Chapter 2
Chapter 2 – Forbidden Night
Three years earlier.
“Emma, where’s the revised merger term sheet?” Ryan’s voice cut across the conference room like a scalpel.
Emma Harris didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, holding the binder with steady hands.
“Right here, Mr. Blake. I corrected the valuation tables and updated the risk disclosures per legal’s request.”
Ryan took it, flipping pages with practiced speed. “And the investor brief?”
“In your inbox. Final draft. I reworded the forward-looking statement—your earlier version could’ve triggered SEC concern.”
Ryan paused and looked up. “You caught that?”
Emma nodded.
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not quite admiration, but a glimmer of awareness. Then it was gone.
“Good. Don’t go far.”
“I never do,” she murmured.
---
That night, the gala sparkled like every other Wall Street vanity project—golden chandeliers, violin quartets, and too many people pretending not to be drunk.
Emma stood near the coatroom, double-checking schedules on her tablet. She’d offered to manage the logistics so Ryan could schmooze.
From across the ballroom, she watched him toast alongside Rebecca Grant—blonde, statuesque, daughter of a senator, heiress to the Grant shipping fortune.
“They look like they stepped off a magazine cover,” someone whispered nearby.
Emma lowered her eyes.
“Miss Harris?”
She turned to find Gerald, the senior VP, frowning. “Mr. Blake just stepped into the hallway. I think he’s looking for you.”
“Thank you.”
She weaved through glittering gowns and waiters with champagne trays. The corridor outside was dim, lined with ornate sconces.
“Mr. Blake?”
“In here,” came the muffled reply from the executive suite.
Emma pushed open the door—and froze.
Ryan sat on the armrest of a leather couch, tie half-loosened, scotch glass in hand, eyes unfocused.
“You’ve had a bit to drink,” she said carefully.
He laughed, low and bitter. “A bit? Emma, the merger fell through. Two years of negotiations. Gone.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have brought Rebecca tonight,” he muttered. “She only cares about how it looks in the press.”
Emma hesitated. “You’ll recover. You always do.”
Ryan looked at her then, really looked. “You’re always here. Do you ever go home?”
“I go home,” she said softly. “But I never leave.”
He laughed again, eyes heavy. “That’s cryptic.”
Emma took the glass from his hand and set it down. “You need water.”
He grabbed her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her. “Why do you stay, Emma?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I know I’m a bastard to work for. Gerald says I drive my staff into therapy. But you... you stay.”
“I’m your assistant. It’s my job.”
“No.” His voice dipped. “That’s not it.”
Emma’s breath hitched. “Ryan—”
“You’re beautiful when you say my name like that.”
“It’s not—” She stepped back. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m tired.”
She reached for the pitcher of water on the sideboard. Behind her, she heard him rise.
“Emma.”
She turned—and he was right there. Close enough to smell the scotch and aftershave. His hand cupped her cheek, and her rational mind screamed to pull away.
But her heart had waited three years for this mistake.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “You’ll regret this.”
“I already regret too much,” he said. Then kissed her.
---
City lights spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline blinked like a thousand unspoken truths.
Emma’s blouse lay discarded on the carpet. Ryan traced a line down her spine, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I never noticed how lonely you looked.”
Emma lay still, heart pounding. “You won’t remember this tomorrow.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Rebecca—”
He flinched. “Don’t say her name right now.”
Silence stretched between them. Emma turned her face toward the glass.
“This isn’t love,” she said.
Ryan didn’t answer.
---
Before dawn, Emma dressed quietly, folding her blouse and slipping her heels on.
She paused at the doorway.
“Thank you,” she said, voice trembling.
“For what?”
“For pretending, even for a few hours.”
She didn’t look back.
---
The next morning, Ryan arrived at the office exactly at 8:00 a.m., coffee in hand, suit immaculate.
Emma greeted him with her usual composure. “Good morning, Mr. Blake.”
He glanced at her briefly. “Morning. Set a meeting with legal at ten. And order lunch for the IPO team.”
“Yes, sir.”
No hesitation. No flicker of recognition.
Emma returned to her desk, fingers numb on the keyboard.
She had crossed a line, and he had erased it by sunrise.
---
Back in her studio apartment that night, she sat on the bed staring at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked the same—same sleek bun, same neutral makeup, same quiet strength.
But something inside had cracked.
She pressed a hand to her belly without knowing why.
“Don’t fall in love with ghosts,” she whispered. “They’ll vanish by morning.”
And for the first time in three years, she wept.