A memory surfaced, clear and full.
The curb.
Damien scanning me, hands steady as he checked for injuries, fear tightening his features in a way he didn’t bother to hide. Then—I’d kick that motherfucker’s ass into next Tuesday.
A smile curved my lips.
Jennifer’s eyebrows rose. “You really must like this guy.”
“I—” My voice thinned. “I think I really might.”
She softened. “I’m so happy for you, Emma. You deserve someone good.”
“Thanks. I just… hope he turns out to be who I think he is.”
“He will be,” she said. “Your standards are ridiculous. If you’re talking about him, he already passed.”
“Maybe.”
We sat for a moment, two women holding hope like a fragile thing, careful not to crush it.
Then Jennifer straightened, tapping the papers. “All right,” she said. “Back to these documents.”
Chapter 21
***
Emma
At seven-thirty sharp, I stepped out of the car in front of Damien’s building.
It was the kind of place that didn’t flaunt wealth—it breathed it. Sleek lines, black marble floors that gleamed like still water, chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings. Even the air smelled expensive—amber, cedar, and the faint metallic promise of rain before a storm.
An older woman approached at once, her deep-green wrap dress cinched neatly at the waist, low heels clicking across the polished floor. Her hair—silver threaded through ash brown—was clipped back so precisely it felt architectural.
“Hello, ma’am. Ms.Sinclair?” she asked, warmth deepening the lines at her eyes.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Yes.”
“Mr.Holt sent me down to escort you.”
“Oh.” My brain sputtered. “Right.”
“My name is Ava,” she offered, voice easy, extending a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I managed, taking it.
She gave me that knowing look older women specialize in, before turning on her heel. “The elevators are this way.”
Her heels clicked ahead of me, her faint humming trailing through the cavernous still of the lobby as she escorted me past glass walls and curated art pieces that screamed Damien Holt’s taste. Refined. Curated. Understated.
At the elevator, she keyed in a passcode with deft fingers. The doors slid open on a chime.
“He’ll be waiting for you,” she said, eyes glinting with harmless mischief. “Enjoy your evening, Ms.Sinclair.”
My heartbeat skipped as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I looked good—or as good as an hour of frantic preparation could make me. I’d told myself I changed because my office clothes were uncomfortable, but the moment I slipped into the emerald dress, the lie shattered. The silk clung too well, the neckline too suggestive, the color too rich.
