The following morning, the office hummed with the usual artificial energy of fluorescent lights and clacking keyboards, but for Emily, the air felt thick with a warning she couldn’t quite decipher. She was barely settled at her desk when Sophia drifted over, her smile as sharp as a razor and just as cold.
“Redwood International,” Sophia said, dropping a small slip of paper onto Emily’s desk. “Mr. Wilson is a top-tier client, a pillar of our West Coast expansion. He’s staying in Room 206. He’s expecting a pickup for the midday summit. Don’t keep him waiting, and for heaven’s sake, don’t embarrass the firm.”
Emily looked at the address. Redwood was a sprawling luxury resort and convention center, the kind of place where billionaires went to hide in plain sight. “I’ll get right on it,” Emily replied, her professional mask firmly in place despite the knot tightening in her stomach.
She arrived at the hotel an hour later. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and glass, smelling of expensive lilies and sea salt. She found the hallway for the 200-block, her heels clicking rhythmically against the plush carpet. When she reached the door to 206, she paused, smoothing her skirt before knocking gently.
“Mr. Wilson? I’m Emily Carter from Thompson Enterprises. I’m here to escort you to your meeting.”
Silence greeted her. She knocked again, a little firmer this time. From inside, she heard a muffled, heavy grunt. She tried the handle, and to her surprise, it clicked open. The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the bright Miami sun.
“Mr. Wilson?” she called out, stepping into the foyer.
Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washed over her. The room seemed to tilt, and her thoughts became foggy and disconnected. She tried to focus, but a heavy, unnatural lethargy seeped into her limbs. Something is very wrong, she managed to think, her instincts screaming danger as her consciousness began to fade.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered, her voice sounding far away.
Just as the darkness began to close in, the door to the suite was practically kicked off its hinges. Michael Thompson burst into the room, his face a mask of primal fury. He didn’t look at the disoriented man cowering in the shadows near the bed; his eyes were locked on Emily, who was swaying dangerously near the dresser.
“Emily! Look at me!” Michael’s voice was a roar that cut through her fog. He caught her just as her knees gave out, his strong arms wrapping around her with a desperation that surprised them both. He leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear. “What’s wrong with you? You’re burning up.”
“It’s so hot,” Emily gasped, her fingers clutching at the lapels of his jacket. The scent of his cologne—cedar and cold rain—was the only thing keeping her grounded.
Michael turned his head, his gaze burning into the hotel manager who had scurried in behind him. “Set the AC to sixty degrees Fahrenheit! Now!” he barked. “And get a medical team up here. If there is a single trace of an illicit substance in her system, I will buy this hotel just to tear it down stone by stone.”
“Mr. Thompson, I… I had no idea,” the manager stammered, frantically adjusting the thermostat.
“She was drugged,” Michael stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. He looked at his assistant, Alex, who had appeared in the doorway. “Find out who booked this room. Find out who was supposed to be here. I want names, Alex. I want blood.”
The recovery room at the private hospital was a sanctuary of white linen and soft, muted lights. Emily stirred as the morning sun filtered through the blinds, her head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache.
“You’re finally awake,” a voice said from the bedside.
Michael was sitting there, a stack of reports ignored in his lap. He looked tired, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened.
“Why am I in a hospital?” Emily mumbled, her throat feeling like it had been scraped with sandpaper.
“If I hadn’t gotten to you when I did, you probably would have torn me apart,” Michael replied, a hint of genuine exasperation—and something else she couldn’t name—in his voice. “I never would have guessed you’d be so wild behind that innocent, professional face of yours. You actually forced a kiss on your boss, Emily. Do you have any idea how much paperwork that creates?”
A deep, burning blush crept up Emily’s neck. The hazy memories of the hotel room flashed back—the heat, the scent of him, the way she had clung to him like a lifeline. “I… I don’t remember that. It was the… whatever was in that room.”
Michael leaned forward, his expression hardening. “Yesterday you swore to win our bet, and then you sneak out during work hours to meet a man in a hotel? That’s a bold strategy for someone who wants to keep their job.”
“No!” Emily protested, sitting up too fast and wincing as the room spun. “I went to pick up Mr. Wilson. Sophia told me it was an executive order. Mr. Wilson was the client!”
Michael raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “Mr. Wilson? I’ve reviewed every active file in the firm, Emily. We don’t have a client named Mr. Wilson. Nice try, but you’re going to have to do better than ghost stories.”
“I’m not lying!” Emily insisted, her voice trembling with indignation. “If there wasn’t a Mr. Wilson, then who was the creep in that room?”
“The front desk records show the room was registered to Ryan Patel,” Alex Johnson said, stepping into the room with a tablet in hand. “And the security footage from the hall shows him entering twenty minutes before you arrived.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Alex, get Sophia Reed down here. Now.”
