Chapter 13 #2
She thought about Grant behind the velvet rope, Bailey at his side.
She thought about Cecelia's ultimatum, the flowers wilting on her kitchen counter, the viral video that had turned her into a meme with a shelf life.
She thought about how hard she'd worked to get here and how little it would take for all of it to disappear.
Because Sabine wasn't wrong. She'd gotten this job because of Grant, and only because of Grant.
She'd snagged Tyce by letting him flirt with her, and never shutting him down when he made it clear he hoped she'd end up in his bed.
Even Harper, who she'd had the audacity to 'rescue,' had found her own match instead of subjecting herself to Emmy's boutique snobbery.
A server passed with a tray of fresh glasses.
Emmy traded her warm champagne for a cold one and knocked it back in a long swallow.
And then she had another.
The night had taken on a liquid quality.
Edges softened. Sounds blurred. Emmy watched Tyce on the dance floor, sandwiched between the redhead and a brunette in silver, his hands on both their hips.
A Tyce sandwich. He looked delighted. Across the room, Sabine watched too, her fingers white around her martini stem, her jaw set with the particular fury of a woman pretending she didn't care while her body screamed the opposite.
She took another sip. Filed that thought where it belonged, and tried to keep her eyes from scanning the VIP area like it was the arrivals gate at the airport. She’d lost track of Grant at some point after talking to a gallery owner about her third divorce.
"Hey, Em."
She turned. Grant was walking toward her, Bailey at his side.
They must have left the VIP section—he was in the thick of the party now, no velvet rope between them, close enough that Emmy could see the way his suit fit across his shoulders like it had been cut by whoever did tailoring for hot villains. Probably Tom Ford. Or Edna Mode.
“Grant." Her voice came out steady despite the last sip of champagne doing its best to strangle her. "Hi."
"I didn't know you'd be here." His eyes scanned down to her toes, snagged briefly on the shoes, and came back up a half-second too slow, before he blinked it away.
Emmy felt her cheeks go warm. The champagne, probably. "Tyce invited me," she said, and saw the words land.
She knew exactly how it looked. That she hadn't learned a thing. That she was still chasing the same disaster, still being stubborn, stupid Emmy who couldn't take a hint. Her chin came up. "It's a networking opportunity. I'm making contacts."
"Right." Grant's voice was carefully neutral. He turned slightly. "Emmy, this is Dr. Bailey Lim. Bailey, this is Emmy Woodhouse. The family friend I was telling you about."
Family friend. The phrase hit her like a door she'd walked into in the dark.
"It's so nice to finally meet you." Bailey extended her hand.
Up close, Emmy could see the directness of her gaze, curious without being invasive.
Her handshake was warm and firm, her smile genuine in a way that made Emmy's practiced social graces feel like tissue paper.
She was older than Emmy had expected—solid thirties—and it suited her.
There was a stillness to Bailey that made Emmy feel young, and not in a good way.
"Grant's told me so much about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"He said you've known each other forever. That you're basically his little sister's—" Bailey caught herself, laughing. "Wait, no. His best friend's little sister. I always get that wrong."
"West's sister," Emmy confirmed, wanting to die. "That's me."
"It must be nice, having that kind of history with someone." Bailey's eyes were kind. Interested. Not a trace of jealousy or suspicion. "I moved around a lot as a kid—military family, new school every two years. I always envied people who had those deep roots."
It was disarming—the effortless way Bailey offered something real about herself in the same breath as a question.
She didn't wait for Emmy to respond with polite nothing; she actually paused, like she genuinely wanted to know.
Emmy searched for the flaw—too earnest, too eager, too something—and came up empty.
Bailey was just a person. A good one. Knowing Grant, probably the kind of person Emmy would have wanted to be friends with, under different circumstances.
"It is nice," Emmy heard herself say. "Grant's been part of our family for as long as I can remember."
Family. The word sat wrong in her mouth. She kept using it—kept building the wall higher, brick by careful brick—and she couldn't seem to stop.
"How long have you two been..." Emmy heard herself ask.
Bailey glanced at Grant, a small smile playing at her lips. "This is what, our third date?"
