Emily left Chloe's apartment early that morning, still wrapped in her hoodie and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candles Chloe always insisted on lighting. She hadn't slept much — again — but the weight of exhaustion was strangely lighter this time.
Maybe because her grandmother was stable now. Maybe because she finally felt like she was doing something to keep her safe. Or maybe… it was something else entirely.
She didn't want to say his name aloud. Didn't want to admit that Damian Walker had been in her thoughts all night, echoing in her memories like a shadow that wouldn't leave.
He came to the hospital.
He sat beside her grandmother.
He asked about her like it mattered.
And it shouldn't matter to you, she reminded herself. He's your boss.
She arrived at her apartment just long enough to shower, get dressed, and grab a protein bar on her way out the door. Today she chose a sleek black blouse and navy slacks, pairing them with modest heels that Chloe had bullied her into buying last week.
Look like you belong there, Chloe had said. And eventually, you'll believe it.
By the time she reached the Walker & Co. executive floor, she was early. Again. Coffee brewing. Calendar organized. Morning emails pre-drafted. Her fingers flew over the keyboard while her mind buzzed in a thousand directions.
It wasn't long before his door opened.
"Ms. Johnson," Damian said.
She looked up immediately. His voice was smoother than usual, softer somehow. His expression still unreadable, but not as sharp.
"Yes, sir?"
He glanced down at his tablet, then looked back at her. "How's your grandmother?"
Emily blinked. The question caught her off guard.
"She's resting well," she said. "Stable now. Thank you again… for everything."
He nodded once. "Good. That's good."
And then — a pause.
A brief, quiet pause where he looked at her just a little too long.
Emily quickly returned to her screen, fingers tapping keys she didn't need to press, pretending to be busier than she was.
Her heart shouldn't flutter at the sound of his voice. She shouldn't replay that soft tone in her head like it meant something.
She was not that girl.
Except… maybe she was becoming her.
At 10:23 a.m., the elevator doors chimed and opened — and the energy in the office shifted.
Emily glanced up as a woman stepped onto the executive floor like she owned the air around her. Tall, elegant, in a slim white pantsuit and heels that clicked dramatically with every step. Blonde hair in soft waves, sunglasses pushed back into her hair, red lipstick flawless.
"Damian!" the woman called, voice musical and loud.
Emily's heart thumped without permission.
Who...?
Damian stood from behind his desk and offered a rare smile — an actual smile — as the woman crossed the room and embraced him like they hadn't seen each other in years.
Which, apparently, they hadn't.
"Martha," he said, wrapping an arm lightly around her shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you in town."
"Well, I thought I'd surprise you," Martha beamed. "You never text back. I figured showing up in person was the only way to get your attention."
She laughed like it was an inside joke. He chuckled — and it hit Emily square in the chest.
She had never heard him laugh like that before.
Emily looked away quickly and tried not to listen, but the glass walls of the office didn't offer much privacy. Martha stayed close to him — too close — leaning against the edge of his desk, tapping his shoulder, brushing her hair back with a flourish every time he looked at her.
Emily didn't realize her jaw had tightened until her molars began to ache.
She focused hard on her screen. Re-read the same email three times.
But her mind refused to stay put.
Who was Martha? And why did her presence make Emily feel like the room was ten degrees colder?
They looked perfect together, she couldn't deny that. Both polished. Powerful. From the same world. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out they probably had history — the kind that wasn't just friendship and childhood birthday parties.
And it shouldn't matter.
Emily had no claim on Damian. He was her boss. This was his office. His life.
And yet, when she glanced back up — just for a second — she saw Martha laughing, flipping her hair, her fingers casually grazing his wrist…
…and something sharp twisted in Emily's stomach.
What is wrong with me?
She wasn't the jealous type. She never had been. She hated that emotion — small and insecure. But now, watching this glamorous woman get his attention, she felt something she couldn't name.
Not jealousy, she told herself.
But she couldn't quite finish the sentence.
Damian said something quiet to Martha, then finally turned to Emily.
"Ms. Johnson, this is Martha Langford. An old friend."
Old friend, Emily echoed in her head, standing up politely.
Martha offered a charming, perfectly fake smile. "So you're the assistant. I've heard you're very capable."
"Thank you," Emily said evenly.
Martha's eyes flicked to her clothes, her shoes, her plain nails. There was no malice, but the comparison was automatic — as if Emily had just stepped into a silent competition she hadn't agreed to join.
Damian cleared his throat. "Martha's in town for the week. We'll be in a short meeting."
"Understood, sir."
She sat back down, head held high, and forced herself to return to her work.
But no matter how hard she tried to focus, one thought kept rising to the surface.
Why did it matter so much?
Why did she matter so much?