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.
