reassurance? Complicity?
Tony swirled his drink, his gaze sharp. "She’s fishing. Desperate. Ignore her. She’s got nothing." He stepped closer, invading Matthew’s space. The intensity Matthew remembered, craved, was back in his eyes. "You’re here now. That’s what matters." He reached out, his thumb tracing the tense line of Matthew’s jaw. "Forget Rossi. Forget Jake." His voice dropped to a murmur. "Forget everything but this."
The command, the absolute focus, was a balm and a drug. Matthew let his eyes fall shut as Tony’s lips met his. Not like the frantic collision in the office. This was slow, deliberate. A claiming, yes, but a deep, savoring exploration. Tony’s hands slid down his back, pulling him closer, anchoring him. The anxieties, the guilt, the chilling doubt Rossi had planted… they didn’t vanish. But they receded, muffled by the warmth of Tony’s mouth, the solid strength of his body, the scent of him – whiskey, cedar, safety. Matthew surrendered to the kiss, his own hands rising to grip Tony’s shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath the fine cotton. The city outside, Joe waiting for a text that wouldn't come, Elizabeth in her hospital bed… they belonged to another world. Here, in this room of books and secrets, there was only Tony.
They moved towards the bedroom, a slow, wordless dance. Clothes fell away not in a frenzy, but with a deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness. Tony’s lips trailed a hot path down Matthew’s neck, his collarbone, mapping his skin with a possessiveness that felt different this time. Not opportunistic, but foundational. Matthew gasped as Tony’s mouth found a nipple, the sharp pleasure mingling with a profound sense of yielding. He was being unwound, layer by layer, not just physically. Tony’s hands were everywhere – firm, knowing, worshipful. They explored the planes of Matthew’s chest, the dip of his spine, the curve of his ass, with an intimacy that spoke of claiming, of belonging. There was no rush. Just the shared heat, the slick slide of skin on skin, the low murmurs that weren’t words but promises breathed against flesh.
Later, tangled in Tony’s expensive sheets, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air, Matthew lay with his head on Tony’s chest. The steady thud of Tony’s heartbeat under his ear was a grounding rhythm. Tony’s arm was a heavy, comforting weight across his back, fingers idly tracing circles on his shoulder. The frantic energy of Geneva, the illicit thrill of the office, was gone. This felt… domestic. Real. Possible.
In the quiet darkness, with the city lights painting shifting patterns on the ceiling, Matthew allowed himself to envision it. Waking up here. Sharing coffee at that cluttered desk. Arguing over policy briefs. Coming home to this – to Tony’s focused intensity, his understanding of the pressures, his undeniable power. He thought of Joe. Sweet, attentive Joe with his bookstore dreams and his artisanal coffee and his quiet, watchful eyes that sometimes held a flicker Matthew couldn't quite decipher. Joe, who wanted dinners and weekends away and a future that suddenly felt… small. Constricting. Unambitious. Joe, who didn't understand the relentless pace, the global stakes, the intoxicating game Tony navigated with such ease. Joe, whose "love" felt increasingly like a gentle cage.
A profound sense of certainty settled over him, cold and clear. He couldn’t go back. Not fully. The affair wasn’t just a lapse; it was a doorway. Tony offered a partnership on equal footing, a life within the world Matthew had fought so hard to inhabit. He saw it clearly now: breakfast meetings at the UN delegates’ lounge, weekends in the Hamptons with other power players, Tony’s steadying presence at endless diplomatic functions. A life of consequence. A life where he belonged.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Tony. Tony’s eyes were open, watching him in the dimness, alert, waiting. Matthew traced the line of Tony’s jaw, the silver streaks in his temple. "This…" he began, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. It could be everything, couldn't it?" He didn’t phrase it as a question. It was a statement, a dawning realization voiced aloud.
Tony’s hand came up, cupping Matthew’s face. His thumb brushed Matthew’s lower lip. "It is everything, Matthew," he said, his voice low and sure. "It was always meant to be. The rest?" A dismissive flicker in his eyes. "Just noise." He pulled Matthew down for another kiss, deep and slow, sealing the unspoken pact.
Matthew sank into it, into Tony, into the vision of the life unfolding before him. He’d deal with Joe. Gently. Soon. But not tonight. Tonight, he belonged here. In Tony’s world. In Tony’s bed. The guilt over Joe was a distant ache, overshadowed by the powerful allure of this new path. He nestled back against Tony’s chest, safe in the circle of those strong arms, the future seeming brilliantly, terrifyingly clear.
His phone, discarded on the nightstand beside Tony’s, buzzed softly. A single notification lit up the screen in the dark room: Joe 🖤: Almost home? Thinking of you. Stay safe. xo The screen dimmed, then went black. Matthew didn’t see it. He was already drifting, the image of Joe’s trusting face fading, replaced by the sharp, commanding lines of Tony’s profile silhouetted against the city lights. All roads seemed to lead here. And he was finally ready to walk them.
