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Joe's granddaughter.

Emma’s brain stalled. The syllables crashed into her consciousness, but they refused to assemble into a logical reality. She stared at the woman standing by the bay window.

Victoria Sterling. The woman who had sent back Joe’s letters. The ruthless executive who ignored a dying man. The phantom enemy Emma had cursed for fifteen years was the same woman who had pressed her into a hotel mattress, begging for release with a wrecked voice.

The serving tray tilted in Emma's grip. Porcelain clattered against china, the noise cutting hard through the quiet room. She squeezed the silver handles until her wrists burned, fighting off a sudden turn of vertigo. In front of her stood the Sterling heir, impossible to map onto the naked skin and feverish sweat from the penthouse bed.

Across the room, Victoria remained still. She hadn't moved a muscle since the door opened. Her posture was flawless. Her blazer hung perfectly over her shoulders. But Emma was close enough to see the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. The dark eyes were wide, betraying a chaotic spike of genuine panic before the shutters slammed down.

Victoria lifted her chin. She blinked once. When she opened her eyes again, the vulnerable stranger was gone. The New York executioner took her place.

"Ms. Hayes," Victoria said.

Her deep voice was smooth, with no ragged edge Emma had memorized the night before. It was a calculated dismissal. It was a demand to play along. Emma’s jaw clenched. A furious heat replaced the shock in her chest. You want to pretend? Emma thought, her green eyes blazing as she stepped into the room. Fine.

"Ms. Sterling," Emma replied. Her voice came out raspy, but she kept her gaze steady. She walked toward the oak table. "I hope your journey from New York was comfortable."

"It was efficient," Victoria countered.

Emma set the heavy tray down on the sideboard with a loud thud. Her survival instinct kicked in, screaming at her to get out of the room.

"Right," Emma managed, her voice coming out raspy. She wiped her damp palms on her trousers. "I'll just leave the tea. You have private family business to discuss, Arthur. I have a Bed & Breakfast to run."

She turned toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating air, desperate to run from the dark eyes tracking her every move.

"Actually, Emma, please stay," Arthur said gently, pulling out a chair. "Joseph explicitly requested your presence for the reading of the will as well."

Emma looked at the lawyer, then back at Victoria. Victoria's expression remained flawlessly neutral, but her eyes burned with the same trapped frustration Emma felt. They were both cornered. Emma had no choice. She walked to the oak table and forced her hands to move through the familiar choreography of pouring tea. She placed a cup in front of Arthur. Then, she picked up the second saucer and walked around the table toward Victoria.

Victoria had taken the seat opposite Arthur. She rested her hands on the polished wood. Her fingers were perfectly still. Emma leaned down to place the tea in front of her. The proximity was a mistake. The scent of Victoria’s skin—orange blossom, vanilla, and warm cotton—hit Emma’s senses. A vivid, uninvited memory flashed behind Emma's eyes: her own teeth dragging over that exact collarbone.

A furious, territorial heat replaced the shock in Emma's chest. You want to play the untouchable executive? Emma thought. Fine.

Emma slid the cup closer, leaning down just slightly more than necessary.

"Drink up, Ms. Sterling," Emma murmured, her tone laced with false, sugary politeness. "You look a little tense. I'd hate for you to be too exhausted for the legal proceedings. I imagine you had a very... demanding night."

Victoria’s gaze snapped up, dark eyes widening with a sharp flicker of genuine shock. Emma held the stare without flinching, an innocent, wicked smile curving her lips as she effortlessly covered her tracks for the lawyers.

"Jet lag, of course," Emma added, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "The transatlantic crossing can be so terribly draining on the body."

The junior solicitors didn't think twice about the remark, but Victoria's fingers tightened against the table. Emma felt a surge of triumph. She had cracked the facade. She had made the great Victoria Sterling uncomfortable.

But Victoria didn't look away. Instead, she slowly picked up the china teacup. She held Emma's gaze over the rim, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory challenge.

"I appreciate your concern for my stamina, Ms. Hayes," Victoria replied. The smoky voice made Emma's fingers tighten against her teacup. "The crossing was exhausting, but I rarely mind being worked over when the hospitality is this hands-on. Though I do expect the service to follow instructions when asked."

Emma’s breath hitched. A hot, furious flush spread rapidly up her neck, burning her cheeks. The triumphant smirk died instantly on her lips.

Victoria took a slow sip of her tea, her mouth curving into a ruthless, microscopic smile.

Emma retreated to her side of the table, sinking into a wooden chair. She wrapped her hands around her own cup, thoroughly outplayed and trying desperately to ignore the liquid heat pooling in her stomach. She stared at Arthur, refusing to look across the table again.

Arthur opened his leather briefcase, entirely oblivious to the silent warfare happening inches away. He pulled out a thick file folder, placing it squarely in the center of the table.

"I know this is a somber occasion, but Joseph insisted on clarity. He wanted everything resolved quickly,” Arthur began. "As the executor of Joseph Anderson's estate, it is my duty to read his final wishes," he continued, falling into his professional cadence. "Joseph updated his will exactly three years ago. He was of sound mind. The documentation is ironclad."

He unclasped the file. He drew out a single sheet of parchment paper, setting the legal jargon aside for a moment.