CHAPTER 18: Too Deep

Emery's POV

The room was colder than it should have been for a sunny afternoon in May, but maybe it was just me—standing there silently while Killian adjusted his cufflinks as if nothing had happened the night before. As if he hadn’t shattered whatever delicate bond we had shared with the sharpness of his words and the sting of his possessiveness.

I still wore the emotional bruises from that fight—not physical, but deeply felt. I could feel them within my ribs, echoing like phantom pain.

And today, we had a role to fulfill. And Killian Wolfe was a master of performance.

“Fix your smile,” he said under his breath, not even sparing me a glance.

At that moment, I hated him a little. I hated how he could shift from desperate and broken to cold and calculated in a mere span of hours.

“Why are we even doing this?” I asked, I crossed my arms tightly over my chest.

He finally locked his gaze with me, and something shifted in his gaze. “Because perception is everything, and they are watching.”

They were always watching—cameras, journalists, vultures with perfect nails and expensive cologne, eager to tear us apart for headlines. And, we were feeling them the perfect story: the golden couple raised from scandal, stronger than ever.

And still, only I felt anything but strong.

Killian extended his arm. Like a silent command

I took it because I had no other choice.

As soon as we stepped onto the rooftop terrace, their flashlights were like a little explosion. We had to force smiles, interlocking our fingers as if it were second nature, and let our laughter echo from our throats like we weren't bleeding inside.

Killian’s hand rested firmly on the small of my back. It felt too strong. Too possessive. Too rehearsed.

But the crowd loved it. “Kiss her!” someone shouted.

I glanced at Killian, ready to refuse, to fake my way out of it.

But he leaned in, and I didn’t move fast enough.

His lips touched mine.

I expected emptiness. I expected chills.

What I didn’t expect was warmth—familiar and shocking, like a storm rolling in behind my ribcage.

It wasn’t just for the cameras.

The world around us faded. The rooftop, the reporters, the distant sounds of traffic—it all blurred under the weight of his lips on mine. His hand gripped my waist as if he was African I might vanish.

And I…

I kissed him back.

Not because they asked us to. Not because it would look good in photos.

But because, for one damn second, I wished for it to be real.

The moment broke too quickly. He pulled back just slightly, his breath quickened, his eyes locked onto mine as if he was seeing something new.

Something frightening.

“Emery…” he murmured, so softly that I almost missed it. 

But there was no time to reply. The cameras continued to click. The public show had to go on.

We posed. We smiled.

But once we stepped off that terrace, when the doors closed behind us and the world faded away, I turned to him.

“That kiss,” I whispered, “wasn’t fake.”

“No,” he admitted.

We stood in that silence. Tension vibrates between us like an electric current.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I confessed. “I don’t know where I fit in with you.”

Killian reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Neither do I.”

For once, the sincerity in his voice wasn’t wrapped in steel or masked by dominance. It was raw. Human.

And terrifying.

Because if this was real—if any of it was it meant I could break all over again.

And I wasn’t sure I’d survive it this time.

I should have pulled away. I should have laughed it off; I should have broken the tension with a practiced smile, turned to the flashing cameras, and pretended that the kiss meant nothing. But I couldn’t. My lips lingered against his, barely parted, just enough to feel the unsteady breath between us.

Killian didn’t move either.

The chaos surrounding us—the shuttering lenses, the murmuring press, the clicking of camera lights—blurred into silence. All I could hear was the echo of my own heart, pounding as if it were trying to claw out of my chest.

And then he exhaled. Slowly. As if he was letting go of something buried deep within.

He pulled back just an inch, his hand still cradling my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. His gaze locked with mine—unmasked for once. No games. No icy barriers. Just him.

“Emery,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Because the truth was, I didn’t know if this was real or if I was still caught in his performance. I didn’t know if that kiss had been about convincing the cameras... or if it had been about convincing me.

He stepped back first. It was subtle, just enough to let his hand fall from my face and slip into the pocket of his tailored suit. But the shift was monumental. Like the moment had crumbled under its own weight.

“We should go,” he said, his voice cool again, eyes scanning the room as if nothing had happened.

I followed him into the waiting car while the feeling of his lips lingered. The silence between us was louder than the clicking shutters we had left behind.

Back at the penthouse, the night unfolded in a daze. I pulled off the dress and heels, slipped into one of the soft robes left in the closet, and paced the living room floor, hoping the movement would make the confusion go away.

He had gone straight to his study. Of course, he had.

Killian Wolfe didn’t do vulnerability. That kiss… that look… it must have been a slip. A mistake. Something he had already buried under layers of strategy.

But I hadn’t.

That kiss had stirred something deep loose within me. Something I didn't want to feel— hope.

And I hated it.

