Chapter 11 Emma
Monday. Same.
Tuesday. Still the same.
Wednesday.And I’m still mad as hell.
My teammates are working quietly on their assignments. I pretend I’m doing the same. But really? All I’m doing is staring at the empty glass box that is Luca’s office.
The coward hasn’t shown up once since Saturday afternoon.
Since he used me. Left me naked and vulnerable. Alone on my damn couch.
The second he left, I threw a cloth over my canvas. I couldn’t even look at it.
I haven’t painted since. I haven’t created anything. Then, that block followed me to work. And now it’s sitting in my chest like a ticking bomb of fury.
I try to distract myself by scrolling through my phone’s gallery. Photos with my sister always calm me down. But one picture stops me—a shot I took the day I moved to Miami. From the plane window. The city shines below the wing like a jewel. Bright. Beautiful. Full of promise.
I post it on my anonymous Instagram account. Just something to feel... connected to who I used to be. And because clearly, I’ve lost control of my brain, it starts spiraling again.
I wonder if Luca saw Lauren in New York. And if he did—will he mention it? STOP IT, EMMA.
Just breathe. Just—
Ping. A DM. From Gargoth. That account’s been messaging me more lately. Always after I post something.
Gargoth:
Destination?
LoveLamb:
Just a photo I liked.
Gargoth:
I have a question for you, LoveLamb.
LoveLamb:
Shoot.
Gargoth:
What’s easier: to love or to be loved?
Oof. That hits.
I stare at the screen. Think. Then glance around—everyone’s still working, totally absorbed. I go deep into my brain and start typing.
LoveLamb:
Why does it matter? Both hurt.
Gargoth:
Why?
LoveLamb:
Because loving someone who doesn’t love you back? That hurts. And being loved when you don’t feel the same? That hurts too.
Gargoth:
What if the love goes both ways?
LoveLamb:
Then, my friend… You won the lottery.
Gargoth:
Sometimes the lottery is cursed.
Whoa. Okay. Dark. I don’t respond.
By noon, I slam my laptop shut and announce to the room, “WHO WANTS SUSHI?”
Cheers erupt like fireworks. God, I love these people.
We head to the company’s staff kitchen, which is basically a Pinterest dream. There’s a huge table for twelve, glossy white cabinets, and a glowing LED Property Group sign surrounded by suspiciously perfect fake plants.
Today, the place is empty—probably a big meeting upstairs—so we take over the long table like a pack of misfits on a lunch break heist. Sam starts handing out sushi boxes while Amanda and Karen play bartender with sparkling water and iced tea.
Amanda’s retelling her yacht trauma, and Sam’s lapping it up. He’s so obviously into her that it’s borderline adorable.
We’re laughing, mid-salmon roll, when—
“Oh! There’s our hero!” Karen shouts over my shoulder. “Mr. Walker! Join us!”
God help me, Karen. Please stop talking.
Luca—who had been striding down the hall with all the grace and intensity of a corporate general—pauses. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but turns and walks in anyway. “Good afternoon,” he says, voice tight enough to snap.
I don’t turn around. If I look at him, I might stab him with my chopsticks.
“Mr. Walker,” Amanda says shyly, “I actually have a small thank-you gift for you... for helping me last week.”
“That’s not necessary, Amanda,” he says, already sounding uncomfortable. “Can you give it to Emma? I have meetings all afternoon—including one with her at four.”
WHAT? I jerk my head toward my phone. Check my calendar. Yep. A new event magically appeared. ‘Catch up with Luca Walker’
Excuse. Me?
His hand rests on my shoulder, all calm and casual, like he didn’t just ghost me for three days after blowing up my world. I immediately shrug my shoulder away from his touch, but his stupid, firm, manly hand doesn’t budge.
I’m going to kill him.
“We have a meeting?” I ask coldly.
He leans in and whispers, like this is normal. “It’s on your calendar.” He turns, walks away like he didn’t just light my internal monologue on fire. “Guess I’m late. Enjoy your lunch.” And just like that, he’s gone.
I inhale. Count to ten. Don’t murder your ex in the break room.
Amanda looks at me with gentle pity. Karen’s shooting daggers at me like I stole her prom date. The rest of the team suddenly finds their sushi very, very interesting. And me? I’m mentally strapping on armor.
Because at four o’clock…
It’s war.
Four o’clock sharp. I take a deep breath.
All day, I’ve caught glimpses of Luca through the glass. Pacing. Gesturing wildly with his hands. He was definitely on the phone… or possibly he just lost his mind.
Normally, he looks over at me. A lot more than I’d like to admit. But ever since he added that phantom meeting to my calendar, not once. Not a glance.
Fine. If he wants to play it professionally, I’ll give him professional. I stand, smooth my blue blazer, and walk toward his office with my chin up.
“Good luck…” I hear someone whisper behind me.
“Thanks. I’ll need it,” I mutter, just before the door clicks shut behind me.
But before I can even knock, Brenda intercepts me like a human firewall. “Ms. Green—”
“Emma,” I correct for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Right. Emma. Can I help you with something?”
“I have a meeting with Luca.”
