Emily stood in front of her open closet, arms crossed, lower lip caught between her teeth.
What exactly did one pack for a week-long business trip with a man she couldn't stop thinking about—who also happened to be her boss?
Professional clothes. Obviously.
But what did professional mean when there were also evening galas, press dinners, and quiet conversations in hotel elevators where eye contact might be the most dangerous thing exchanged?
She was still staring at the same three blouses when Chloe barged through the apartment door with a garment bag over one shoulder and a mission in her eyes.
"You called me in a moment of weakness, and I took that as an emergency," Chloe said, dumping a bag of shoe boxes on the couch. "I come bearing fashion. And attitude."
Emily gave her a helpless look. "I'm spiraling."
"You're packing. Same thing. Now move." Chloe marched over and started flipping through Emily's hangers like a stylist raiding a celebrity's backup closet.
"I'm going to Florida with him," Emily said quietly. "For a week."
Chloe froze. "You didn't mention a week."
Emily sighed. "Business. Meetings. Two events. One hotel. Separate rooms."
Chloe gave her a slow, dangerous grin. "Yeah, sure. Separate rooms."
Emily groaned. "Not helping."
"I'm not here to help. I'm here to make sure you don't show up to some executive cocktail reception dressed like a sad secretary."
"Great. Crush my last thread of confidence."
"Not crush. Rebuild. With silk, heels, and very strategic slits."
---
Three hours later, the couch was a war zone of fabric.
Chloe had pulled half of Emily's wardrobe apart, vetoed almost all of it, and dragged her through two boutiques downtown. Emily protested at first, but once she stepped into the first dress—deep emerald satin, hugging her waist, dipping just enough in the back—she stopped fighting.
She twirled once in the mirror, wide-eyed. "This doesn't look like me."
"No," Chloe said, smirking from behind her phone camera. "It looks like the version of you that makes billionaires forget how to talk."
"Stop," Emily said, laughing.
"Don't pretend you don't want him to notice."
Emily went quiet.
Chloe softened. "Hey. All jokes aside—you're allowed to want to be noticed. You're allowed to want him."
Emily exhaled. "I just don't know what he wants. One minute he's staring at me like I'm the last thing in the room, the next he's leaving polite notes like we're strangers again."
"Maybe he's scared too."
Emily blinked. "He doesn't seem scared."
"Girl, men like him don't have emotions in public. But behind those perfect suits and 'Mr. Walker' poker faces? Trust me. That man's overthinking every second he breathes near you."
Emily wasn't sure if it was true.
But she wanted it to be.
---
By sunset, her suitcase was packed.
Three blazer-and-blouse combinations.
One silk jumpsuit Chloe insisted was "confident but lowkey sexy."
Two floor-length dresses for the galas. One red. One black.
Shoes. Minimal makeup. Hair tools she'd probably forget to use.
And somewhere tucked between the layers—nerves she couldn't iron flat.
As Chloe zipped the suitcase shut, she gave Emily a long look.
"This week could change everything," she said.
Emily nodded.
"I just don't know if I want it to."
Chloe raised a brow. "Then ask yourself this—if nothing changes… will you regret it?"
Emily looked down at the dress bag still hanging on her closet door.
The red one.
The one she never would've picked for herself.
Not until now.
She smiled faintly. "Maybe a little."
Chloe grinned. "That's my girl."