The doors slid open onto the eleventh floor. Leah led the way down the hallway with the effortless stride of someone who lived in places like this.
“Ready?” she said, holding up the keycard.
Emma gave a noncommittal hum that could mean yes, no, or “I slept three hours last night, I don’t know.”
The door clicked open, and she stepped inside, taking in the rooms. A soft huff escaped her.
The suite was bigger than her first apartment. Possibly her second one, too.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with Californian sun, illuminating sleek furniture and paneled white walls. The bed was sectioned off behind an archway, enormous and layered with crisp white linens.
On a tinted glass table in the lounge stood a silver bucket with a bottle of champagne, a handwritten note leaning against it. Emma parked her carry-on and went to pick up the folded paper.
Welcome to San Diego!
We hope you will enjoy your stay with us,
Miss Whitehart.
She exhaled slowly.
“You said upgrade. Not holy-shit-this-belongs-in-Condé-Nast-Traveler.”
Leah closed the door, looking just a touch smug. “Told you. I have skills.”
Emma turned in a slow circle, taking it all in: the skyline view, the plush blue velvet couches, the faint scent of citrus and polished wood.She went up to the bed and let herself fall backward, the sheets sleek and cool against her skin.
For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Suspended between who she’d always been and who everyone suddenly seemed to think she was.
And right on cue, like a wave catching up with her—
Nerves. Adrenaline. Expectations.
That familiar unease stirred beneath her ribs. Never fully gone, only sometimes tucked away.
Leah had gone out of her way to make this weekend extraordinary.
Emma had no idea how to live up to it.
Leah sipped her iced coffee by the window. “So, not to stress you, but you’ve got about twenty minutes to change. I’ll order breakfast—something sweet and carby to kick-start your brain. We’ll go through your schedule in the car.”
Emma sank deeper into the bed. She curled her fingers into the duvet, trying to ground herself.
“Can I just have five minutes? I’m exhausted, Leah.”
Leah didn’t miss a beat. “That’s your own damn fault for not flying in yesterday like a normal person. And for not quitting your job already. And for probably wasting your brain on something with the words Q2 performance in the title rather than sleeping on the plane, no?”
Emma covered her face with a heavenly soft pillow. “Shut up.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Leah picked up the room service menu and scrutinized it like a six-figure contract. “Also, don’t kill me, but I added something to our schedule tonight. Rooftop gathering for all the panelists. Very chill. Good mingling opportunity. Open bar.”
Emma peeked out from under the pillow. “You said calm night in for day one. I think I have it in writing somewhere.”
Leah shrugged, unapologetic. “Change of plans. This is Comic-Con, Emma. Everyone who matters is here, and Miranda doesn’t pay me to have you hang around in your hotel room. If you want to eat Skittlesin bed and rewatchGossip Girlin your Hufflepuff jammies, do it back in Minneapolis.”
