Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Emma
Warmth surrounded me.
The solid weight of Damien's arm draped across my waist. The faint smell of oregano still clinging to us both—remnants of a midnight pizza that had turned into the best meal I'd had in weeks.
My phone screamed from the nightstand.
I groaned, reaching blindly, fingers fumbling against the edge—
The phone clattered to the floor, alarm still blaring.
"Fail," Damien murmured against my hair, voice thick with sleep.
"Shut up." I wriggled toward the edge of the bed, arm dangling over the side as I patted the hardwood.
His arm tightened around my waist, dragging me back. "Leave it."
"I have a meeting."
"Cancel it."
"I can't cancel it." My fingers finally found the phone. I silenced it and squinted at the screen. 6:47 AM.
"Who's important enough to steal you from me at this hour?" His lips brushed the back of my neck, lazy and warm.
I hesitated. "Nathan."
The lips stilled, the arm around me going rigid.
"What kind of meeting?"
I turned in his arms to face him. "The first 'tutoring'"—I made air quotes—"session."
"Ah, the one you agreed to while you were pissed at me."
I kissed the bridge of his nose. "The very same."
"He better behave," Damien grumbled, more warning than joke.
I rolled my eyes. "You know he won't."
He let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I know. But he at least better keep his hands to himself."
The memory surfaced unbidden—Nathan's arm slung over my shoulder in the lobby. His palm pressed to the small of my back in the elevator.
My stomach turned.
"Hey." Damien's voice softened, his thumb brushing my cheek. "What is it?"
I shook my head, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just not looking forward to an hour of condescension before coffee."
His eyes searched mine—not quite believing me, but not pushing either.
"If he does anything—"
"I'll handle it."
"Emma."
"I'll handle it." I kissed him quickly, then slipped out of his arms before he could argue. "Now let me shower, or I'm going to be late."
I padded to the bathroom, turning on the shower, the first drops of water cold against my skin—a contrast to the warm arms that circled me from behind.
"Can I join?"
I looked up at him from over my shoulder. "Do you promise to behave?"
A sly grin quirked his lips, the right dimple making a rare appearance. "Absolutely not."
Anticipation coiled low. "Want to help me get undressed?"
His fingers caught the hem of the nightdress, skimming up my thighs, dragging the fabric with them.
The nightdress cleared my hips—and his hands stopped.
"Emma." His voice changed.
I knew what he was looking at before he said another word.
The last bruises had already faded to faint yellow shadows. The new ones he'd laid over them came from a different kind of need. One I'd begged for, craving release from the chaos. Davidson's cruel laugh. Nathan's condescending voice. All of it crushing down until I couldn't breathe.
I need to not think for a while, I'd begged him, yearning for the place only he could bring me to. Can you help me?
Now his fingers traced the curve of my backside, featherlight over what I knew had to be a canvas of purple and blue. Then he dropped to his knees behind me—and pressed his lips to the new bruises.
"I'm sorry," he murmured against me. Kiss. "I shouldn't have—"
"Damien."
He kept going, lips trailing apologies across each mark. "You deserved soft, but I was too selfish and I—"
"Gave me exactly what I needed."
He froze.
I turned, cupping his face in my hands, tilting it up to meet my gaze. "The old ones had faded. And besides, we needed last night." I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. "Both of us."
His jaw worked. Guilt still swimming in those dark eyes.
"I'd tell you if it was too much," I said softly. "You know I would."
He sagged against me. Then he pressed his forehead to my stomach, arms wrapping around my thighs.
"I know," he said quietly, then his mouth quirked. "Do you really like them?"
I smiled down at him, blush creeping into my cheeks. "I really do."
"They look beautiful on you."
"I think so too."
His grin turned wicked as he reached around to lift one of my thighs onto his shoulder. Head ducking between them, he whispered against my skin. "I believe I owe you one, love."
My fingers twisted in the strands of his hair as he licked straight through the center of me.
An hour later I was crossing Falkirk's lobby, each step sending a pulse through me—echoes of Damien's mouth, his fingers, the way he'd made me come twice before letting me leave.
The afterglow lasted exactly twelve seconds.
Nathan stood by the elevator, arms crossed, that familiar smirk already in place.
"Morning, Emma."
"Ms. Sinclair," I corrected coolly, not bothering to hide my disdain.
