8. Chapter EightEmma
Chapter Eight
Emma
T hree days after the Johnson presentation, Lucas walks right past me like I’m invisible.
No good morning. No quick smile. Not even that professional nod he gives everyone else. He strides straight to his office, suit perfect, expression distant like we didn’t spend six hours saving the company together on Tuesday.
I freeze mid-step, coffee cup halfway to my lips. The hallway suddenly feels too bright, too exposed, as colleagues glance between us with poorly disguised curiosity. Three days of this corporate cold front, and the entire office has noticed something’s wrong.
Just last week, he would have stopped to ask about my latest sustainability algorithm. He would have teased me about the purple sticky notes decorating my monitor. He would have at least acknowledged that I exist.
“Ouch.” Natalie appears with a fresh cup of coffee, wincing at the interaction—or lack thereof. “That was cold, even for his new ‘strictly professional’ act.”
“He’s just focused.” I accept the cup, pretending my hands don’t shake slightly. “The board delayed their Project Phoenix vote another week. The Johnsons are still reviewing both proposals, and Brighton keeps announcing new technology partnerships.”
“Uh-huh. And that focus requires treating you like office furniture because...?”
I take a long sip instead of answering, burning my tongue in the process. How can I explain that Lucas is trying to protect my work by erasing our connection?
Before I can respond, my computer pings with a new email:
Re: Johnson Integration Proposal Revisions
Lucas Walker
To: Emma Hastings
Please review the attached changes. From now on, all client communications must maintain appropriate professional standards. We’ll meet in about an hour to discuss this.
“And now he’s emailing you from thirty feet away.” Natalie peers at my screen, her lips pursed. “What happened to the guy who spent Tuesday’s presentation looking at you like you invented sustainable energy?”
I open the attachment, my stomach knotting as I scroll through the document. Every casual phrase has been replaced with corporate jargon. My “innovative hybrid approach” is now a “systematic integration of established methodologies.” Even my color-coded sustainability metrics have been changed to match Brighton’s traditional format.
The rainbow of innovation I’d worked so hard to create has been transformed into corporate blues and grays. It’s like watching someone paint over a vibrant mural with beige house paint.
“He’s protecting the company,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to me. “The board’s concerned about our aggressive timeline, and with Brighton offering guaranteed board seats...”
“Emma.” Natalie’s voice softens. “He’s not protecting the company. He’s running scared.”
I trace a finger over the screen, stopping at a particularly soulless paragraph that had once contained my passionate argument for sustainability-driven analytics. James Walker had loved that section. Had highlighted it in his copy with the note “This is why we’re different.” Now it reads like something generated by an AI programmed for maximum corporate blandness.
“Ms. Hastings.” Lucas appears in my doorway, perfectly polished in that navy suit that used to make my heart race. Now it just makes my chest ache. “Do you have time to review those revisions now?”
I study his face, searching for any hint of the man who had his hand on my back during our presentation, who whispered “breathe” in my ear, who looked at me like I mattered. His expression could be carved from marble.
“Of course, Mr. Walker.” I gather my tablet, slipping it into a folder with mechanical precision. “Would you like to discuss them in the conference room?”
“My office will suffice.”
The walk to his office feels endless. Three days ago, we moved in perfect sync, finishing each other’s sentences while we revolutionized sustainable analytics. Now, every step echoes with calculated distance, the space between us charged with things we aren’t saying.
Staff members watch us pass with curious glances. The office grapevine has clearly been active. Speculation about what happened between the dynamic duo from Tuesday’s presentation and today’s Arctic formality is probably fueling the break room conversations.
“These changes,” he starts as soon as his door closes, not quite meeting my eyes, “will present a more traditional approach. The board feels—“
“The board?” Something in me snaps, sharp and sudden. “Or you?”
His jaw tightens, that muscle jumping the way it always does when he’s holding back. “The board has concerns about our timeline. About the wisdom of experimental approaches when Brighton offers proven technology.”
“Experimental approaches that had the Johnsons practically signing on Tuesday afternoon,” I challenge, stepping closer. “Or did you forget how Mr. Johnson said our ‘fresh perspective’ was exactly what they needed?”
“That was before—“ He stops, running a hand through his hair. For just a moment, I see my Lucas underneath the CEO mask. Then it slams back into place. “The situation has evolved. We need to project stability, confidence—”
“As opposed to what? My usual strategy of tripping over office furniture until clients sign out of sympathy?”
A flash of a smile appears before he quickly suppresses it, and that glimpse of the real Lucas makes me even angrier. He doesn’t get to find me endearing while simultaneously erasing everything I’ve built.
“Emma—“
“Ms. Hastings,” I correct, the formal title burning my throat like acid.
