Author's Note: I won't take up too much of your time here, but I have to say a tremendous thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to publish this story. It's a big step outside of my comfort zone, but I'm so excited to finally share it. The title comes from the Stars song of the same name, which gave me a bit of inspiration for this concept (if you have never heard it, I highly recommend it, but it's not strictly necessary). And of course the biggest thank you of all goes out to La Donna Ingenua, who is not only a phenomenal author, but also a Beta extraordinaire. Seriously, she's the best.

9:39 PM
The fluorescent bulbs above her head are buzzing louder than usual, although she realizes that it probably only seems that way because of the near silence in the office around her. As the heat clicks on once again, filling the room with stale warm air, she releases a deep sigh and presses her fingers to her temples. Her head is pounding, and her legs ache; she flexes her feet, which are resting very unprofessionally on top of her desk—her sky high Laboutin heels shed long ago. She should have gone home hours ago, like the rest of the work force, but late nights have become de rigueur for Mary Crawley. Besides, she didn't become the Director of Marketing and Development at one of London's most successful fashion houses by being just like everyone else.

Mary's life was never destined to be ordinary. From the time she was born her father told her that their family was special, but it was a fact that she did not appreciate fully until her grandfather died; she was just ten years old.

Tall and slim, with eyes as blue as the sky, Walter Crawley was a man who had always done precisely the opposite of what anyone expected of him. In addition to being the reluctant seventh Earl of Grantham, he was also the sole owner of Downton Textile Works—a sleepy little factory that he purchased on a whim, for practically nothing, after the Second World War and turned into an enterprise more successful than anyone could have imagined. While his title could only be passed to a male heir, upon his death the shares of the textile factory were split 50/50 between his son and his daughter. Robert, a commercial real estate broker, liquidated his half of the shares and poured the money into his firm—Crawley Investment Group. Rosamond, his free spirited younger sister, surprised everyone by taking an active role in the running of the company, beginning with the image overhaul and eventual transition from textiles to high fashion. She moved headquarters from the old factory in Yorkshire to a sleek, modern building in London and began to climb her way up from the very bottom, not unlike her father had done before her.

It wasn't an easy world to break into, but she had a lot going for her. She was savvy enough to operate the business, connected enough to get recognized, and just arrogant enough to believe that she was going to be successful. It wasn't long before the Grantham label was dubbed the one to watch. Run by a "rogue aristocrat" (as the tabs called her) and staffed by a team of complete unknowns, Grantham was turning heads before they had even completed their first collection.

As a child, Mary had always thought her aunt to be a bit strange. With her untamable red curls and her hemlines just a bit too high, she never quite seemed to fit the Crawley mold. She was married and widowed before thirty, making her equal parts lonely and wealthy. She dated a string of unsuitable men (as Granny put it), and she never seemed to be able to sit still for very long. Her father often referred to his sister as a Hedonist, and to a young Mary, that seemed as much an insult as anything.

But after her grandfather's death, Mary found herself growing to admire her aunt more and more. She played by her own rules, which was something that Mary envied greatly; something that she wished she could do as well. The Grantham building became a refuge for her when nothing in her young life seemed to be going right-when there was no one else for her to talk to, and nowhere that felt like home.

When she was thirteen, her sister Edith–ten–and Sybil just five, their parent's filed for divorce. It was early in September when Robert was caught shagging one of the filing clerks at his firm, and Cora soundly refused to forgive him for his indiscretion. For the first winter post-split, the girls were shuffled back and forth between the posh townhome where they grew up in Belgravia to their father's new ostentatious penthouse apartment in Kensington. The divorce was finally settled in February, and within a month of the final paperwork being signed, Robert was remarried. Cora, embarrassed and devastated, moved back to America and the girls moved in full-time with their father and Jane, who, as it turned out, was more than just a one-time fling. She had an insufferable habit of referring to Mary and her sisters as "her lovely girls", which never failed to make Mary feel ill. In the beginning Jane tried hard-too hard-to earn their affection, always buying gifts and bending rules. But it wasn't long before she realized that despite her best efforts, she and the Crawley girls weren't destined to be very good friends.

She had a son of her own, Freddy, from a previous marriage, which meant that the girls now had a little brother. Since Freddy's father had passed away not long after he was born, Robert agreed to adopt the boy shortly after the wedding. And so he became Frederick Moorsum Crawley—the son Robert had always wanted, but never had. He was meek and charming as a three year old—polite and unassuming—with an insatiable sweet-tooth and a smile that lit up his whole face. But that sweet little boy was long gone, and now at seventeen, he set Mary's teeth on edge. He was spoiled and entitled in a way that the girls never were, and cunning enough to cause all sorts of trouble and skirt all of the consequences. As far as Robert and Jane were concerned, he could do no wrong.

10:15 PM
Mary doesn't remember falling asleep, but when her mobile sounds, it startles her back into consciousness. Her computer monitor has gone into hibernation, and there is a rather undignified spot of drool on her desk, which she quickly grabs a tissue to wipe it away. She stares at the screen of her mobile for a few seconds, blinking at the brightness of its light, before the words register in her mind.

Anna Smith: You better not still be at the office.

