“He was a pretentious bastard.” A ghost of a smile. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
I looked down at her hand on my wrist. Such a small point of contact. Such a disproportionate effect on my ability to think clearly.
“What would you have me become, Emilia?”
“That’s not my call to make.”
“Humor me.”
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than I’d heard it — not careful, just honest. “Someone who doesn’t treat relationships like acquisitions. Who doesn’t protect people by controlling them.” Her thumb traced a smallcircle against my pulse point. “Someone who can actually let another person in, instead of just letting them close.”
The distinction landed with precision. In. Not close. There was a difference, and she’d just named it in a way I would spend weeks unpacking.
“That’s asking a lot,” I said.
“I know.” She met my gaze. “I’m also asking you to earn it. Not just tell me you’ve changed. Show me.”
My phone buzzed on the desk. Then again. The world outside this moment still demanding its due.
But for right now, I let it wait.
“I watched your press conference,” Emilia said. “The one where you announced the investigation.”
“And?”
“You didn’t defend yourself. Didn’t try to spin it or deflect. You just let the facts stand.” She tilted her head, studying me with the focused attention she brought to everything worth understanding. “That’s not the Sebastian Laurent I started investigating.”
“Maybe not.”
“So what changed?”
You, I almost said. You walked into my world and refused to play by its rules, and somewhere along the way I started wondering if maybe my rules were the problem.
Instead, I turned my hand over beneath hers and laced our fingers together.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I said. “But I think it starts with admitting I don’t have all the answers. Which, as it turns out, is not something I’m naturally gifted at.”
She squeezed once, then let go. Stepped back. The professional distance returning like a familiar armor, but something different in her eyes now.
“I should go. Howard’s expecting a debrief, and I have a follow-up piece to file by morning.”
“More exposés? Should I be worried?”
“Not about you.” Her mouth quirked. “This one’s about Victor Corsetti’s shell company network. Turns out Richard Hartley wasn’t his only investment in Chicago’s corporate landscape.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I don’t sleep much these days.” A flash of something in her eyes — exhaustion, maybe. Or something more complicated. “Neither do you, I’d guess.”
“Not since you.” The admission came out before I could stop it. “That’s the honest answer. I spend my nights thinking about you instead of acquisition targets. Wondering if you’re safe. If you’re eating. If you’re sitting in that apartment of yours surrounded by documents, pushing yourself too hard because you don’t know any other way to operate.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “But I worry anyway. That’s the problem. I can’t seem to stop.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly: “I worry about you too.”
“I know.”
