Chapter 9
* * *
My mouth opened but nothing came out—no sound, no thought, just the impossible truth standing three feet away from me.
Damien Holt.
Falkirk’s CEO. The man himself.
The man whose approval could save my company. Or doom it.
The man I’d trusted in the dark for nearly two months without ever seeing his face.
The man who’d shaken my hand yesterday and said nothing.
Read.
The realization hit with brutal clarity. The low jazz dissolved into static. The room thinned until only he existed—him and the wreckage in my chest.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched me with an expression caught somewhere between shock and regret.
“I can’t…” My voice broke, a raw scrape. “This can’t be happening.”
The chair screeched backward as I pushed away from the table.
The sound tore through the restaurant, through whatever composure I’d managed to bring with me.
The wineglass rocked from the motion, a small wobble.
I reached for it, but missed, my fingers brushing uselessly against the stem.
The glass toppled and shattered, red spilling across the table in a deep, widening stain.
“Emma—wait.”
His tone carried none of the restraint I knew from the conference call, from yesterday’s meeting. It was unguarded, urgent, all pretense stripped away. He took one step toward me, then stopped.
“Please,” he begged. “Sit down. Let me explain.”
“Explain?” The word cracked out of me, sharp enough to draw the attention of the nearest tables. I dropped my voice before it could carry. “Tell me how long you’ve known who I was.”
Color drained from his face, panic settling in the small, telling shifts he couldn’t mask.
“Emma…” he tried again, the sound slipping out too fast, too unsteady to hide the panic underneath.
The voice inside rose triumphant. We told you. Liar. Using you. All of it a game.
Every old wound split open. The boy who never showed for prom. My father’s house where love was rationed like oxygen. The middle school laughter.
All of it collapsed into this moment—this betrayal—until fury and hurt blurred together, indistinguishable and relentless.
I was moving before thought caught up. Through the aisle, past the tables, past the flicker of candles and curious eyes. The room roared, bending at the edges.
“Ma’am?” The hostess called after me. “Is everything al—”
No, the voices hissed, gleeful.
The exit glowed ahead. My vision tunneled. My breath stuttered like I’d been dropped underwater.
Five things I can see, I heard myself think.
Wine bottles. Candles. People. Cars.
And—
Him.
His reflection wavered in the glass behind me, all the fight drained from him.
Something cracked in my chest, a fissure running deep.
Four I can touch.
The brass handle under my palm—cool, steady.
The back of my other hand, dabbing away tears I refused to let fall.
The ground beneath my feet, unsteady as quicksand.
The fabric of my dress caressing my legs.
Three I can hear.
A laugh from a nearby table.
The clink of a glass.
And—his voice. Quiet. Broken.
“Emma.” His tone was low from behind me. “Please… let me explain.”
Absolutely not, the voices snapped.
“Fuck you,” I hissed.
His face fell.
A tiny ping of satisfaction curled up my spine, but it didn’t move me. Not forward. Not back. My hand stayed locked to the handle—metal warming.
Why am I not moving?
Because you’re pathetic, it snarled.
Desperate.
Broken.
Pain ground against anger, anger ground against grief. My vision returned to the handle in my grip, the last barrier between me and freedom. I could open the door. I could walk out. I could be done with him forever.
But—
“Give me one good reason,” I snarled, the words iced over, honed enough to cut.
He didn’t answer. Each second dragged, settling into a small, insistent ache. Then, finally: “I can’t give you a reason to stay that isn’t selfish.”
I turned then—slowly, as if forcing myself through water.
He stood there stripped of every mask, shoulders lowered, palms up at his sides, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
“Everything I want to say,” he continued, tone raw, “is about what I want. What I hoped for. And none of that is fair to you.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, jaw working.
“I lied. I manipulated the circumstances.” His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, a man bracing for impact. “You’re right for wanting to leave.”
When I tried to speak, nothing came out, my throat closing around the words.
“But I don’t want you standing out in the dark alone,” he continued, voice low. “So you stay, I’ll go.”
He reached toward his pocket, then stopped.
“I’ve left my card with the waiter,” he said quietly, hand settling on his phone.
“Order anything you’d like. The ravioli you talked about earlier, drinks, dessert.
Anything.” His fingers tightened around the phone as he stepped closer to the door.
His scent reaching me as he passed—leather warmed by skin, edged with citrus.
My knees wavered. I tried to hold on to the anger—to the fire that had carried me here—but it failed me. Crushed under the weight of something I wasn’t ready to look at.
The care tucked inside his offer.
The way he couldn’t stand the thought of me walking out into the dark alone—something Read would’ve worried about without hesitation.
“You’re not fighting me,” I said, voice splintering. “You’re not even trying to convince me to stay.”
“No.” His eyes found mine and held. “I’m not.”
“Why?”
His pause stretched long, the restaurant noise settling around us.
“Because I should’ve been honest from the beginning,” he finally admitted. “And I wasn’t.” His attention burned—not with strategy, but with remorse.
“I hurt you.” He faltered. “I see it. In your face. In every line of you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I reached for it, feeling the wet heat on my fingers.
