Chapter 17 Emma
Istare at my reflection in the secondhand mirror I bought. It’s chipped in one corner, but if I tilt my head just right, I can see myself clearly enough.
Wait—what is that?
I lean in and wipe a blue smudge off my cheek with my thumb.
God, Emma. Can you not look like a walking art project for five minutes?
I spent the entire afternoon painting while listening to Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack on repeat—completely losing track of time.
It's not that I forgot about the Property Group’s New Year’s Eve party, it's just..
. I was in the zone. That deep, meditative, art-eats-time zone I can never pull myself out of easily.
Brenda said the party’s happening on one of the most exclusive rooftops in Miami—overlooking the beach, ocean views, that whole elite energy. She was excited. Me? The only reason I’m bothering to stop painting tonight is because I know Luca Walker will be there.
So yeah, I made an effort.
I’m wearing a little black dress. The kind that hugs a little too hard and reveals a little too much—backless, tight, a last-minute online buy that arrived three sizes too small and stayed in my closet waiting for an occasion like this.
Tonight’s the night. I look like the midnight Barbie.
The shoes were on sale at Ross—glory be—and they’ll probably destroy my feet by midnight, but whatever.
My blonde hair is down in soft waves, lighter than ever from all this Florida sun.
Even my cheeks are sun-kissed. I look alive, maybe even a little golden.
My Uber shows up. The driver’s a woman in her forties with a big smile. She glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Evening! You look like someone who needs the right song to shake off the nerves.”
I laugh. “That obvious?”
“Very. Let me help.”
She taps a button, and salsa fills the car like a burst of energy.
She’s shimmying her shoulders to the beat.
I find myself smiling and tapping my foot, the tension in my chest loosening as we cross over to Miami Beach.
The city’s buzzing—boats lit up like Christmas trees, people spilling out into the streets in sequins and heels and button-down shirts that’ll be sweat-soaked in an hour. The vibe? Electric.
As we pull up, she lowers the music. “Feeling better?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. Tonight’s for fresh starts, chica. Don’t forget it.”
“Happy New Year,” I say, and mean it.
The building is only three stories tall, but from the street, I can see that the rooftop is packed.
Music drifts down, and the sea breeze cuts through the warmth like a flirt.
I take the narrow staircase two steps at a time, the bass growing louder with every floor, until I push through the door at the top.
The rooftop is a swirl of champagne, laughter, and too-loud conversations. I find my coworkers gathered in a corner, already laughing way too hard.
“Emma!” they shout.
Sam hands me a bubbly drink, and before I can process anything, I’m caught up in the chaos. The ocean hums in the background, but the bass and chatter drown it out. It’s all sensory overload, but in a fun, party-on-a-rooftop-in-Miami kind of way.
Everyone’s here—except him.
Where’s Luca? And then, like some cruel twist of fate, the crowd shifts. There he is.
Luca Walker, on the opposite side of the terrace, was talking to some guy.
He looks... painfully good. Dark suit, crisp lines, posture so clean it’s criminal.
But it’s not the suit that steals my breath.
It’s the black handkerchief in his breast pocket.
My handkerchief. The one I saw in that drawer. The one he’s kept all these years.
My heart lurches, and I nearly drop my drink.
He extends his arm, smooth, commanding. “Come with me.”
I loop my arm through his, pulse hammering in my throat.
His suit sleeve brushes against my bare skin, and the contact is enough to light me up.
He leads me toward the terrace’s edge, where the crowd thins and the ocean breeze cuts sharper, carrying salt, champagne, and bass from the rooftop speakers.
I grip the railing, fingers curling around the cold metal as if it can steady me. “This is a great spot.”
“I didn’t pick it. It’s where they do it every year.”
Then I feel it—his fingertips grazing my back, slow, deliberate, as though testing how much he can get away with. The air leaves my lungs. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s not even pretending to hide it. He’s staring at his own hand like it belongs there.
“Luca…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, though there’s no remorse in the way his gaze drags over me. His voice dips, low and intimate. “You look incredible tonight. I lost control.”
Heat floods my face. My hands won’t stay still; I twist my rings, tug at the hem of my dress, anything to distract from how badly I’m trembling. “Th-thank you. What’s with the handkerchief?”
His lips twitch, almost a smirk. “It’s a message.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
He sets his drink on the railing with a quiet clink and steps closer. My back hits the metal, the night air cool against my skin, while his body radiates heat in front of me.
“What message?” My voice shakes.
He cages me in, arms braced on either side of the railing. His chest nearly brushes mine, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’m coming for you, Em. This time, you’re not getting away.”
Oh God…
“Luca.” My voice breaks, half a warning, half a moan, all need.
He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. Instead, he leans in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, his breath making me shiver. “Let’s see if you still feel that way by the end of the night.”
