Chapter 7
Emery's POV
"You mean the job? Or this fake engagement you keep making something out of?"
His gaze flashed to mine. For a moment, the air between us felt like a third person lingering, waiting.
"I hired you because you're talented," he said, voice lower. "Not for your father."
But it was more than that. I could see it now in the way his eyes relaxed when he said my name, in the tender focus he gave in remembering my coffee order, in the way he stood a little closer than he had to.
And yet, he was lying. Guarding secrets. Building walls as fast as I tried to tear them down.
"You should have told me," I whispered.
He moved closer. "You're right."
I was startled enough to glance up and meet his eyes.
"I didn't want you to think that any of this had anything to do with leverage," he continued. "Your past. Or mine."
For a moment there was something in his eyes that I couldn't define. Vulnerability, maybe. Regret. I resented how much I wanted to believe him.
His fingers stroked across my wrist. The air between us warmed, charged.
"Roman."
He edged nearer. Our faces inches apart. My breath stalled.
But then, switch flipping, I took a step back.
"I can't."
He didn't push it. Just nodded, jaw clenching once more.
"I'll have Nathan get the car around," he said, voice as smooth as marble.
I was found on the back patio the next morning by Nathan, drinking burnt coffee and trying to convince myself that I didn't look like a knot of unraveling string.
"You looked at the picture," he replied. It was not a question.
I nodded.
He sat against the railing beside me, looking out over the garden, which was frosty and dead. "You're here to make Roman's office pretty. He could have contracted any one of the firms in the city."
"So why me?"
"Because he doesn't trust anyone else. And maybe because he saw something in you the way your father saw something in him."
I looked at him. "Why do I have the feeling there's something more?"
Nathan hesitated. Then, "Because there is. And you need to watch out. You're not just a distraction, Emery. You're bait."
My heart tightened up. "Bait for what?"
He shook his head. "Watch your back. And don't trust anyone who says they're protecting you."
We were back in the city by nightfall. The ride was somber. Roman was on the phone in somber tones for most of it, and I didn't feel like asking him about the caller.
As I walked into my apartment, all I could do was think of taking a long hot shower and washing out my mind of everything that had transpired. But the second I walked into my foyer, I knew something was off.
The envelope lay tidily on my console table. No stamp. No writing.
Just my name.
I opened it with shaking fingers.
There was one piece of paper in the envelope. Block letters pasted from magazines:
"You're not the first woman he's used. You won't be the last. Leave before it's too late."
I read the letter, a cold knot growing in my chest.
Used. Threatened. Warned.
My phone buzzed with a news alert before I'd even had time to consider it.
I clicked it open, fingers locked.
A headline stared back at me on one of the city's worst rumor mill websites:
"Designer or Deceiver? Emery Blake's Secret Past Revealed!"
The article let it all out. My real name. The name of the company I used to work for. The harassment suit that was hushed up with a settlement I never signed. The gossip about how I left design for two years. Everything.
It ended in a glossy picture of Roman and me at the gala, his lips resting minimally on mine.
The caption: "From scandal to socialite? Hart's new love has skeletons of her own."
My ears rang. My eyes went blurry.
My past. Revealed.
Roman. My father. The fake engagement.
And this.
I was officially up to my neck.
And someone wanted to drown me.
I stared at my phone screen, the title of the tabloid article blurring before me like a gut punch to the abdomen. My true name, my past, the suit I'd kept under wraps and the pain I'd hoped to eliminate it was all there, splattered across gossip columns like news. My stomach clenched as I scrolled, praying for some mistake, some indication that this wasn't real.
It was.
All of the things I'd hate to reveal are now public.
"Interior Designer Emery Blake Once Called Elise Blake In Scandalous Cover-Up!"
They even found the sketch I did in court years ago. The one in black-and-white of me sitting in the witness box, gripping the hem of my skirt as if it were a lifebuoy.
I dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a harsh clack, but I couldn't move. Couldn't think.
Panic clung to me like a cloud of smoke, weighted and suffocating.
How did they find out?
Less than a dozen had been aware of sealed files, non-disclosures, years of silence. No conceivable way that someone had connected Elise Blake, the shaken-up assistant who'd jeopardized her job to speak the truth, with Emery Blake, design entrepreneur. Unless someone made them connect.
Unless someone handed it into their hands.
I clenched my fists. There was only one man with that much power, that many connections, who could dig that deep: Roman Hart.
I didn't even knock. I stormed into Roman's office like I owned the space, fury radiating off me in waves.
He looked up from his laptop, eyes flaring the moment he saw my face. "Emery."
"Don't." My voice was a whip. "Don't play dumb. You leaked it.".
He stood up slowly, as if to see a hurt animal. "Leaked what?"
"You know damn well what!" I slammed my phone onto his desk, the screen still warm from the article. "This. My name. My past. All I've tried to leave behind."
He stared at it, teeth clenched. And then something in his expression changed darkened. "You think I did this?"
"Who else?" I flashed. "Only you were smart enough to go that far back. And it's convenient, isn't it? Right when we're supposed to be having house, suddenly I'm the scandal. What, was it to divert attention from your own affair?"
His eyes flared. "I would never use your trauma as a weapon."
"Wouldn't you?"