She knows Anna's disapproving glare so well that she can see it through the text message. They have known each other since they were teenagers, when Anna turned what was supposed to be a part-time summer job at Mary's father's real estate firm into an internship for university credit, into a salaried position upon graduation. Anna is now the Senior Property Manager for some of CIG's largest corporate clients. After getting over their initial misgivings of one another (spoiled rich girl with everything handed to her on a silver platter/pretentious suck-up with a working class background and a chip on her shoulder), they found that they rather liked each other. They bonded over their shared drive and ambition, and rallied together against those who doubted them because of their age or their gender.

Smiling, Mary reaches for her phone to respond: You're only bothering me because you've just left your office, haven't you? Leaning back in her chair, she stretches her arms above her head, several joints popping as her muscles extend.

Anna Smith: Fair enough, you caught me. Meet up for a drink?

Checking the time, Mary decides against it: Better not—early day tomorrow. How about lunch?

Anna Smith: All of our days seem to be early ones. Can't do lunch though; I've got a meeting with your father.

Mary can't help rolling her eyes: Of course you do. When are we going to learn to have lives?

Anna Smith: When we take over the world?

Mary laughs out loud, the sound echoing through her quiet office as she taps out her response: Right you are. Well, have a good night then. I promise we'll get together soon.

Anna Smith: Goodnight. And go home!

Sighing, Mary pulls her feet down off of her desk. Her back is stiff from sleeping hunched over, and her legs are uncomfortably stuck to the leather seat of her chair. As she stands to smooth down the front of her skirt, her stomach grumbles loudly, and she realizes that she is ravenous.

She shuts off her computer and gathers her things, slipping her heels back on her feet, groaning as her toes protest against their confinement. It is a routine conducted so frequently that she is operating on auto-pilot. Shoes on, lights off, bag slung over shoulder, door closed, keys out.She doesn't notice the light coming from the office on the other side of the floor, and she practically walks right into someone she does not recognize. Wracking her brain for a moment, she recalls that they've just taken on someone new in the legal department. Another Crawley oddly enough, apparently of no relation; she can't believe that she's forgotten he was meant to start today. She knows she should speak up and introduce herself, but they are in front of the lift now and both step forward at the same time. His hand reaches out to push the button to summon the lift before she has the chance, and her arm drops awkwardly at her side. They only wait a moment before it arrives, its doors opening with a soft ping.

He moves to take a step, but hesitates as he sees her do the same. She can't help but smile as he awkwardly gestures for her to go first. She pushes the button for the lobby as he moves to stand to her left.

For some reason, her first thought is that he seems taller than she had imagined him. And rather more attractive than anyone in the legal department needs to be. For a moment, they are quiet; neither of them are quite sure what to say. The proper amount of time in which to make an introduction has long passed, and the air around them feels charged with all of the words unspoken.

"You must be the long lost heir," Mary says, an edge of mockery in her tone.

"Bloody hell, the jokes made it all the way to the top on the first day?" He looks at her and smiles tightly, running his fingers through his hair.

She can't help but smile back at him. "They've been teasing you, then?" Her eyebrows quirk in anticipation of his response.

"Yes. They seem to think that I'm here because of nepotism, not because I have any real talent. Of course they might be right about the talent bit, so I didn't even bother trying to deny a family connection. Might come in handy…" He sputters off, as if realizing the utter idiocy of what he's just said.

She looks at him curiously, but says nothing. He appears to be nervous; she notices the small beads of perspiration starting to form around his neck, and he tugs at his collar trying to let in some air. They are locked in a strange sort of battle-she is observing him, and he is trying his best notto observe her. After moments that feel like years, her eyes leave his and focus on the panel in front of her.

"I'm not really on top, you know. My aunt Rosamond is still in charge of things." She's not quite sure why she feels the need to make the distinction to him.

"That's not what I've heard." He says it quickly, and looks as if he regrets it immediately.

They both look up suddenly as the lift reaches the ground floor, the door opening with another ping. They move to exit at the same time, their arms brushing together as they pass. The simple touch feels like a shock of electricity and they both gaze down to where their limbs had briefly connected, and then up to each other's eyes, turning away again just as quickly. It is an odd feeling, and more than a little disconcerting in Mary's opinion.

For as successful as she's been professionally, her love life has left much to be desired. She had been with one serious boyfriend at university; he was her first love, her first sex, and her first broken heart. A tall, handsome flanker on the rugby team, he was every bit as popular as she was. A bit too popular, it turned out; she came home early from a weekend away to find him and her roommate in the throes. She was understandably shattered by the incident, but she did everything in her power to make it appear that she was unaffected. The only person she told was her mother, because she was the only one who she knew would truly understand. The only one who would know what to say, and how to carry on. Even Anna, who had become her closest confidant by that point, never got the full story about the breakup.

The eventual result was a reputation that made Anna Wintour seem positively friendly by comparison. They called her cold and careful, and she worked hard to make sure it stayed that way. She was as untouchable as she was gorgeous, and it gave her all the power. She swore to herself that she wouldn't let down her guard again.

But as she walks away from the lift, saying her customary goodnight to the night guard Mr. Carson, she can't seem to shake the feeling of him from her skin. It was a simple touch—an accident on all accounts, and yet it made her feel alive in a way that she wasn't even sure that she recognized. As she pushes open the heavy glass doors, the winter wind tangling its way through her hair, she thinks that maybe the walls she worked so hard to construct aren't the defense she had hoped for. Maybe, she thinks, I should have built a moat as well.