Chapter 27
* * *
Emma
“Emma?” Jennifer cut through the fog in my head, hard enough to snap me back into the fluorescent-lit conference room. “Everything okay?”
I blinked down at the spreadsheet I’d been staring at for—god, who knew how long.
Still hearing Damien from that morning, low and certain: Waiting for you to claim me.
Heat crept up my neck. “Yes. Sorry.” I shook my head as if I could dislodge him from it.
“I need you to focus,” Jennifer said, not unkind but firm. She tapped a highlighted section of the sheet. “These numbers are… not great.”
I leaned in, pulse ticking faster.
She pointed to a red column. “We’re showing a $1.8 million discrepancy in Q2 expenditures compared to the approved budgets. And the cash-flow projections for next quarter…” She clicked to the next tab. “Look at this.”
My stomach dropped.
The liquidity forecast dipped into yellow—then into orange.
If revenue stayed flat, we’d be scraping the bottom of our operating reserves by next month, much earlier than previously expected.
I scanned line by line, willing it to be a rounding error. A misplaced decimal. Anything. “This has to be a mistake.”
But no.
Marketing had overspent. Operations had underperformed. One vendor doubled their pricing without warning. Payroll for the new dev team hit harder than expected.
And as ugly as it was, it all added up.
“Davidson’s going to eat us alive.”
“Unfortunately,” Jennifer agreed.
My pulse skipped.
Damien’s warmth from this morning—his arm around my waist, his grin, the easy domestic bliss of our last four days—felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
The real world bled back in, cruel and cold.
Of course the first moment I let myself breathe—let myself want something—life would yank the floor out from under me again.
“Okay,” I said, taking a measured breath. “Let’s go through everything line by line and make sure what we’re seeing is correct.”
She nodded, pulling her chair closer.
We worked through the discrepancies, but the knot in my chest only tightened. Every red cell felt like a warning flare. Every variance felt like a countdown.
And underneath it all—beneath the numbers and panic—the memory of his words breathed again:
Claim me.
A promise.
A risk.
A wanting I wasn’t sure I deserved.
Jennifer snapped her binder shut and left for her next meeting, heels clicking down the hall. The door closed behind her—leaving a quiet that rang in my ears. I pulled out my phone on instinct, scrolling to Candace’s name.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey! Long time no see.”
“I know.” A smile tugged at me. “Are you free? I’ve got an open block, and I need—well—just… time with you.”
“Hmm… let me check my very full schedule.” A dramatic rustle—suspiciously like magazine pages. “Great news—I’m free.”
I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevators, grateful for the excuse to step outside the building and out of my own head.
The New York streets felt brighter as I walked—still busy, but not in the overwhelming, mugger-in-the-shadows way. The deli’s sign came into view minutes later, a newer spot Candace had been evangelizing for weeks.
The door chimed as I stepped inside. Heat wrapped around me, thick with the scent of pastrami, rye, dill pickles, mustard.
I scanned the room for Candace—
Only to realize every single person was focused on something… or someone.
“Oh, god,” I muttered.
“Hey, everyone! I’m here today with Steinberg’s Jewish Deli on 4th!” Candace’s voice rang out—bright, polished, influencer mode fully activated.
I slipped through the crowd until I found her standing with the owner, an older man with silver hair and warm eyes. His name tag read Mr. Steinberg.
“Mr. Steinberg,” Candace chirped into her phone camera, “I keep hearing your pastrami is the best in New York. Is that true?” Her tone had that perfectly curated lilt she used when she wanted people to trust her with their wallets.
“The best in town,” he declared proudly into the lens.
She lit up like a Broadway marquee.
I dropped into a corner booth with a clear view of the chaos, silently thanking the universe for my extended lunch hour.
My phone buzzed.
Damien: Did you make it?
Me: Yeah. Got a booth. Candace is in full influencer mode.
Damien: My condolences.
I smiled, tucking my phone away.
About thirty minutes later, she slid into the seat across from me, glowing and winded, dabbing her forehead like she’d just filmed an aerobics video instead of a deli promo. “Sorry about that,” she huffed.
“It’s fine. I knew what I was signing up for.”
“Listen,” she said, lifting a finger, “Steinberg’s owner begged me for a collab—what was I supposed to do? Let a small business suffer?”
