Chapter 29 The Breaking Point
THE brEAKING POINT
EMMA
Three days since the accident. Three days of splitting myself between the office and the hospital, pretending I'm not falling apart at the seams.
I've developed a routine. Coffee at my desk by seven.
Meetings, emails, storyboards until six.
Grab my bag, take the bus to St. Catherine's, where the nurses know me by name now.
Sit with Kai until he falls asleep, which doesn't take long with the painkillers.
Go home to my empty apartment, stare at the ceiling until exhaustion wins, do it all again.
I haven't told him about work. About Miles. About any of it.
He has enough to worry about. Someone tried to kill him, and we still don't know who. Maddox is investigating. Logan and Ethan are taking turns with security. The last thing Kai needs is to hear that my career is circling the drain because I can't keep my mouth shut.
So I smile. I hold his hand. I tell him everything is fine.
I'm good at it.
“Sinclair.” Miles appears at my desk like a bad omen, his smile too wide, too practiced. “I need you on the Westbrook account. Client dinner tonight.”
I look up from my monitor. “Tonight? I already have—“
“Plans?” He tilts his head, mock sympathy oozing from every pore. “I'm sure whatever it is can wait. Westbrook is a priority client. Thomas wants our best people on it.”
Our best people. The words drip with irony. He's been trying to bury me for weeks, and now suddenly I'm essential?
“What do you need me for?”
“To observe. Learn. Hear from the client what they need, so I don't waste my time having to repeat it for you.”
I bite back the response I want to give. “What time?”
“Seven thirty. Il Trovatore. Don't be late.” He taps my desk twice and walks away, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and bad intentions in his wake.
I text Logan.
Sin: Can't make it to the hospital until later. Work thing.
His reply comes fast.
Lo: Everything ok?
Sin: Fine. Client dinner. Please tell Kai I'll be there after.
I arrive ten minutes early, portfolio in hand, heels clicking against the marble floor. I didn't have time to go home and change. Miles made sure of that. My blouse is wrinkled from a full day at the office, but at least I keep deodorant in my desk drawer for emergencies like this.
The Westbrook team is already seated. Four executives, two assistants, and Miles at the head of the table, like he owns the place. Rachel from our team is there too, along with Derek and Vanessa. Miles's loyal soldiers.
“Emma!” Miles gestures to an empty seat near the end of the table. Not next to the clients. Not where I could actually network. “So glad you could make it.”
I take my seat, wave to everyone. “It seems there was a miscommunication on the time.” I stare at Miles as I enunciate the words. He wanted me to arrive late.
The first hour goes smoothly enough. Miles does most of the talking, presenting the campaign strategy I helped develop. He doesn't credit me. I didn't expect him to. I focus on the clients, watching their reactions, noting what lands and what doesn't.
When there's a lull in conversation, I take my chance.
“Mr. Westbrook, if I may,” I lean forward slightly, “I noticed your brand has a strong following among millennials, but the Gen Z engagement is lagging. I have some ideas for a TikTok integration that could—“
“Emma's always full of ideas,” Miles cuts in smoothly. “Very... enthusiastic.”
The condescension is subtle but unmistakable. Mr. Westbrook glances between us, uncertain.
“I'd like to hear it,” he says.
I continue, outlining the strategy. Short-form content. Authentic voices. A partnership with micro-influencers rather than celebrities. The clients nod along. One of them is actually taking notes.
Miles's smile tightens.
When I finish, Mr. Westbrook looks impressed. “That's exactly the kind of fresh thinking we need. Miles, why wasn't this in the original pitch?”
“We're still refining the approach,” Miles says, his voice clipped. “Emma sometimes gets ahead of herself.”
“I'd rather someone get ahead than fall behind,” Mr. Westbrook replies with a chuckle.
I allow myself a small smile. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
I'm wrong. It gets worse.
The plates are cleared. The wine keeps flowing. Miles orders another bottle, cheeks flushed, gestures looser. I've seen this before. Alcohol makes him mean.
“So, Emma,” he says, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “I have to ask. What's your secret?”
I set down my water glass. “I'm sorry?”
“Your secret.” He gestures vaguely. “You've been here, what, a few months? And already you've landed the ELK account, and now you're making yourself at home at Westbrook dinners... quite the trajectory.”
“Hard work,” I say evenly. “Preparation. Knowing the market.”
“Sure, sure.” He nods, but his eyes are sharp. “It's just interesting, isn't it? The timing. You arrive, you get assigned to ELK, and suddenly you're everywhere.” He takes a sip of wine. “Some might say you have a knack for... making connections.”