He rolled his eyes. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"It's a matter of respect, Mr. Bell."
He said nothing—but he didn't have to. The dismissal in his expression said it all.
That was the core of it, wasn't it? He didn't respect me. Never had. Never intended to.
The elevator doors opened and we both stepped inside. The metal box shrank around me, thick with the smell of old cologne and cigarettes.
He glanced down at me. "I'm looking forward to our meeting this morning. We have quite a few topics to cover."
"Like what?" I asked flatly, not expecting anything useful.
His eyes gleamed. "I don't want to ruin the surprise... Emma."
Dread settled beneath my skin as I followed him down Falkirk's gleaming hallway. Past curated art, photos of Damien shaking hands with executives and politicians.
The same powerful hands that had been in every crevice of my body. That had left marks of strength and beauty across my skin.
I wrapped that thought around myself and kept walking.
"Ladies first," Nathan drawled, swinging his office door wide.
I stepped inside—and immediately wished I hadn't.
His office was a reflection of him. The air reeked of stale cigars and self-importance. Photos of himself on yachts, girls young enough to still carry high school softness. Stacks of disheveled paperwork littered every surface. He swiped a pile off a chair, clearing me a seat.
"So," he started, taking his own seat, "I'd like to cover a few topics that we'll be focusing on over these next thirty days."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, teeth grinding with the effort.
He ticked them off on his fingers. "Executive performance guidance." A pause, his gaze dropping to the sensible—high-necklined—blouse Damien had probably chosen for this exact reason. "Professional image refinement." Another tick. "Stakeholder relationship management."
His smile widened.
"Among others."
"Let's begin with executive performance," he said, flipping open a folder on his desk. "I've had a chance to review your leadership style at Elion, and I have a few... observations."
I said nothing. Waited.
"You're direct. Decisive." He said the words like they were diagnoses. "Which works in certain environments. But here at Falkirk, we value a more collaborative approach. Particularly from executives in visible positions."
Visible positions. Translation: women.
"Your tone in meetings can come across as—" He waved a hand, searching for the word. "Abrasive. Some board members have mentioned feeling... challenged."
"They were being challenged," I said flatly. "That's the point of strategic discussion."
He smiled like I'd given something away. "See, that's exactly what I mean. That defensiveness. It reads as—" Another pause. "Emotional."
The word landed like a slap.
"I'd recommend softening your delivery. Asking more questions instead of making statements." He leaned back, spreading his hands. "Perception matters, Emma. Especially for someone in your... situation."
"My situation?"
"New to the company. Closely associated with the CEO." His gaze glittered. "People talk. You'll want to make sure your contributions speak louder than the rumors."
I went cold.
Closely associated.
My mind raced through every interaction, every glance, every moment we might have slipped.
"I'm not sure what you're implying," I said, voice steadier than the earthquake happening inside my chest.
Nathan's smile didn't waver. "I'm not implying anything.
Just stating facts." He tilted his head, studying me like a specimen.
"You came in as part of the merger. Damien personally advocated for your board seat.
For these... generous terms." He let the words hang.
"People notice patterns, Emma. That's all. "
Breath. Don't react.
"Mr. Holt advocated for the terms because they were fair," I said. "Because Elion's value warranted them."
"Of course." He nodded, placating. "Now. Speaking of Elion's value..."
Dread pooled in my gut.
"I mentioned some discrepancies during your first week," he continued, flipping open a thicker folder. "I thought it might be helpful to review them together. Clear up any... confusion."
He slid a stack of papers across the desk.
I picked them up, expecting to see the numbers I knew by heart. The projections I'd agonized over. The figures the media had claimed were faked by Davidson to sabotage the merger—to save himself the embarrassment of pulling out.
That had been the story. The neat little bow Damien had tied around the whole ugly mess.
But these weren't those numbers.
Revenue projections—inflated by nearly forty percent. Growth forecasts that painted Elion as a company twice as healthy as the one I'd actually run.
My vision blurred at the edges.
What the hell did you do, Damien?
"As you can see," Nathan said, watching me with the patience of a cat at a mouse hole, "the audit Falkirk received was... optimistic. Significantly more so than the metrics I saw during the beginning of our discussions."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
He'd falsified documents. For me. To protect me. To make sure the merger went through on terms that favored Elion.
And Nathan knew.