Chapter 16
A room built for privacy. And a panic button, just in case.
The food arrived under silver covers, magazine-perfect dishes revealed beneath the lids. Emma’s lemon risotto was scattered with purple pansies, a sharp line of licorice powder drawn across the plate. It smelled heavenly, reminding her she’d barely eaten breakfast.
Darren thanked the server as he left, then tapped a small brass bell fixed to the edge of the table. It looked like a doorbell. Or a panic button.
“No one will come back unless we call for them,” he said. The corner of his mouth curved up—the exact kind of wicked smile she’d always imagined for Lucen. “Just you and me now.”
A shiver swept through her, sharp and electric. She tried to mask it by leaning forward and scooping up a forkful of risotto. The first bite melted on her tongue, lemon and licorice in perfect harmony. The sensation caught her off guard—a small, involuntary noise escaped before she could stop it.
Darren watched her, the shadows of that smile still playing at his lips. He hadn’t touched his own food yet. “Good, right?”
She nodded. “Incredible.”
Only then did he reach for his steak tartare, as if her reaction had been his appetizer.
They ate in silence for a few moments. The room felt like a secret, a reverent hush hanging in the air.
“So,” Emma said at last, “this is unusual. Lunch with a stranger in some kind of Prohibition-era hideout.”
“Are we strangers, though?” His gaze was alert, assessing. “I know you through your writing. And I suspect you’re at least a little familiar with my work?”
She broke a piece of bread in two, neatly sidestepping the question. “Are you fishing for whether I based Lucen on you?”
“Just making conversation.” He took a sip of his wine, eyes steady on hers.
Emma gave a soft snort. “Right. So you didn’t lure me here to interrogate me?”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “I prefer subtler methods.”
Emma almost choked on the piece of bread. Right. She’d walked into that one. She reached for her water, taking a long, cool sip to recover.
“You know,” she said once she could breathe again, “Leah will be expecting me to ask about the role. Whether you’d be interested in playing him.”
It felt a little spineless, using Leah as a proxy. But he was already close enough to throw her off balance, and she had no desire to tip her hand.
“And Max will be expecting me to answer,” Darren said, as if on cue. “But I’d rather talk about something else. The Bonds of Light—it’s your debut, right? How did it start?”
She hesitated. The meeting was supposed to be about the casting—she’d been very firm with herself about that. But Darren clearly had other plans.
It didn’t add up. He’d set both of their fan bases spinning with hints he wanted the part.
And now he was—what? Wining and dining her, as if she needed convincing?
Didn’t he realize she was already halfway to handing him Lucen?
Hell, she was basically an airport marshal, waving neon batons at him and clearing the runway.
Still, now she knew his manager had taken an interest. That was something, at least.
“I guess it started with boredom,” Emma said, letting herself follow his detour.
“Daydreaming in debrief meetings, which is corporate code for people rambling to sound important. Just a vague idea at first, but it grew into characters, dialogue, scenes. When it got too big to hold in my head, I started writing it down.”
She shrugged lightly. “At first, it was just for me. It never felt good enough. But curiosity won, so I sent it out, and I got lucky.”
“I doubt luck had much to do with it,” he said, warmth lacing his tone.
Emma raised a brow, unconvinced. “Luck had everything to do with it. The publishing industry is brutal. Do you know how many times
J. K. Rowling was rejected?”
Darren leaned back in his chair, plate half finished and forgotten. “But I’m still glad you did. You gave people a whole world to escape to. Would’ve been a shame to keep it to yourself.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s all I ever wanted, really.
To do what books and movies have always done for me—offer a moment of escape.
Adventure. A place to feel everything without leaving the safety of your own bed.
It’s not high literature, maybe, but it still matters.
Especially for those of us who hesitate to seek it out in real life. ”
He went quiet, as if absorbing her words. Something knotted low in her chest. She hadn’t meant to open up like that. Not here, not with him. He seemed to wait for more, but she’d given up too much already.
“So, yesterday at the Darkreach panel,” she said instead, turning the tables. “The way you talked about playing Kael. It sounded . . .”
“Sounded what?” He cocked his head, gaze sharpening. Not unkind, just focused. It was intimidating to talk to him like this—like a peer. But she wanted to know. To understand him better.
“Like you were telling them what they wanted to hear. Not what you really felt yourself.”
He gave a short exhale. “Perceptive. Maybe I was saving the better answer for a smaller audience.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’m a smaller audience.”
Something flickered in his expression—interest, amusement, maybe both.
Darren’s fingers trailed the foot of his glass, the wine catching the light in a flash of red. He was always touching something—not restlessly, but as if to anchor himself.
“Kael’s getting . . . predictable. Great role, but it’s one I’ve played before.” He spoke slowly, feeling his way through the words. It made him seem more human, less like a movie star. His lips pressed together in a hard smile. “Ask everyone who says I peaked with Sebastian Vale.”
Emma went still. “I’m sure no one . . .” she began, but trailed off at the look he gave her. Too warm to be reproachful, but without illusions.
“You get to a point where you wonder who you’re doing it for,” he went on. “Yourself, or just for other people’s expectations. Maybe it’s time for something else.” He shrugged, but the set of his jaw stayed tight. “Like playing a good guy for once. Or something else entirely.”
She studied him across the table, trying to make the pieces fit. If he wanted something different, why chase Lucen at all?
Maybe it was just talk. Like when middle-aged people swore they were moving to Costa Rica to open a surf shack someday.
“Like what?” she asked.