“You mean Mr. Walker?” Her brows pull together as she starts tapping her tablet.
“Yes, Luca,” I say sweetly. Yes, darling, I’ve known him since before he could grow a beard. “He’s expecting me.”
I watch the exact moment she finds the meeting on the schedule.
With a smug little smile, I slide past her and head for the door.
I’m not into girl-on-girl competition, but if she thinks she’s going to intimidate me away from Luca Walker, she’s in for a long year. Being competitive with men is so last decade.
She follows behind me, probably still trying to process what just happened. I open Luca’s door without knocking—just to annoy her a little more.
“Ma’am!” she squeaks.
Luca turns, phone pressed to his ear, and gives me a look that could curdle milk.
Definitely wouldn’t want to be his assistant. How does Lauren survive the New York Luca?
“Sorry,” Brenda whispers, backing out awkwardly and disappearing.
Luca’s eyes snap to me—stern, unreadable.
Gulp.
He motions toward the chair across from his desk. I sit with a dramatic sigh because passive-aggressive professionalism is my love language.
His office has dream-floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the turquoise canal, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and sleek yachts gliding past. Inside?
Minimalist perfection. Glass desk, perfectly aligned notebook, and a single pen.
Behind him, an abstract painting of thick black brushstrokes going nowhere and connecting to nothing.
Fitting.
“…as I was saying, the construction deadline is September next year. You've already pushed it twice, and unless the next word out of your mouth is ‘understood,’ I’m not interested.”
Okay. Maybe it’s not that peaceful.
Luca drops into his chair. Puts the phone on speaker. “Understood,” says the voice on the other end.
So, he wasn’t talking to himself after all.
“Good. Talk soon, Blake.” He ends the call, leans back, and laces his fingers over the stomach I know way too well.
“I see you’re still a hell of a negotiator,” I say with a smirk.
“The best.” He clears his throat and sits straighter. “I need to know where you’re at.”
“Right here, in front of you.”
One eyebrow rises. Not amused. “With the project, Emma. I haven’t heard anything in days.”
Because you disappeared, Luca. Like a coward.
“We’re starting the brand video next week. I already spoke to Brenda. The stylist and production team are coming in. I’d like to show your more human side—you know, since the whole robot thing is out. Maybe something casual? Cooking or—”
“No. Nothing personal.”
I look up, eyebrows raised. “Luca, it’s literally three seconds. It doesn’t even have to be real. We can fake it. Do you have a pet?”
“You know I don’t.”
Right. Allergic to fur.
“Well, we’ve got a week to figure it out.” I flip to my next page of notes. “Now, about the press ads, we’ve got confirmed space in—”
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.
I glance up, startled. But he’s not looking at me. He’s twisting a set of black beaded bracelets around his fingers.
Oh no. No freaking way.
My old bracelets… The ones I gave him in high school. No. That can’t be. I must be imagining things. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say quietly.
“I do.” Now he’s looking right at me, and it’s not his business face. It’s something else. Something… real. “I shouldn’t have left like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
“Damn right I didn’t. But I’m trying to be professional here, so… can we continue?”
“Of course. Go on.” His chair leans back a fraction, arms folding loosely, eyes locked on me.
“Like I was saying about the ad spots, we’re already in contact with—”
“I’m not that kind of man, you know. I don’t want you getting the wrong impression.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, slumping against the chair back. My pen taps against the table, sharp, impatient. “Luca… what do you want from me? Do you actually care about the campaign, or was that just an excuse to get me in here?”
His jaw flexes. He looks away, through the glass wall at his staff buzzing below, fingers drumming once against the desk before he hits the button. The glass fogs over instantly, blurring the entire floor into nothing.
Oh, hell no.
“I wanted to apologize. Officially.” His posture shifts forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes—softer now—find mine, earnest.
“Apologize? For what? For treating me like some random hookup? For leaving me there like—”
“Yes. For that.” His voice catches, almost too quiet.
I shoot to my feet, palms flat on the table for balance. I’m done. “I’m not playing this game, Luca.”
I make it to the door, fingers grazing the handle—but his voice stops me, low and urgent. “Let me make it up to you.”
I turn, arms folding across my chest like armor, chin tilted high. “Are you seriously trying to sleep with me again as an apology?”
“No. No!” He lifts both hands, palms out like he’s under arrest, the corner of his mouth twitching at the absurdity. “I come in peace. Let me take you to dinner. Just dinner. Not a date. Just… two old friends.”
Friends. The word scrapes raw. We’ve never been friends. We were never just anything.
“Luca…” My arms drop, hands twisting together as I fumble for an excuse, a line, anything to hold him at bay.
“There’s no hidden agenda.” His voice softens. One hand presses against his chest, the other gesturing toward me as if reaching across the distance. That smile flickers—the one I haven’t seen in years. The one that once made me feel like the only girl in the world.
“Dinner. That’s it.” I step closer, stabbing a finger at him, my glare sharp enough to cut. “Nothing more.”
His smirk blooms, crooked, dangerous, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he can’t stop it. His eyes glitter with something unspoken. “I promise.”