I moved across the room and pressed my hand against the cold glass of the window, staring out at the skyline. Every light in the city seemed to hold something cruel like a kind of awareness. I was losing myself in him. In all the things I said I would never fall to again.

The sound of the door opening behind me. I could barely register it before he spoke.

“You haven’t asked about the kiss. What it means.”

I turned around.

He stood there, jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was not.

It was raw.

“I didn’t think I needed to” I replied. “Wasn’t it just part of the act?”

Something flickered across his face. Anger? Regret? Fear?

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

I waited, heart caught somewhere between disbelief and something I didn’t want to name.

He stepped closer, each step slow and deliberate

“I’ve kissed you when I was angry. When I was desperate. When I wanted control,” he said. “But tonight… I kissed you because I needed to know what it felt like to do it without a motive.”

I swallowed hard; the walls I had carefully built within me were threatening to crumble.

“And now that you do?” I asked.

He didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, tension radiating from him like heat.

“I’m terrified,” he finally whispered.

My breath hitched.

“Terrified of what?” I asked.

“That it’s too late. That I have damaged us beyond repair. That you are going to leave, and I will let you because it’s the only thing I know how to do.”

The silence stretched between us like a noose tightening.

And then, I crossed the room.

Slowly. Carefully.

Until we were standing toe to toe, his breath brushing against mine once more.

“I haven’t walked away yet,” I said.

His hand rose—hesitant, trembling slightly—and cupped my cheek again. I leaned into it, my eyes burning, throat tight

But just as our lips were about to touch, just as that fragile moment began to heal the crack between us—

His phone rang.

Once. Twice. A third time.

He cursed, pulled it from his pocket, and his face turned sharp the second he glanced at the screen.

“What is it?” I asked, instinctively stepping back.

Killian didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the phone like it held a loaded weapon. Before he finally answered the phone.

“This better be important,” he snapped.

A brief silence. Then something in his expression changed. His posture straightened. His eyes darkened.

“Where?”

Another pause.

“Tell security not to let him leave. I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

“What happened?” I asked.

His jaw tightened, that familiar mask slipping back into place. “That rival of mine—the one from the charity event—he just leaked a deal I was finalizing. Confidential details. It’s going to cost me millions if I don’t put a stop to it.”

I blinked. “Do you think it was on purpose?”

“I’m certain it was. And I’m going to make him pay for it.”

And just like that, the warmth in his eyes vanished.

He turned for the door.

“Killian,” I called after him. “What about us? About… this?”

He stopped, his back still to me.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I know I have to fix this first.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

And I was alone—again—wondering if the kiss that felt like everything… would end up meaning nothing at all.

I stood alone in the quiet penthouse after Killian left, the faint humming of the city outside the windows was like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to me. His words lingered in the air—I kissed you because I needed to know what it felt like to do it without a motive.

And now he was gone once more. Torn away by power struggles and emotionless battles in towering glass structures.

I curled into the velvet chaise, still wearing the robe, my knees drawn up to my chest. The warmth from earlier—the kiss, the confession— was fading into smoke, leaving behind only ash and lingering questions.

Was he truly scared of losing me? Or was that just another carefully crafted line spoken by a man who always knew how to manipulate words to keep people exactly where he wanted them?

I wanted to believe it had been real. Oh, how I wished it to be real. That his fingers trembling against my skin had meant something. That when he looked at me like I was the last safe place he had, it wasn’t an illusion.

But I had been someone’s illusion before. And I barely made it through that.

Just as I was about to turn out the lights and close myself off from the noise of everything he stirred up in me, my phone buzzed.

A message. From an unknown number.

“You don’t know the half of what Killian’s hiding. You’re not safe with him.”

My blood ran cold.

I stared at the message, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Another buzz.

“Check your email. Don’t wait.”

Hands shaking, I opened my inbox. One unread message.

No subject. No sender.

I clicked it.

Attached is a photo.

Grainy, but unmistakable.

Killian. Years younger. Standing beside a man I had never seen before—dark-haired, cruel eyes. The caption below the image was brief but damning:

“The man who taught Killian everything. His mentor. His destroyer. The one he had swore he would never become.”

And beside the man?

A signature.

Killian Wolfe.

My stomach twisted. I closed the laptop, breath catching in my throat.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

The door creaked open.

I looked up, heart-stopping—expecting Killian.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Mel, Killian’s assistant, her face pale and tense.

“He’s spiraling,” she said. “I thought you should know. And… there’s something else you need to see.”

I stood slowly, bracing myself.

“What is it?”

She handed me a folder. “It’s about the man in that photo.”

My fingers wrapped around it, but I didn’t open it. Not yet.

Mel’s voice was low. “Be careful, Emery. If you dig too deep, you may find something you can’t unsee.”

I didn’t blink.

Because deep down, I already knew.

I was in too far.

And whatever came next—