CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cecelia let the silence hold for exactly as long as it needed to.
Then she sat back in her chair, crossed her legs, and smiled the way she smiled on camera—warm, composed, absolutely lethal.
"Two hundred and fourteen new client inquiries since last night," she said. "Every phone line in this office has been ringing since six AM. I've done interviews with Boston After Dark, The Globe, New York Post, and I have a call with a Good Morning America producer in"—she glanced at her watch—"forty minutes."
Emmy stood in front of the desk. Cecelia still hadn't offered her a seat.
Cecelia's gaze swept Emmy once—blazer, heels, earrings. A quick professional inventory. "Good. You're presentable. They may want you on camera."
Outside the glass walls of Cecelia's office, the chaos continued—phones, voices, the sound of keyboards being punished. Through the window behind Cecelia's head, the December sky had already gone the color of wet cement, and the lights of the financial district were beginning to blink on, one byone, against the early dark. Someone in the building across the street had hung a wreath in their office window. It looked absurd from here. Like decorating the inside of an aquarium.
"The Grant Knight story," Cecelia continued, "has generated more brand visibility in twelve hours than our entire marketing budget produced last quarter. We are, as of this morning, the most talked-about matchmaking firm in the country." She paused. Let the number land. "Two hundred and fourteen, Emmy. That's not a scandal. That's a launch."
Emmy's hand went to the hem of her blazer. She smoothed it once, then stopped herself.
"Cecelia." Level. Professional. The mask she could still put on. "We violated a client's confidentiality. His privacy was the one thing he asked us to protect, and we failed.Ifailed. That's not a launch. That's a liability."
Cecelia didn't blink.
"Grow up," she said. "It's both. And the difference between a successful businesswoman and a failure is knowing which to focus on." She smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve. "Guilt is a luxury, Emmy. Especially right now. We have two hundred and fourteen people who want what we're selling, and a story the entire country is following. What we do with the next forty-eight hours determines whether this firm succeeds or fails. So." She folded her hands. "Let's focus on what wecancontrol."
Emmy said nothing. Her fingernails pressed half-moons into her palms.
"Bailey." Cecelia said the name like she was tasting it. "Dr. Bailey Lim. Pediatric surgeon. Military family. Photogenic." She tilted her head. "Tell me about her."
"There's nothing to tell. She's not an Elite Connections client."
"Not yet."
Emmy waited for the rest of the sentence. It didn't come.
Emmy's stomach tightened. She thought about Bailey at the auction—the dark ponytail, the easy laugh, the way she'd touched Grant's arm with the casual confidence of someone who didn't need to perform. Bailey, who'd been dragged into the spotlight because of Emmy's carelessness. Bailey, whose hospital headshot was circulating on gossip sites right now because Emmy couldn't control her own face in front of a reporter.
"You want to recruit her," Emmy said.
"I want to explore the opportunity." Cecelia's tone hadn't changed—still warm, still reasonable, still the voice of a woman explaining something obvious to someone slow. "The press has already connected her to us. She's been photographed with an Elite Connections client. Whether or not we facilitated the match is, frankly, beside the point. The public believes we did. That belief has value."
"It's a lie."
Cecelia's smile didn't change. "It's an inference. I haven't confirmed anything. I've simply declined to deny it." She folded her hands on the desk. "There's a difference."
Emmy heard Grant's voice in her head, from months ago, sitting across from her at Antonio's:You think she got there by respecting boundaries?
She'd defended Cecelia then. She'd said Cecelia was strategic, not predatory. That there was a difference between ambition and exploitation.
She'd been so sure.
"Here's what I need from you." Cecelia leaned forward—the first crack in her stillness. "Grant's file hasn't been updated since September. His preferences, his feedback on the matches, what worked and what didn't. And there was an incomplete section, if I recall." She raised an eyebrow. "Did you ever finish it?"
Emmy's mouth went dry.
She thought about Grant's brownstone. The blanket he'd put over her lap. Her hands shaking while he answered questions about intimacy with the same steady directness he brought to everything. I want to know about it. The way his eyes had held hers, and the way she'd had to grip the pen to keep her handwriting legible.
"No," Emmy said. "I didn't."
"That's unfortunate." Cecelia's tone suggested it was more than unfortunate. "If I'm going to speak to his experience with any specificity, I need current information. What he responded to. What he was looking for. The full picture."
