I see years of hurt in her expression, a wound repeatedly reopened. Something protective rises in my chest—unfamiliar, powerful.
"Your mother is wrong," I tell her, surprised by the edge in my voice.
I cross to her, unable to maintain distance when she looks like that. I adjust her necklace, though it was already perfect—an excuse to touch her, to offer comfort.
My fingers brush her neck. She looks up at me, eyes wide with surprise at the gesture.
"Our story is close to the truth." It's true. I realise. "Close is good." My voice is low. "That makes it easy to sell."
My hands linger on her shoulders longer than necessary. I can feel her warmth, the delicate bones beneath my fingers.
"We can do this."
She takes a deep breath and nods.
I want to kiss her again. Not for practice, not for show. Just because I haven't stopped thinking about it since the last time.
Instead, I step back, offer my arm—a return to professional distance.
Or an attempt at it, anyway.
The drive to Victoria's penthouse passes too quickly. Emmy is quiet beside me, fingers twisting in her lap. I cover her hand with mine, and the contact sends heat up my arm. She doesn't pull away. We've touched more in the past two weeks than in the previous month, each touch lasting longer than necessary. I'm aware of the pattern, of how we're justifying it: practice, preparation, maintaining the fiction.
But the kiss three nights ago changed something fundamental. I've been trying to explain it logically—analyzing why her mouth felt like that, why her hands in my hair short-circuited my brain, why I haven't been able to sleep properly since. The analysis has yielded nothing useful except the certainty that I want to do it again. And more.
The elevator rises toward the penthouse, and Emmy's grip on my hand tightens.
"Remember," keeping my voice level, "I'm here. You're not facing her alone."
"Thank you."
The doors open, and I feel her squared shoulders, preparing for battle.
Victoria Blake greets us in the foyer of her penthouse, tall and blonde and imposing in a black dress. Her cool blue eyes assess me with approval—successful attorney, right family background—before shifting to Emmy. The room temperature seems to be dropping.
"Emerson," she gushes, air-kissing her daughter's cheek. "That dress is ... bold."
I feel Emmy tense beside me. Victoria's penthouse is exactly what I expected—all white and cream, marble floors gleam, modern art on the walls that probably cost millions but conveys nothing. Everything pristine, impersonal. The opposite of Emmy's apartment with its lived-in warmth.
Marcus appears, giving Emmy an encouraging wink before introducing his girlfriend, Rachel. I observe the sibling dynamic—the protective way Marcus positions himself near Emmy, the silent communication that passes between them.
"Adrian," Victoria says, taking my arm and leading me toward the sitting room. "I've heard wonderful things about your work at Morrison & Hale. Judge Harrison Hale's son, correct? He and my husband play golf at the same club."
"Yes, that's right."
"Such a distinguished family." Her smile is practiced, perfect. "Though I must ask—doesn't dating Emmy create a conflict of interest? Given the estate situation?"
Emmy, just behind us, stiffens. I place my hand at the small of her back instinctively.
"Doesn't it compromise your professional judgment, Adrian? Dating a beneficiary?" Victoria presses.
"Emmy and I began seeing each other before the will reading," I state smoothly, the prepared lie coming easily. "The relationship predates my professional involvement."
"And you didn't think to recuse yourself?"
"I consulted with my partners. There's no violation."
Emmy's hand tightens on her wine glass. I catch Marcus watching us, his expression curious.
