"An oversight," Emmy managed. "I'll follow up with him."
"See that you do." Cecelia's eyes were sharp. "Sexual compatibility is one of the top three predictors of relationship longevity. We can't make informed matches if we're guessing about something that fundamental." She closed the folder. "I want page six completed before his date with Madeline. If we're going to get this right, we need the full picture."
Emmy nodded, her mind already racing through the horror of that conversation. So, Grant, quick question—do you prefer to be dominant or submissive? Fluffy handcuffs or leather? What's your safe word? On a scale of one to ten, how important is it that your partner can?—
She was going to die. She was actually going todie.
"I'll handle it," she said, because what else could she say?
"Good." Cecelia leaned forward slightly. "Grant Knight is your only asset right now, Emmy. Youronly asset. And we can't leverage him for PR until we successfully match him. That was the deal. He stays anonymous until there's a happy ending we can publicize."
"I know."
"Do you?" Cecelia's voice went quiet, which was somehow worse than if she'd shouted. "I've been thinking about his insistence on anonymity. It limits us considerably. If we match him successfully, the PR value is enormous—but only if peopleknow about it. Have you revisited that conversation with him? Explored whether he might be open to?—"
"No." The word came out sharper than Emmy intended. She took a breath, modulated. "Grant's boundaries are clear. He agreed to this because he trusts me to protect his privacy. If I push him on that, or if you reassign him, he walks. I guarantee it."
Cecelia didn't blink. Emmy felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.
"Then deliver," Cecelia said. "Madeline Talbott. Make it work."
Emmy nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"Now. Tyce Duke." Cecelia's expression shifted—still cold, but calculating now. "Where are we with his matches?"
Emmy's stomach dropped. She'd been so focused on Grant, on the video, on surviving this meeting, that she'd barely thought about Tyce as a client. He'd signed with her. He was technically on her roster. And she had nothing.
"He's still finalizing his preferences," Emmy said. "His questionnaire responses were... vague. I've been working with him to clarify what he's actually looking for."
"Vague how?"
"He keeps saying he wants someone 'real' without defining what that means. I think he's been burned before—probably by women who wanted access to his lifestyle rather than him." Emmy straightened in her chair, projecting confidence she didn't feel. "I'm sending him a personality assessment this week. Enneagram, attachment styles. Something to give us concrete data to work with instead of abstractions."
Cecelia's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Sabine mentioned she had a productive conversation with him at the tournament. Before your... incident."
Emmy felt the ground shift beneath her. "Sabine spoke with Tyce?"
"She smoothed things over. Made sure Elite Connections' reputation wasn't entirely destroyed by your performance." Cecelia's tone was pointed. "He seems quite taken with her, actually. Perhaps I should reassign him as well."
"He's my client." Emmy heard the edge in her own voice and couldn't quite soften it. "He's never met a pair of X chromosomes he didn't flirt with." She caught herself, recalibrated. "I mean—I signed him. I brought him in. And unless he's expressed dissatisfaction with my representation, I'd like to continue working with him."
Cecelia's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "He hasn't complained. If anything, he seems quite... entertained by you."
"Then let me do my job."
"You brought him in and then became his content strategy." Cecelia stood, moving to the window, her back to Emmy. "Tyce Duke has four million followers. Four million people who now associate our brand with that video. If Sabine can repair that relationship, I'm inclined to let her."
Emmy's hands clenched in her lap. She thought about Tyce's wink at the tennis court. I've got my eye on someone already. She'd assumed he meant her. But if he'd been talking to Sabine at the tournament, if Sabine had "smoothed things over"—
"Give me one more chance with him," Emmy said. "One meeting. If I can't get him to commit to actual matches, you can reassign him to Sabine."
Cecelia turned from the window. Her expression was unreadable.
“Two weeks,” she said. "Tyce commits to a real search, or he's Sabine's. And Grant Knight produces a viable relationship, or I start questioning whether our arrangement was a mistake."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Beckanne appeared, holding an arrangement so aggressively tropical it looked like it had been airlifted directly from a Miami nightclub—birds of paradise erupting from a base of orange orchids, the whole thing practically vibrating with look-at-me energy.
"These just arrived for Ms. Woodhouse." Beckanne's voice was carefully neutral, but her eyes flicked to Cecelia with something like anticipation. "From Mr. Duke."
