CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Emily
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Emily
I f winking were an Olympic sport, the Philippines would swim in gold medals, thanks to Joshua. Every single time he winks at me, my breath hitches. Like now, when he steps out of his room, hair tousled and shirtless like the Greek god that he is, he winks as he says, “Morning, roomie.”
“Wear a shirt, roomie,” I manage to say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Joshua’s grin only widens, clearly unbothered by my attempt at being the responsible, reasonable one. He glances me over, slow and deliberate, taking in my outfit for the day. I’m dressed for an interview, in a crisp black dress paired with a tailored blazer and bold red heels. I catch him scanning me from head to toe with a look that makes me feel like I’ve just stepped off the runway. His approving nod only makes me more self-conscious.
“You look great,” he says, and his voice is oddly serious. He walks over to me, on the other side of the counter, and adds with that usual smirk, “Red is your color.”
I can feel my cheeks burn, but it’s not just the compliment. It’s the way his eyes linger on my lips—covered in that red lipstick—just a little longer than necessary. It’s like he’s studying them, weighing his next words carefully, and I feel a jolt of something deep in my chest.
Why did I agree to this set up again? I’m having such a hard time keeping it together.
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling very aware of the air between us. “You need to wear a shirt, that’s against the rules,” I repeat, but even to my own ears, I know I don’t sound convincing. I might as well be telling the sun not to shine.
He chuckles, shrugging as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’m taking a shower soon.” He leans on the counter. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“As much as I would like to stay and watch an episode of Topless Chef,” I say, “I need to go for my interview.”
“Do you want me to come with you for moral support?” he says cheekily, as he pops a grape in his mouth. “I’ll keep my shirt on, I promise.” He swiftly puts the shirt over his head, and his hair tousles even more.
“I can manage,” I say.
“Of course you can,” he replies. “Just remember, if all else fails, my offer stands.” He says it in a more serious tone, his expression shifting from smug to surprisingly honest.
He’s talking about me being his accountant for his construction company once he inherits it. I’m still debating the pros and cons of that option. Because how can I focus on working with Joshua if a mere breakfast interaction sends my stomach twisting into different directions?
It’s been a while since I’ve been in an office building. I don’t miss it. Not one bit. I don’t miss the small talk that’s purely just pretension. I don’t miss the smug looks of men with their coffee mugs. I don’t miss the clinking of heels. I don’t miss anything.
Just as I’m about to take a seat, I notice a familiar face.
“Claire?” I blink.
“Oh my gosh, Emily!” Claire exclaims, her eyes lighting up as she rushes over. Claire was one of the few women I worked with at Titan—a bright spot in an otherwise dark chapter of my career.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She grins but quickly glances around as if to gauge if anyone’s listening. “I should be asking you the same thing,” she says with a laugh. “Are you interviewing?”
I nod, motioning to the receptionist’s desk where I see there’s still another candidate ahead of me. “Yeah, but tell me—what’s going on with you? I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Okay,” she says, settling into the chair beside me. Her voice carries a mix of bitterness and exhaustion. “After you left, Ben started joking about the whole thing. It was vile. He’d make comments about how women should ‘know their place,’ throw in those misogynistic quips like they were some kind of office banter.”
I shake my head, not surprised. Typical Ben.
Claire presses on, her tone sharpening. “Then one day, he crossed a line—a very personal one. Something about my looks, my work, and how I should just ‘smile more’ to get ahead. It was the last straw. I told them I couldn’t stay in an environment like that. And you know what Ben said? He said, ‘Everywhere is like this.’ Like it’s some universal truth we just have to accept. And honestly?” She steps closer and keeps her voice quiet. “It scares me that he might be right.”
Her voice wavers for a moment before she steadies it. “Since you left, four women, including me, have resigned because of him. But does it matter? No. Because Ben brings in the big clients and the big money, so he gets to stay. And we? We’re expendable. We’re the ones who have to pack up and start over somewhere we’re treated like actual human beings.”
I feel my jaw tighten, a familiar frustration rising in my chest. Of course Ben gets to stay. It doesn’t matter that I landed three major clients in just ten months. It doesn’t matter that I was on track to match—or surpass—his success.
At the end of the day, none of that matters.
Because I don’t have what he has: a Y chromosome and a dangling bit of anatomy that, apparently, grants you unchecked power and immunity in this world.
Claire leans back in her seat, exhaling sharply. “It’s infuriating, isn’t it? Knowing you’re good—better, even—but it’s never enough because of... this.” She gestures vaguely at herself, her expression a mix of defiance and defeat.
And she’s right. It is infuriating. But as I sit there, an idea starts to form in the back of my mind. Maybe Ben’s right. Maybe environments like Titan are everywhere. But... I don’t have to work in one.
Maybe it’s time to build something different. Something better.
