Emily stood frozen, her wrists still hovering in the air where he had released them. The confident, seductive smile vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine shock that rapidly morphed into something ugly and vindictive. Her ego, fragile beneath the polished exterior, shattered completely.
"Right," Emily spat, her eyes flashing with pure fury. She crossed her arms, shivering as the cold finally seemed to register. "So you're just the tragic hero now. The devoted family man."
"I'm done having this conversation," Simon said, grabbing his clipboard. He moved to step past her toward the glass door.
Emily blocked his path, her voice rising, echoing sharply off the metal walls.
"Go ahead and run back to her, Simon!" she sneered, dropping all pretense of sweetness. "Play house. But we both know the truth. Soon enough, this little good guy mask of yours is going to fall right back off. The pressure is going to hit, the boredom is going to set in, and you're going to come right back after me."
Simon stopped, staring at her with profound disgust. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" Emily stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh, mocking whisper right by his ear. "Because I remember exactly who you really are. I give it a month before you're in my room, pinning me to a mattress, moaning in my ear and begging me not to stop."
The words hit Simon like a physical blow to the stomach. The cold air of the cooler suddenly vanished, replaced by a suffocating, phantom heat. The smell of eucalyptus faded, entirely overpowered by the memory of her cloying perfume and the harsh tang of hotel soap.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the sickening rush of memory invaded his mind, dragging him violently backward in time.
∞∞∞
Two weeks earlier
The floral warehouse in the industrial district was freezing, smelling aggressively of damp earth, crushed stems, and impending failure.
It was 2:15 AM on a Tuesday. Simon sat on the concrete floor, his back against a pallet of dying hydrangeas, staring at the invoice in his hands. He was operating on three hours of sleep and pure, corrosive adrenaline. The vendor had mixed up the delivery dates. Three hundred centerpieces for the Lumière Gala were currently sitting on a cargo plane somewhere over the Midwest instead of in this warehouse.
His career wasn't just flashing before his eyes; it was actively burning to the ground.
"Okay. Breathe, boss."
Emily dropped down onto the cold concrete beside him. She was wearing leggings and an oversized college sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun, holding two lukewarm containers of lo mein they had ordered an hour ago. She didn't look panicked. She looked entirely in her element.
"I can't breathe, Emily," Simon said, dropping his head into his hands. He felt a stress headache driving a spike behind his left eye. "David is going to slaughter me. Audrey... Audrey is going to ask why I wasn't on top of this. I'm drowning."
Emily set the food down and bumped her shoulder gently against his. "Audrey isn't here. David isn't here. I am." She handed him a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks. "And I already fixed it."
Simon lifted his head, staring at her through bloodshot eyes. "What?"
"I called the secondary wholesaler in the garment district," Emily said casually, popping a piece of chicken into her mouth. "Woke the guy up. Told him if he didn't pull every white orchid and calla lily he had in his greenhouses by 6:00 AM, Lumière would blacklist him for the next decade. His trucks will be here at dawn."
Simon just stared at her. The relief that washed over him was so intense it actually made him dizzy. He felt a sudden, profound rush of gratitude for the woman sitting next to him on the dirty floor. She saw how hard he was working. She was in the trenches with him.
"You're a lifesaver," Simon breathed, letting his head thump back against the wooden pallet. "Seriously, Em. I don't know what I would do without you."
Emily turned to him, her expression softening. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights caught the warmth in her eyes. "You carry too much, Si. You take care of everyone else—the firm, the clients, your family. Who takes care of you?"
It was exactly the right thing to say to a man who was utterly starved for validation. It slipped past every defense Simon had built.
By 3:30 AM, they were in the back of an Uber heading back to the boutique hotel downtown where Lumière had booked a block of rooms for the senior staff during gala prep. The adrenaline crash had hit Simon hard. He was physically exhausted, his limbs feeling like lead.
They rode the elevator up to the sixth floor in a heavy, companionable silence. When they reached Emily's door, she slid her keycard into the slot. The little green light flashed, but she didn't push the handle down.
Instead, she turned to face him in the quiet, carpeted hallway.
"I have a mini-bottle of Macallan in the room," Emily said, her voice dropping to a softer register. Her eyes locked onto his, dark and intentional. "You look like you need a drink before you try to sleep."
Simon knew exactly what that invitation meant. He was thirty-six years old; he wasn't naive. Every alarm bell in his head, every vow he had made ten years ago, screamed at him to say goodnight, walk down the hall to his own room, and call his wife.
But he was so incredibly tired of being the responsible one. Just for one night, he wanted to be the center of someone's attention. He wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of his own life.
