Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Emma
Monday morning came bright and early.
And instead of tense muscles and nerves, I felt… calm.
Relaxed.
And I had no idea what to do with it.
"How are you feeling, love?" Damien asked as I stepped from the bathroom, skin still warm from the shower.
I reached for the lotion on the side table, pumping some into my hand. "So much better."
His mouth curved into a grin as I propped a leg up on the side of the bed, rubbing the lotion into my skin. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, gaze tracing my every movement.
"You're staring," I chided.
He didn't even pretend to look away. "I'm admiring. There's a difference."
I switched legs, propping the other one up.
The lotion, expensive and French, had appeared in the bathroom last week—another one of his subtle interventions.
Like the blackout curtains in the bedroom.
Or the weighted blanket that had materialized on the bed.
Or the way the fridge was now perpetually stocked with actual food instead of my usual sad collection of condiments and questionable leftovers.
Two weeks of living our dynamic, and I was starting to recognize the pattern.
He didn't announce these things.
Didn't make a production of it.
It was there.
Like magic.
Purpose.
That's what he'd called it.
It didn't keep the guilt from flickering at the edges, but it was quieter now. Easier to name.
Easier to set aside.
"What's on the agenda today?" I asked, setting the lotion aside.
"Hospital this morning. Rosie wants to go over discharge paperwork."
He smiled at me, eyes crinkling. "She's already planning the menu for Sunday dinner and asking about your food allergies."
I grinned.
Somewhere in the past two weeks, Rosie had absorbed me into the family with the same force she applied to everything else. I had a standing invitation to Sunday dinners. A designated mug in her kitchen. A spot on the couch that no one else sat in.
"What are my food allergies?" I tested, padding toward the closet.
"You don't have any," he answered confidently. "I tried to tell her that, but she wasn't convinced. She told me to keep her updated."
He chuckled. "It's like she expects you to develop one between now and Sunday."
"That sounds like Rosie." I laughed.
"She also wants to know if Candace is coming."
"To Sunday dinner?"
"To every dinner, from now until the end of time, apparently." He rose from the bed, crossing to where I stood in front of the open closet. "I think she's already planning the wedding."
I snorted, fingers trailing across fabric. "They haven't even been on a real date yet."
"Try telling Rosie that."
He reached around me, pulling an emerald green dress from near the back and handed it to me.
"Speaking of big days. Today's the last 'mentor' session." He made air quotes on the word.
"Thank god," I grumbled.
Nathan Bell's "executive mentorship"—a term so laughably sanitized it made my skin crawl.
Weeks of sitting across from him in that office with its yacht photos and leering smiles, enduring his critiques of my leadership style, my communication, my appearance.
Weeks of him pushing on the audit numbers. Circling back to them every session like a shark scenting blood.
The figures don't quite add up, do they, Emma? Interesting discrepancies. I'm sure there's an explanation.
And always, always, that proposition lurking beneath the surface. Implied in every lingering look. Every unnecessary touch. Every time he let his gaze drop below my neckline while pretending to review a report.
Each week I'd told Damien.
Each week his jaw would turn to granite and he'd say something like I'm going to kill him or Let me handle this or One word, Emma, and I'll destroy him.
Each week I'd talked him down. Reminded him that Nathan wanted a reaction. That giving him one would only make things worse.
As the end approached, our meetings grew shorter. His barbs less pointed. The hungry look in his eyes dulled to something closer to resignation.
And after today, I'd never have to sit in that office again.
"I'm excited to get it over with."
He pressed a kiss to my temple. "And Jennifer?"
My stomach clenched.
"That's the one I'm nervous about."
An hour later I stepped into Falkirk's lobby alone.
The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the chrome fixtures and polished floors in a way that had once felt intimidating.
Now it was simply another Monday.
Jill glanced up from the reception desk as I passed, her smile noticeably cooler than the one she reserved for Damien. I'd stopped taking it personally around week two.
"Good morning, Ms. Sinclair."
I didn't respond.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside, pressing the button for the executive floor.
One last time.
The doors opened, spilling me onto the executive floor.
Nathan's assistant, a nineteen-year-old intern I couldn't help but feel sorry for, looked up as I approached. "He's ready for you."
I pushed through the door.
Nathan sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair like a man who owned the world and found it vaguely disappointing.
The yacht photos gleamed on the walls.
A new one had been added. Nathan and Richter somewhere in the Bahamas—the men lounging on the bow with Richter's older children while his wife wrangled the younger ones in the background.
Even on vacation, the hierarchy was clear.
"Emma." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Right on time. As always."
I didn't sit.
"Let's keep this brief. I have to be at Elion in twenty minutes."
Irritation flickered across his face. "Eager to be rid of me?"
"Eager to move forward." I kept my voice even. Professional. "I believe I've learned everything your mentorship has to offer."
"You've been a difficult student, Emma. I'll give you that."
Ms. Sinclair, I didn't say.
"I prefer 'resilient.'"
"Is that what you call it?" He rose from his chair, moving around the desk. "I call it foolish. You've had opportunities, Emma. Chances to make this easier on yourself."
My skin prickled as he drew closer, but I held my ground.
"The audit discrepancies," he continued, close enough that I could see the yellow tinge of his teeth. "They haven't gone away, you know. Just because my mentorship is over doesn't mean the questions have been answered."
