Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 9 - Departure

Sunday morning. 6 AM.

The taxi honks outside my building like an impatient alarm clock. I flinch, zip up the last suitcase, and almost catch my sweater in the teeth of the zipper. Smooth, Emma. Real smooth.

I look at the suitcase like it’s going to bite me. Jeans folded too quickly, a pile of T-shirts that don’t match, my favorite sweater that smells faintly of Ethan’s laundry detergent because I “borrowed” it weeks ago. A pair of heels I’ll probably regret bringing, stuffed between rolled-up socks. My bathroom bag is a mess of tangled hair ties, mascara smudges on the zipper, and a half-empty bottle of perfume that I refuse to leave behind.

It’s not glamorous, not like in the movies where girls pack designer luggage with silk slips. It’s me, half chaos, half comfort.

Simba waits quietly in his crate, calmer than me. Probably smarter too, he’s already figured out that nerves don’t change what’s coming.

At the airport, everything runs like clockwork. Too perfectly, almost. Isabelle’s fingerprints are on every detail, boarding passes pre-checked, documents for Simba ready, even someone waiting to guide me through security. All I have to do is shuffle from one checkpoint to the next, like a passenger in my own life.

At security, a TSA guy glances at Simba. “Emotional support?”

I blurt, “No, just very judgmental.” He blinks. I grin too wide. Kill me now.

Business class is… surreal. Wide seats, real glass, polite smiles from people who don’t look half-dead before takeoff. I sip orange juice, spilling a drop on my jeans. My hands are clammy on the armrest, my leg bouncing like I’m twelve at her first school dance. Even the hum of the engines feels too loud, vibrating straight through my ribs. The cabin smells faintly of coffee and that clean, lemony disinfectant, but underneath it I swear I can still smell the recycled air, dry, metallic, sticking to the back of my throat

Four hours in the air. Four hours of clouds slipping by like lazy ghosts. I can’t stop replaying that lunch with Massimo, the apology, the promise he’d let me work freely. Maybe it meant something. Or maybe it was just another performance. Another way to win.

When the plane dips and the captain announces our descent, my stomach knots tighter than turbulence ever could.

The heat slams into me the second I step outside thick, soupy air that makes my clothes stick instantly to my skin. It’s like breathing through a wet blanket. The air tastes salty, mixed with exhaust fumes, sharp on my tongue. Sweat beads instantly at my temples, sliding down my back, and I already miss the dry chill of New York mornings. My lungs ache like they’re learning a new rhythm, forced to expand against the heavy, damp air.

Someone is waiting with a sign. “Miss Miller? I’m Carlos, your driver.”

He says my name like I’m some important guest.

“Hi, Carlos.” My voice cracks. Great first impression.

Sweat beads at my hairline before I even reach the car. My jeans cling to my legs, and I can taste salt in the air every time I breathe

The ride through Miami feels like stepping into another world. Palm trees lining endless roads, glass towers gleaming against a sky so blue it looks fake. Murals flash bright colors across walls that beg you to stop. Boats scatter across the bay like punctuation marks.

As I start to lose myself in my thoughts Carlos’s voice drags me out.

“First time in Miami?”

“Yes, looks better in real than in pictures…”

"You picked a good time to visit," Carlos says, gesturing at a mural of flamingos. "Art Basel just ended, so the city's still buzzing."

"Art Basel?"

"Big art fair. Brings all the crazy rich people out." He grins in the rearview. "You'll fit right in."

I snort. "Yeah, me and my Target jeans are super high-society."

We keep on talking all the drive, Carlos explains to me a little about Miami, about the places we see when we pass by them.

Simba presses his nose to the window, ears flicking at every honk and shout. At least one of us is excited.

Without realizing it, the car is already parked and we’re here.

The apartment isn’t a penthouse, but it might as well be compared to my shoebox back home. Spacious, modern, walls so white they almost hurt. Huge windows opening onto a bay view that looks like a postcard.

Carlos sets a folder on the counter. “Building services, Wi-Fi, gym, concierge numbers. And tomorrow, nine-thirty, I’ll pick you up for your meeting with Miss Isabelle.”

So casual, like this is normal. Like me having a driver.

When he leaves, the silence presses in harder than the city noise outside. Simba trots from room to room, nails clicking against polished floors, tail wagging like he already owns the place.

I should unpack, but instead I mess with Simba’s cushion, flattening it, fluffing it, trying to make it look less pathetic in this designer space. Tiny victory. Then I collapse onto the couch and just… stare out the window. The water stretches forever, dotted with yachts and speedboats. The glass is so spotless it feels like there’s nothing between me and the horizon, like I could step forward and tumble straight into that endless blue. A faint vibration hums under my feet from the traffic below, and for a second it feels like the whole city is pulsing through the building, daring me to match its heartbeat.

I grab Simba’s leash and head out, mostly because I need air.

The streets smell different here, salt, food trucks, faint gasoline from the bay. A kid shouts in Spanish, a jogger almost collides with me, mutters something I don’t catch. Everyone here moves different. Fast but not stressed, like they know some secret about not freaking out that I never learned.

Simba sniffs every palm tree like it’s a holy ritual. His tail wags at absolutely nothing, and something tight in my chest finally unclenches. If Simba’s not worried, maybe I don’t have to be either. Yet

By the time we circle back, the sun’s already dropping, painting the bay in gold and pink so beautiful it almost pisses me off.

Back upstairs, I sink into the couch with Simba curling against me. I send Ethan a couple pictures the view, the apartment, Simba looking smug in his new kingdom. His reply pings instantly: Holy s**t. You’re living the dream!

It doesn’t feel like my dream. More like someone else’s life I’ve accidentally broken into.

I scroll, stall, breathe. Tomorrow it starts meetings, expectations, people waiting to see if I crash or fly.

But instead of sleeping, I end up on the balcony. The night air is warm, heavy with salt and something sweet I can’t place. New York nights were noisy, relentless. Here, it’s different. Softer. The city hums beneath me, music floating from somewhere distant, laughter rising then disappearing, headlights streaking across the bridges like restless fireflies.

I lean against the railing, letting the breeze tease my hair and cool the sweat on my skin. Lights shimmer on the water, reflecting in patterns that make the bay feel endless. Somewhere deep in me, a weird thrill mixes with panic, like standing on the edge of a cliff, dizzy from height but unable to step back. Simba’s warmth at my feet keeps me anchored, just barely.

“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. One new message.

Welcome to Miami, Miss Miller.

I freeze. Massimo? His assistant? Both? Doesn’t matter.

My hands start shaking. He’s not just some memory from New York anymore, he’s in the same city now. And that text… what does it mean?

More than that, why do I have the terrible feeling he’s already put me exactly where he wants me?