“I need to do this myself, Kai.” My voice shakes. “I need to know I belong in that room because of my brain. I need my colleagues to see me as their lead, not some girl who got promoted because a client wanted her there. You took away my chance to prove them wrong.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“What else would you decide for me? What other parts of my life have you analyzed without telling me?”
His jaw tightens. Something flickers in his eyes, the beginning of an answer, then he stops. Swallows it. The wall goes up. He looks like the stranger I met outside the museum.
The silence tells me everything. There are secrets he's not ready to share.
“The mockups are in the folder,” I say. I'm shaking. “You don't know what I need, Kai. You don't know me.”
I leave before he sees the tears.
The walk back is heavy. Guilt and shame twist in my chest. I accused him of not knowing me. Not paying attention.
I'm wearing the shoes.
Fuck.
I spin around, move as fast as the heels allow, rehearsing an apology in my head. I burst back through the bistro doors. The booth is empty.
“The man who was sitting here.” I flag down a server. “Where did he go?”
“He just left, Miss. Toward the car park.”
I push through the back exit. The growl of his engine makes me break into a run. These shoes aren't built for sprinting. His car is pulling away. I wave from the curb like a madwoman. I don't know what I'm doing, only that I can't let him leave with that look on his face.
He doesn't slow down. I rush forward, misjudging the distance. One moment I'm on the sidewalk. The next, I feel the heat of the grill against my skin. Tires screech.
“What the fuck, Emma?”
I open my eyes. Kai is out of the car before I can process the smell of burnt rubber. Face pale. Hands shaking as he reaches for me.
“You almost killed me,” I whisper.
“You ran in front of my car!” He grips my shoulders. “What were you thinking?”
I look down at the navy heels. Back up at him. All the anger is gone. Only the raw, messy truth of us remains.
“I'm wearing the shoes,” I say. “You paid attention. I was wrong.”
He stares at me, brow furrowed. “You're making no sense.”
“I do. I am. The shoes—“ I gesture vaguely at my feet, words tangling. “It makes sense in my head.”
“I don't care.” He pulls me against him, one hand cradling the back of my head. “You're okay. That's all that matters.” His voice cracks. “You scared the hell out of me.”
I breathe him in. Sandalwood and the heat of his skin. For a long moment, neither of us moves.
“I'm sorry. I just—“ I look up at him. “You did something stupid. Privileged and stupid. But not because you don't care. I see that now.”
He doesn't say anything. Hand moves to my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.
“Get in the car,” he says, walking me to the passenger side, hand firm on my back like he's afraid I'll disappear.
CHAPTER 23
THE TERMS
