The Date

Friday arrived like a verdict.

Emma had spent the past two days avoiding Nick as much as possible—which was nearly impossible, given that her desk was fifteen feet from his door and he had developed a sudden habit of finding reasons to walk past her every twenty minutes. She had also spent those two days telling herself that tonight was just dinner. Just two humans eating food. No different from the hundreds of business dinners she had attended over the past nine years.

Except at those dinners, she had been working.

Tonight, she was supposed to be a person.

At 6:00 PM, Emma stood in front of her closet in her apartment, wearing nothing but a towel and a growing sense of panic. She had tried on four dresses. The first one (black, professional) made her look like she was attending a funeral. The second (red, bold) made her look like she was trying too hard. The third (floral, playful) made her look like someone's sweet aunt. The fourth—

The fourth was a deep emerald green, sleeveless, with a neckline that showed exactly the right amount of collarbone. She had bought it three years ago for a New Year's Eve party that Nick had made her work through. She had never worn it.

She put it on.

Her phone buzzed. Olivia.

Olivia: Liam is already there. He's nervous. He keeps adjusting his glasses. It's adorable. WHERE ARE YOU

Emma: On my way. Stop texting him about me.

Olivia: I would never. (I texted him 47 times today)

Emma laughed despite herself. She put on earrings—small gold hoops, nothing flashy—and looked at herself in the mirror.

Thirty-three years old. Nine years in the same job. Zero serious relationships. And tonight, she was going on a date with a man who wasn't Nicholas Vance.

She didn't know if that was a relief or a tragedy.

Probably both.

---

The restaurant was called The Lantern—a small Italian place in the West Village with candlelight, exposed brick, and the kind of quiet intimacy that made Emma immediately uncomfortable. She wasn't used to intimacy. She was used to fluorescent lighting and conference calls.

Liam Park was already at a corner table when she arrived. He stood up when he saw her, and Emma's first thought was: Olivia was right. He is cute.

He was taller than she expected—maybe six feet—with dark curly hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was wearing a navy blazer over a white t-shirt, which was exactly the kind of effortless cool that Emma had never been able to pull off.

"Emma?" he said, and his voice was warm. "Wow. Olivia said you were beautiful, but she definitely undersold it."

Emma felt her cheeks flush. "That's very kind. You're Liam."

"I am." He pulled out her chair. "Please, sit. I already ordered us a bottle of wine. Hope that's not too forward. I panicked."

Emma sat. "You panic-ordered wine?"

"I panic-do a lot of things. You'll learn to spot the signs." He paused, looking embarrassed. "I mean. If you want to. Learn the signs. No pressure. We can just have one drink and you can fake an emergency. I have a friend who does that for me sometimes. His name is Marco. He's very good at pretending to be a car accident."

Emma laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her. "You have a designated fake emergency friend?"

"Don't you?"

She thought about it. "No. I usually just work through things I don't want to do."

Liam tilted his head, studying her. "Olivia said you're an executive assistant. For a big company."

"Vance Corporation. Yes."

"That must be intense."

"It's... a lot."

"A good lot or a bad lot?"

Emma picked up her wine glass and took a sip. It was good—dry, red, expensive. The kind of wine Nick would order without looking at the price.

"Both," she said finally. "It's both."

Liam nodded like he understood. He didn't push. He just sat there, comfortable and patient, and Emma realized that this was what normal people did on dates. They sat. They talked. They didn't check their phones every thirty seconds for emergency texts from a demanding boss.

She checked her phone anyway.

No messages.

Nick hadn't texted her all evening.

She wasn't sure why that made her stomach drop.

---

Across town, Nicholas Vance was not handling the evening well.

He had tried to work. He had reviewed the Q3 projections, signed off on the Langley acquisition, and reorganized his desk drawers by emotional significance (a system Emma had invented years ago that he had pretended to mock but had secretly adopted). Nothing helped.

At 7:30 PM, he called Daniel.

"I'm going to The Lantern," Nick said.

Daniel sighed. "The Lantern is a restaurant. Why are you going to a restaurant?"

"Business dinner."

"You don't have any business dinners tonight. I checked your calendar. Emma's calendar. Chloe's calendar. Everyone's calendar."

"I'm creating one."

"Nick—"

"I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to eat dinner. In a restaurant. Where Emma happens to also be eating dinner. Coincidentally."

Daniel was silent for a long moment. "You're wearing a tuxedo, aren't you?"

"It's a suit."

"It's 7:30 PM on a Friday. Why are you in a suit?"

"Because I'm a professional."

"You're a psychopath."

Nick hung up and called his driver.

---

At 8:15 PM, The Lantern was full and warm and buzzing with the sound of forks on plates and people falling in love. Emma and Liam had finished their appetizers and were halfway through their pasta when Emma looked up and saw him.

