The Investigation

Nicholas Vance had never needed to investigate anyone.

Background checks, financial audits, corporate due diligence—those were for other people. For competitors. For potential hires. Nick simply existed, and information came to him. He was Nicholas Vance. People volunteered their secrets.

But Liam Park was not volunteering anything.

And that infuriated him.

At 7:00 AM, three days after Emma's resignation announcement, Nick sat in his penthouse with a tablet in one hand and a protein shake in the other. On the screen was a full dossier on Liam Park, courtesy of a private investigator Nick had hired at 11:00 PM the night before.

Liam Park. Age 34. Divorced (finalized 14 months ago). No children. Graphic designer at Studio Dot. Hobbies: hiking, photography, craft beer, indie films. Last relationship: ended 6 months ago, amicable. Currently living in a one-bedroom apartment in Williamsburg. Monthly rent: $2,800. Favorite food: tacos. Favorite band: The National. Has a rescue dog named Mochi.

Nick stared at the photo attached to the file.

Liam was good-looking. Not Nick's level of good-looking—no one was—but annoyingly handsome in a soft, approachable way. Dark hair, kind eyes, a smile that suggested he knew how to make people feel comfortable.

Nick hated him.

He hated him with a purity and intensity that surprised even himself.

"Who is Liam?"

Nick nearly dropped his shake. His brother, Daniel Vance, stood in the penthouse doorway wearing sweatpants and a deeply amused expression. Daniel was two years older, softer around the edges, with the same dark hair but none of the sharpness. He lived in the penthouse downstairs—close enough to check on Nick, far enough to maintain plausible deniability.

"Nothing," Nick said, turning off the tablet. "No one. Why are you here?"

"It's 7:00 AM. You texted me at 11:00 PM last night asking me to find someone named Liam. Then at midnight you texted 'never mind, handle it myself.' Then at 1:00 AM you texted a picture of a man and the words 'does he look like a trustworthy person to you?'"

Nick set down his shake. "I was tired."

"You were spiraling."

"I don't spiral."

Daniel walked to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee—Nick's coffee, made by Nick's new temporary assistant, who was not Emma and therefore made everything slightly wrong.

"You do now," Daniel said. "You're spiraling because Emma Hart is leaving and you don't know how to function without her. So instead of dealing with that, you're obsessing over some random guy she might go on a date with."

"It's not a date. It's a 'casual meeting to assess compatibility.'"

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Did she tell you that?"

"No. I read her texts."

Daniel choked on his coffee. "You what?"

"I saw them. By accident. Her phone was on her desk. I have excellent vision."

"Nick. That's insane. That's genuinely insane behavior."

"I'm not insane. I'm thorough."

Daniel set down his mug and looked at his younger brother—really looked at him. Nick was wearing a suit at 7:00 AM. His hair was perfect. His jaw was clenched. He looked like a man preparing for battle, except the battle was a Thursday and the enemy was a graphic designer with a rescue dog.

"Tell me something," Daniel said quietly. "When Emma leaves—not if, when—what are you actually losing?"

Nick opened his mouth to say an executive assistant. A highly competent employee. A logistical necessity.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because that wasn't true.

He was losing the person who knew that he couldn't sleep the night before a shareholder meeting. Who kept his mother's homemade hangover soup in the office freezer for the mornings after his father's death anniversary. Who had sat in the hospital waiting room for six hours when he had his appendix out, even though he'd told her to go home.

He was losing Emma.

Just Emma.

And somehow, that was everything.

"I'm losing my assistant," Nick said finally. "Nothing more."

Daniel didn't believe him. But he also knew his brother well enough not to push.

"Okay," Daniel said. "Then let her go."

Nick said nothing.

---

At 9:00 AM, Emma arrived at her desk to find a new bouquet of peonies.

This time, there was no note. Just flowers. White peonies, her grandmother's favorite, arranged in a crystal vase that probably cost more than her rent.

Chloe was already at her desk, staring at the flowers like they might explode.

"He dropped them off himself," Chloe whispered. "At 6:45 AM. Before anyone else was here. He was wearing a tuxedo."

"It was probably a suit."

"It had a bow tie, Emma. A BOW TIE. At sunrise."

Emma picked up the vase and carried it to the small kitchen down the hall. She set it on the counter, turned around, and walked back to her desk.

She did not throw the flowers away. But she also did not bring them back.

Chloe watched this with the fascination of someone observing a nature documentary.

"You're fighting it," Chloe said. "The inevitable."

"There's nothing inevitable."

"Emma. He's leaving you flowers. He's remembering your favorite things. He's acting like a man who just realized he's about to lose the best thing that ever happened to him. That's not desperation. That's something else."

Emma sat down at her desk and pulled up the day's schedule.

"It's nine years of habit," she said. "He's not in love with me. He's in love with convenience."

Chloe opened her mouth to argue. Then closed it.

Because maybe Emma was right. Or maybe Emma was terrified that Emma was wrong.

---

At 2:00 PM, Nick called Emma into his office.

He was standing by the window, his back to her. She had seen this pose a thousand times—the CEO contemplating his empire, projecting power and control.

But something was different today.

His shoulders were tense. His hands were in his pockets, but she could see the knuckles pressing against the fabric. He wasn't projecting power. He was holding himself together.

"Close the door," he said quietly.

Emma closed the door.

"Mr. Vance, if this is about the Q3 earnings report—"

"It's not about the report."

He turned around. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were doing something she had never seen before. They were soft. Almost vulnerable.

"Are you seeing someone?" he asked.

Emma blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Liam. Olivia's friend. The graphic designer. Are you seeing him?"

Emma's heart stopped. Then started again, too fast.

"How do you know about Liam?"

"I know everything, Emma. You know that."

"That's not an answer."

Nick took a step toward her. Then another. He stopped when he was close enough that she could see the faint scar on his jaw—a childhood accident he never talked about.

"I need to know," he said, his voice lower now, "if you're leaving because of him."

Emma stared at him.

Of all the things she had expected him to say—a counteroffer, a guilt trip, another ridiculous bribe—this was not on the list.

"I'm not leaving because of Liam," she said carefully. "I haven't even met Liam."

"But you're going to."

"Friday night. Yes."

Nick's jaw tightened. His left hand touched his tie knot—that nervous tic she knew so well.

"Don't go," he said.

"Mr. Vance—"

"Nick."

Emma froze.

In nine years, he had never told her to call him by his first name. Never. She was "Miss Hart" in formal settings and "Emma" in everyday conversation, but he was always "Mr. Vance" or "sir." That was the boundary. That was the wall between them.

And now he was asking her to knock it down.

"Nick," she repeated slowly, testing the word on her tongue. It felt too intimate. Too real.

"Don't go on the date," he said. "Don't leave the company. Don't leave me."

The last word hung in the air between them.

Emma's throat tightened. She thought about the peonies. The croissant. The nine years of mornings and nights and shared silences. She thought about the way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought she wasn't paying attention—like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

And then she thought about Chloe's words: When was the last time you did something just for you?

"I'm going on the date," Emma said quietly. "And I'm leaving. Not because I don't care about you. Because I care about myself more."

She turned and walked to the door.

Behind her, Nick's voice cracked—just a little.

"Emma."

She paused but didn't turn around.

"What if I can't do this without you?"

Emma closed her eyes. Her hand tightened on the door handle.

"You'll have to," she said. "That's what I've been trying to teach you for nine years."

She walked out.