She turned back. The December light was behind her now, turning her silhouette sharp-edged and cold.
"I'm not asking you to do anything you haven't already done," Cecelia said quietly. "You used Grant's name to get this job. You used his reputation to build your career. The only difference between what I'm asking and what you've already done is that you'd prefer not to think of it that way."
Emmy's breath caught. Not because the words were cruel. Because they were true.
She had used Grant. She'd walked into this office with a lie and spent three months building a career on the back of it. She'd told herself it was mutual—that she was helping him, that the arrangement served them both, that the foundation she'd built on something borrowed was somehow still solid.
And Cecelia was right. The only difference was scale.
But that was also exactly the point.
"You're right," Emmy said.
Cecelia's eyebrows rose—barely, the smallest tell of surprise.
"I did use him. I used his name to get this job, and I used his trust to keep it, and when it blew up, he was the one who paid for it." Emmy's voice was steady. Quiet. Stripped of the polish. "That's exactly why I'm not going to do it again."
She reached into her blazer pocket. Pulled out her Elite Connections ID badge—the one she'd clipped to her lapel every morning since September, the one with the headshot she'd agonized over, the laminated proof that she'd finally arrived somewhere that mattered.
She set it on Cecelia's desk.
"I quit."
Cecelia looked at the badge. Then at Emmy.
"That's dramatic." Cecelia's voice was cool. Almost amused. "And unnecessary. I'm not firing you, Emmy. This is the biggest opportunity of your career."
"It's the biggest opportunity ofyourcareer. I was just the match that lit it."
The amusement drained. What replaced it was colder, more precise—the version of Cecelia that lived beneath the media training, beneath the silk blouses and the knowing smiles and the a lady never tells. The architect.
"You understand," Cecelia said, her voice barely above a conversational register, "that matchmaking is a small world. People talk. They talk to me, and they talk about me, and when I speak, people in this industry listen." She sat back down. Folded her hands. A gesture of conclusion, not negotiation. "I wish you well. I do. But I'd encourage you to think carefully about what comes next."
Not a threat. Cecelia Ferrance didn't make threats. She made observations about the weather and let you decide whether to bring an umbrella.
"I have thought about it," Emmy said. "That's why I'm leaving."
She turned toward the door.
"Emmy."
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
"Your non-compete is eighteen months. And your confidentiality agreement with this firm is permanent." A pause, timed like a press interview. "I trust you'll honor both."
Emmy opened the door. The noise of the office rushed in—phones, voices, the hum of two hundred and fourteen new opportunities being converted into revenue. The muted television was still running Grant's airport footage on a loop. Someone had put up a small Christmas tree on the filing cabinet near the break room. Silver tinsel. No ornaments. Efficient festivity.
She walked through it without looking back.
The reception area felt different on the way out. Smaller, somehow. Or maybe Emmy was just seeing it clearly for the first time—the photographs of beautiful couples on yachts, the fresh flowers that were replaced every Monday regardless of who was drowning, the magazines fanned on the coffee table at precisely the angle that suggested casual elegance. A terrarium. Beautifully designed, temperature-controlled, not meant for living in.
Her mother's office at the university had books stacked on every surface and a coffee mug that read Exit, Pursued by a Deadline. Her father's study smelled like eucalyptus lozenges and the particular anxiety of a man who'd once convinced himself a hangnail was early-onset gangrene. Those rooms were messy and human and real.
This place was a display case.
Beckanne was still at the front desk, headset on, but between calls for the first time all afternoon. She watched Emmy approach with the same expression she'd worn when Emmy arrived—half pity, half satisfaction—except now her head was tilted, like she was watching the final act of a show she'd been following all season.
Emmy should have walked straight to the elevator. She had her bag, her phone, the blazer that was starting to feel less like armor and more like a costume she'd forgotten to return. There was nothing left for her here.
