Not maybe.
Not we’ll see.
Absolutely.
“Thank you, Emma,” I breathed. The words felt plain and honest, so I kept going. “I never expected this. Never deserved this.” I ran a hand through my hair—a nervous habit from childhood, my worst poker tell. “So—thank you.”
Her expression gentled. “You did kind of save me today.”
“Candace said the same thing.” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’d hardly call picking you up saving you. You still have bruises and back pain.” I nodded toward the marks along her arms and the way she shifted.
She hesitated—then looked up. “What would you have done if you were there?”
“Kick that motherfucker’s ass into next Tuesday.”
She laughed—sharp and unguarded. “I’d actually like to see that.” Then her head tilted. “Can you actually fight?”
I feigned offense. “Of course I can, but I don’t like to. Fucks my knuckles up. Everyone asks about it for weeks.” I perched on the edge of the sofa. “It’s inconvenient.”
“I imagine it would be,” she laughed, her attention drifting toward the ornate golden clock on the wall.
“I know,” I said, catching the hint.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I promised. “I also have a company to run, after all.”
She rose—careful, testing. No pain. Her smile widened. “Okay, I really might hire you.”
“Anytime,” I said with a grin, snagging my keys from the counter.
She followed me to the elevator, her bare feet making adorably light slapping sounds with each step.
“Thank you again for today,” she said, closing the space between us—eight inches. A measurement I knew by heart. A damn fine number, if I said so myself.
“No,” I said. “Thankyou.”
The tension coiled, warm and electric.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled her in. She came willingly—delicate arms winding around me. Holding on. I returned the embrace, gentler, pressing her close just once. Breathing her in.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she stepped away.
The elevator opened behind me, cool air brushing my back.
“See you tomorrow,” I whispered.
One final prayer as the doors slid shut between us.
Chapter 19
***
Damien
I adjusted my cufflinks in the mirror, the movement precise, mechanical—a ritual for control. Monday mornings always came fast, but this one carried a different weight. Too much gained over the weekend. Too much left unsaid.
In a few hours I’d have to become the other version of myself again.
