His fingers tightened—only a moment, but my skin lit up with recognition, nerves bracing before pain ever came.
Then he let go.
"Okay," he said softly. "I get it."
He cleaned up the containers. The wine bottle. The napkins. Like he was careful not to leave a trace. Like he wanted to give me back the space he'd borrowed.
At the door, he turned.
"Can I call you?" he asked. "Not right away. Just… when you're ready?"
I should've said no.
I should've said never.
But the loneliest part of me answered instead.
"Maybe. I need time."
He nodded once. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
The door clicked shut.
I stood in the center of my apartment—my new beginning, my escape—and felt none of it.
He had stood on my rug.
Sat on my couch.
Touched my hand.
And now his ghost clung to every corner.
The smell of spice still hung in the air, rich and wrong. Tomorrow's Instagram campaign would hit, and I'd smile for the camera, pretending everything was fine.
A new apartment. A new life.
And I was already letting the past find its way inside.
Chapter eight
Emma
The boardroom smelled like leather and old money.
I'd been in rooms like this before—Elion's conference table, investor meetings, the occasional summit where I was the only woman under fifty. But this was different. This was Falkirk. And every pair of eyes tracking me as I entered knew exactly what I was.
An outsider.
A newcomer.
A threat.
Damien was already seated at the head of the table, expression carefully neutral. We'd agreed not to acknowledge each other beyond professional courtesy—no lingering glances, no private smiles. Just colleagues. Just business.
And it had been the longest week of my life—especially after Monday's rendezvous in the temp's office.
But this was the last hurdle—the last one before tomorrow's debrief with Jennifer, David, and Kevin.
