Chapter 93
Emily's POV
At 9:55, the heavy wooden door to the conference room swung open. A stream of executives filed out—older men in expensive suits, a few women in equally expensive dresses. All of them wearing the kind of carefully neutral expressions that told me absolutely nothing about how the meeting had gone.
I scanned their faces, trying to read something. Anything.
But they moved past me without acknowledgment. Already pulling out their phones and moving on to whatever came next.
And then Alex stepped through the doorway.
My stomach dropped.
His face was completely blank. Not angry, not relieved, not anything—just smooth and unreadable in that way he had when he was locking down every emotion and refusing to let anyone see what he was feeling. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance like he wasn't quite seeing anything in front of him.
I moved toward him automatically, my heart pounding. "Alex?"
He didn't respond. Didn't even look at me. Just kept walking down the hallway with that same mechanical precision, like he was forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other and nothing else mattered.
Panic flared in my chest. I hurried after him, reaching out to catch his arm. "Alex, wait. What happened? Are you okay?"
He stopped. Turned to face me slowly. And his expression was still utterly, terrifyingly blank.
"They're pushing back," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "They want more data. More projections. They're saying the turnaround happened too fast to be sustainable and they need to see at least another quarter of results before they'll consider promotion."
My heart sank. "What? But that's not—we had an agreement. You met the targets. You exceeded them."
"I know." His tone didn't change. "Apparently that doesn't matter."
I stared at him, trying to process what this meant. Another three months of proving himself. Another three months of his father and the board holding this over his head. Another three months of—
And then Alex's mouth twitched.
It was barely perceptible—just the tiniest curve at the corner of his lips, gone almost before I registered it. But it was there. And suddenly I realized what he was doing.
"You asshole," I breathed.
The mask cracked. His expression shifted into something smug and satisfied, his eyes finally focusing on me with that sharp, amused intelligence I knew so well. "What?"
"You're messing with me." I shoved his chest, anger and relief flooding through me in equal measure. "You just let me think—god, I was actually worried! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"You should have seen your face," he said, grinning now, all pretense of seriousness abandoned. "You looked like you were about to march in there and start yelling at the entire board."
"I was!" I hit him again, harder this time. "Because I thought they were screwing you over! I thought—"
"They're not." He caught my wrists gently, still smiling. "They were impressed, Emily. More than impressed. We did it in half the time they expected with better results than they projected. My father didn't say much, but he didn't have to—I could see it in his face. And the board voted unanimously to approve my promotion to Executive Assistant to the President, effective immediately."
I froze, my anger evaporating as his words sank in. "Wait. Really?"
"Really." His hands slid up my arms, pulling me closer. "I start working directly with my father next week. Full access to the core business operations, strategic planning, acquisition negotiations. Everything I've been working toward."
"Oh my god." A smile broke across my face despite myself. "Alex, that's—that's amazing. That's exactly what you wanted."
"It is." His eyes softened, his expression shifting into something genuine and unguarded. "And I couldn't have done it without you. You know that, right?"
I shook my head, suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. "You would have figured it out eventually. You didn't need—"
"Yes, I did." His voice was firm, brooking no argument. "I needed you. Your analysis, your strategies, your willingness to tell me when I was wrong. This wasn't just me, Emily. This was us."
The word hung in the air between us, carrying more weight than it should have. Us. Like we were a team. Like we were partners in something bigger than just work or just the complicated mess of our relationship.
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just smiled and let him pull me into a brief, tight hug, his arms solid and reassuring around me, his breath warm against my hair.
"Come on," he said after a moment, releasing me and stepping back. "We're celebrating. I'm taking you shopping."
I blinked. "What?"
"Shopping. For a car." He was already walking toward the elevators, pulling out his phone with one hand and gesturing for me to follow with the other. "You've been managing without one all summer, but once the semester starts you'll be commuting from campus. That's a thirty-minute drive each way."
"Alex, I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." He glanced back at me, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You're working while taking classes. You can't waste two hours a day on public transit. And before you start arguing about money, this isn't charity—it's a performance bonus. I'm distributing them to everyone on the team who exceeded expectations during the turnaround. Yours just happens to come in the form of a vehicle."
I wanted to protest. Wanted to tell him I couldn't accept something that expensive, that it was too much, that I didn't need him to take care of me. But the truth was, he was right. I had been dreading the logistics of fall semester—trying to coordinate bus schedules with my class times and work shifts, knowing I'd end up either chronically late or losing hours of sleep to make everything fit. And if he was genuinely giving bonuses to the whole team, then accepting one didn't mean I was letting him buy my loyalty or my affection. It just meant I was being practical.
Still, I had limits.
"Fine," I said, catching up to him as the elevator doors opened. "But nothing ridiculous. I want something reliable and fuel-efficient. Something I can actually park on campus without worrying about it getting keyed."
"So, not a Ferrari."
"Definitely not a Ferrari."
"Noted." He was grinning again, that boyish excitement creeping into his expression that he only showed when he thought he'd won an argument. "But I get to pick the dealership."
"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"
"Because you're smart," he said, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the parking garage. "But you're going to say yes anyway."
He wasn't wrong.