Mine.
I like order. Labels. Knowing where things belong.
My phone buzzes. “Brenda,” I say as I pick up. My tone is always clipped with her. Not because she’s done anything wrong, but because every assistant I’ve ever had thought a night with me came with perks.
It doesn’t.
“Mr. Walker, just a reminder that your meeting withGreat Ideasis in?—”
“I’m aware,” I cut in. “I’m here.” I hang up before she can ramble. I don’t like wasting time. Especially on agencies who promise innovation and deliver mediocrity.
Great Ideas.We’ll see if they live up to their name.
I take the elevator up, straighten my cuffs, and adjust my black tie. This isn’t vanity—it’s control. And control earns respect.
The doors slide open and Brenda hurries beside me, breathless. Tall, languid, elegant—her black hair swinging like ink against her suit. Always composed, except for the moments when my schedule runs her ragged.
“Mr. Walker, I’ll take you to the Gaudí Room. Coffee service is already—” I’m barely listening. My mind’s already working through acquisition numbers, client touch-points, and the marina deal. I step into the conference room—sleek and glass-walled, the kind of space built to intimidate. Sunlight pours through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off the polished chrome fixtures and long mahogany table. I lift my phone to send a follow-up.
Dear Mr. Eyre,
I trust this email finds you well.
Following up on our conversation at the marina two days ago, please contact my assistant when you’re ready to explore Miami Beach’s finest properties.
She’ll arrange an appointment, and I’ll personally ensure you invest in the right place.
Best regards,
Luca Walker.
Send.
I look up. Two people rise and my world tilts.
Emma Green.
In my office.
Like this is just another Monday.
Walking into Luca Walker’s office is a terrible idea.
Which, of course, is why I did it in four-inch heels and my most strategic pink blazer.
My sister warned me, “You’re not over him, Em.”
And I lied to her face. Then I lied to myself.
And now I’m here, sweating under full AC, listening to my boss, Chad, pitch our company like it’s a dating profile while Luca watches us with that look.
That look. Half amused, half insulted, and 100% unbothered.
Luca Walker—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of controlled posture that makes a boardroom feel like his personal arena. Short dark hair, eyes dark blue that don’t miss a thing. He’s Miami sun dressed in storm clouds, all precision and patience, the kind of man who never needs to raise his voice to own the room.
God, I hate that it still does something to me.
I let Chad ramble—because one, he’s my boss, and two, I already told him this strategy was going to crash and burn. If Luca’s the one doing the interviewing, he’s not going to fall for flashy mission statements and startup jargon. He wants substance. Precision. Control.