"There are no discrepancies. The audit was reviewed and approved by the board."
"The board approved what they were shown." His voice dropped. "We both know that's not the same thing."
I met his gaze. Didn't blink.
"If you have concerns about Falkirk's financial documentation, I suggest you raise them through the proper channels."
"Maybe I will." He was close now. Too close. The smell of his cheap cologne cloying and familiar. "Or maybe I'll wait. See how things unfold."
He brushed his fingertips across my shoulder.
I took a step back. "Are we done here?"
"For now," he said, a satisfied grin curving his mouth.
I turned, hand on the door handle.
"Send my regards to Damien."
I froze. "What?"
"Damien," he repeated. "You two seem to be close."
My pulse ticked up.
"Why would you think that?"
Footsteps approached, Nathan's breath hot against my ear. "Just a feeling."
Fuck.
Without another word, I turned the handle and walked out. The door clicked shut behind me.
I pulled out my phone.
Emma: He's onto us.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Frustration mounted as I waited for his response.
I typed a follow-up, but never hit send—Damien's voice coming from behind me.
"Ms. Sinclair, can I have a quick word? It's about the summit proposal."
I turned. He was halfway down the hall, his long strides eating up the distance between us.
Thank god.
"Of course, Mr. Holt, but I have to warn you I have a meeting scheduled at Elion in twenty minutes."
"No problem at all," he said smoothly. "This will only take a moment."
I nodded, following him back toward his office.
The moment the door closed, my face fell.
"We're so fucked," I groaned.
He reached for me. I leaned away.
His expression hardened. "Did he touch you again?"
"Just my shoulder," I admitted. "Nothing crazy."
"You shouldn't have to minimize this."
"What am I supposed to do? Report him?"
"Yes," he answered like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"And then what?" I glared at him. "He retaliates? Exposes the felony you committed?" My voice started to shake. "Not to mention our relationship timeline. The conflict of interest. The—"
"Stop," he cut in, pulling me into his arms. "Everything will be okay."
I shoved away, shaking my head. "No, I don't think it will."
"He hasn't made a move. Has no proof of us other than suspicion."
"He has the numbers," I said quietly. "That is enough."
Damien sighed. "Yes, he has the numbers. But so do the rest of the board."
My lips thinned into a fine line.
"He'd have to convince the board the numbers were fake," he continued. "And the only way to do that is with proof. And suspicion isn't proof."
"So what? We just pretend everything is fine?"
"Yes. That's exactly what we do."
I chewed on my bottom lip. "We can't keep pretending we're only colleagues."
"No," he agreed. "We can't."
"Do we come clean? Make an announcement?"
He looked down at his shoes. "I don't know."
"That's not—"
"I know," he stopped me, holding up a hand. "I know it isn't what you want to hear. I know it's frustrating, but honestly it may not matter after today…"
My stomach dipped.
Jennifer.
I glanced at the clock. "Fuck, I have to go."
"I'll leave here in twenty," he called after me.
But I didn't stop.
My mind already on the next battle.
"We're here, Ms. Sinclair," Harold announced as we approached Elion. The familiar glass facade. The logo I'd designed on a napkin six years ago, mounted above the entrance in brushed steel.
Through the window, I watched a woman walk past with a stroller, a bike messenger weave between taxis, a man in a suit check his phone and frown at whatever he saw.
Normal people. Normal days.
No idea that twenty floors up, I was about to detonate a friendship.
"Ms. Sinclair?" Harold asked, louder this time.
"Yes, sorry," I said, shaking my head, and reaching for my phone.
Me: Just made it.
Damien: Good. I'll be there in a bit.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the summer air warm against my cheeks.
The Elion building loomed above me. A stranger.
Six years ago, I'd signed the lease on this place with shaking hands and a credit card that was almost maxed out. Jennifer had been with me that day, standing in the empty lobby, both of us trying to imagine it filled with desks and people and purpose.
"We're either going to make history," she'd said, "or go bankrupt in spectacular fashion."
"Why not both?" I'd joked.
She'd laughed. That sharp, surprised laugh she saved for when I actually caught her off guard.
I wondered if she'd ever laugh with me like that again.
Each floor that dinged past on the ride up was another second to rehearse what I was going to say, another second to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.
Hey Jennifer, funny story—remember how you asked about the audit discrepancies and I said I didn't know anything? Well...
No.
Jennifer, I need to tell you something. Actually, several somethings. You might want to sit down. Or stand. Or maybe have security on speed dial.
Worse.
The doors slid open.
The twentieth floor was quiet. A small mercy. Fewer witnesses if Jennifer decided to murder me.
I walked the familiar path to her office, past the break room where Kevin had once accidentally set a bagel on fire, past the conference room where we'd pulled our first all-nighter, past the wall of photos from company milestones that Jennifer had insisted on framing because "culture matters, Emma, even when we're exhausted. "
Her door was closed.
I stopped in front of it, hand hovering over the handle.
Tell her the truth. All of it. The relationship, the timeline, the audit—everything.
Keep the promise you made.
Deep breath in. Hold. Release.
I opened the door.
Jennifer was waiting. Hands steepled on her desk, expression tight.
"So," she said finally. "Are you ready to stop bullshitting me?"