When Sophia arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later, she was the picture of concerned elegance. She walked into the room with a practiced gasp. “Oh, Emily! I heard what happened. How dreadful! I feel so responsible.”
“Do you?” Michael asked, his voice devoid of emotion. “Because Emily says you sent her to meet a Mr. Wilson in Room 206. But the room was booked by Ryan.”
Sophia didn’t blink. “Mr. Lee? Oh, I must have misspoke. I thought I told her to pick up Mr. Lee, the designer. I must have said Wilson by mistake. My brain has been in a fog with the new product launch. Am I getting fired again, Michael? It was an honest slip of the tongue.”
Michael watched her for a long beat, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “An honest slip that led her into a trap set by a man I already fired. Interesting. Alex, what did you find out about Ryan?”
“He’s gone, sir,” Alex reported. “He cleared out his apartment. But we traced his recent activity. It seems he was trying to leverage his way back in by creating a scandal he could solve. He’s been reassigned to our Denver branch for now—under heavy guard. He’ll be handling President Wilson.”
“President Wilson?” Emily asked.
“A notorious client who loves extreme sports and has a temper like a hurricane,” Alex explained with a faint smirk. “Ryan will be spending his days skydiving and mountain climbing with a man who hates cowards. He’ll be lucky if he survives the month.”
A few hours later, the quiet of the hospital suite was shattered by the whirlwind entrance of an elderly woman.
“Emmy! My goodness, Emmy!”
Emily’s grandmother rushed to the bed, her face a map of worry and relief. “I came to the pharmacy for my pills and the girl at the desk said you were in here! Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Grandma, really,” Emily soothed, taking the older woman’s hands.
Grandma’s eyes suddenly darted to Michael, who was standing by the window. She squinted, then her face broke into a wide, knowing grin. “And who is this handsome young man? Emmy, is this the husband from your little red book?”
Emily’s heart nearly stopped. “Grandma! No! This is Mr. Thompson. He’s my boss.”
“Boss?” Grandma blinked, her smile faltering only slightly. “Must be my old memory failing me. I could have sworn… but he looks just like the photo. Well, Grandma’s getting old. Made a mistake.”
Michael walked over, his expression unreadable as he looked at the elderly woman. “Emily Carter, come here for a second,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway.
Once they were out of earshot, Michael leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Emily. I don’t like you. I will never like you. Office romances are not just discouraged; they are a fireable offense in my book. Whatever lies or fantasies you’ve been spreading to your family, you need to clear them up. I won’t have my name dragged into your personal dramas.”
Emily scoffed, the sting of his words sparking a fresh fire in her. “Who’d even like you? You’re arrogant, cold, and clearly have the emotional range of a paperclip. Believe me, you are the last person I’d ever fantasize about. Now, if you’re done insulting me, I have to take my grandmother home.”
She turned and marched back into the room, leaving Michael staring at the closed door.
That evening, back in the safety of her apartment, Emily sat on the edge of her bed, holding a pair of silk pajamas she had bought months ago. She stared at the pattern, then at a photo her mystery husband had once sent of his own favorite lounge set.
“This outfit,” she whispered, her brow furrowing. “Why is it identical to the one in his message?”
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. The world was full of coincidences. There was no way her cold, demanding boss could be the man who had spoken so softly to her on the phone.
The next day, the office was a hive of new activity. Michael called Emily into his office, a heavy notebook sitting on his desk. As she approached, she noticed he was scribbling something down.
“Mr. Thompson, your coffee,” she said, placing it down.
He didn’t look up, but he muttered something under his breath. “She’s so obsessed… why won’t she just give up?”
Emily caught the words and felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. He’s got bad luck in love, she thought. Probably being haunted by some ex. “Mr. Thompson,” she said out loud, “if you’re having trouble with someone, you should just be honest. Tell them you have someone else. Or, if all else fails, tell them you’re into guys. It usually works.”
Michael looked up at her, a strange, baffled expression on his face. “Excuse me?”
“Just a tip,” Emily said with a shrug. “I’ll take your secret to the grave, sir.”
Michael watched her walk out, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. She thinks I’m into men? he thought, glancing down at his notebook where he had been listing her favorite design awards and coffee preferences. Wait. She’s the one who likes me. Why should I be the one avoiding her?
He stood up and opened his door. “Two people are coming with me to dine with Mr. Anderson from Hangtong. Sophia, you’re with me. And you come too, Emily Carter. Let’s see if you can handle a real business meeting without falling over.”
Sophia, who had been eavesdropping from her desk, felt a surge of pure, unadulterated venom. “She’s using her body to climb,” she hissed to a colleague. “She thinks she can be his mistress while he’s still married? Emily Carter, you have no idea what’s coming for you.”