Nick.

Standing in the doorway of the restaurant, scanning the room like he owned it—which, technically, he didn't, but he had that energy. He was wearing a charcoal suit (not a tuxedo, despite Daniel's suspicion) and his hair was perfect and his jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was pretending not to be emotional.

Their eyes met across the room.

Emma's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Is that someone you know?" Liam asked, following her gaze.

"No," Emma said quickly. "No one."

But Nick was already walking toward their table.

He stopped a few feet away and smiled—that cold, corporate smile that Emma had seen him use on hostile board members and journalists asking inappropriate questions.

"Emma," he said. "What a coincidence."

"Mr. Vance." Her voice was ice. "This is a surprise."

"Is it? I have a business dinner here tonight. Very important. Potential merger."

Liam looked between them, confused. "You're her boss?"

Nick turned to Liam as if noticing him for the first time. His smile didn't waver, but something in his eyes went sharp and dangerous.

"Nicholas Vance," he said, extending a hand. "Vice Chairman of Vance Corporation. And you must be Liam."

Liam shook his hand. "Liam Park. Graphic designer. And... Emma's date."

Nick's grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "Charmed."

Emma stood up. "Mr. Vance, can I speak with you for a moment? Privately?"

"Of course."

She grabbed his arm—she never touched him, ever—and dragged him toward the bar, away from Liam's confused gaze.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Having dinner."

"There are forty other restaurants in this city. You chose the one where I'm on a date."

"I chose this one because the carbonara is excellent."

"You don't even like carbonara."

Nick's mask slipped for just a second. Underneath was something raw and real and almost pathetic.

"I couldn't stay home," he said quietly. "Knowing you were here. With him. Laughing at his jokes."

Emma stared at him. "Nick."

"I know." He ran a hand through his hair—messy, uncharacteristic. "I know this is insane. I know I have no right. I know I should let you go. But I can't. I've tried. I've really tried. And I can't."

Emma's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"Go back to your table," she said softly. "Eat your carbonara. Leave me alone."

"Emma—"

"Please."

She held his gaze for one long, painful second. Then she turned and walked back to Liam.

Nick watched her go.

Then he walked to a table in the corner—alone—and sat down.

He didn't order anything.

He just watched.

---

The rest of the date was a disaster.

Not because of Liam. Liam was wonderful—attentive, funny, genuinely interested in her answers. He asked about her job, her childhood, her favorite books. He told stories about his rescue dog Mochi and showed her photos until she was genuinely smiling.

But every time she laughed, she could feel Nick's eyes on her back.

Every time Liam touched her hand, she wondered what Nick's hands would feel like.

Every time Liam said something kind, she compared it to Nick's cruelty—and found herself missing the cruelty.

At 10:00 PM, Liam walked her to her car. The night was cool and clear, and he stood close enough that she could smell his cologne—something clean and simple, nothing like Nick's expensive woodsy scent.

"I had a really good time tonight," Liam said.

"Me too," Emma said. And she meant it. Mostly.

"But?"

She looked at him. Really looked. He was kind. He was safe. He was everything she should want.

"There's no but," she lied.

Liam smiled—a little sadly, like he knew she was lying. "Okay. Then can I see you again?"

Emma hesitated.

Behind her, she heard a car door close.

She didn't have to turn around to know it was Nick. She could feel him. She had been feeling him all night, a magnetic pull she couldn't escape.

"Yes," Emma said to Liam. "I'd like that."

Liam's smile widened. He leaned in and kissed her cheek—gentle, respectful, perfect.

Then he walked away.

Emma stood by her car for a long moment. Then she turned.

Nick was leaning against his Mercedes, parked ten feet away, his hands in his pockets and his face unreadable.

"The carbonara was terrible," he said.

Emma walked toward him. Not close—just close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes.

"You followed me," she said. "You sat in a restaurant for two hours watching me eat dinner with another man. Do you understand how insane that is?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that you don't own me?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that I'm still leaving in eight days?"

Nick was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off from the car and took a step toward her.

"Emma," he said. "I never saw you. Not really. Not until you handed me that letter. And I know that's my fault. I know I have no right to ask for anything. But I'm asking anyway."

" Asking what?"

He looked at her—really looked, like he was seeing her for the first time.

"Let me see you now," he said. "Not as my assistant. Not as my employee. As you. Just you."

Emma's throat tightened.

She thought about Liam's kind eyes and safe hands. She thought about nine years of waiting for a man who had never once crossed the line.

She thought about the peonies. The croissant. The way Nick said her name when he thought she couldn't hear.

"Goodnight, Mr. Vance," she said.

She got into her car and drove away.

In her rearview mirror, she watched Nick stand alone in the parking lot, watching her go.

He didn't move until her taillights disappeared around the corner.