Chapter 15
* * *
Emma
Morning hit cleaner than I expected. Same light, same air—just no salt on my tongue from crying too hard, no lipstick smeared across my mouth. Even the ache inside me was still there, just muted now. Blunt instead of razor-sharp.
I rolled over, sheets twisted around my legs, and reached blindly for my phone on the nightstand. The sudden brightness stung as I slid to the home screen.
Damien: Good morning.
I blinked at the name. Damien. Not Read.
My heart stuttered—my stomach flipped with it.
Me: Good morning.
The dots appeared. Vanished. Then—
Damien: What are your plans with Candace today?
Another small carryover from Read—his habit of cataloging the small things. My routines, my rituals. The invisible map he’d drawn of my life without ever asking for it. He’d even remembered Sundays were Candace’s. Mostly. Especially the one that rolled around every three weeks.
Me: Nails, then lunch.
I waited—one beat, two—then huffed once and threw the blankets aside. Cold air bit my legs as I stood, making my way into the bathroom, grabbing a towel from the hook with my phone still warm in my hand.
Damien: That sounds like a good day.
Me: I’m looking forward to it. Meeting her in an hour—jumping in the shower now. Talk to you later.
Damien: I’ll let you have your time. I’ll text tonight.
Me: Sounds good.
The phone landed on the counter as I passed through the bathroom. A twist of the knob, a cough from the pipes, and the shower hissed to life. Steam crept along the mirror’s edges, blurring my reflection into a ghost, as I stepped into the warm spray.
An hour later, I pushed through the glass door of Polished, our favorite salon.
The air smelled like acetone, hand cream, and roasted coffee from the little Keurig station at the front.
“Hey,” Candace called, turning away from the wall of polishes.
“Hey,” I echoed, pulling her into a quick hug. “Have you picked a color yet?”
She held up two nearly identical pinks. “Ballerina or Bubblegum?”
I scrunched my face in horror. “Neither.”
Candace gasped. “Excuse me? Ballerina is a classic.”
“Sure it is,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry I’m not a goth,” she shot back, eyes flicking down my black-on-black outfit. “Like some people.”
“I’m not goth.” I scoffed. “Black is classic.”
She threw her head back and laughed—loud enough that half the salon looked over.
“Candace, Emma,” Jenny called, motioning us toward her and her twin sister’s stations. “Come on over!”
Jenny and Jennifer had been doing our nails for years. They’d heard everything—breakups, Elion’s chaos, every spectacular Garrett implosion. They knew most of our secrets and remembered more gossip than was probably legal.
I dropped into the chair with a graceless flop. Drills hummed, bottles clicked, and the twins moved with the smooth, synchronized ease of people who’d done this a thousand times.
“How are things with you two?” Jenny asked, chin tipping between me and Candace.
“Things have been good.” I kept my tone light.
Candace snorted. “No, they haven’t.”
Jennifer’s head popped up. “Okay, spill.”
“She had a date Friday,” Candace announced.
Jenny gasped. “No way!” She grinned as she started filing away my old polish. “Tell us everything.”
Candace smirked. “Go on, Em. Don’t skip the juicy parts.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “It went horribly—but not in the way you’d think.”
“Okay…” Jenny said, wrapping my fingers in foil. “Define horribly.”
“Turns out he lied about who he was.” The words came flat. “And that I know him from work.”
Jennifer jerked upright. “He wasn’t an employee, was he?”
“No.”
Candace leaned in, savoring it. “His name turned out to be Damien Holt—the CEO of Falkirk.”
Both twins froze.
“Did he know it was you?” Jenny asked.
“Yup,” Candace answered for me. “The whole time.”
I slid my fingers into the small, heated, bubbling water bowl Jenny had placed in front of me.
“It sounds awful. And it was. But… we’d been talking for almost two months before he asked me out.
He told me he’d liked me since Falkirk first looked at Elion.
Then he found me on a dating app. Called it divine intervention. ”
“You couldn’t tell it was him from his profile photo?” Jenny asked, trimming my cuticles.
“No,” I admitted. “But I didn’t have one either.”
“Anonymity,” Jennifer murmured. “Of course.”
“That’s why the celebs have their own app,” Jenny added.
“Back on track,” Jennifer ordered. “What happened after the ‘surprise, I’m your potential merger partner’ moment?”
“She stayed,” Candace said, beating me to it.
Jennifer blinked, a hint of disapproval tightening her mouth. “Okay… and then?”
“We talked,” I said. “He said he didn’t tell me because he was already falling for me, and he knew if I’d recognized him, I never would’ve agreed to meet.”
Jenny’s face eased. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
Jennifer frowned. “Or manipulative. Very hard line there.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I sighed.