“You literally filmed him praising his own pastrami.”
“That’s called marketing, sweetheart.” She grabbed a menu. “Also, he gave me a free cannoli.”
“That explains everything.”
She grinned—then narrowed her eyes at me, sharp and playful. “So,” she said slowly, “you look… glowy.”
Here we go.
“You’re imagining things.” I flipped open my menu like it could shield me.
“Oh, please.” She waved me off. “You disappear for four days and come back looking like you’ve been well”—she wiggled her brows—”hydrated.”
The flush hit immediately.
She leaned in, eyes wide. “Oh, shit. How was he?”
“Fucking amazing,” I admitted, cheeks blazing.
She sat back like she’d just won the lottery. “I knew he would be.”
“Hold on,” I said. “You were practically the conductor of the hate train a few weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well,” she said breezily, “that was before he saved us from being mugged.”
“I wouldn’t call offering us a drive home a savior moment.” Matching Damien’s exact tone.
She snapped her menu shut. “Okay. Are you two just doing the horizontal tango, or is this… a whole thing?”
My heart stuttered.
Candace’s eyes widened. “Oh, my god. It’s a thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s… something.”
Her grin sharpened. “Spit. It. Out.”
“On Friday we admitted we have feelings for each other.”
Her brows shot up.
“He said he’d been mine since the beginning. But…” The words stuck. “I don’t know if I’ve healed enough yet.” Something tender flinched inside me. “But I’m starting to see it,” I whispered. “Something with him.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “I’m so confused.”
Something in Candace eased. “That’s understandable. I’d still be hurting, too. But don’t let that pain blind you to the good.” She nudged my foot. “It’s not like you’re getting married tomorrow. And it’s not like you’re collecting men out here. Why not make it official?”
Our sandwiches arrived—simple plates for a complicated conversation—but the moment they hit the table, something inside me clicked.
“I think you’re right.” The conviction surprised even me. “What’s the harm? If it goes south, I can always break up with him… right?”
“Right,” she said, already mid-bite into her pastrami.
“Okay.” I exhaled. “I guess I’m doing this thing, then.”
She beamed. “I guess you are.”
We shifted to lighter topics—her parents’ cruise, snippets from my weekend with Damien. No tension. No arguing. Just ease.
Just us.
A reminder of something I didn’t realize I’d missed.
* * *
The rest of the day slipped by silently, quickly, but still the nagging uncertainty of my decision pressed heavy on the edges of my mind.
The doors opened, and I stepped out, shrugging off the light hooded jacket I was still using for low-profile commutes.
Ava’s voice met me immediately.
“Good afternoon, Emma,” she called from the kitchen. “How was work?”
“It was okay,” I said, sliding onto a barstool. She was elbows-deep in a cheesecake mixture. I stole a fingerful. “We sent the audit documents to Davidson early—wanted it off our plate. Margaret wanted nothing to do with it, and Harrison is in the dark still.”
“Well that’s… something.” She hummed as she prepped a pan. “Damien’s running a bit behind.”
“Yeah, he texted me.”
Ava glanced over her shoulder with a knowing smile. “I must say, I’m glad he found you.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re different than the others. I see the way he looks—”
“Did he… have many girlfriends before me?” The words escaped before I could catch them. Reckless curiosity pushed against walls I’d been desperately trying to keep intact—demanding an answer before I leapt.
The question spoken before I could swallow it. Stupid. Of course he’d had women. He was rich, handsome, kind. Women probably threw themselves at him.
Ava froze. The spatula clattered into the pan. “Ugh…” she managed, clearly searching for footing.
My brows pulled tight. “Ava?”
“Yes—sorry,” she said quickly, scraping batter into a ring mold. “He’s had partners before, but…” Her voice faltered. “I wouldn’t necessarily call them girlfriends. Not like you.”
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “Please don’t tell me Damien was a fuckboy.”
Her head whipped around. “No! Nothing like that,” she said—too fast.
My pulse quickened—cold and quick. “So… one-night stands?”
“No,” she murmured. “Not quite.”
“Situationships?” The bitterness surprised even me.
She hesitated. “No. Not that either.”
Frustration flared. “Then what were they?”
