The First Spark

Though my computer’s clock reads post 6:30 p.m., Knight Enterprises is a ghost town: the buzz of the offices has been replaced with the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. The seat of my chair His email is eating a whole through my mind My office 7 PM Orion Project is a fucking beast And now I have to wade into it with only him at my side While every look from those gray eyes asks me a question I can’t answer. I’m Emma Larson and it’s my job to hold it together for the patients in our facility — women with crisis pregnancies, all the charity cases of this year and whose unborn child shares its father with Vanessa, my CEO and nemesis. Knight has his fingerprints all over. He’s closer than you think. The words haunt me, a puzzle that I’m not sure I want to solve.

I push the note down into my purse, next to the abandoned pregnancy test I can’t bring myself to throw away. My stomach has been in knots all day, from a cocktail of nervousness and the baby, my baby — making its presence known. I haven’t told Mia anything yet, but she’s shooting me more and more anxious texts: Call me. Now. She’s my best friend, but putting it into words means it becomes real and I haven’t reached that point. Not when Vanessa’s a poisonous sneak at work, hinting about my doctor visits like she’s a snap away from ruining my life.

I grab my notebook and head out of the office, toward Liam’s door, clicking my heels on the polished floor. His door’s thrown open, and he’s in there, lounging in his chair, sleeves rolled up, papers piled everywhere on his desk. The city skyline twinkles beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it’s his face that does it for me — exhausted, nearly human, the hard edges softened in dim light. “You’re early,” he mutters, low.This is it, that spark again, the one I have to suppress, that makes me think of the masquerade, of his hands dragging me close.

‘Figured I’d claim my spot,” I say, flopping into the chair opposite him. I am less steady than my voice. “What’s the focus tonight?”

He hands me a tablet displaying Orion’s latest projections. “We pitch to investors next week. What do you make of the assessment of risk? Be brutal.” His eyes meet mine and for a moment I could swear he’s not referring to numbers. I nod, and plunge into the data, but the space between us hums with charge, every word between us freighted with what isn’t said. We’re deep into a cost-benefit analysis when he leans in and points at a figure on the screen, and his cologne envelops me — the very same stinking cologne from the ball. My pulse stutters and I nearly tell him everything: the pregnanc y, the mask, the night that cannot release me. But then he says, “Secrets kill, Emma. They always come out.”

My breath catches. It's like he knows but doesn't. I force a smile, deflecting. “I’m so glad I’m programmed to be open to all of this stuff.” It’s a bitter lie, but it wins me time. For hours, the city lights smudge themselves on the other side of the glass, and it’s easy to forget the chaos when we’re good like this — pinging ideas to each other across the room, completing one another’s sentences. He’s not just the hot CEO; he’s sharp, almost warm, and it makes me dizzy how much I want to trust that he’s the man I saw that night.

As we wrap up, I’m gathering my things when I see a drawer in his desk, ajar by a hairline. Inside, a shred of gold — a ticket stub for the masquerade, printed in the same pattern as the ball’s. My heart lurches. Not evidence, exactly, but another thread that binds him to that night. He sees me looking and slams the drawer shut, his jaw clenched. “Something you need?” he asks, his tone clipped.

“No, I’m just … long night,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I’m halfway to the door when Vanessa’s voice booms in my head, the last barb from this morning: “Emma’s no Orion material. Everybody’s lying that she’s falling.” She has had her at it, casting doubt about my work), and I simply know that it’s only a matter of time before she begins pounding me with questions about my doctor’s appointments. If she puts two and two together and winds up pregnant I’m dead.

I turn to look back at Liam, the words sliding from me before I can rein them in. “Vanessa’s been talking. About me. Well, I’m not an asset.” I’m gambling by calling her out but I have to know where he is.

His eyes narrow, but there is a flicker there of something — worry, maybe. “Vanessa’s ambitious. Doesn’t mean she’s right. There is a reason I have you on Orion! The worst thing you can do is get in her head.” I feel my courage steady, aghast at that moment of certainty wrapped inside this man’s voice, and for an instant I am right there with him and I am sure I can turn this thing around. But then there’s this little kicker: “Just make sure there’s nothing for her to find.”

My stomach drops. He has no idea what they mean, but it’s as though they were cautionary anecdotes. I nod, muttering a goodnight, and flee toward the elevator. The ticket stub, Vanessa’s rumors, Claire’s proclamation—they’re drawing closer and I’m having less and less places to run. I’m already in too deep, and there’s no turning back, I’ve been claimed by Liam by a night I can’t rewind and the ink of a child I can’t abandon. I crossed a line tonight when I lost it with Vanessa... but also when I let that fantasy about Liam actually being something more than my boss seep into my head. We’re never just going back, and then whatever comes, I’m in — come what may.