He leaned forward, folding his arms over the table. “Directing, maybe. Or photography. I always bring a camera with me on set. I love catching people when they don’t notice. Unguarded, completely themselves. That’s when they’re at their most beautiful.”
“You like things that are real,” Emma said. She hadn’t meant to—the words slipped out before she could stop herself.
A hint of bitterness pulled at his mouth. “Who doesn’t? Especially when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have. Some days, I forget what real even looks like.”
Emma set her fork down, the licorice and lemon suddenly too sharp on her tongue.
Nothing about him made sense.
If he hated pretense, why flirt with the fans—and with her—to get a part he didn’t even seem to want? Or did he want it and was running some kind of reverse-psychology thing?
God, this lunch was starting to feel like Inception.
Darren shrugged, expression smoothing too fast. “Someday, maybe. We’ll see. You’re no stranger to changing careers yourself, I presume,” he continued, pulling Emma out of her confused thoughts. “What did you do before you were a writer?”
“Still do, technically,” she admitted. “I’m a financial controller.”
He blinked, thrown. “You’re . . . still working a corporate job?”
She nodded. “Twin City Industrial Components. We manufacture, well—shocker, industrial components. Tough market currently.”
For a second, he looked genuinely at a loss, like she’d just told him she ran a circus on the side. Which, honestly, some days it felt like she did.
“Are you serious? You have a bestseller and a Netflix deal. Yet you still . . . spend your days chained to an office desk?”
The intensity of his reaction hit closer than she cared to admit. She deflected with a measured eye roll.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever worked a normal-people job, Darren Cole, but they don’t actually tether us to our desks.
The company’s in rough shape, and I’m the only one who really knows the numbers.
We’ve got an investment round coming up, and if we don’t run a tight ship . . . people could lose their jobs.”
Darren didn’t respond at once. His quiet attention made her feel exposed.
“Besides—” She gestured vaguely, trying for a lighter tone. “You never know how long a book career will last. Given my spectacular lack of progress with the sequel, I might want to keep both doors open.”
He frowned, not letting her off the hook. “The Bonds of Light is hardly a one-hit wonder, Emma. Trust me. This is what you were meant to do. Not . . . paper-clipping things.”
Emma let out an indistinct sound, eyes dropping to a spot on the table.
“I mean, the responsibility you feel toward your coworkers, that I get.” His voice softened. “But the rest . . . there’s something else. Isn’t it?”
The smile she gave was just a faint curve of her lips, with a twinge of sadness slipping into it. He reminded her of Leah, minus the intimidating blazers. Finding every loose thread as if it were visible to the naked eye. Tugging lightly at things that were better left in peace.
It should have been unnerving.
Somehow—it wasn’t.
“We have some . . . family history,” she said, leaning her arms on the table, still avoiding his gaze.
“About the writing thing. My grandfather on my mom’s side wanted to be a writer more than anything.
Quit his job, told my grandmother he was working on the great American novel.
That once it was done, he’d buy her a castle and treat her like a queen. ”
She reached for her wineglass, twirling it slowly. “My grandmother was a seamstress, practical to the bone. Didn’t care about castles, but she cared about him. So she let him try.”
His hand rested near hers, close enough that she felt the warmth of it.
“What happened?”
“He finished it. But no one wanted it. Wrong background, no connections. I’ve read it, and it’s good.
Really good. But the rejections broke him.
He’d put everything into that dream. Money, pride, self-worth.
And then . . .” Her throat tightened. “He shot himself. Left my grandmother with three kids and nothing. My mom was the one who found him. She was eight.”
Darren’s fingers slid over hers, warm and steady. She didn’t pull back. It felt inevitable—like magnets connecting after being held apart.
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
She gave a small shrug, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. The story had landed heavier than she’d meant it to.
“It’s ancient history. But in my family . . . writing isn’t exactly seen as a responsible career choice. My grandmother remarried—to an accountant. Both my parents are dentists. Like Hermione.”
That drew a low laugh from him.
“So I went to business school.” She glanced at their joined hands. “It seemed smart. Safe. But . . . I’ve always been writing. Always loved it. Even knowing what it cost them.”
“And you were right to,” he said gently. “Look what you’ve created. What you’ve given people.”
Too close. Too much.
She inhaled sharply and pulled back, disguising the retreat by reaching for her water. “Yeah. How about you? Are your parents artists?”
He leaned back too, giving her space. “No. Doctors.”
She finally felt steady enough to look up. “What did they say when you wanted to be an actor?”
“They told me to do what made me happy. But I’m also pretty sure they started a silent timer that day, counting down to when they’d stage an intervention.”
“I’m going to take a wild guess they never had to.”
Darren cocked his head, his expression neutral. “Getting Sebastian Vale was a stroke of luck. Midnight Dominion opened a lot of doors.”
“But now you want to open others?” She shifted forward, wondering if this was her moment to steer the talk back to Lucen.
“Maybe. Sometimes you have to try something different.” His tone eased, drifting into something more conversational. “Speaking of, I tried a jellyfish salad in Shanghai on the last press tour for Darkreach. Bit wobbly, but not half as bad as you’d expect.”
Emma laughed. Fine. She wasn’t particularly keen on talking business, anyway. Not after everything that had just passed between them.
Darren refilled their glasses as they drifted into easier subjects, trading stories about terrible travel food and weird fan encounters. He was funnier than she’d expected—sharp without being cruel, quick to laugh at himself. Beneath the movie star gloss, there was something unexpectedly grounded.
And despite all the barriers she’d built, she felt him folding them down—one by one, far too easily.
The worst part wasn’t even that he did.
It was how much she wanted him to.