I plucked the note free.
Falkirk Virtual Call with Damien Holt: Thursday, May 14th, 2:00 p.m.
Quick. Too quick.
“Send confirmation,” I said, tightening my grip on the note.
My opponent had made his opening move.
And now it was mine.
Chapter 1
***
The next Monday, Damien Holt’s voice still lingered—threading through boardroom conversations, echoing in the quiet spaces between late-night spirals. What had begun as a cold call had sharpened into a countdown, each passing day drawing us closer to Falkirk’s verdict.
But here, with daylight paling against the tall windows overlooking the old brick and sunlit trees of the West Village, I wasn’t Elion’s CEO. I was just Emma. Barefoot, crossing dark walnut floors toward the Persian rug that anchored my sanctuary. Cascading plants climbed the brick wall, their leaves catching the morning glow, softening the iron-framed windows. This was a place where stillness pressed close, where silence dared my thoughts to get loud.
The closet waited—two halves of my life facing each other.
On the left, ghosts. Pastels and high necklines meant to soften edges, to erase curves, to make me smaller than I was. Fabric chosen for safety, not desire. For blending in, not standing out.
I stopped at the mirror without meaning to.
The woman staring back had her mother’s pale skin and her father’s stubborn curls—dark, loose spirals falling past her shoulders to mid-back, never quite tamed no matter how earlyshe woke. Long lashes framed eyes that shifted between dark and green depending on the hour.
Those, I didn’t hate. Those I could meet in the glass and feel something close to recognition.
The rest was harder.
Shorter than I wanted to be. Softer in places the world preferred leaner, sharper, less forgiving.
I stepped into my heels—black, understated, tall enough to matter—and watched the angles change. The line of my legs lengthened. My posture followed.
Better.
Not truer, but better.
Borrowed height. Borrowed certainty.
The smell of coffee reached me before I left the bedroom, warm and bitter, pulling me forward—back into motion, back into the version of myself the day required.
“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Susan slid a steaming mug into my hands. “Monday blend.”
“What are you thinking for lunch?” she asked, pen already poised.
I took a sip—dark roast, no sugar, exactly right—and set the mug on the counter.
“I’m meeting Candace. Dinner at home. Something Mediterranean.”
“Done.”
Twenty minutes later, my façade was in place.
Harold pulled up without being asked—short gray hair, rigid veteran’s posture, punctual to the second. Four years in, he knew my schedule better than most of my employees. I only ever called him when something changed.
After witnessing a stabbing on the subway, hiring him had been the easiest decision I’d ever made.