“Has he reached out since?” Candace asked, voice sharp.
“Yes.” My tone dropped. “We’ve been talking since last night.”
Candace’s head snapped toward me. “Seriously? And you didn’t tell me?”
Guilt pricked under my skin, and I dipped my head, suddenly far too focused on the way Jenny worked.
“Are there still feelings?” Jenny asked gently—a pointed contrast to Candace’s glare.
I watched the steel-gray polish glide across my nails, buying time. “Yes, I think there are.”
As I spoke, I realized I needed to hear it—know it—too.
“Then that changes things,” Jenny said.
Candace’s face scrunched, disdain sparking in her expression.
“I agree,” Jennifer added. “But that’s quite a time investment. Lie or not.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Jenny turned to her, pointing her nail file like a warning. “I get it. You want to protect her, fine. But if you spent nearly two months falling for someone, would you just walk away?” Her brow arched. “No. The ‘what if’ would eat you alive.”
She went back to work, and Candace’s shoulders dropped.
“I think that’s why I’m still talking to him,” I said, turning toward her. “I’m not ready to walk away.”
Jenny and Jennifer nodded, but Candace stayed quiet.
“We’re meeting tomorrow after work,” I added, scanning her face. “Dinner at his place. Just to talk.”
“I don’t like this,” she muttered.
“You don’t have to,” Jenny cut in. “You just have to support her.”
Candace sighed, relenting. “Fine.” Then, softer, “I just don’t want you hurt.”
“I know. And I love you for it. But my gut says he’s not cruel. He looked—” I searched for the memory. “Ruined, Candace. You’d get it if you’d seen him.”
She blew on her nails. “All right. I’ll trust you, Em. But if he makes you cry again, I’ll castrate him with kitchen scissors.”
A dry laugh slipped out. “I’d probably help you.”
We shared a look, tension easing back into our usual orbit.
“You girls are done,” Jenny said after a few more minutes, tapping my hands. The polish gleamed like glass.
I paid and stood, gathering my things. Candace led the way toward the door.
Behind us, Jenny called out, “Next time bring the tea!”
“And it better be piping hot,” Jennifer added, wiping down her station.
I smiled back at them. “Deal.”
The bell jingled as we stepped outside. Warm air wrapped around us, sunlight catching in Candace’s hair until it shone like its own spotlight. I lifted my phone, snapped a picture of my nails in the light, and hit send before I could overthink it.
Damien: They look great!
Empty compliment or not, it made something inside me lift.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Candace asked, voice low.
“Yes.”
A sympathetic smile curved her lips. I opened my mouth to cut off the pity, but movement in my peripheral vision caught first.
A man stepped out of the alley.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
His coat—dark wool, heavy—hung off his shoulders. Too thick for the late-May heat. Sweat slicked his temple, but his eyes stayed empty. Cold as stone.
Still—this was New York. City of weirdos. We kept walking, brushing him off the same way you ignore buskers arguing with themselves on the subway.
Then a hand clamped around my arm. Hard. Nails dug deep as I was yanked sideways into shadow.
Pain lit up my nerves. Momentum dragged me off balance.
My shoulder hit brick; the air punched out of my lungs.
“Emma!” Candace screamed.
“This’ll be easy,” he hissed, hand already gripping my purse strap. “Bags, and nobody gets hurt.”
“You can go fu—” Candace started—then froze when he pulled a handgun from inside his coat.
Fight. Run. Scream.
All three lit up and died at once.
Candace moved first. She ripped her purse off and threw it at his feet.
“Your turn, sweetheart.” He angled the gun at me.
The strap slid against my palm. I loosened my grip and let it fall.
He grinned, all teeth. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Then he was gone, footsteps fading, leaving the alley choked with stillness and the echo of our breathing.
“What… what just happened?” Candace stammered.
“I… think we just got mugged.”
She patted herself down, hands shaking. “Fuck—I forgot my phone was in my bag.”
“I still have mine.” My fingers fumbled for the pocket sewn inside my skirt. The fabric rasped under my nails as I pulled the phone free.
Damien’s name sat at the top of my screen.
Me: I think we just got mugged.
The screen flashed. Damien calling.
I answered with trembling hands. “Hello?”
“Are you okay?” His tone was tight, edged in panic.
“I think so.”
“Where are you?”
“Corner of East 77th and Lexington.”
“I’m only a couple blocks away.” Metal clinked on his end. Then the roar of an engine. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Okay,” I agreed, too shaken to argue.
The line went dead. The silence filled the space he left behind.
“Who was that?” Candace asked, expression wide, distant.
“Damien.” The name felt strange. “He’s in the area. He’s coming to check on us.”
“Oh.” Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’.