Chapter 92
Emily's POV
I never thought I'd be someone who could get used to happiness. But somehow, over the next few weeks, I did.
It started with small things. Ethan showing up at my apartment on random weeknights with takeout, claiming he just happened to be in the area. His dorm was in the opposite direction. Alex texting me links to articles about tax law changes or restaurant industry trends, always with some dry commentary that made me laugh. Neither of them making me choose. Neither of them demanding more time than I could give. Neither of them pushing when I needed space to breathe.
And gradually, without me quite realizing it was happening, my life shifted into something that felt almost… normal.
I stopped dreading going home at the end of the day. Stopped bracing myself for the emptiness of my apartment or the weight of my own thoughts.
Because there was always someone there now.
Ethan sprawled on my couch with a textbook open on his lap. Alex working on his laptop at my kitchen table. Sometimes both of them occupying different corners of my space like they'd lived there all along.
I'd lost the ability to sleep alone. I realized it one night when I woke up sandwiched between them both, Alex's arm heavy across my waist and Ethan's breath warm against my shoulder.
The strangest part was that I didn't mind. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel suffocated by someone else's presence.
I felt safe.
The restaurant was thriving. After that first brutal month of eighteen-hour days and constant crisis management, things had finally stabilized. The new menu was performing well. Staff turnover had dropped to almost nothing. The numbers were climbing steadily week after week.
I'd stopped working late every night. Stopped bringing my laptop home. Stopped waking up at three in the morning with my mind racing through inventory projections and payroll schedules.
I had time now.
Time to eat actual meals instead of grabbing whatever was left in the kitchen at the end of service. Time to go to Ethan's games on Friday nights and watch him play with that fierce, focused intensity that still made my chest tight. Time to sit in Alex's office on slow afternoons and argue with him about strategic decisions, pushing back when I thought he was wrong and watching the spark of respect in his eyes when I made a good point.
It was a kind of peace I'd never imagined could exist for someone like me.
It terrified me almost as much as it comforted me. I knew from experience that nothing good ever lasted.
But for now, at least, it was real. And I was learning—slowly, painfully, one day at a time—to let myself have it.
The morning Alex was scheduled to present to the board of directors, I woke up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
It had nothing to do with my own performance. Everything to do with his.
I knew how much was riding on this meeting. Alex had explained it to me days ago, his tone casual but his eyes serious. The board had expectations. His father had given him this restaurant as a test—a way to prove he could turn around a failing business without the family name propping him up.
If he succeeded, he'd be promoted to Executive Assistant to the President. A position that would put him directly in line to eventually take over the entire conglomerate.
If he failed, he'd be stuck in middle management for another five years at least. Watching other people get opportunities that should have been his.
And we'd done it. We'd more than done it.
The restaurant's revenue had tripled in less than two months. We'd cut costs by thirty percent without sacrificing quality. We'd turned a business that was hemorrhaging money into one of the most profitable locations in the company's portfolio.
By any objective measure, this should have been an easy win.
But I'd also learned, in the time I'd been working with Alex, that his family didn't operate on objective measures. They operated on power plays and political maneuvering and unspoken tests. Tests that had nothing to do with actual performance and everything to do with proving you could handle pressure without breaking.
And that scared me.
Because as competent as Alex was, as brilliant and strategic and ruthless, I knew he was walking into that meeting with a target on his back. Simply because of who he was. Who his father was. How badly certain people on that board wanted to see him fail.
So when he texted me that morning—Meeting ends at 10. Wait for me outside the conference room?—I didn't hesitate.
I rearranged my schedule. Pushed my own meetings to the afternoon. Showed up at the company's headquarters thirty minutes early just to make sure I'd be there when he needed me.
The corporate office was nothing like the restaurant. Everything here was sleek and sterile and expensive in a way that made my skin crawl. Marble floors. Glass walls. Abstract art that probably cost more than my entire year's salary.
I felt out of place in my simple blouse and pencil skirt. Standing in the hallway outside the executive conference room like some kind of nervous intern waiting to be called in for an interview.
A few people walked past and gave me curious looks. Clearly wondering who I was and what I was doing there.
I ignored them and focused on keeping my breathing steady.