Chapter 29
This is an intervention.
Emma sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop growing hotter and hotter against the duvet. The number of Excel sheets open on her screen verged on the absurd.
Her eyes burned from the strain—she had already spent a full hour trying to answer Henrietta’s questions, and she’d barely made a dent in the list.
It was like fighting a hydra. Slice off one question and three new ones sprouted—which she also had to address, unless she wanted a follow-up email within minutes.
She rubbed her temple with one hand, typing clumsily with the other. The lack of sleep from her early morning was taking its toll, and she suddenly realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day except half a smoothie at the signing.
Her phone vibrated sharply against the nightstand. She startled, half expecting Adam to be checking in on her progress.
It was Darren.
Any chance you’re free for lunch, or are you booked solid with the media madness?
A pause. Then another bubble:
Btw did you know there is something called tentacle porn?!! You might want to stay off AO3 for a while . . .
Emma snorted out a laugh, too loud in the empty room. But right now, even Darren was something she didn’t have the capacity to deal with. Every time she thought she had him figured out, he shifted, like a prism scattering new angles. It was exhausting.
Of course he’d be the one to slip under her skin. The man whose image she’d already spent hours falling in love with, through the safe filter of fiction.
Not so safe anymore.
Can’t do lunch, sorry. Got roped into day job stuff.
She tossed the phone aside, pressed her palms to her sore eyes, then forced her focus back to the laptop.
Buzz. She ignored it.
Buzz. Again.
She snatched up the phone, ready to turn the damn thing off—only to freeze.
Incoming FaceTime. Darren.
She stared at the screen for a beat too long, then swiped before she had time to decide if she really should.
Darren’s face filled the screen, sun slanting through a window behind him, hair messily pushed back. His eyes were calm, but focused—a little too focused.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “I sensed a potential human rights situation. Just checking in to make a proper assessment.”
Emma forced a smile, but even the tiny selfie window on the screen betrayed the purple circles under her eyes, the tension pressed into her mouth.
“I’m fine. Just corporate politics. Board member who thinks I have a magic eight ball.” She angled her head and tried for a joke, hoping he wouldn’t notice the state she was in. “In case you’re wondering, board members are kind of like our A-list cast.”
“I know what a board member is,” Darren deadpanned.
“But thank you for that very patronizing explanation.” His tone softened.
“Seriously, though. It’s Comic-Con. You’re supposed to be out meeting fans, basking in glory.
Not . . .” He made a vague wave of his hand.
“Drowning in spreadsheets. About industrial spare parts.”
She let out a brittle laugh. “Tell me about it.”
But the laugh stuck in her throat. The weight of it all pressed down at once—falling behind in both lives, the spotlight burning hotter by the hour. Darren appearing in her life and tilting her world off its axis.
Her breath caught, eyes prickling. Tears began to rise, as if they’d been waiting for the smallest crack. And he was the very last person she wanted to see her fall apart.
But he saw. Of course he did.
Darren sat up straighter on the screen, humor gone. “Emma,” he said, his voice turning sincere. “You look exhausted. Take a break. Get some rest. Whatever they’re expecting, it’s not worth running yourself into the ground over. Nothing is that important.”
“It’s not that simple,” she whispered.
Something settled on his expression. “You know what? I’m coming over. What’s the room number?”
His certainty hit like a jolt—sharp and unexpected. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back. “Darren, really, I’m fine. I just need—”
“Emma.” His voice dropped to something low and dangerous. “Room number.”
She swallowed, shaking her head. “Don’t you have, like, twenty thousand fans waiting for you somewhere? Just let me—”
“Room. Number.”
Almost a growl now. The look on his face was adamant. Her resistance folded in a single exhale. “Eleven-oh-two,” she said. Then, quickly: “But Darren, seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I’m coming,” he cut in. No hesitation. His eyes softened, but his tone didn’t. “Don’t move. Don’t argue. Just . . . stay put.”
The call ended before she could respond, her own reflection blinking back at her from the dark screen. Her body went tense—part dread, part something she didn’t dare name.
gig
Barely any time seemed to pass before the knock came at the door.
Emma jumped, caught off guard. She’d scrambled to finish just one more item for Henrietta, barely having time to process that he was actually coming over. Her hair was in a lopsided bun, mascara probably smudged from rubbing her eyes.
Against every instinct, she pushed herself off the bed and went to open the door.
Darren was leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The octopus tee was gone, replaced by the black linen button-down he’d worn earlier.
“House call,” he said simply.
Emma stepped back to let him in, trying not to look as rattled as she felt. He walked past her into the room, taking it in without comment—the glowing laptop on the bed, the untouched coffee, a heap of clothes draped over a chair.
She slowly closed the door behind them. Having him there felt strangely intimate, even if it was just a hotel room. Darren went up to the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the view.
Emma cleared her throat.
“I told you, you didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did.” There was something relentless in his tone. “Do you think Lucen would’ve left it alone if he’d seen Catlyn unraveling?”
“You’re not Lucen.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, one brow raised. “I’m not?”
She shot him a dark look. “Don’t.”
He shrugged, his expression still teasing. “Had to take a shot while you’re weak and off your game.”
It was meant as a joke, but something inside her cracked open.
