Emmy's cheeks burned. "That's not?—"
"Save it." Sabine's mask slid back into place, smooth and cold. "I'm not threatened by you. I just wanted you to know that I see you. And so does everyone else."
She turned and walked toward the bar, heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the hardwood, where Tyce was now laughing with a redhead in a sequined dress.
Emmy stood frozen, her second champagne going warm in her hand.
She thought about Grant behind the velvet rope, Bailey at his side. She thought about Cecelia's ultimatum, the flowers wilting on her kitchen counter, the viral video that had turned her into a meme with a shelf life. She thought about how hard she'd worked to get here and how little it would take for all of it to disappear.
Because Sabine wasn't wrong. She'd gotten this job because of Grant, and only because of Grant. She'd snagged Tyce by letting him flirt with her, and never shutting him down when he made it clear he hoped she'd end up in his bed. Even Harper, who she'd had the audacity to 'rescue,' had found her own match instead of subjecting herself to Emmy's boutique snobbery.
A server passed with a tray of fresh glasses.
Emmy traded her warm champagne for a cold one and knocked it back in a long swallow.
And then she had another.
The night had taken on a liquid quality. Edges softened. Sounds blurred. Emmy watched Tyce on the dance floor, sandwiched between the redhead and a brunette in silver, his hands on both their hips. A Tyce sandwich. He looked delighted. Across the room, Sabine watched too, her fingers white around her martini stem, her jaw set with the particular fury of a woman pretending she didn't care while her body screamed the opposite.
She took another sip. Filed that thought where it belonged, and tried to keep her eyes from scanning the VIP area like it was the arrivals gate at the airport. She’d lost track of Grant at some point after talking to a gallery owner about her third divorce.
"Hey, Em."
She turned. Grant was walking toward her, Bailey at his side. They must have left the VIP section—he was in the thick of the party now, no velvet rope between them, close enough that Emmy could see the way his suit fit across his shoulders like it had been cut by whoever did tailoring for hot villains. Probably Tom Ford. Or Edna Mode.
“Grant." Her voice came out steady despite the last sip of champagne doing its best to strangle her. "Hi."
"I didn't know you'd be here." His eyes scanned down to her toes, snagged briefly on the shoes, and came back up a half-second too slow, before he blinked it away.
Emmy felt her cheeks go warm. The champagne, probably. "Tyce invited me," she said, and saw the words land.
She knew exactly how it looked. That she hadn't learned a thing. That she was still chasing the same disaster, still being stubborn, stupid Emmy who couldn't take a hint. Her chin came up. "It's a networking opportunity. I'm making contacts."
"Right." Grant's voice was carefully neutral. He turned slightly. "Emmy, this is Dr. Bailey Lim. Bailey, this is Emmy Woodhouse. The family friend I was telling you about."
Family friend. The phrase hit her like a door she'd walked into in the dark.
"It's so nice to finally meet you." Bailey extended her hand.
Up close, Emmy could see the directness of her gaze, curious without being invasive. Her handshake was warm and firm, her smile genuine in a way that made Emmy's practiced social graces feel like tissue paper. She was older than Emmy had expected—solid thirties—and it suited her. There was a stillness to Bailey that made Emmy feel young, and not in a good way.
"Grant's told me so much about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"He said you've known each other forever. That you're basically his little sister's—" Bailey caught herself, laughing. "Wait, no. His best friend's little sister. I always get that wrong."
"West's sister," Emmy confirmed, wanting to die. "That's me."
"It must be nice, having that kind of history with someone." Bailey's eyes were kind. Interested. Not a trace of jealousy or suspicion. "I moved around a lot as a kid—military family, new school every two years. I always envied people who had those deep roots."
It was disarming—the effortless way Bailey offered something real about herself in the same breath as a question. She didn't wait for Emmy to respond with polite nothing; she actually paused, like she genuinely wanted to know. Emmy searched for the flaw—too earnest, too eager, toosomething—and came up empty. Bailey was just a person. A good one. Knowing Grant, probably the kind of person Emmy would have wanted to be friends with, under different circumstances.
"It is nice," Emmy heard herself say. "Grant's been part of our family for as long as I can remember."
Family. The word sat wrong in her mouth. She kept using it—kept building the wall higher, brick by careful brick—and she couldn't seem to stop.
"How long have you two been..." Emmy heard herself ask.
