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On days she didn’t make an appearance, I was disgruntled. Agitated by whatever incompetent, uninteresting field reporter took her place.

Days passed.

Weeks. Months.

You’d think I’d grow bored of watching the morning news solely for some woman I’d never met before. Just for the ten or twelve minutes she was on air.

But as days, weeks, and months turned into a year, I was not only more invested than ever before, I was looking to sate my appetite in other ways.

A simple internet search told me the basics about Portia James.

She was thirty-one. A journalism graduate of Newport University. She liked traveling, sports, and shopping. Her Instagram profile was public, a curated peek into her world, where she posted photos like the latte art from a local café and the stunning views from her trip to Jamaica.

She was orphaned, adopted by a sweet older couple she was close with. Herandher biological cousin.

Apparently, they had suffered some sort of family crisis at a young age, leaving them without parents.

Mr. and Mrs. James had stepped in before the girls could be separated by the system.

It explained why she often spent a weekend each month volunteering with causes like Rise and Thrive, helping underprivileged children.

She lived in a decent apartment in the Edgewater neighborhood and traveled by subway to work.

And…she was married.

The woman I had spent almost a year watching on my TV each morning was married. I’d never noticed because she didn’t wear her ring on air and she’d kept her maiden name.

She really didn’t even mention him on her social media until one evening I opened the app and she had made a post wishing him a happy anniversary.

I’m not quick to anger. I’m a sensible, rational man. Yet I almost snapped my fucking phone in half, a current of rage rushing me at once.

His name was Lincoln Powell, a failed tech entrepreneur with little to nothing going for himself. He served no purpose in her life other than dragging her down. He didn’t give her the kinds of things she deserved and he damn sure didn’t appreciate her.

“Again?” Adagio asked one morning.

I was straightening my tie in front of the large flatscreen TV and he was reporting early to my penthouse to brief me on some business movements.

“Again what? Be clearer when you speak,” I said, more sour than usual.

Today’s segment was a special one, titled “Get to Know the Metro News Morning Crew”. Everybody from the anchors to the field reporters to the meteorologists were featured in quick five-minute clips showcasing their personal lives. It was meant to endear viewers at home to the cast, but instead it pissed me off as Portia’s video played and she was filmed in her apartment with her husband.

Her fucking husband that looked aloof and uninterested the entire time as Portia talked brightly to the camera.

Adagio glanced from the TV and then to me, arching a brow. “Again this,” he said. “The news reporter lady.”

“Her name is Portia James. Refer to her as such.”

“She’s pretty,” he admitted. “But what’s the plan? You’re going to continue watching her on TV?”

“Never you mind. It’s none of your business.”

I knew exactly what the plan was. But, more importantly, I was aware how careful I had to be.

It wasn’t good to become distracted, but what could I say?

I like what I like. I’m a man who gets what he wants once he sets his mind on something. Portia James happened to be that something.

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