Something flickers in his eyes—pain? Regret? But his voice stays carefully controlled. “Yes. Ms. Hastings. Thank you for understanding the need for appropriate boundaries.”
“Boundaries.” I laugh, but it sounds wrong, brittle and sharp-edged. “Is that what we’re calling this? This morning, you walked past me like I didn’t exist. Yesterday, you rerouted through Accounting to avoid the break room when I was there. The day before—“
“The board is watching everything,” he cuts in, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Every interaction, every decision. They’ve delayed the Project Phoenix vote because they’re concerned about... about...”
“About what?” I step closer, close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw. Close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, to see the shadows under his eyes that suggest he’s sleeping as poorly as I am. “About your judgment being clouded by personal feelings? About the CEO getting too close to his head analyst? About—“
A knock interrupts us. Garrett stands in the doorway, looking far too pleased at finding us in what appears to be a heated discussion.
“The Johnson team is on line one,” he announces, his tone suggesting he’s been listening longer than he should have. “Something about Brighton’s latest proposal.”
Lucas straightens, corporate mask firmly in place. “Thank you for reviewing those changes, Ms. Hastings. Please have the revised version on my desk by the end of the day.”
Dismissed. Like a junior intern. Like we didn’t spend Tuesday afternoon proving we’re unstoppable together.
“Of course, Mr. Walker.” I gather my things, my movements are deliberately precise. “I’ll be sure to remove any trace of personality or innovation. Wouldn’t want to seem unprofessional.”
I’m almost at the door when his voice stops me. Softer. More real.
“Emma—“
“Ms. Hastings,” I remind him without turning around.
The door clicks shut behind me, but not before I hear Garrett’s satisfied hum.
“Maintaining appropriate distance, I see,” he says. “Very wise. The board will be pleased to know you’re taking their concerns seriously.”
I don’t hear Lucas’s response. Don’t want to hear him agree that corporate formality is more important than whatever was growing between us.
Back at my desk, I stare at the revised proposal, which has stripped away all the personality and innovation. Everything that made our presentation powerful has been replaced with corporate buzzwords and traditional formats. Even the charts—my beautifully intuitive, color-coded visual representations of complex data—have been replaced with standard bar graphs in varying shades of blue.
It’s like watching someone dismantle your favorite creation piece by piece. Like watching them sand down all the unique edges until it’s smooth, uniform, and completely unremarkable.
“You okay?” Natalie appears next to me, concern written across her face.
“Fine.” I start implementing Lucas’s changes, each deletion feeling like losing a piece of myself. “Just being professional.”
“Emma—“
“Did you know,” I say too brightly, “that Brighton’s latest sustainability report uses exactly this shade of blue in their graphics? Such a professional color, don’t you think? Much better than my color-coding system with all its brightness and patterns. More traditional. More stable. More corporate-approved and completely lacking innovation—“
“More dead inside?”
“More professional.”
My computer pings with another email from Lucas:
Those timeline revisions look good. Very professional. The board will appreciate the traditional approach.
Below it, marked as deleted, is a comment that breaks my heart:
The gnomes really did have suspicious faces. Almost as suspicious as Brighton’s growth projections.
He’d written it, then deleted it. The real Lucas, breaking through the CEO mask for just a moment before being suppressed again. He’s still in there, still thinking about our silly jokes and shared history, even as he tries to erase them from our interactions.
Professional.
We’re being professional.
Even if it’s killing us both.
***
The evening crowd at O’Sullivan’s hums with weekend energy as I slide into our usual booth, dropping my bag with a thud that makes nearby glasses jump.
“I need a drink. Or three.”
Sophie looks up from her wine, eyebrows raised. “Let me guess. My brother’s continuing his excellent impression of a corporate robot?”
“Your brother is now emailing me from thirty feet away to avoid actual human interaction.” I signal Megan for my usual cabernet. “And he’s gutted my proposal. Everything that made it special, that made it work—gone. Replaced with corporate jargon straight from Brighton’s marketing playbook.”
Sophie winces. “That bad?”
“Worse.” I pull out my tablet, showing her the before and after versions. “This was my original section on the sustainability integration model. See how the language is accessible but specific? See how the color-coding helps clients immediately understand complex data relationships?”
“I remember. It was brilliant.”
“And this,” I swipe to the revised version, “is what your brother wants instead.”
Sophie studies it, her expression darkening. “This looks like something Garrett would write. All technical-sounding words that actually say nothing useful.”
“Exactly. And the Johnsons hate this kind of corporate speak. That’s why they responded so well to our original approach!” I take a long sip of the wine Megan delivers. “Your brother is sabotaging everything we built. All because he’s afraid the board will think he has feelings for me.”
“To be fair, he does have feelings for you,” Sophie points out. “Pretty obvious ones. To everyone except him, apparently.”