Ava winced. “It isn’t really my place to explain.”
I leaned back like she’d shoved me.
Not girlfriends.
Not hookups.
Not flings.
Not situationships.
Then what the hell were they?
And why couldn’t she say?
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
He hid his identity for weeks.
The thought landed like a stone dropped into still water.
He let me fall for a man who didn’t exist. And I forgave him. I chose to trust him again.
And now—
Another secret. Another thing he’d never told me. Another piece of himself locked behind a door I didn’t even know existed.
“He wasn’t married, was he?” I blurted.
Ava burst into laughter. “God, no. Nothing like that.”
I exhaled—but the confusion only deepened.
She pushed the mixing bowl toward me. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry I can’t give you more.
I know that must be frustrating.” Her tone dropped.
“But I promise you—none of the others ever came close to what you two have. I’ve never seen him like this.
Every time you messaged him—before you even met—it was like watching a kid in a candy store. ”
My chest tightened.
“And after everything came out…” She lifted a warning finger. “Which I had no knowledge of—and still don’t approve of.”
I gave a faint smile. The bruise from that night still ached when touched.
“He was torn to shreds and rightfully so. But it was hard to watch. His mom and I were worried about him.”
She exhaled. “But now? He’s different. Happier. Brighter. I can see what your presence has done for him.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly, licking the bowl like a child, lips curved into a smile.
Ava laughed and turned back to the sink, humming again.
But I wasn’t listening anymore.
No woman like you.
Happier. Brighter.
I liked that.
God, I liked that.
But the things she didn’t say, the shadows she stepped around, the words she refused to give shape to… Those pricked beneath my skin like invisible thorns.
I looked around the room—really looked.
Photos of Damien with his mom.
With his brother.
Childhood snapshots.
Bookcases. Art. Life.
But no women.
Not even in the background of a frame.
My stomach twisted.
You really think you know him?
The old voice—silent for weeks now—slipped back into place like it had never left.
You really think men like him stay unattached? You’re just the first one he bothered introducing to Ava.
I clenched my jaw.
Stop.
But the thought had no weight.
Candace’s words echoed next—steady, certain.
What’s the harm?
Something squeezed inside me.
I had been ready, at least I thought I was.
Ready to choose him.
Ready to tell him.
Ready to claim him like he’d asked, gentle and sincere over breakfast.
But now—
Ava’s hesitation.
The missing pieces.
The past I’d never asked about.
And that old wound—the one he had carved into me—split open again, raw and pulsing beneath my ribs.
He’d hidden who he was for weeks. Let me pour my heart out to “Read” while Damien Holt watched from the other side of the screen.
I forgave him for that.
I chose him anyway.
And now there was more. More he hadn’t told me. More doors he’d kept locked while I handed him every key I had.
He’s hiding something. He’s hiding someone. This is exactly how it starts. One secret. Then another. Then the moment you realize you never knew him at all.
Something stuttered in me.
Rationally, he hadn’t done anything wrong.
But rationality wasn’t here.
Only fear.
Only humiliation.
Only the ghost of a betrayal I’d never fully healed from—disguised as truth.
I stood so fast the barstool screeched.
Ava turned. “Emma?”
“I—” My voice cracked. “I should go.”
“Oh. Is everything okay?”
No.
“Yes,” I forced out. “I just… remembered something.”
Before she could ask anything else, I grabbed my jacket, yanked the hood up, and headed for the elevator.
“Do you want me to tell Damien you left?” she called after me.
“No,” I said too quickly. “I’ll text him.”
But I didn’t.
The elevator doors slid shut around me.
Hands shaking.
Breath tight.
Anger simmering—misdirected and aimless, but vicious.
Angry at him for not telling me.
Angry at Ava for dangling half-answers.
Angry at myself for caring enough to spiral.
By the time the elevator reached the lobby, the truth thudded through me: I had been ready to commit.
Ready to risk it.
But one unanswered question, one bruise pressed the wrong way, one shadow from his past, and the ground disappeared beneath me.
The doors opened.
I stepped out.
I wasn’t going back up tonight.
And I wasn’t telling him why.
Not yet.
Not until I figured out whether this fear was real or just another old voice masquerading as the truth.