As Claire leaves, I return to my seat to contemplate.
“Miss Emily Rodriguez?” The receptionist calls out. “You’re up next.”
I stand, but instead of going straight to the interview room, I go to the receptionist’s desk. “Hi, I won’t go through with the interview, thank you.”
“Oh,” she says. “May we know why? For documentation purposes.”
I know what’s supposed to happen now. The fear should set in—the panic, the second-guessing, the looming dread of turning down a stable, corporate job. It’s the “right” thing to do, after all. It’s safe. Sensible. Predictable.
But the fear doesn’t come.
Instead, I think about all the moments I put myself last. The nights I stayed up worrying if I was enough—good enough, smart enough, strong enough. The years I spent waiting. Waiting for the stars to align. Waiting for the perfect opportunity. Waiting for the world to give me permission to put myself first.
But what if I don’t have to wait anymore?
What if, just this once, I decide to be my own priority? Not because it’s easy or because I deserve it more than anyone else, but because I’ve spent my whole life being told that I need to earn the right to take up space, to dream big, to demand more.
Back home, my mother acknowledged my efforts. My friends accepted me despite the failures. And Joshua stayed with me despite my self-doubts.
So, I gather a little more courage as I say, “I just don’t think it’s for me,” I say, the words surprising me with how natural they feel.
She nods, jotting down my response without fanfare, but it feels groundbreaking to me. A quiet revolution.
As I step out of the building, something inside me shifts. It’s not dramatic or sudden. It’s more like the easing of a knot I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
For so long, I’ve lived as though my value was tied to what I could endure, how much I could give, how well I could make everyone else’s lives easier. But this time, I walked away. Not because I was pushed, not because I failed, but because I wanted to. Because I chose myself.
The thought is intoxicating, and instead of fear, I feel something else entirely: freedom. Sweet, untamed, exhilarating freedom.
I walk with a lightness in my step, my heart racing—not from anxiety, but from the sheer thrill of possibility.
I spend the rest of the day in a café, a small corner table becoming my makeshift workspace. I scribble down ideas, cross out plans, sketch a vision for something I can barely articulate yet. Hours pass unnoticed until the fading sunlight casts long shadows across the room.
Only then do I realize how long I’ve been there. Gathering my things, I step into the evening air and hail a cab, heading back to Joshua’s apartment.
As the cab weaves through the streets, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I look different—not in a physical sense, but in a way that’s hard to describe. There’s something in my eyes, a spark I haven’t seen in years.
When I open the apartment door, Josh is sprawled out on the sofa, his baseball cap turned backward, looking as relaxed as ever. His long legs are stretched out, his socked feet resting on the coffee table.
It’s a sight I could get used to.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Don’t even go there, Emily.
He looks up as soon as he hears the door, his smile lighting up the room. “How’d the interview go?” he asks, sitting up straight. “Do I get the ‘congratulations’ cake or the ‘you tried your best’ cake?”
“You should get the ‘you’re so brave’ cake because I didn’t do the interview,” I say, tossing my bag onto the couch.
Josh stands and walks toward me, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. As I slip off my stilettos, he towers over me again, a fact that is annoyingly distracting.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Actually, I’m perfect,” I say, smiling. I tell him everything—how I walked away, how I decided to take a leap and focus on my own clients instead of going back to the corporate grind.
Josh listens intently, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t interrupt with his usual comments, and somehow, that makes all this feel more real.
“I’m nervous, though,” I admit, letting out a shaky laugh. “It’s a lot. Overwhelming, really. There’s a very real possibility that I’ll fail.”
“Then fail,” Joshua says casually. “You don’t have to put an invisible pressure on yourself. But just so you know, you’re the smartest, most capable person I know.”
His words register in my brain, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.
I want to hug him. Or kiss him. Or do anything to make him know that he’s been the anchor holding me firmly. The voice in my head that pushed me to do what I did. But I don’t. Instead, I say, “Thank you.”
He smiles at me in quiet understanding.
“So, anyway,” I say, desperate to break the tension, “What do you want for dinner? I can make something.”
Josh grins, the intensity in his eyes softening. “Actually, I want to take you somewhere.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Where?”
“A secret spot,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s where I go when life gets overwhelming. No one’s ever been there with me before.”
“And you’re taking me?” I tease, crossing my arms. “I’m honored.”
“Of course I’m taking you. You’re…” He pauses, his expression shifting like he’s about to say something pivotal. But then he shakes his head, his trademark grin returning. “My friend.”
My heart sinks a little, and I hate that it does.
He turns away to grab his keys, and I follow him out the door, trying to ignore the ache in my chest, which is there because I know I’m lying to myself.
The thought of Josh being ‘just a friend’ feels like trying to cram my heart into a box that’s way too small. No matter how hard I try, it’s not going to fit. Not anymore.