Chapter 40
* * *
Emma
Elion was in chaos.
Half the employees hadn’t shown up. And the ones who had moved like shadows through the halls—waiting for someone to tell them whether their futures were already over.
I’d slipped in through the back entrance, avoiding the swarm of photographers clustered outside the lobby doors. But even from the lobby, I could hear the shutter clicks.
Jennifer all but jogged toward me as I hit the elevator button. The moment the doors closed around us, she let out a shaky breath.
“Sorry I never called you back yesterday. I’ve been trying to brainstorm—anything—but Jesus…” She clutched a folder to her chest. “I can’t figure out a way to turn this around.”
“I can’t either,” I admitted.
She looked at me, an apology in the line of her mouth. “You’re going to need to give a statement.”
A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes. “I know.”
“I drafted something,” she said quickly, snapping open the folder. “Elion takes no direct responsibility for the breach. We say we’re reviewing it and will follow up once we know more.”
My hands tightened on the leather strap of my purse. “The breach isn’t the problem. It’s the numbers.”
The elevator climbed, its red floor indicators casting reflections across the polished tile. I watched the glow move beneath my feet, wishing it would swallow me whole.
When the doors slid open, David and Kevin were waiting right outside.
“What did the two of you come up with?” Kevin asked hopefully.
“Nothing,” I told him, stepping out. The hallway unfurled long and dim—a purgatory between here and the sanctuary of my office. Locking myself inside was the only answer I’d found. The only thing I could handle.
“Fuck,” David hissed behind me—David, of all people.
We all turned, wide-eyed.
He lifted his hands. “What? Fucked is kind of the theme of the day.”
None of us knew what to do with that level of honesty from him.
For a second, the three of us just… stared.
Dazed.
Confused.
A little unnerved.
Then my phone buzzed in my hand, cutting through the moment.
Damien.
“I have to take this,” I said quickly, moving down the hall before anyone could follow. I shut my office door on the third ring, twisting the lock at the same time I brought the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I managed, dropping into my chair like the floor had given out beneath me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I admitted. “Everyone here is running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
A pause.
“Here?”
“At Elion.”
“I thought I told you to stay home today,” he said curtly.
“My company is in turmoil, Damien,” I snapped. “How could I stay home?”
“Because you hadn’t stopped shaking when I left you this morning.”
The words hit like a slap.
“I’m still the CEO of a company,” I fired back, heat flaring under my skin. “I don’t get to vanish because I’m upset.”
A sigh spilled through the speaker. “I gave you an order, Emma.”
“Fuck your orders,” I bit out.
Silence.
Sharp, immediate, electric.
“You matter more to me than Elion,” he said gently. “That’s why I gave the order.”
“You don’t get to say that to me right now,” I hissed. “Not when everything is on fire.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be there,” he countered. “You’re exhausted, you’re hurting, you barely slept—”
“Because I’m trying to figure out how to save a company that won’t survive another hit.”
He exhaled. “Emma. You can’t keep doing this alone.”
“I have to.”
“No,” he said, firmly. “You don’t.”
The sound of a chair scraping came through the receiver, the faint metallic clink of keys in the background.
“Damien—don’t,” I warned.
“I’m already on my way.”
“Do not come here.”
“You said fuck my orders?” he snarled. “Fine. I’m returning the favor.”
The line went dead.
The office phone’s red call light blinked.
Sarah’s voice—usually bright to the point of saccharine—came through the speaker stripped of its usual cheer.
“Ms. Sinclair? Damien Holt from Falkirk has requested an emergency meeting.”
“Tell him no.” The anger from our call still burned beneath my skin.
Silence stretched—too long, too careful.
“With all due respect, Ms. Sinclair… I don’t think that’s an option right now.”
I froze.
Sarah, who once apologized to a stapler for bumping into it. Just told me no wasn’t an option.
“Okay,” I relented. “Tell him to meet me in my office.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The line clicked.
I crossed the room, forcing air past the tightness in my ribs, and pressed the button that blurred the windows—watching the office behind the glass fade into a gentle gray haze as the privacy screen shuttered into place around me.
Damien was coming here.
To this building.
To me.
And I wasn’t ready.
Not for him.
Not for the look I knew he’d bring with him.
I steadied my hands on the windowsill.
“Okay,” I whispered to no one. To myself. To the mess waiting outside my door.
The muffled hum of voices in the corridor faded as the unmistakable sound of his footsteps approached. Five minutes. That was all it took for him to get here after our call.
Fucking psychopath.
“Sarah,” Damien greeted easily, like the world wasn’t burning down around us.
“Good morning Mr. Holt. Right this way.”
Knuckles rapped on the door. I unlocked it quickly, before retreating behind my desk.
“Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Holt to see you.”
His tall frame crossed the threshold, corporate polish wrapped around him like a costume—pleasant smile, shoulders relaxed, the perfect CEO arriving for a perfectly normal meeting.
“Thank you, Sarah,” I managed, rising to greet him as if we hadn’t woken up in the same bed this morning. “Mr. Holt.”
“Ms. Sinclair,” Damien replied smoothly, tone and posture pristine. “I’d like to discuss a few—”
The door clicked shut behind her.
His smile vanished, eyes cutting to mine with all the fury he’d been holding back for the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed, dropping into the chair hard enough to shove it back an inch.