“That’s not the point.” But the confirmation that his feelings might match mine sends an unwelcome warmth through me. “The point is that he’s willing to risk losing the Johnsons to maintain this ridiculous corporate charade.”
Sophie taps her fingernails against her glass, a habit she’s had since childhood when thinking through a problem. “There’s something you should know about Lucas. About what Garrett’s been saying to him.”
“What?” I lean forward, suddenly alert.
“I overheard them yesterday.” Sophie’s voice drops. “Garrett implied that if Lucas doesn’t maintain an appropriate distance from you, the board might question every decision involving your career. Every promotion, every project assignment – they’d all be tainted with accusations of favoritism.”
The revelation hits me like a physical blow. I sit back, momentarily speechless as the pieces click into place.
“So he’s trying to protect my professional reputation?” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
“In his own misguided, emotionally constipated way, yes.” Sophie refills my glass. “Lucas has always been like this – trying to shield people he cares about, even when it hurts him. Even when it’s the wrong approach entirely.”
I stare at the wine, remembering the deleted comment about suspicious gnomes. The pride in his eyes during our presentation. The way his hand steadied me when I needed it.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I meet Sophie’s gaze. “Let him destroy my work to protect my reputation? Watch him sabotage everything that made our presentation successful just so no one thinks the big bad CEO might have feelings for his analyst?”
“You could try talking to him. Outside the office.” Sophie’s expression turns sly, a hint of the troublemaker who used to organize “accidental” study dates. “Maybe remind him that the Lucas and Emma who sweet-talked their way into that members-only library archive wouldn’t let a little bureaucracy stop them.”
I groan, dropping my head onto my arms. “I was seventeen, Soph. And we didn’t lie—we just acted like we belonged, threw around some academic jargon, and Lucas did that thing where he sounds like he’s quoting a professor. They practically waved us in.”
“My point is, you two used to find solutions together. Before all this formal distance nonsense.”
I lift my head, considering her words. “You’re right. The Lucas I know would never give up this easily. He wouldn’t let the Garrett Harrisons of the world dictate how we operate.”
“Exactly.”
“So what changed?” I muse, tracing the rim of my glass. “Why is he suddenly playing by Garrett’s rulebook instead of creating his own?”
Sophie’s expression softens. “Because he’s terrified, Em. Not just of losing Project Phoenix or the Johnson contract, but of being the reason your brilliant work gets dismissed.” She hesitates, then continues. “He watched it happen to Mom – board members attributing her marketing innovations to Dad’s influence rather than her talent. It nearly broke her.”
The revelation washes over me in waves. Elizabeth Walker eventually left the company to start her own marketing firm, proving her brilliance to everyone who had doubted her. But the cost had been high – years of having her work questioned, her achievements diminished.
“He thinks he’s protecting me by pushing me away.” The words aren’t a question this time, but a realization.
“Classic Lucas. Noble, self-sacrificing, and completely misguided.” Sophie reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
I stare at my wine, memories flashing through my mind. Lucas catching me when I tripped during a presentation. Lucas defending my market predictions to skeptical executives. Lucas’s face lighting up when I explained my color-coding system that made complex data instantly readable.
“I’m going to remind him who we really are,” I say finally. “And it’s not the people in those sanitized documents.”
“That’s my girl.” Sophie grins, raising her glass in a toast. “And maybe remind him that his approach isn’t just hurting you both personally, but it’s actively endangering the Johnson contract. If they wanted bland corporate speak, they’d have already signed with Brighton.”
“You’re right.” I straighten, energy returning as a plan forms. “The Johnsons responded to our authentic approach. To how we work together. To the innovation that comes from our connection, not despite it.”
“So what’s the plan?”
I pull my laptop from my bag, opening the proposal document with a renewed purpose. “I’m going to show him exactly what we’re losing with his ‘corporate-approved’ approach. And then I’m going to remind him of exactly who Lucas Walker really is—the guy who never plays by someone else’s rules.”
My fingers fly over the keyboard, restoring color, life, and innovation to the document he’d tried to sanitize. This time, the changes come with comments—specific memories of times our unique approaches succeeded, data points showing client response to authenticity versus corporate jargon, and examples of how our connection strengthened our work rather than compromised it.
At the end, I add one simple question:
Do you really want to become what Brighton already is, instead of being what made Walker Enterprises special in the first place?
I hit send at 11:43 PM, too late for a professional response and too urgent to wait until morning. Whether he reads it tonight or tomorrow, Lucas Walker is about to be reminded that some partnerships are worth fighting for—personally and professionally.
And if he still chooses corporate formality after that?
Well, then maybe we really are just CEO and analyst after all.
But I don’t believe that. Not for a second.