He flinched like he’d been struck. “Emma…” His hand lifted, instinctively reaching for me before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist.
“I am so sorry.” The words tore out of him.
I swiped at my cheeks again.
“Don’t worry about the merger. I’ll step down, let Tessa stand in for me. Falkirk would still benefit from a partnership with Elion regardless of the mess I’ve created.”
That name hit harder than anything else he’d said.
Not him.
Not the betrayal.
Elion.
My company. My people. The ones who trusted me to keep the ground from giving out beneath them.
The voices didn’t hesitate. He’s planning to destroy you. A trap. A setup.
The shift inside me was immediate—like a door slamming shut.
Whatever softness had cracked through a moment ago evaporated, replaced by cold clarity and the familiar pull of responsibility settling back into place.
“That was your plan all along.” The realization sat like a stone in my throat. “To break me. To take Elion.”
“No.” He moved toward me, palms up. “No, that’s not—”
“You’re lying.”
“Please. I swear on my mother that wasn’t my intention. If I could explain—”
“Explain what?” I snapped.
“Everything.”
His shoulders dropped. He looked—ruined.
It only made it worse.
“I thought you cared for me.” Another tear slipped free.
“I do,” he said, something unguarded flickering across his face. “I do. Please don’t leave believing none of it was real.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The betrayal and the aching tenderness warred until I didn’t know which side hurt more.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered, my hand slipping from the door handle to fist in my hair.
You never have, my father’s voice pushed through.
And you never will, my mother added.
“Stop,” I hissed through my teeth, the word barely reaching my own ears.
We tried to warn you, she chastised. But you never listened.
His face tightened, concern flickering there, and bile rose sharp at the back of my throat.
He knows, they laughed. He knows we’re here.
Because you told him, another jeered.
I pulled harder on the strands, willing them quiet.
One. Two. Three. Again.
One. Two. Three. Again.
Another one of his tricks. The one that got me through yesterday’s meeting. With him.
A broken little sound escaped—too sharp to be a sob, too off-kilter to be a laugh. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Just stood there with a still, devastated patience that somehow made everything worse.
Mascara smeared across my palm as I wiped my eyes. “Great,” I muttered.
He pulled a handkerchief from inside his coat and held it out, his hand shaking. “You still look beautiful,” he murmured.
I didn’t take it. “Liar,” I shot back.
“No. Not about that. Never about that.”
For a moment, the voices inside stilled. Not gone—just… muted, like someone had turned the volume down.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, more to myself than him.
“Then please,” he begged, “let me explain.”
A man approached—broad shoulders, stern face. He positioned himself between us. “Is everything okay here?”
“Yes,” I said before Damien could answer. “It’s been a… rough day. He’s helping me through it.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. The man’s gaze flicked to Damien in warning, but he moved on.
Only once he left did Damien speak. “Why did you cover for me?”
“Because he would’ve kicked your ass.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Would’ve made you feel better.”
“Didn’t Rosie ever teach you violence isn’t the answer?” The question fell from me before I could snatch it back.
Something caught in him. “You remember her name?”
“Of course.”
Pathetic, the voice breathed—but even that one sounded tired now.
“Please, Emma.” The words barely reached me. A plea in its final form.
I couldn’t stand there another second. Not looking like this. Not feeling like this.
“I need the restroom,” I murmured.
He stepped aside. “I’ll be waiting.”
I moved through the restaurant—stares tracking me, pity softening their edges. Their sympathy pressed too close. I couldn’t bear it.
The bathroom door shut behind me, and I turned toward the mirror—and gasped.
I was a wreck. Wild curls. Streaked mascara. Eyes swollen and red.
Oh, Emma, you need to take more pride in yourself, my mother’s voice critiqued. Put more effort in.
I didn’t argue. Instead, I opened my clutch with clumsy fingers, pulling out wipes, stripping everything away until bare skin stared back.
The stall lock clicked, my back hitting the partition—cold, rough plastic against frantic skin.
My phone appeared in my palm, Candace’s name bright against the glass.
I reached for the notification, then stopped.
Read’s messages sat above it—pinned to the top. First in importance.
They blurred together—the jokes that had made me laugh, the good mornings, the steady presence I’d grown to lean on.
His voice in words, slow and patient, walking me back from the edge when no one else even knew I was standing there.
He’d called me wonderful. Smart. Kind. Perfect. Walked me through the panic. Quieted the noise in my head. Ate midnight cereal with me. Told me he was proud I managed the smallest things on days that felt like the world was splitting open.
He’d helped me.
Every day.
Every night.
Chipping at the walls until I was left bare.
And he hadn’t left even when I’d pushed him away. It didn’t forgive the hurt, but maybe it did deserve an explanation.
I closed my eyes.
One step at a time, he’d said. The night everything shifted.
I snapped upright, pushing myself off the wall. Wiping the final tear from my cheek, I unlocked the stall door, meeting my reflection in the mirror.
One last smooth of my dress, a lift of my chin, and a deep breath.
Then the bathroom door opened, and I stepped back into the world waiting on the other side—taking one step at a time.