The evening at Michael's Boston residence was a world away from the frantic energy of the New York Stock Exchange. Inside the modern bathroom, the only sounds were the rhythmic drip of water and the soft hiss of steam rising from a massive porcelain tub. The space featured warm marble floors and polished brass fixtures, with a tub deep enough for both of them to escape the world.
Michael sat submerged in the steaming water, his powerful frame finally yielding to the heat. Facing him, Evelyn Richards sat astride his thighs, her legs draped over either side of his as she leaned forward to reach the damp weight of his hair. The water and white lather clung to her skin, and she looked breathtaking in the humid amber light of the gas lamps, her features softened by the rising mist.
Her hands, slick with fragrant, pine-scented soap, were buried in Michael's hair. He had let it grow slightly longer than the cropped, military style he usually favored; in the water, it appeared a deep, midnight black.
As she worked the lather into his scalp with a slow, rhythmic grace, Michael's eyes drifted shut. He felt the last of the week's tension dissolve. Instinctively, his hands moved beneath the surface, reaching toward the curve of her hip.
Evelyn gave his hand a playful slap and let out a soft tut. "Be quiet," she whispered with a smile, her eyes dancing with mischief. "I'm trying to work here."
Michael let out a low, rumbling laugh but withdrew his hand, settling back against the porcelain to let her continue.
"You have such nice hair, Michael," she murmured, her fingers massaging his scalp with a tenderness that made him hum with contentment. "It's dark and thick, like silk. Honestly, I'm quite jealous."
"You have beautiful hair too, Evelyn," he replied, his eyes still closed. "Better than mine."
"But I have to work for it," she countered, running a comb through the damp strands. "I spend hours with tonics and brushes. You don't do a thing, yet you have this incredible texture. Women would pay a fortune for this in a bottle."
Michael opened his eyes, looking at her through the veil of steam. The "glass wall" that had stood between him and the rest of the world all day was gone. Here, he was simply a man spending time with the woman he loved.
"Well, you should be proud," he said softly, reaching up to gently brush a stray lock of hair back from her face with mock arrogance. "You're the only woman touching it now, anyway."
Evelyn rolled her eyes, her smile widening. She suddenly gripped his hair with both fists and gave it a firm, playful tug.
"Ouch!" Michael yelped, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Don't you use that arrogant tone with me, Mr. Big Man," she teased, splashing a bit of water his way. "Remember that your hair is still in my hands, so let's keep your ego in check until I'm finished."
After her mock threat, she leaned in and gave him a quick, lingering kiss, her smile pressed against his. As she went back to rinsing the last of the lather, her tone shifted, becoming curious. "At the station, you said you had a lot to tell me. What was it?"
Michael leaned his head back, watching her through half-closed eyes. "I was wondering how long it would take you to settle your things here in Boston."
Evelyn paused, soap foam on her fingertips. She reached out and gently wiped away a stray bit of lather creeping toward his eye. "Why?" she asked, her voice cautious. "Are you sending me somewhere?"
"I need you in Los Angeles," Michael said. "The studio will be running at full capacity soon, and I want you to be the face of it. I need someone I can trust by my side."
Evelyn didn't reply immediately, her hands continuing their work with a slow, thoughtful rhythm until the soap was rinsed away. She finished washing his hair, her fingers trailing absently against his skin. Michael saw the doubt in her face; the move was a massive, unfamiliar leap, and her silence revealed her uncertainty.
Michael reached out, taking her face in both hands and forcing her to meet his steady gaze.
"Eve, look at me," he said firmly. "Trust me. You are going to succeed. I'm going to make you a star, and the whole country will love you. I won't let it happen any other way. You have my word."
Evelyn searched his face, seeing the absolute certainty that defined him.
"I trust you, Michael," she replied softly, her hesitation melting into a quiet, confident smile. "More than anyone in my life."
She leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that began as a quiet seal of that trust. But as the contact lingered, it became an instant of demand that broke the room's stillness. The air grew heavy with the scent of pine and rising steam, the heat of the water finally matching the sudden, focused passion between them. Michael's hands slid from her cheeks, trailing down the slick warmth of her skin to pull her closer until every bit of space vanished. The quiet of the bathroom was lost to the rhythmic surge of water against the bath tub as their bodies moved as one, surrendering to a shared, passionate intensity.
In that private, humid sanctuary, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the steady beat of their hearts and the pulsing heat of the steam that shrouded them in a world of their own making. And they lost themselves to the passion, forgetting about everything. In the depths of the warm water, they found a profound peace—a connection that drowned out the rest of the world until only the echo of their breathing remained.