Heat rushed through me. “Like I told you on the phone. I’m running a goddamn company.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you to stay home.”
“And I told you to go fuck yourself.”
His hand lifted—just one finger—somewhere between disbelief and imminent detonation.
“You said ‘fuck my orders.’ Now you’re telling me to go fuck myself?” His voice was low, incredulous.
I stopped.
The anger still simmered—but beneath it was what I saw in him.
The hurt.
The fear.
The exhaustion from carrying both our worlds on his shoulders for forty-eight straight hours.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” His shoulders lowered by barely an inch. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”
But he was. That was unmistakable.
But not at me.
And that difference settled between us like gravity.
His focus fell to my throat.
To the collar still resting against my skin.
“Disobeying orders not even two days after…” His fingers made a slow gesture toward it. “That.”
The chain suddenly felt hot—tight—burning with shame and disappointment.
My eyes stung.
His face fell.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed heavily. “I should have known better than to throw out an order without an explanation. You are Emma Sinclair after all.”
A wry curve cut into his mouth. Then a laugh.
He slumped back into the chair, the fire in him dimmed but not extinguished.
“I wanted you home for a few reasons,” he said, settling into something steadier.
“The first being that when I left you this morning, you were an emotional wreck. And peeling myself away from you?” His throat worked, the admission rawer than he probably meant it to be. “It was hard. Really hard.”
I stiffened, guilt settling between my shoulder blades.
“And second,” he continued, “because I’m already running damage control.”
“How?” The word escaped.
“I’ve already told the press that Falkirk stands with Elion. That we’re aligned. I bought you two weeks.” He lifted two fingers, the gesture firm. “Two weeks before you need to say a single word publicly.”
I blinked, voice catching. “Thank you—”
He cut clean through it. “I met with the board this morning. They weren’t thrilled, but they agreed. Falkirk won’t retaliate, won’t distance themselves, won’t do anything—not until the deadline.”
Dread coiled through me. “We won’t have answers in two weeks.”
“You won’t,” he said. No hesitation. “But I will.”
The tone of it—final, unyielding—drew my spine straight.
His gaze locked on mine with a heat that stripped every excuse from my tongue.
“When I put that collar around your neck, I made a promise, too, Emma. A promise to protect you. All of you. So for the love of god—” He leaned forward, voice lowering into something that felt like a vow, not a command. “Let me.”
The words hit harder than I was prepared for. Tears pricked, hot and immediate—emotion rising with no name and no shape.
His expression softened, the fight in him folding into something unbearably tender.
“You can’t cry here,” Damien murmured—not scolding, just honest. “It’ll send the wrong message.”
I tipped my head back, blinking fast, pressing the corners of my eyes until the burn receded.
“So please,” he pressed, “let’s go home. You showed your face to your employees. That was brave. But the press—” He shook his head, jaw flexing once. “They’re circling like vultures. And you’re not in a place to face them right now.”
The truth settled inside me with a dull finality.
I wouldn’t survive it.
Not today.
One camera flash, and I’d crack wide open.
I nodded, tension locking my throat.
“Good. Now—” He straightened. “I’m going to walk out there and tell everyone that I need you to come back to Falkirk with me.”
My brow furrowed.
“But really,” he continued, lowering his voice again, “we’re going to watch Eclipse and eat chocolate on the couch until the world feels manageable again. Okay?”
The corner of my mouth twitched despite everything. “You’ll hate Eclipse.”
He spread his hands, smile climbing slow and warm. “Not if I’m watching it with you.”
The pressure eased—barely—but enough.
I pushed up from my chair on instinct, moving toward the only place in the world that felt remotely safe.
My gaze flicked to the windows—the privacy shutters already drawn, the glass walls transformed into something solid and unreachable.
A splurge I’d questioned when I first signed the lease. Now? Worth every penny.
Damien didn’t question it. Didn’t hesitate. He simply opened his arms, and I sank into his lap like the movement had been carved into me long before today.
His arms wrapped around my waist. A slow exhale left him as he pressed a slow kiss to the crown of my head. Another followed at my temple. Then one—barely a brush—against my lips, gentle as a secret.
“Thank you,” I whispered, curling against him. His cologne—warm leather, clean citrus—wrapped around me, familiar and steady.
“I’m only doing what I promised.” His voice stirred my hair. “But I need you to trust me more than you did this morning.”
Trust.
The same word that used to feel like daggers splaying my heart wide. A sentiment I’d learned to avoid in childhood, a stance only made worse by the lies that had started all of this in motion.
But now—wrapped in Damien’s arms—it didn’t hurt.
It felt… comforting. Like coming home after a very long trip.
And when I’d nodded—when I’d agreed to leave with him, to let him handle what I couldn’t—it wasn’t because I was his submissive.
It wasn’t only my first real attempt at obedience.
It was the bone-deep recognition that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do except trust him to carry what I couldn’t hold anymore. To handle and protect me from this mess I couldn’t control.
The collar didn’t make me follow him.
The truth did.
“You lean on me,” he continued, no hesitation, no softness diluting the certainty. “That’s the entire point of this. You don’t face this world alone anymore.”
Emotions stirred, rising like a tide I couldn’t stop. Not fear. Not shame.
Something deeper.
Something dangerously close to—
“Okay,” I said.
His expression eased, the tension in his shoulders releasing. “Good. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”