Chapter 49
Chapter forty-nine
Emma
The rest of the day refused to match the moment.
The anticlimax was almost insulting.
Emails.
Phone calls.
Meetings.
The usual machinery grinding forward like nothing had changed.
And now I was reviewing quarterly projections like it was any other Monday.
The whispers died down by lunch. Apparently corporate gossip had a four-hour half-life. Tessa had stopped by twice—once with coffee, once with a transparently fake question about a vendor contract—but even she'd run out of excuses to hover by mid-afternoon.
I saved my last spreadsheet, closed my laptop, and decided I'd earned the right to bother my boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
The word still felt strange. Too small for what he was to me. But "the CEO I'm in a power exchange relationship with who I also happen to be desperately in love with" didn't exactly roll off the tongue.
I walked down the hall and knocked on his door.
"Come in," he called, voice tight.
"Hey," I said, pushing the door wide. "What's up?"
"The head of the Singapore division is being a dick," he grumbled, finally looking up.
The door closed behind me as I bit my lower lip. "Want me to make it better?"
"Better?" His Adam's apple bobbed as I sauntered toward him. "What did you have in mind?"
I perched on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. "I have a couple of—"
The desk vibrated beneath me, the incoming call button lighting.
"Goddamn it," Damien said beneath his breath. He gave me an apologetic look. "I've got to take this."
I straightened as the call light blinked. "It's fine, what I had planned wasn't appropriate anyway."
"Wait." He stilled. "What did you have planned?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," I teased as I straightened, smoothing the fabric of my skirt.
"I'll see you at home, Mr. Holt."
Thirty minutes later, I kicked off my heels and padded toward the master bathroom.
Marina's. Tonight.
The place that had started it all.
Shower. Hair. Makeup. I ticked through the steps one by one.
My phone buzzed as soon as it hit the counter.
Damien: Start getting ready. I'm going to be running a little late. The dick from Singapore is involving legal now.
"Ew," I said, grimacing as I typed back my reply.
Me: Okay, I'm going to take a nice hot, soapy bath.
Damien's response was quick.
Damien: How hot?
I smiled, unraveling my hair from my bun.
Me: Wouldn't you like to know.
Damien: Don't distract me. I'm on a conference call with twelve men I can barely understand. I need every ounce of focus.
Me: You were the one who asked.
Damien: Touché.
I set the phone down on the counter and stripped.
The bath was indulgent.
The water was almost too hot, steam curling toward the ceiling, muscles loosening one by one as I sank deeper. I'd added the vanilla Epsom salt Damien kept stocked beneath the sink—another one of his quiet gestures, ones I'd stopped questioning and started simply accepting.
I closed my eyes and let my mind drift.
A year ago, I would have spent a bath like this cataloging failures. Replaying every awkward moment from the day. Bracing for whatever disaster waited around the corner.
Now, the only thing waiting there was dinner with the man I loved.
Funny how everything could change and still feel like coming home.
My fingers were pruned by the time I pulled myself from the water.
I took my time with my hair, curling each strand in little spirals.
The curls cooperated for once—framing my face without frizzing. I pinned one side back with a simple gold clip and left the rest loose.
A look I knew he loved.
We'd been on his terrace, another of his planned dates. My hair blowing in the evening breeze.
I love seeing you like this, he'd said.
I caught my reflection's eye in the mirror and smiled.
A year ago, I would have bristled at that thought. Would have told myself I was compromising, bending, losing pieces of myself to fit someone else's preferences. Now I understood the difference.
I wasn't changing for him. I was letting him see me—the version of myself that existed when I dropped my walls. The softness beneath the steel. The woman who wanted to be beautiful for someone—not for validation, but because his appreciation made her feel cherished.
There was power in that.
A different kind than I'd spent my career chasing.
But no less real.
Makeup came next. Light foundation to even my skin. A sweep of blush over my cheekbones. Mascara that made my lashes look endless. And lipstick—a deep burgundy shade Damien once told me made him want to spend hours ruining it.
Then came the emerald green dress. A recent gift, it slid over my skin like water, hugging every curve like it was made for me—which, knowing Damien, it probably had been.
The neckline dipped low enough to show some cleavage without tipping into scandal. The hem fell just above my knees, showing legs I'd learned to stop criticizing.
I turned in front of the mirror, watching the fabric catch the light.
Not bad, Sinclair.
The thought came without its usual asterisk. No but your hips are too wide or your stomach isn't flat enough.
Just…appreciation.
Simple and clean.
I was starting to see myself the way he saw me.
My fingers traced the delicate chain of my collar, pausing at the tiny black pendant nestled in the hollow of my throat.
His.
The woman in the mirror smiled again.
My phone buzzed at 6:45.
I grabbed my clutch—small, gold, just big enough for my phone and lipstick—and crossed the apartment, calling the elevator.
Harold waited at the curb, holding the door open with a wide smile. "Good evening, Ms. Sinclair."
"Good evening, Harold."
I slid inside, the leather seat cool against my bare legs.
"Marina's?" he confirmed, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror.
I dipped my chin at him, returning his smile.
He pulled into traffic, and I settled back against the seat, watching the city blur past.
The radio played something soft and jazzy, barely audible beneath the hum of the engine.
The same streets I'd traveled months ago, when everything was different. Back when I'd been a bundle of nerves, palms sweating, heart racing, voices in my head screaming disaster.
I'd been so afraid.
Afraid he wouldn't show.
Afraid he would—and I'd disappoint him.
Afraid of wanting something so badly and watching it crumble the way everything good in my life eventually had.
That woman felt like a stranger.
I looked down at my hands, calm and steady in my lap.
No tremors.
No white-knuckled grip.
My fingers drifted to my throat, brushing the pendant lying against my skin as the city streaked by, neon signs blurring into ribbons.
Damien.
My Damien.
I was done being afraid to want him.
Marina's appeared through the window, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk.
"We're here, Ms. Sinclair," Harold announced, as he pulled to a stop.
"Thank you, Harold."
He was already out of the car, rounding it to open my door. I stepped onto the pavement, the night air cool on my bare shoulders, and looked up at the restaurant's familiar facade.
The same brick.
The same glowing sign.
"Have a wonderful evening," Harold said, a knowing warmth in his voice.
I smoothed my dress, lifted my chin, and walked toward the door.
No shaky hands.
No anxious thoughts.
Only joy.
A collar around my throat.
And the absolute certainty the man waiting inside would look at me like I was the only woman in the world.