************
May 19, 1909: The Harvard Commencement Day
Spring in Cambridge arrived with a bright intensity, turning Harvard Yard into a sea of elms and academic robes. For Michael, the final two months had been a blur of focus as he completed his undergraduate degree. He graduated Summa Cum Laude—the highest academic distinction, reserved for those at the absolute top of their class—with a Bachelor of Science in Organic Chemistry, having also mastered demanding electives in Advanced Applied Calculus, Applied Mechanics and Thermodynamics, and the Theory and Application of AC & DC Circuits.
The 1909 commencement was historic, marking the transition from President Emeritus Charles William Eliot to the newly inaugurated A. Lawrence Lowell. Massachusetts Governor Eben Draper and the Board of Overseers were in attendance, but the crowd's focus remained on the student orator. Though Michael had not competed for the honor, the faculty selected him regardless; the university wanted his voice to define the class.
In the Yard, Michael's parents—John, Mary, George, and Elizabeth—waited amidst thousands of spectators. John had taken a short two-day break from his duties as Secretary of the Treasury to attend. His presence brought a visible change to the family's atmosphere; several Secret Service agents stood in a discreet perimeter around the group.
Under current regulations, these agents were assigned only to the Secretary's immediate family. Since Michael was technically John's nephew—despite being raised as his own son—he was not eligible for the government detail. John had tried to pull strings to extend that protection to Michael, but Michael had firmly refused.
"I appreciate the thought, Father," Michael told him as they gathered before the ceremony. "But I trust my own men. Kingston Security knows how I move. I'll stick with them."
Michael arrived escorting Evelyn Richards. While the parents had known about her for some time, this was their first face-to-face meeting. She looked radiant in a tailored blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat, maintaining her poise even under the sharp, observant gaze of the Kingston elders.
"Mother, Father... Dad, Mom," Michael said, his voice level. "I'd like you to meet Evelyn Richards. She is a very special friend."
The introduction was met with a stunned silence. They were used to Michael's independence, but bringing her into the family circle on such a public day was a significant gesture. Evelyn offered a respectful, confident nod. "It is an honor to finally meet you," she said, her voice steady.
The bells of Memorial Church began to chime, saving them from further questioning. "I have to leave for the procession," Michael said, offering a quick smile before heading toward the robes. He left the four parents and Evelyn together, a circle of polite tension as the ceremony began.
When Michael stepped onto the platform, a hush fell over the crowd. He spoke into a custom Kingston speaker system that carried his voice with perfect clarity.
"We are told we enter a world divided by class, race, religion, and nationality," Michael began, his voice steady. "Many call these divisions the relics of a dying age, but I am not so naive. These are not relics; they are deep, jagged scars in the human psyche, and I suspect they will remain long after we are gone—likely still standing a century from now. To tell you they will vanish simply because we wish it so is a comforting lie."
"I want to live in a world where we are no longer defined by these barriers," he continued. "A world where a man is recognized by the weight of his achievements and the inherent quality of his character; where we are truly tolerant of one another, and where we refuse to discriminate against or harm others simply because their way of life does not mirror our own."
Michael paused, letting the silence stretch across the Yard until the only sound was the wind in the elms. "You may call me a naive dreamer or an idealist out of touch with the grit of reality—I find I do not care for the labels," he resumed, his voice dropping an octave but carrying the absolute weight of an ultimatum. "That is the world I choose to live in, and I will spend every ounce of my will to realize it, even if the whole world says it is impossible. Because in the end, anything truly worth fighting for was never meant to be easy."
He leaned closer to the microphone, his gaze sweeping over the rows of graduating students. "I do not believe that every one of you leaving these halls today will heed what I am about to say. In fact, I suspect most will eventually choose the easy path of prejudice or the comfort of the familiar. But I ask one thing of you: When you find yourself in a position of power—when you must make a decision that affects the life, the dignity, or the future of another person—pause. Ask yourself one question: If the roles were reversed and this was happening to me, could I live with the outcome? If we can do just that—measure our actions by our own potential for suffering—the world will not be perfect, but it will be a place worth living in."
The applause started as a slow tide before becoming a roar. President Lowell and Governor Draper stood in respect for the sheer, blunt honesty of the message.
That evening, Michael hosted dinner at the Somerset Hotel. The morning tension had faded into curiosity. Mary and Elizabeth watched Evelyn closely, looking for any sign of a social climber. Instead, they found a woman with a backbone and a quiet strength. When the conversation turned to the new film industry, Evelyn spoke with a confidence that proved she was Michael's partner, not a follower.
By the end of the meal, Mary caught Elizabeth's eye and gave a small nod of approval. They realized Evelyn was not with Michael for his wealth, but because she genuinely cared for the man himself. For them, that was more than enough to grant her their approval.
As the night ended, John raised a glass. "To our son, Michael Kingston, who made us proud again today," he said, looking between Michael and Evelyn. "And to the new horizons that lie ahead in his journey."
All raised their glasses in a toast to Michael Kingston.