“It’s not funny, Darren.”
The words rang heavy through the room. His grin faltered, replaced by quiet attentiveness.
“I don’t understand,” she went on. It all burst out of her, sharp and uncontrolled.
“You go on stage saying that you love the book, and you bait the fans until they’re screaming our names.
But then you talk about how you’re done with that kind of role, and dodge the subject every time I bring up Lucen, and I just .
. . What the hell do you want, Darren? I don’t get it. ”
Her voice broke on the last words.
For a second, his eyes tightened—a shadow crossing his face. Maybe she’d angered him. Right now, she didn’t even care. Couldn’t. Not on top of everything else pressing down on her.
“You know what, just leave. Please.”
She turned away from him, hugging her arms around herself.
Every part of her life was fraying. The company, the sequel, and now whatever fragile thing was forming between them.
She was stretched thin between the different versions of herself, so tired of smiling through it all.
So tired of pretending not to feel the weight of expectations.
Darren moved behind her. She closed her eyes, bracing for the rush of air as he passed her, for the sound of the door slamming closed.
It didn’t come.
His hands settled on her shoulders. A shaky sob escaped her, relief folding her in on herself.
He eased her around, pulling her in. One hand cradled the back of her head, thumb stroking through her hair. His body was solid under her cheek, his voice rough against her temple.
“Enough, Emma,” he murmured. “You’re breaking yourself into pieces, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”
His grip was unyielding, yet it thrummed with heat, protective and fierce all at once. As if daring her to shatter, promising he would hold her together if she did.
She couldn’t defend herself against it. Didn’t have the strength. She leaned into him, feeling the even rise and fall of his chest. Silent tears soaked his shirt, but she was too weary to fight them.
He just held her like that, in the quiet center of the room, until her breathing calmed and the trembling subsided.
When her muscles finally relaxed, he pulled back slowly, his hands still warm around her arms. He searched her face, all playfulness gone. “You’re right,” he said. “About Lucen. About me sending mixed signals. It’s a wonderful character, and I’ve just been too . . .”
He sighed, cutting himself off. “You know what, I owe you a clear and honest answer. Just—not like this. Not when you’re running on fumes.”
His gaze slid to the bed, the laptop askew on the comforter. “Now turn that thing off. This is tragic. No one deserves this on a Saturday.”
Emma gave a tired shrug. “It’s my job, Darren.”
“It’s your prison.” Something shifted in his tone—half-tease, half-truth. “I’m here to spring you.”
“Way to be dramatic,” Emma muttered, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth.
“Oh, really?” He pointed at her laptop. “Are those little boxes not literally called cells?”
He looked far too pleased with himself. She let out a small laugh, shaky but real, brushing her fingers under her eyes. “Did you think of that one in the car over?”
“I did. I found it very clever.”
Emma shook her head, exhaling slowly. She untangled herself from his grip and took a few steps toward the window, needing a moment of distance. The nearness of him both steadied and unsteadied her.
She gestured at the computer. “It’s this board woman. She wants answers to exactly everything—probably next week’s lotto numbers too—and my boss thinks it’s a perfectly reasonable request.”
Darren tilted his head. “Do you want me to call her? Because I will.”
Emma huffed. “And say what? No offense, but I doubt she knows who you are. She’s the kind of person who claims to only read original-language French novels for entertainment while secretly binging Love Island.”
Darren snorted. “She sounds delightful. No wonder you’re bending yourself in half to please her.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside him. “Come. Sit.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
His chin lifted a fraction. Something in his gaze darkened.
“Because I said so.”
Her pulse kicked. The authority in his tone hit a nerve. Sparked a quiet longing to just surrender, to stop holding everything together for once.
She obeyed, a thread of anticipation sliding down her spine as she lowered herself beside him. The command evaporated the moment she sat, leaving just Darren again.
He turned fully toward her, knee resting on the bed. Emma stayed stiff, looking down at the hands folded in her lap. The care, the attention—and from him of all people. It was almost unbearable.
“Emma. I get it. After everything you told me about your family, I understand why you cling so tightly to a normal life. But here’s the truth—you’re not your grandfather. You don’t have a family to carry on your shoulders. And the biggest difference?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ve already made it. Look at you. Look at what your stories mean. Hell, there are thousands of people out there right now losing their minds over your weird octopus thing.”
A broken sound slipped out of her, caught between a laugh and a sob.
He didn’t look away. The teasing was gone; what remained was a steady, unwavering presence.
“Look, I’m not telling you to quit. I’m telling you not to let people like that board woman—or your boss—convince you that answering weekend emails is life or death. Right now, the only thing that matters is you. Breathing. Smiling, if possible. Have you eaten anything today?”
She considered lying. Then didn’t. He’d probably see through it, anyway. “Not really.”
He clapped his hands against his knees. “That settles it. You’re coming to lunch with me. Now.”
The pressure in her chest loosened, exasperation mingling with something close to relief. “You’re absurdly persuasive, you know that?”
“Side effect of playing manipulative bad boys.” He rose and held out his hand to her. “Tacos?”
Her eyes flicked from his hand to the accusing glow of the laptop, then back again.
Slowly, she reached for him. His fingers closed around hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her throat tightened.
“Tacos,” she managed.