"EMMA," Sasha yells. "You look like a goddamn movie star!"
"Donovan is going to die," Riley adds. "Like, actually expire. Are you prepared for that level of responsibility?"
"I'm prepared to throw up," I admit. "I'm so nervous I can barely breathe."
"About the launch or about telling him?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." I press a hand to my stomach. "What if he's angry? What if he thinks I trapped him?"
"Emma." Sasha's voice turns serious. "That man sent you a glam squad. That man has beentexting you good morning every day for a week. That man gives your orgasms on private planes, and kisses you like you hung the moon. He's not going to be angry."
"He might be surprised," Riley adds. "But not angry. There's a difference."
"I hope you're right."
"We're always right," they say in unison.
We chat for a few more minutes before I have to hang up as we approach the venue—a historic building in Tribeca that's been transformed into a modern event space.
String lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A terrace overlooking the Hudson.
It's beautiful. Elegant. Absolutely terrifying.
"Ms. Sinclair?" Robert appears at my door. "We're here."
I take a deep breath, check my reflection one more time, and step out.
The venue is already filling up—board members, investors, press, key employees. Everyone dressed to impress, champagne flowing, the air buzzing with excited energy.
Carmen spots me immediately and rushes over.
"Emma! You look incredible!" She pulls me into a hug. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrified. Nauseous. Ready to bolt."
"Normal pre-event jitters." She hands me a glass of sparkling water. "Drink this. And breathe. You're going to be fine."
I'm taking a sip when I feel it—that prickling awareness that means Donovan has entered the room.
I turn, and there he is.
A midnight black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Perfect bowtie. Dark hair perfectly styled with that slight silver at the temples catching the light.
And he's looking at me like I'm the only person in theentire room.
He makes his way through the crowd, stopping to shake hands and accept congratulations, but his stormy gray eyes never leave mine.
When he finally reaches me, he leans in close enough that only I can hear.
"You're goddamned stunning," he murmurs. "Absolutely devastating."
"You clean up pretty well yourself."
"I meant what I said. I can barely keep my hands off you." His fingers brush my lower back—the bare skin exposed by the dress—and I shiver. "This dress is going to be the death of me."
"That was the idea."
"Cruel woman." But he's smiling. "I need to give the opening remarks in twenty minutes. After that, I'm stealing you away."
