Emma's Pov
I excused myself the moment Damian got pulled into another conversation with the finance minister. My cheeks hurt from fake smiling, and my patience was wearing out faster than the champagne in everyone's glasses.
"I'm just going to freshen up," I murmured.
He gave me a distracted nod, with his eyes still fixed on the group. Typical. One minute, I'm the 'only person who can make him look sane,' and the next, I'm background decor.
The hallway outside the ballroom was mercifully quiet. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses faded behind me as I pushed open the door to the ladies' room.
I thought I finally had a moment to breathe.
But of course, I wasn't that lucky.
"Well, if it isn't the therapist," a familiar voice caught my attention.
I looked up and there she was. Clara Vale, Damian's PR manager. She had perfect hair, perfect smile and the perfect venom. She was leaning against the marble counter, her red lipstick was flawless, her champagne glass was balanced like an accessory.
"Clara," I said evenly. "Didn't realize you still worked for him."
She smirked. "Oh, I still do. Some of us actually earn our positions."
I exhaled slowly, stepping toward the sink. "If you came here to start something, you'll have to wait until after I wash my hands."
"Don't flatter yourself," she said sweetly. "I came here to save you from embarrassing yourself."
I turned to face her. "By what? Trying to insult me?"
Her eyes gleamed. "By giving you a little advice. You might be Damian's new pet project, but don't mistake it for being important."
My jaw tightened. "I'm his therapist, Clara. That's all."
She let out a soft laugh. "Is that what you tell yourself? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to cure him with your body instead of your degree."
The air left my lungs in one sharp inhale. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, please," she went on, twirling her glass. "You show up at every crisis, walk into his office like you belong there, talk to him like you're the only one who understands him. I've seen this movie before, sweetheart. You're not the first woman who thought she could fix Damian Cross."
I stared at her, stunned but refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me rattle. "And I'm guessing you were one of them?"
Her smile vanished for a second, then it returned, tighter. "I'm smart enough to know my place. I think you should learn yours."
I folded my arms. "Which is?"
"Doing your job," she said coldly. "Listen to him, take notes, cash your checks. But don't start thinking proximity equals power. You're a therapist, not a savior and definitely not someone he would ever choose."
My hands clenched at my sides. "You seem awfully concerned for someone who claims not to care."
She stepped closer, her perfume sharp and expensive. "I care about the company's image and women like you? You're a liability. You give him the illusion of control when he's anything but stable. You make him look...weak."
"Funny," I said quietly, "because last I checked, you were the one who went behind his back to sign off on a merger he didn't approve."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "So he told you that, huh?"
"I don't discuss my clients," I said, deliberately calm. "But it sounds like you're trying to justify your mistakes to the wrong person."
Her eyes darkened. "You think you're clever. But the thing about clever girls is, they always forget how replaceable they are."
"Maybe," I said, meeting her gaze. "But unlike some people, I don't need to sleep my way into relevance."
Her jaw dropped, just slightly. The mask she wore, cracked.
I didn't stop there. "You're right about one thing, though. I am his therapist. Which means I see the parts of him you'll never understand and the parts you never earned the right to."
She stepped in so close I could see the faint shaking in her hand. "You think he respects you? You're nothing more than a distraction, Emma. When he's done using you to feel better about himself, he'll move on. Just like he did with everyone else."
For a second, I almost responded. Almost told her she didn't know what she was talking about. But I stopped. Because deep down, part of me wondered if she was right.
Instead, I smiled faintly. "If you're done projecting, I'd like to get back to the gala."
Clara's expression hardened. "Suit yourself. But when this little fantasy blows up—and it will—I won't be cleaning up after you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, brushing past her.
"Emma," she called after me.
I paused at the door but didn't turn.
Her voice softened, almost pitying. "Women like you always think you're different. You're not. You're just next."
I didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing my face. I pushed the door open and walked out, my heels echoing against the marble hallway. My pulse was still pounding when I reached the corner, and I had to steady my breath before heading back toward the ballroom.
Damian was still talking to someone, but when his eyes found me, his brow furrowed slightly, like he could sense something was off.
He started to move toward me, but I held up a hand, forcing a small smile. "I'm fine," I mouthed because right now, I couldn't afford to crumble. Not in front of him, not after what Clara just said.
But as I watched him——I couldn't shake her words.
You're just next.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe she wasn't entirely wrong. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. Why should I care if Damian replaced me? I was just his therapist he used in controlling his anger. I was doing a good job and not even Clara could take it away.
I was surrounded with drama and I wanted it all to end but I guess that train had left the station the day I said yes to staying with Damian.