The rhythmic thump of Tony’s heart beneath Matthew’s ear was a lullaby, the expensive sheets a cocoon against the city’s relentless pulse. He drifted, the sharp clarity of his decision softening into a warm, drowsy certainty. Leaving Joe wouldn’t be easy, but it was necessary. Necessary for this. For Tony’s solid presence, the shared understanding of their world, the intoxicating promise of power entwined with passion. Matthew sighed, a contented sound lost in the quiet room. He was finally ready.
Across town, in the cluttered sanctuary above The Last Chapter, the air hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and old paper. Joe Goldberg paced. Five steps towards the wall map of Manhattan, plastered with cryptic symbols near Matthew’s apartment, the UN, MoMA. Five steps back towards his laptop, glowing softly on the worn oak desk. Matthew’s text echoed in his skull: Crazy day. Still slammed at the Mission. Going to be late. Really late. The words felt wrong. Hollow. Matthew wasn’t a ‘slammed at the Mission’ kind of diplomat; he was meticulous, communicative. Especially with Joe. Especially lately.
A cold knot tightened in Joe’s gut. He shouldn’t. He promised himself he wouldn’t invade like this, not after… incidents. But the gnawing suspicion, the sharp sting of Matthew’s unusual distance today, was too much. He gave in. His fingers flew over the laptop keys, bypassing security protocols he’d embedded months ago during a ‘helpful’ phone backup session. The location tracker blinked to life. A pulsing blue dot. Not hovering over the UN complex on the East River. Not even near Matthew’s own sleek Midtown building. The dot pulsed steadily, defiantly, on the Upper East Side. Precisely where Ambassador Tony Fitzpatrick resided.
Joe froze. The air left his lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. He didn’t need to cross-reference the address. He knew. He’d always known Fitzpatrick was a threat – the easy charm, the shared world Matthew inhabited, the way Matthew’s eyes sometimes lingered a fraction too long after a briefing. That polished predator pretending to be Matthew’s mentor. Rage, white-hot and blinding, erupted through him. It scalded his throat, tightened his fists until the knuckles cracked. The betrayal wasn't just Matthew’s weakness; it was Fitzpatrick’s calculated seduction. Poisoning what Joe had built, what he protected.
“Working late,” Joe hissed aloud, the words venomous in the silent apartment. He slammed a fist onto the desk, making the laptop jump. “With him.” Images flooded his mind: Matthew laughing at something Fitzpatrick said, Fitzpatrick’s hand lingering on Matthew’s shoulder, Matthew lying naked in that bastard’s bed right now. The carefully constructed narrative in Joe’s mind fractured. Matthew wasn’t just distracted; he was being stolen. Stolen by a man who represented everything shallow and dangerous in Matthew’s world – the power games, the hidden agendas, the casual cruelty disguised as sophistication. Fitzpatrick didn’t deserve Matthew. He didn’t understand his depth, his need for genuine connection, his vulnerability that Joe alone cherished and shielded.
Joe stalked back to the map. His finger stabbed at the pulsing blue dot representing Fitzpatrick’s building. Then it traced a path downtown, landing on the cluster of marks near Matthew’s place. His sanctuary. His home. Which Fitzpatrick was violating. Joe’s breathing came in ragged gasps. He remembered Jake Ryan’s smug face, the way he’d treated Matthew like a convenient distraction. Jake was gone now. Handled. Necessary. Elizabeth Lawrence’s probing eyes, her whispered cautions to Matthew – he’s too intense, Matt, be careful – still echoed. She was sidelined, recovering, but her influence lingered like a bad smell. And now Fitzpatrick. The most dangerous obstacle yet. Closer to Matthew. Wielding real power.
A terrible calm began to seep through the fury, cold and precise. The frantic pacing stopped. Joe stood very still before the map, his reflection ghostly in the darkened window. His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on that pulsing blue dot. Protecting Matthew wasn’t just about love; it was a sacred duty. Matthew was blinded by Fitzpatrick’s glamour, trapped by his own ambition. He needed rescue. He needed Joe to clear the path. Again. Jake had been a crude distraction. Elizabeth, a meddlesome voice. Fitzpatrick… Fitzpatrick was the apex predator in Matthew’s jungle. Removing him wouldn’t be simple. It would require finesse. Planning. A solution as elegant and final as a closing chapter.
Joe’s lips curled into a thin, humorless line. His gaze never wavered from the map. The frantic energy coalesced into a single, chilling point of focus. Ambassador Anthony Fitzpatrick had just made himself the protagonist of a very short story. Joe picked up a red marker. Slowly, deliberately, he drew a tight, precise circle around the blue dot on the Upper East Side. The ink shone wetly under the desk lamp. The plotting had begun.