Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 10 - Where Elegance Meets Paradise

Sunlight spills across the marble and hits my face like a blessing. Simba’s still asleep at the foot of the bed, breathing slow, completely at peace with our new reality.

Lucky him.

I stretch like a cat and blink at the window until the light makes sense.

The ocean stretches out forever, this impossible blue shifting with the light. Down below, joggers are already moving along the beach, their sneakers kicking up sand as if the day belongs to them and I’m late to catch up.

Back home, mornings felt heavy. Gray sky pressing down, traffic noise scratching at my nerves. Here, the air feels lighter. Open. Almost forgiving.

I make coffee like I’ve done a thousand mornings: French press, slow pour, that bitter steam filling the kitchen so I can pretend it’s ordinary. The press sticks for a second, and I curse under my breath a small, human swear that steadies me.

Simba wanders onto the balcony, nose twitching, then curls into a sunbeam like he owns the place. Maybe that’s the trick: act like you belong, and you will.

At exactly 9:30, Carlos knocks. Always punctual, always immaculate.

“Ready for your first day, Miss Miller?”

My stomach flips. I smooth the front of my blouse with two fingers, tiny, useless motions, while my breaths come quick and shallow. *Please don’t notice, please don’t notice.*

I grab my bag, give Simba a quick scratch, and follow Carlos to the car. Downtown arrives like a different city: salsa from a café, horns, glass towers dazzling under the sun. It’s beautiful and loud and a little cruel. The mix of luxury and chaos presses in on me, equal parts alive and overwhelming.

The De Luca offices rise from the skyline like they own it. Three full floors of glass and steel. Inside, everything gleams: polished marble, the faint scent of expensive coffee, the quick click of heels on the floor. Nobody stops to look at me, but I still feel like an intruder walking into a world that doesn’t have space for mistakes.

At the lobby, the receptionist gives me a half-smile, professional, not warm. A security guard nods like we’ve shared a secret, and I try to smile back and fail spectacularly.

Isabelle Rodriguez is waiting by the elevators. Silver hair perfectly arranged, warm smile cutting through my nerves. Her presence radiates calm, like nothing here could ever rattle her.

“Emma! Finally! I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her accent is soft, melodic, grounding. She links her arm through mine without hesitation, steering me toward the elevators.

“Mr. De Luca says you’re a perfectionist who thinks of everything. Exactly what we need.”

She opens a side door, and we pass a wall of framed event photos, a New Year’s launch, a rooftop wedding, a gala, faces I don’t know but can already imagine. We step past a small kitchen where someone has left a half-drunk espresso and a stack of takeout boxes. She points out the conference room I’ll be using (“state-of-the-art AV”), the little phone booth for private calls, and a narrow shelf where someone has jokingly left a rubber duck wearing sunglasses. It’s ridiculous and comforting in the same breath.

Finally, we stop at a sleek office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. My name is already printed on the door. Inside, a brand-new laptop still sits in its box, neat stacks of files waiting.

I unpack the laptop and find a Post-it stuck to the screen: “Welcome, Emma!” in neat handwriting. Someone has left a cheap succulent in a chipped pot. I set my phone on the desk, press my thumb to the screen like a talisman, and add my lucky pen to the pen cup, tiny stakes of ownership that make me feel better in this huge place.

“Coffee? Tea?” Isabelle asks.

“Coffee. Strong.”

She pours the coffee into small white cups and hands me one like an offering. For a stupid second, we clink cups like sailors. “To small victories,” she says. I almost laugh and almost mean it.

“Let’s talk about the project that’s going to put South Beach back on the map.”

She slides a folder toward me. Inside are architectural plans so striking I can’t stop staring. My finger drags along a curve on the plan, and my stomach lurches, a quick, dizzy joy that tastes like fear. This is big. Too big to fumble. I jot a question in the margin, then cross it out. My handwriting betrays me: it’s messier than usual.

“The Azure,” Isabelle says. “One hundred twenty oceanfront suites, spa, private marina, three restaurants, including one Michelin-starred. Grand opening in four months.”

Four months. My pulse jumps.

“What’s the central theme?” I ask, leaning forward.

“‘Where elegance meets paradise.’ We want sophisticated elegance, not a flashy tourist trap. Something real.”

She smiles, eyes twinkling.

“We’re expecting international investors, celebrities, media. The event needs to embody De Luca sophistication while capturing Miami’s spirit.”

She hands me another folder, thicker this time. Guest lists, budgets, timelines. “The creative vision is yours.”

I write it down: guests, who moves where, lighting (backup plan). Small categories, huge stakes.

The list is embarrassingly simple, but already my brain hums. I feel the first real flicker of grip.

“Massimo says you have an eye for authenticity,” Isabelle adds. “That you create beauty without pretense.”

The compliment hits harder than it should. Even absent, his name shifts something in me. I look back down at the designs, willing my expression to stay neutral.

“When can I see the site?”

“This afternoon, if you want. But first, look at these.”

She spreads photos from past events across the table. They’re stunning, but not because of the décor. The people. They look alive, laughing, lost in the moment.

Halfway through, a young assistant pokes his head in. “Do you want the vendor contact for linens, or should I handle it?” He’s breathless, eager.

“Bring me options. Surprise me.”

He beams and scurries off.

For two hours, we dive deep. Guest demographics, vendor relationships, impossible timelines. My notes fill pages, my coffee goes cold, and still I keep asking questions. At some point, I reach for my cup, take a sip, and wince. Stone-cold. I rub my temples and whisper, “Focus, Emma.”

By the time Isabelle walks me to the elevator, I’m drained and buzzing all at once.

“You’re going to do brilliantly,” she says. “I see that spark Massimo mentioned.”

“I hope so. I really don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. Trust yourself. You’re here for a reason.”

In the mirrored elevator doors, I catch my reflection. Same dark circles under my eyes, but something else too, a set to my shoulders, a steadiness in my gaze I don’t quite recognize.

Maybe I’m not the same woman who broke down back in New York. Maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to belong here.

I catch myself wondering how long it’ll take before someone notices the little things I don’t know yet. Ten days? A week? I decide to make a tiny promise: learn three vendor names by tomorrow. Practical, dumb, doable.

I smooth my jacket one last time, tap the succulent like a small salute, and feel, very suddenly, like I’m running toward something that could break me. Or make me.