Chapter 4: Not-So-Private Affairs
1180 Words
Emery had never experienced a hangover from emotions before. But that morning, lying in a bed that wasn’t hers, wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of cedarwood and clean linen, she was undeniably wrecked.
It wasn’t the champagne.
It was him.
Dominic Maddox.
She sat up slowly in the guest room of his penthouse, heart still hammering from how the night had ended. No kisses. No confessions. Just that look...intense, unreadable and a quiet offer to crash at his place instead of braving the media frenzy outside her apartment.
“You’ll be safer here,” he’d said. “And besides… I trust you not to snoop through my wine collection.”
She hadn’t slept much. Not because the bed wasn’t comfortable...heaven help her, it was but because her brain wouldn’t stop looping the way he held her, the way Vanessa’s words burned, and the way his fingers lingered on hers in the car.
She wrapped a silk robe, he's definitely around herself and padded barefoot into the living room.
Dominic was already up.
Shirtless.
And doing something very illegal to a French press.
His back was to her, muscles flexing slightly as he poured the coffee. Dark slacks. Bare feet. Bed hair. He looked nothing like the immaculately-suited tycoon from last night.
He looked real.
And incredibly dangerous...to her sanity.
“Morning,” he said without turning.
“Do you own a shirt?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Shirts are for people who aren’t exhausted billionaires making coffee for their fake girlfriend.”
She laughed. “That almost sounded romantic.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
He poured two mugs. No sugar. No cream. Just rich, scalding caffeine and quiet tension.
“You okay?” he asked.
Emery wrapped both hands around the mug. “I think so. I didn’t expect the photos. Or Vanessa. Or you being… you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Charming and shirtless?”
She smirked. “Unnervingly good at faking a relationship.”
His jaw tensed just slightly. “Right. Faking.”
A beat passed.
Then the intercom buzzed.
Dominic stiffened. “Don’t answer that.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He crossed to the panel. “Yes?”
A voice crackled. “Dominic Maddox, delivery for Ms. Emery Blake.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t live here.”
“Exactly,” he muttered, pressing the button. “Send it up.”
Two minutes later, a concierge delivered a massive bouquet of pink tulips.
Emery blinked. “Wow.”
Dominic frowned. “From me?”
She checked the card. Her face fell.
Dominic read the look instantly. “Who’s it from?”
She hesitated. “Derek.”
His frown deepened. “Your ex?”
She nodded, reading aloud, “‘You looked beautiful last night. Let’s talk. – D.’”
Silence.
Dominic’s eyes darkened. “He’s watching you?”
Emery swallowed. “I guess he saw the photos.”
“And decided to send a bouquet like it was Valentine’s Day?”
She didn’t know what to say. The gesture was… confusing. Derek wasn’t the romantic type. He was the don’t-make-a-scene type. The break-up-via-text type.
Dominic’s voice dropped. “Are you going to talk to him?”
She looked up sharply. “Do you want me to?”
“I want to know what you want.”
She exhaled. “I want to figure out what the hell I’m doing.”
He nodded slowly. “Then maybe we should… cool the fake dating thing. Just for a day or two. Clear your head.”
Something in her chest dropped. She didn’t want space. She wanted clarity. But clarity meant acknowledging that what she felt last night wasn’t scripted.
And she wasn’t ready for that.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “Okay. Space sounds good.”
Two hours later, Emery sat across from her best friend, Nora, at a Brooklyn café, half-tulip bouquet stuffed awkwardly into her tote bag.
Nora wore her usual combat boots, ripped jeans, and righteous judgment.
“You spent the night at his penthouse?” she hissed.
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s the problem! Who lives out every rom-com dream and doesn’t at least make out with the billionaire?”
Emery groaned. “We’re pretending to date, remember? Lines. Boundaries.”
“You didn’t seem very boundaried in the photos.”
Emery sipped her latte.
Nora leaned in. “Do you like him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You like him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did. Your dreamy, post-tycoon-dancing-in-heels face.”
Emery sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Vanessa showed up. She’s stunning and terrifying and clearly not over him. And now Derek sends me flowers like the ghost of Christmas bad decisions.”
Nora wrinkled her nose. “Derek’s trash. He dumped you the day before your promotion interview.”
“I remember, thanks.”
“So why do you still care what he thinks?”
“I don’t!” Emery hissed. “I’m just… confused. It’s like suddenly I’m being yanked back into two very different worlds. One with a man who hurt me, and one with a man who...”
“Say it,” Nora urged.
Emery leaned back. “Who might be pretending less than I thought.”
Nora grinned. “There it is.”
Meanwhile, across the city, Dominic sat in his office, not hearing a word his assistant said.
He stared at the photo in the gossip column, him and Emery dancing, her laughing, his hand too low on her waist to be faked.
He should’ve been worried.
He should’ve been planning damage control.
Instead, he was replaying the moment she defended him to Vanessa like a shield of sunshine and sarcasm.
His phone buzzed.
Vanessa. Again.
He didn’t answer.
She’d left five messages.
One said she missed him.
Another said she wanted to talk.
The latest?
“We need to talk before things get worse.”
Worse? What could be worse?
Then an email pinged in from his legal advisor:
“You should see this. Vanessa’s father is pushing for an audit on your real estate acquisitions in Tribeca. Looks personal.”
Dominic cursed under his breath.
This wasn’t just a warning.
It was a move.
And Vanessa never played alone.
...
Back in Brooklyn, Emery hugged Nora goodbye and started walking. Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” came the voice she hadn’t heard in months.
“Derek?”
“I saw the photos. You looked… happy.”
She froze. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I made a mistake.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “You think?”
“I didn’t know what I had with you until I saw someone else have it.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I just want to talk.”
She looked at the flowers. At the city around her. At the woman she was now.
“Then talk.”
...
- Writer
