Chapter 4 Emma
Luca gets up from his chair like the seat caught fire under his ass and walks right out of the office without another word.
I inhale sharply, eyes trailing after him, unwillingly noting just how much he’s changed. His frame is broader, his walk more commanding… but his ass? Yeah, still just as perfect as I remember. Round. Unfair.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the air feels breathable again—barely. Honestly, I’d been bracing for this meeting to implode the moment we booked it. But deep down, I think I hoped for something different. Something warmer.
Instead, the second he saw me, he looked like he’d just come face-to-face with his childhood trauma. Like Harry Potter seeing a Boggart, only I’m the thing in the closet.
Honestly, I can’t blame him.
Then, of course, he slapped on that trademark Walker cold front like emotional SPF 100.
“YES!” Chad suddenly shouts, making me jump.
He throws his arms around me in one of his overenthusiastic, borderline clingy hugs. I respond with a tight-lipped smile, the kind that doesn’t dare show teeth.
“We got the account, Emma! You did it!”
“Yay,” I whisper against his shoulder. It’s not yay. It’s terrifying.
Luca just nuked my whole strategy. He didn’t just question my creative direction—because duh, he always questions everything—but he maneuvered it all to guarantee one thing: I’ll be working inside this office. With him. For months.
I need to get out of here before I scream.
“Kind of weird that he wants the whole team here in person, huh?” Chad mutters, collecting his stuff like we’re not in shock.
Weird? No. It actually makes too much sense.
Luca was controlling as hell when we were younger—detail-obsessed, borderline neurotic about perfection.
So no, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that he wants us working from his turf.
That way, he gets to monitor every email, every brainstorm, every breath I take.
I start gathering my things, when I notice I’ve lost my favorite pen—the one I take everywhere. But I’m so desperate to escape, I leave it behind. Sacrifices must be made.
Just as we’re heading out, a woman steps into the doorway.
Brenda—Luca’s assistant. She had introduced herself earlier.
“Congratulations!” She beams. First time I’ve seen her smile.
She’s younger than me—maybe twenty-five—with gorgeous, tight curls, and a white blazer and pants set that looks insanely good on her. Girl is flawless.
“Oh, thank you!” Chad says, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder like a war hero. “We don’t want to brag, but… we kind of knew we’d land this job.”
Sure, you did. We were up until midnight last night, running through the presentation for the fiftieth time. I’ve never seen Chad so sweaty. I was nervous too, but for very different reasons.
“Yeah, totally… of course,” she says, distracted now, words sounding pre-programmed.
Chad and I exchange a weird look.
Then Brenda’s gaze lifts—like her sixth sense just activated—and I instinctively follow it.
Luca’s walking past the glass wall of the conference room like he’s in slow-mo. All long legs and commanding presence, one hand tucked into his perfectly tailored black slacks. His blue eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to make my chest ache.
Then he looks away. Keeps walking. And disappears.
“He said we should get everything locked in to start as soon as possible,” I blurt, trying to re-anchor the room.
Brenda blinks, like she just remembered she’s in charge of something. “Mr. Walker? Right. Um… if you could spare fifteen minutes, we can knock out the logistics now.”
“Sounds great,” Chad says, already heading back to the table like it’s his own damn office.
It’s not, Chad. Sit your smug little butt down.
I spent the entire damn day organizing my team move.
Seven people. Seven humans who need monitors, whiteboards, espresso access, at least two emotional support plants, and a little privacy. All because Luca Walker wants the world at his feet.
It’s been two days since I saw him, and I already know how intense he gets when he wants something done his way. And yet here I am, coordinating logistics like it was my full-time job.
Damn you, Luca Walker.
When I decided to move to Miami, it wasn’t because I had dreams of palm trees and pastel rooftops.
It was for the money. Ugh, I hate even admitting that.
But my mom’s sick and she needs us. If it weren’t for that, I’d probably be one of those sunburned, sandy artists painting strangers’ dogs on the boardwalk and surviving off cafecitos and mangoes.
Instead, I ditched my dream of being a painter and became a graphic designer.
That led me to marketing. And, apparently, I’m good at selling ideas. Really good.
But did I sell Luca on the idea? Or did he buy it because I was the one selling it?
That’s the question keeping me up tonight.
I crawl out of bed in nothing but underwear and make my way to the balcony. The hardwood floor is cool under my feet, scuffed from years of tenants before me, creaking in places that give away every step. Imperfect, but mine.
For now.
It’s nearly four in the morning, and everything’s dark, quiet. No lights in the building across from mine. Pretty sure no one can see me.
The heat’s still pulsing in the air. Miami doesn’t believe in seasons.
I live in Doral—this peaceful, colorful little pocket where Venezuelan culture is everywhere and I actually feel…
comfortable. It’s a far cry from the freezing, hustle-drenched chaos of New York.
There’s no Guggenheim, no Chelsea galleries.
But there’s still art here. And slowly, I’ve found my way back to mine.
I paint sometimes. Nothing fancy. Random things, mostly. Sometimes it’s fruit. Sometimes it’s Henry Cavill’s face. And sometimes… the sea.
The ocean here is magical. The water’s a wild blend of turquoise, sea foam, white foam—basically my dream palette in acrylics. And palm trees. I freaking love painting palm trees.
That’s what I should be doing right now. Painting. Not staring at a quiet street, spiraling over a man I used to love.
I turn back inside to the canvas I’ve been working on. It’s a weird one. I usually stick to realism, but this came from a dream. I walked into a room filled with iron chains—but they weren’t scary. They were wrapped in flowers and bright ribbons.
So I painted that.
Just one last brushstroke. Then I step back to look at it from a distance.
It’s… different. But I like it.
I snap a photo and upload it to my anonymous Instagram. Yep, I have socials—but no one knows it’s me. My handle’s @LoveLamb, and I post everything that lives in my head. People DM me all the time asking to buy my stuff. Depending on the piece—and the vibe—I sometimes say yes.
Just as I’m putting my phone down, I hear the distant chirp of a bird.
Oh, God. Morning. My stomach knots. In just a few hours, I have to go into the Property Group office. And see him.
Why did I say yes to this job?