Then he pulls back, smooth as sin, offering me his arm again like nothing happened.
For the next two hours, he circles me like a predator—close enough that his hand brushes mine when I reach for a glass, his shoulder grazing me in passing, his stare dragging heat across my skin. Far enough to look innocent if anyone else is watching.
And the worst part? I can’t breathe without noticing him.
If I could describe how I feel with colors, I'd use the grays of a stormy day and the deep greens of mystical forests.
My head pounds like my brain’s trying to break free, and my stomach feels strangely tight. The sound of something gliding elegantly across a surface catches my attention—a soft, rhythmic swoosh. When I try to open my eyes, the brightness is too much, and I shut them tight again.
I try once more and manage to catch a glimpse of a white curtain billowing gently in the breeze. Then, the roar of the sea—angry, unsettling—hits my ears.
The party? Am I still at the party?
I sit up in bed, using both arms for support as the room spins for a moment. Deep breaths. Slowly, the world stills, and I get my bearings.
No, I’m not at the party. I’m… oh, crap.
Of course, I’m in Luca’s bedroom. This kind of luxury is way out of my league—except here, where white oak floors stretch beneath me, the windows are basically walls, and the bed is aimed like an arrow straight at the ocean.
I glance left, bracing myself to find Luca lying there. But to my surprise, that side of the bed is untouched—neatly made, not a single wrinkle.
I peel back the sheets and see I’m still wearing the same dress from last night—just crumpled like an accordion across my stomach. I tug it down, trying to look less like a human pretzel.
I move toward the window and peek outside. No sun. The sky is a moody canvas of clouds that perfectly match the chaos inside me.
Stormy. On edge.
The wind outside is nothing like the gentle breeze I felt from bed—it’s wild, forceful.
Down at the shore, right where the waves crash with fury, is Luca Walker, arms crossed over his chest, staring down the ocean like it owes him money.
His dark clothes whip in the wind, hugging the silhouette of his body.
The palms flanking the house sway at strange angles, their fronds blown hard toward the south.
“This can’t be safe,” I mutter to myself. And right then, lightning splits the sky in two. “He’s insane.”
I spin on my heel and head off to find him. I explore the house like I’m solving a maze, but eventually I find the kitchen.
The sliding door to the beach is shut tight. I have to shove hard to get it open.
“Luca!” I yell, still under the shelter of the roof.
He turns. His face is cold, severe—but when he sees me, it softens. His steps crunch toward me on the sand, and suddenly, he’s not just a man. He’s a storm god, dark and charged, with an ocean tantrum boiling behind him.
“You’ve lost your mind!” I shout when he’s close enough to hear me.
“Why?” he says with a maddening smile.
A thunderclap makes the windows shiver.
“That’s why!” I point up at the sky. “It’s not safe out there!”
He brushes sand from his legs with a towel, smiling like I just told him I love him. “You can’t help worrying about me, can you, Em?”
Since when is Luca charming?
“Ugh.” I spin back inside, needing space from him—and whatever he’s waking up in my poor, overstimulated heart.
I hear his steps behind me. I swear I can hear his damn smile, too.
“Coffee?” he offers as he crosses behind the kitchen island and grabs two mugs.
I collapse onto one of the barstools like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Yes. Please,” I groan, my head in both hands.
Luca pours with the precision of a craftsman. He sets the cup in front of me—steaming, fragrant, glorious. Even the smell starts to soothe my gut.
Before I take a sip, I go for the truth. “What happened last night?”
Luca sits across from me and casually opens a physical copy of The New Herald. I haven’t seen an actual newspaper in forever. Without even looking up, he says, “You drank too much.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I figured that part. But how did I end up here? I remember you said you were going to take me home.”
“I did. My home.” He flips a page.
I’m already losing patience. “No, you said—”
“Emma,” he interrupts, finally looking at me, “you were puking nonstop. You passed out in my car. What was I supposed to do—leave you alone like that?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I didn’t.” He shrugs, sipping his coffee. “And with this weather, you’re better off here.”
“This weather? It’s just rain, Luca.”
He lifts the paper and flips it toward me, showing the front-page headline:
WINTER STORM SLAMS SOUTH FLORIDA — FLOODING EXPECTED.
Oh, hell.
“I’m stocked up for the storm. No reason for you to leave.”
I glance out the window, suddenly more awake. Sheets of rain blur the skyline, and palm trees whip violently in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the glass.
“But… I need clothes, Luca. I can’t stay in this dress all day—it’s squeezing the life out of me.”
“You can wear something of mine… or nothing at all. Your call.”
What is happening? When did Luca turn into a compulsive flirt?
He raises a brow. “What?”
“You’d summon a storm just to trap me here, wouldn’t you?”
He smiles but says nothing.
“And I need a shower. Like, now.”
Luca stands and reaches out his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”