Chapter 6 Emma
Iwalk into the Property Group office feeling… guilty.
First of all, my sister just confessed that she’s working for Silas Walker in New York.
Silas Walker was her high school bully. The guy tormented her for years—and now he’s her boss. We fought about it. I judged her.
But I didn’t tell her I’m working for another Walker. Not just any Walker. Luca Walker. Yep. That Luca. The one I never forgot. The one I gave up to protect my family.
Dun. Dun. DUNNNN.
This is a full-on telenovela.
The second reason I feel guilty? Because after everything that happened between us, I said yes to this job. Knowing full well I’d have to work with him. In the same space. Every. Damn. Day.
Third? He looks ridiculously good. Like, take-a-bite-out-of-him good, and I shouldn’t think that!
Brenda struts down the hallway in heels that could kill a man. “Mrs. Green!”
Mrs.? Girl, please. “It’s Emma,” I say, shaking her hand with just enough firmness to not stab her in the eye with a pen.
“Right; Emma. The rest of the team is waiting. Follow me.”
I walk beside her, feeling slightly shorter than usual, which is saying something, because I’m not short. But Brenda? Brenda makes me feel like I am a pocket-size version of myself.
She leads me to what they call “the fishbowl”—a big, glass-walled room with desks and enough startup-chic energy to power a WeWork.
When I open the heavy glass door, the team is already in there whispering and laughing. They all go quiet the second I walk in.
I smirk. “Okay, just say it already.” I drop my bag on the last open desk—there’s a sticky note on it that says Emma. Of course it does. “Oh, desk reserved and everything? How sweet.” I glance at Brenda.
She frowns, walks over to the note, and squints. “I didn’t write that,” she says. “That’s Mr. Walker’s handwriting.”
I look at the blue sticky again. I recognize it instantly. “Oh…” My voice comes out thinner than I intended. “That was… thoughtful of him, don’t you think?”
My team gives me that knowing look. They’re good people—four women, three men, all creative and kind and exactly the kind of chaos you want in a work family.
“If you need anything,” Brenda says, backing toward the door, “you’ve all got system access. You can email me anytime.” She points to the smaller office across the hall. “That’s me, right there.”
Where’s Luca’s office? I wonder.
“Thanks, Brenda,” I answer.
The team chimes in, too.
“Is everyone all set?” I ask, clapping my hands together.
“This place is AMAZING,” Amanda gushes, barely hiding her excitement.
She’s not wrong. The office looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine—rows of sleek white desks lined with ergonomic chairs, a snack corner stocked like a boutique market, and lighting that flatters everything it touches.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with Miami sunshine, bouncing off glass partitions and polished concrete floors.
There’s a quiet hum of energy, the kind that says we have our shit together—and we want everyone to know it.
“Did you go to the kitchen yet?” Sam asks, grinning like he’s just discovered buried treasure. He’s lanky, all elbows and enthusiasm, with curly hair that refuses to be tamed and a hoodie that looks one size too big. “Fridge is full of stuff. Like, you can take anything. FOR FREE.”
“Okay, okay, don’t overreact. Great Ideas had perks too,” I say, trying to keep us grounded.
“Yeah, but boss,” Sam says, eyes wide, “they have options. Like, fancy options—not the Kirkland ones that Chad insists are the same.”
“And your desk’s the most private one,” Amanda adds, her voice warm with approval. She’s petite but carries herself like she’s six feet tall—sharp bob, bright eyes that miss nothing, and a stack of color-coded folders tucked against her chest like an accessory.
I sit, unpacking my things, and start booting up my laptop—until I feel it.
A strange, invisible pressure.
I glance up… and there he is. Luca. Sitting in his office across the hall, watching me. I lift my hand in a small, awkward wave. Smile tight. He nods once. Then presses a button that tints the glass, completely blocking me out.
Oof. Ice cold.
We jump straight into brainstorming mode. We already have some structure in place—because Luca is a detail-obsessed maniac—but now it’s about action plans. I've done this a million times. In New York, here in Miami. I know the drill.
But this time I need it to be perfect. Not because I want to impress Luca or anything.
…Okay, maybe a tiny bit.
I start organizing our wall with glass markers. Everyone’s contributing. I’m leading, standing, directing, and listening.
“Sam,” I say gently, “it’s not that I don’t like your idea. I just think we need to take it in a different direction. People want to see behind the brand now. Real, human stories. I want this to be an open book.”
That’s when the door opens. Luca walks in. Silence falls. He grabs a chair and sits in the back of the room, like a king waiting to be entertained. “Go on,” he says, voice flat.
Go on? GO ON?! My brain just short-circuited. I stand there, mouth open, absolutely blank. The words have all fled the building.
“Uh… so,” Sam jumps in, bless him. “You’re thinking live videos?” He raises his eyebrows, encouraging me to jump back in.
Okay. Breathe.
“No, not live,” I say, finding my rhythm again. “But I do want P.G. to highlight their top-tier properties. We need to showcase the range, the quality. Let people see that we’re not just good—we’re the best.”
Everyone nods.
Luca stays silent, his fist tucked under his jaw, watching. Listening.
“Okay,” Sam says, “I’ll reach out to that production company I mentioned. They’re amazing.”
“Perfect.” I glance at the time. “Alright, head home, everyone. We’ll pick up tomorrow.”
As everyone gathers their things, I sit down at my desk and pretend to work, flipping through windows, typing gibberish, opening tabs like I’m solving world hunger. Click, double-click, full-on Oscar-worthy concentration face.
“You know I can see the reflection of your monitor in the glass behind you, right?”
Oh. My. God. I drop my face into my hands, red-cheeked and caught. I peek through my fingers and see Luca standing—close, but not too close. “I was stalling,” I mumble, peeling my hands off my face.
“Clearly.”
He’s still in black, no tie today. His eyes track the way I just totally checked him out.
He clears his throat. “What’s the status on the campaign?”
“Not much yet. First day’s about setting priorities, then we—”
“What’s this about videos?” he cuts in, arms crossing tight. That shirt is screaming at the seams.
“Most companies show their work now. We’re planning a brand video and short reels for luxury listings,” I say, looking up at my ex-fiancé staring at me like I just insulted his favorite suit.
“I don’t want to be in any of those videos,” he says, and for the first time… he sounds unsure. Vulnerable, even.
I snort. “Luca, I’m pretty sure you’re used to being in front of cameras.”
“We don’t do that here.”
“Exactly why you need it,” I say, typing for real this time. I spin the laptop toward him. “Property Group Miami is ranked second among Florida real estate firms.”
He glances at the screen. Shifts. Pulls at his shirt. Straightens. “I…”
“Want to be first?”
He nods.
“Well, that’s why you hired me. Let me get you to the top.” Then, more softly I say, “Trust me. I’m good at this.”
His ocean-blue eyes study me. Something flickers in them—a memory, maybe. He swallows, then nods once more. “It’s late. We’ll talk more about the videos tomorrow,” he says, like the word video physically hurts him.
He leaves, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.