Emma's Pov
The week that followed was quiet, peacefully, blessedly quiet.
For the first time in days, my mornings didn't start with anxiety twisting in my chest or the dread of seeing my name trending for all the wrong reasons. The new apartment had a vibe, it was soft light, muted sounds, and a balcony that caught the evening sun just right. Every box I unpacked felt like shedding an old version of myself.
By Wednesday, everything was in its place. Books neatly lined the shelf, photos carefully tucked away, and the scent of fresh paint mixed with lavender from the candle I'd been burning all afternoon. My life didn't look the same, but maybe that was the point—it wasn't supposed to.
Damian and I hadn't spoken since the day he helped me find the apartment. There were no texts, no calls, no check-ins, and strangely, it didn't feel like avoidance. It felt like understanding. We'd said what needed to be said, and now we were both doing what we should've been doing all along, moving forward.
On Friday, I decided I deserved something simple. No unpacking, no heavy thoughts, just dinner by myself.
The small bistro on 6th Avenue was quiet, tucked between an art gallery and a flower shop. I picked it because it was unpretentious, it had warm lights, jazz humming in the background, and a menu that didn't require a translator. I ordered pasta and a glass of wine, turned my phone face down, and exhaled.
For once, I wasn't "Emma Collins, the therapist at the center of a scandal." I was just… Emma.
But peace, I've learned, has a cruel sense of timing.
"Emma?"
The sound of my name snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned, and the wine glass froze halfway to my lips. Standing a few feet away was Jessy, my ex–best friend.
Her hair was shorter, blonder, her expression half hesitant, half rehearsed. For a second, all I could do was stare. The last time I saw her was at the carnival with Ethan on a date.
"Jessy." My voice came out flatter than I intended.
She gave a small, awkward laugh. "Wow, you look… good. It's been forever."
Forever. I almost smiled at that. "Just a few days," I said. "Give or take."
She shifted on her heels. "Mind if I sit?"
I hesitated, but curiosity won. "Sure."
She slid into the seat across from me, her perfume familiar enough to make my stomach twist. For a moment, neither of us spoke. She toyed with the edge of her napkin, glancing at me with a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I saw what happened," she said finally. "The articles, the suspension, the whole… thing."
Of course she had, everyone had.
I lifted my glass, taking a sip. "That chapter's over."
"I heard," she said softly. "You're back at the clinic. That's… good."
"Thanks."
Another pause. The kind that used to be comfortable between us but now just felt heavy.
Then she leaned forward, her tone lowering. "You know, Emma, you're lucky."
"Lucky?" I repeated, arching a brow.
She nodded, her smile sharpening. "Yeah, because if I'd gone to the press when I found out about you and Damian, things could've gotten a lot worse."
My stomach went cold. "Excuse me?"
Jessy shrugged lightly, like she hadn't just dropped a grenade on the table. "Relax. I didn't. I mean, I thought about it when everything came out, when everyone was talking, and reporters were digging but I didn't say anything out of respect, you know?"
Respect. The word nearly made me laugh. "You mean the same kind of respect you showed when you slept with my boyfriend?"
Her eyes flickered, but she recovered quickly. "That was months ago, Emma. You can't still be holding on to that."
"I'm not," I said coolly. "But don't stand here pretending what you did was a favor."
She sighed, looking irritated now. "You always were dramatic. I'm just saying you got off easy. One word from me, and that clinic wouldn't have reinstated you so quickly."
Something in me snapped then. I set my glass down and met her gaze evenly. "Then maybe you should've. At least then I'd know exactly who was holding the knife."
For a moment, the mask slipped. Her expression hardened, mouth tightening into something cold and petty. "Still self-righteous, I see."
"Still manipulative," I countered.
She laughed under her breath, then stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Enjoy your pasta, Emma. Just remember, you're not the only one who knows how to rebuild."
She left before I could respond, her perfume trailing behind like smoke.
I sat there, staring at the empty chair, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Part of me wanted to chase after her, demanding to know what she meant but I didn't. I just leaned back and breathed.
Jessy always played games, always knew how to twist words into threats wrapped in politeness. Maybe she thought she still could. Maybe she thought I was still the same naïve girl who'd let people break her and call it love.
But not anymore.
I finished my dinner in silence, the weight of the encounter sitting heavy in my chest. By the time I walked out of the restaurant, the night air was cool, and the city buzzed with the sound of traffic and laughter.
I pulled my jacket tighter, trying to shake off the unease.
Lucky. That's what she'd called me.
Maybe I was. Not because she kept her mouth shut, but because I'd learned who she really was and who I wasn't anymore.
When I got home, I stood on my balcony, looking out over the park. My phone buzzed once on the counter. It was a new message.
Jessy: Careful who you trust, Emma. Some people don't stay quiet forever.
The wineglass slipped slightly in my hand. I stared at the message, the words blurring against the city lights.
And just like that, the quiet week didn't feel so quiet anymore.