The text had been sent during the auction, timestamp 10:41 PM—right around when everything was falling apart.
Exciting news to share soon. Talk when things settle down. —S
Emmy read it twice. It had to be a mistake. Wrong recipient. There was no way Sabine meant to send this to her—not after standing there with champagne in hand and feeding Petra exactly the right hints to follow.
She locked her phone and set it face-down on the counter.
That's when she noticed the calendar notification she'd been ignoring. A meeting that hadn't been there yesterday, inserted into her Sunday like a summons.
Cecelia Ferrance. 3:00 PM. Elite Connections. Mandatory.
Emmy stared at it. Sunday. Cecelia was calling her in on a Sunday.
She pulled up the news—not sports this time, but business and lifestyle. And there it was.
Boston After Dark: Exclusive Interview with Elite Connections Founder on Grant Knight Revelation
The article had a photo of Cecelia at the top, poised and polished, the kind of headshot that cost four figures. Emmy scrolled down, her stomach sinking with every paragraph.
"Our clients come to us because they value discretion," Ferrance said in a phone interview Sunday morning. "And while I can't comment on any individual relationship, I will say that Elite Connections has always prioritizedmeaningful matches over... spectacle." A pause. "Though of course, when love happens, it tends to make headlines."
When asked about Dr. Bailey Lim, the pediatric surgeon photographed with Knight at the Commonwealth Club, Ferrance offered a knowing smile audible even over the phone. "A lady never tells. But I will say—when our clients find love, we consider that a success, however it happens."
Emmy's coffee turned to acid in her stomach.
Cecelia was taking credit for Bailey. Bailey, who Grant had found on his own. Bailey, who had nothing to do with Elite Connections. And Cecelia was spinning it like she'd orchestrated the whole thing—while saying absolutely nothing that could be proven false.
Emmy closed the browser. Looked at the calendar notification again.
3:00PM. Two hours from now.
She forced herself into the shower. The water was hot and she stood under it until her skin turned pink, until the steam filled her lungs, until she felt marginally less like someone whose entire life had detonated twelve hours ago. It wasn't enough. It was something.
She chose armor: her best blazer, her most professional heels, the earrings her mother had given her for graduation. War paint. The outfit of someone who still believed she had a job to lose.
She wasn't sure she did believe it anymore. Wasn't sure she cared. This job—this obsession with proving herself, with mattering—had cost her Grant. Had cost her West's trust. Had turned her into someone who used people and called it ambition.
But she put on the blazer anyway. Muscle memory. Or maybe just the need to feel like she was still standing.
The T was nearly empty on a Sunday afternoon. Emmy found a seat by the window and watched the city slide past, gray and indifferent.
Mom
Emmy, your father has been refreshing Boston After Dark all morning. Please call when you can. We're not angry, just confused. Love you.
She couldn't deal with that right now. She locked the screen and stared out the window until her stop came.
The elevator at Elite Connections opened onto chaos.
No Ryan at the door. On weekends, she guessed, matchmakers opened their own doors. She felt a pang anyway—thought of Harper, thought of another relationship she'd managed to damage.
Phones ringing. Voices overlapping. Beckanne at the front desk with a headset on, juggling three lines at once. Every matchmaker and assistant in the building, it looked like—most on phones, one shouting out email questions to be answered by the room. "He wants to know if we work with women over forty!" "Of course we do, tell him our oldest success story was eighty-three!"
No Sabine, though. Emmy scanned the room twice to be sure. Every desk occupied except hers.
Everyone looked up when Emmy walked in.
The phones kept ringing, but the voices stopped. Beckanne's eyes tracked Emmy across the room with something between pity and satisfaction.