The table goes quiet. I can feel the clients watching, curious.
“I'm not sure what you're implying, Miles.”
“I'm not implying anything.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm just saying, it's impressive. The way you've... networked. Very strategic.”
My fingers tighten around my napkin. “If you have something to say, say it.”
“I'm just making conversation.” His smile widens. “Though I did hear an interesting rumor. About you and the ELK founders. All three of them, apparently.” He laughs, glancing at the clients. “Can you imagine? Our Emma, juggling billionaires.”
The blood drains from my face. Vanessa smirks into her wine glass. Derek suddenly finds his plate fascinating. Rachel looks horrified but says nothing.
“That's completely inappropriate,” I manage, my voice tight.
“Oh, lighten up. It's just gossip.” Miles waves his hand dismissively. “Though it does make one wonder about your pitch tonight. Did you come up with that TikTok idea yourself? Or did one of your... friends help you out?”
The accusation lands like a slap. He's not just attacking my reputation. He's attacking my work. Everything I've built.
“Are you suggesting I didn't come up with my own strategy?”
“I'm suggesting that maybe you've had more help than you let on.” He shrugs, the picture of innocence. “It's a fair question, isn't it? Given the circumstances.”
Heat rises through my chest, the pressure building behind my eyes. Don't react. Don't give him what he wants. The exhaustion, the stress, the days of holding everything together, it's all pressing against the walls I've built.
“The circumstances,” I repeat slowly, “being that I'm a woman who's good at her job, and that threatens you?”
The table goes dead silent.
Miles's smile freezes. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I'm shaking now, but I can't stop.
“I've watched you undermine me for weeks.
The whispers. The innuendo. Assigning me projects, hoping I'd fail.
And when I don't fail, when I actually deliver, you resort to this?” I gesture at the table.
“Attacking my character in front of clients because you can't attack my work?”
“Emma—“ Rachel starts.
“No.” I turn back to Miles, my voice rising. “You want to question my integrity? Fine. Do it in a professional setting, with evidence, through proper channels. Not over wine and appetizers like some petty office gossip.”
Miles leans back, expression shifting to wounded surprise. “I was simply asking questions. There's no need to get hysterical.”
Hysterical. The word is a knife, designed to make me look exactly like what he wants. Emotional. Unprofessional.
I realize my mistake too late. Everyone is staring. Mr. Westbrook's expression has gone from interested to uncomfortable. I've fallen right into Miles's trap.
“I need some air,” I say, pushing back my chair. Legs feel numb, but I force them to hold me. “Please, excuse me.”
I walk out of the restaurant with my head high. Inside, I'm screaming.
The bus to St. Catherine's is nearly empty at this hour. I lean my head against the cold window and watch the city blur past, too tired to think, too wired to sleep.
The hospital is quiet when I arrive. Visiting hours are technically over, but the night nurse waves me through with a sympathetic smile.
“He's been asking for you,” she says softly.
Kai is awake when I slip into his room, propped up against pillows, TV on mute. He brightens when he sees me. The chaos outside this room fades. He's my calm in the middle of everything falling apart.
“Hey.” His voice is still rough from sleep. “Thought you weren't coming.”
“Wouldn't miss it.”
I lean down to adjust his blanket. A reflex. Before I realize what I'm doing, my lips brush his forehead. The kind of gesture I've only allowed myself when he's asleep.
He's not asleep now.
I freeze, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I… sorry, I didn't—“
His hand catches mine before I can pull away. Eyes heavy with painkillers, but there's a warmth there that makes my chest ache.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I missed you.”
I sink into the chair beside him, still flustered, still holding his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” He tugs me closer. “You look tired.”
“Long day.” I force a smile. “Client dinner ran late.”
“How'd it go?”
“Fine.” I force my voice to stay light. “Boring. You know how those things are.”
He frowns, thumb tracing slow circles on my wrist. “Emma.”
“What?”
“You're doing that thing with your voice.”
My stomach tightens. “What thing?”
“The thing where you go up at the end. Like you're asking a question instead of making a statement.” His eyes search my face. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I'm just tired.” I squeeze his hand. “Long day, that's all.”
He doesn't look convinced, but the painkillers are pulling him under. His grip on my hand loosens, his blinks growing longer.
“We'll talk tomorrow,” he mumbles. “You'll tell me. Right?”
“Sure,” I whisper. Another lie. “Get some sleep.”