Page 184 of Terms of Exposure
I'd cleaned her.
Washed the sweat from her skin.
Held her until the trembling stopped and the sass returned—my personal metric for knowing she was alright.
And now I was here.
The hallway outside Falkirk's main boardroom.
I leaned against the wall outside the door, waiting for her.
Jennifer's plan had worked spectacularly.
Emma and I no longer drew strange looks or whispered speculation. The subtle shifts between us had settled into routine—no longer a shock, increasingly normal. A hand at her back. A lingering glance. The slow, deliberate work of making us invisible by making us boring.
Then she rounded the corner.
And boring went up in smoke.
Slate gray blazer. Sharp shoulders. A silhouette that meant business. And underneath—
The burgundy silk blouse I'd picked out.
The same color as my ropes.
She walked toward me like she owned every square inch of Falkirk.
That's my girl.
"Hey, Emma," I said, keeping my voice casual. "I'm looking forward to discussing your proposal this morning."
She shifted her weight, popping a hip. "Thank you, Damien."
God, she was magnificent.
"Proposal?" Farnsworth's gravelly voice came from behind her.
I straightened, extending my hand. "Farnsworth, it's nice to see you. And yes, Ms. Sinclair plans on proposing a new initiative to the board this morning."
"Really?" He turned to Emma—caterpillar eyebrows raised. "It isn't often that a new board member proposes initiatives."
Emma smiled at him. "I'm not a typical board member."
Pride surged through me—bright and immediate, a rush to the chest.
Farnsworth's eyebrows climbed higher, lips curving into a surprised smile. "No," he said slowly. "I don't suppose you are."
Behind him, more board members filtered down the hallway.
Alicia Morgan caught Emma's eye and offered a brief nod—professional, assessing. Sharp-featured, immaculate, dark hair twisted into a low chignon. Her charcoal suit whispered old money anddon't waste my time.
Linda Cavanaugh walked beside her, blonde and composed, tablet already in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose.
Allies. Or close enough.
Lang trailed a few steps behind—mid-fifties, perpetuallyundecided, his loyalty swaying with the wind. He nodded vaguely at no one in particular.
Then came Nathan's entourage.
