Emily stood in front of her mirror, smoothing her blouse down over her hips for the third time. She looked… fine. Professional. Presentable. Perfectly normal.
Except she didn't feel normal.
Not after the storm.
Not after the night at his house.
Not after the way her body still remembered the quiet heat of his hands on her waist.
She shook the thought off and adjusted the collar of her blazer. She needed to pull herself together. Today was Monday. It was just work. The same desk. The same emails. The same polished, unreadable man behind the door she would be staring at all day.
She left home early, if only to avoid sitting still in her own silence for another minute.
By 8:25 a.m., she was at her desk, fingers flying over her keyboard as she finalized his schedule. Her routine steadied her — pulling emails, flagging memos, forwarding reports from the legal team. She brewed his coffee exactly how he liked it: no sugar, light roast, splash of cream.
Her body moved on autopilot.
But her mind kept wandering.
Would he say anything?
Would he pretend that night never happened?
She hated how much that answer mattered to her.
At 8:57, she took a quiet breath, lifted the mug, and walked to his office door. She knocked twice, waited for the low hum of his voice, then stepped in.
He was seated behind the desk, dressed in a dark navy suit that made him look sharper than usual, like power itself wrapped in a heartbeat. His fingers were tapping lightly on the edge of his laptop, eyes scanning the screen — until they lifted.
He looked at her.
Briefly.
Deeply.
Just enough for her stomach to flip.
"Good morning," she said, setting the coffee down gently on the edge of his desk.
"Morning," he replied, his voice smooth, even.
He didn't comment on the night she'd spent at his home. Didn't mention the kitchen. The moment. The silence that stretched after it.
It shouldn't have disappointed her.
But it did.
She turned to leave, ready to tuck the moment back into a box in her chest where she kept everything she couldn't afford to unpack.
"Emily."
She stopped with her hand on the door.
"Wait."
Her pulse skipped.
She turned slowly. "Yes, Mr. Walker?"
He stood from his chair, buttoning his jacket as he moved around the desk. He didn't come closer, but he didn't need to. The way he looked at her — direct, unreadable — was enough to make the air in the room shift.
"We're traveling this week," he said.
She blinked. "Traveling?"
"To Florida. Jacksonville. There are follow-up meetings regarding the MorTech acquisition, and the advisory board requested my presence in person." His gaze lingered on her a beat. "I'll need you there."
She nodded once, professionally. "Understood. When do we leave?"
"Wednesday morning. Private terminal, 7:30 a.m. The itinerary will be sent to your inbox before noon. We'll be gone for the full week."
A full week?
She straightened, careful not to let the reaction show on her face. "Is it for negotiations?"
"Yes. And two gala events. One press-related, one internal. You'll be attending both."
Emily's throat felt dry. "Of course."
"There's a suite booked at the Eastbridge Hotel. Separate rooms. We'll also be visiting our Miami office near the end of the week. I expect you to bring both business and formal attire."
"I'll make arrangements."
His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes did.
"I thought I should tell you directly."
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
He had never told her about a trip this personally. Usually, his assistant team sent her a pre-approved itinerary with precise instructions. Flights. Meetings. Wardrobe expectations.
But this time… he wanted to say it himself.
Why?
"Thank you for letting me know," she said softly.
He nodded.
She turned again. This time, he didn't stop her.
But as she reached for the door handle, her fingers stilled.
A hundred words swam in her throat — questions she couldn't ask, thoughts she couldn't say.
Instead, she opened the door, stepped out, and closed it gently behind her.
And as she sat back down at her desk, heart tight in her chest, one thought pulsed louder than the rest:
A week.
A week beside him. At meetings. Dinners. Events.
A week of pretending she didn't remember the way his skin felt under her hands.
A week of silence that might be louder than any words he could say.