Third. Not a first date. Not even a second. Three dates, and Bailey already knew about West, already had stories she kept getting charmingly wrong. Emmy had assumed this was new. It wasn’t.
"We should get coffee sometime," Bailey said. "I'd love to hear more about what Grant was like before he became—" She gestured vaguely at him. "All of this."
"Oh, I have stories," Emmy said on autopilot. "I have stories that would ruin him. Years and years of ammunition, and I've just been sitting on it like a responsible adult." Her smile felt like holding a door shut against a flood.
"Babe." Tyce was at her side, his hand finding her back again. "There's someone I want you to meet."
Babe.
Emmy looked at him. Really looked. The flush of alcohol sat high on his cheekbones, and his gaze wasn't on her at all—it was fixed on Grant, steady and bright with a challenge that had nothing to do with introductions.
He hadn't come over to give something to Emmy. He'd come to take something from Grant.
He didn't introduce himself to Bailey. Didn't even glance at her.
“Apologies. Duty calls,” Emmy told Grant and Bailey. "It was really nice meeting you."
"You too." Bailey's smile was warm. Genuine. "Coffee soon?"
“Sure.”
Emmy let Tyce steer her away, and she kept her eyes forward the whole time.
The woman in the red dress found Emmy near the silent auction, where she'd been pretending to consider a weekend in Nantucket while actually considering how many more champagnes constituted a problem.
"That's the one I'd bid on." The woman nodded at the Nantucket listing. "Though last time I went, the fog rolled in for three straight days. Very atmospheric. Very damp."
Emmy laughed—a real laugh, the first one all evening that wasn't performing. "I'd settle for anywhere that isn't this room right now."
"Rough night?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's been watching you hold that champagne glass like it personally wronged you." The woman smiled. Warm. Easy. Dark hair, sharp features, a red dress that fit like she'd been sewn into it. "I'm Petra."
"Emmy." She shook Petra's hand and felt, for the first time since arriving, a little less alone.
"So what do you do, Emmy? When you're not hate-drinking at charity auctions?"
"I'm a matchmaker." The words came out with the little lift she always gave them—part confession, part dare. "At Elite Connections."
"Oh, that's fascinating." Petra leaned in, genuinely interested—or at least with the appearance of genuine interest, which at this point in the evening was close enough. "What's that like? Does that really work for people?”
"You'd be surprised." Emmy took a sip of champagne.
The warmth of being asked, of being seen as someone with something interesting to say, was spreading through her chest like a contact high.
After Sabine's evisceration, after the Bailey gut-punch, after an entire evening of feeling like a fraud at a party she'd been invited to as decoration—someone wanted to hear her talk.
Emmy could feel the pull of it, the familiar rush of being the most interesting person in a conversation.
"Most of my clients are incredibly successful people who are terrible at the one thing that matters most. They can run companies, negotiate deals, perform under insane pressure—but put them across from someone at dinner and they freeze. "
"That's kind of heartbreaking."
"It is." Emmy heard herself warming to the subject, the champagne loosening the screws on her professional discretion.
"I have this one client—I can't say who, obviously—but he's someone you'd never expect to need help.
Like, objectively one of the most impressive people I've ever met.
Private. Guarded. Could have anyone he wanted, but the fame makes it impossible for him to trust that someone wants him and not the—you know.
The version of him that exists in public. "
She was talking too much. She knew she was talking too much.
But the champagne had sanded down the part of her brain that usually caught these things, and Petra was listening—not the way Sabine listened, looking for ammunition, or the way Tyce listened, waiting for his turn to talk.
Petra was doing the thing Emmy herself did: making someone feel fascinating.
"He sounds special," Petra said. "This mystery client."
"He is." Emmy stared into her champagne. "I've known him my whole life, actually. Since we were kids. He's—god, he's the best. So smart and kind and funny. And private. And he trusted me with this, which is—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Which is a lot of trust to carry."
"Known him your whole life," Petra repeated, something sharpening behind her eyes. "That's unusual for a client relationship. How does that even work—matching someone you grew up with?"