Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 4 - After The Storm

I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to pull it together, wipe every trace of tears off my face, and slip back into the mask I’ve perfected over the years.

My hands shake as I check my reflection in my phone screen. Red, puffy eyes. Hair escaping from its bun like it’s trying to run away too. I look exactly how I feel, completely wrecked.

Come on, Emma. You’ve handled worse.

That’s bullshit and I know it. I’ve never handled worse. I’ve just learned to smile through the hits and keep moving. Tonight, for once, I fought back. This is what fighting back gets you, apparently.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the ache building behind them. Through the walls, I can hear music and laughter. Clinking glasses. People having the time of their lives while I’m out here having a breakdown in an alley like some tragic movie character.

My colleagues need me. The event isn’t over just because I am.

When I push back through the service door, the contrast hits like a slap. Everything’s perfect in here. Guests laughing over champagne, my backup lighting casting a gorgeous golden glow, the string quartet playing like angels. Everyone acting like the world didn’t almost end an hour ago.

Nobody knows I got destroyed ten minutes ago. Nobody cares.

“Emma!” Samantha bounces over, eyes bright with excitement.

“You’re incredible! Your lighting is gorgeous! Even Mr. De Luca said”

She stops mid-sentence by, actually looking at me for the first time.

“Hey, you okay? You look kind of”

“Tired,” I lie. Years of practice make it smooth. “Long day.”

The smile I paste on feels like plastic, but it works. It always works.

“You sure?” She leans closer, voice dropping. “Your eyes are kind of red. Have you been”

“Just needed some air. It’s stuffy in here.” I cut her off.

Daniel appears before she can push further, juggling three crises like always.

“Emma, can you handle the photographer situation? And the caterers want to know about dessert timing, and” I barely let him finish that I’m already starting.

I dive into work like it’s a lifeline. Checking schedules, fixing problems, solving mini-disasters before they explode. Each task pushes Massimo’s voice a little further back, though it Keeps creeping in, like static I can’t tune out..

When they make me look weak… I can’t afford that. Not again.

But I can feel him across the room. Even when I’m not looking, I know exactly where he is. He moves through the crowd like he owns it, which he probably does—charm, authority, the perfect host. Guests orbit him like he’s the sun.

Our eyes meet once across the chaos. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make my chest tight. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink. Like he’s cataloguing every crack in my armor.

I duck behind my tablet, pretending to be busy.

“Miss Miller?”

The voice makes me jump. An older man with silver hair and kind eyes stands beside me, genuinely warm in a room full of masks.

“Sorry to interrupt. Giuseppe Moretti, one of Mr. De Luca’s associates. I wanted to thank you for tonight.”

I blink. “Thank me?”

“The lighting crisis. We all saw how you handled it. Brilliant work, truly. Massimo’s lucky to have someone like you on his team.”

My throat closes. If only he knew what “being on his team” actually looked like.

“I was just doing my job.”

“Modest, too. I like that.” He smiles, and it reaches his eyes. “Too many people want credit without putting in the work. I will remember it for my next project.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me off-balance.

Brilliant. He called it brilliant.

For a second, I almost believe him. But then reality crashes back in. Massimo called it unacceptable. Told me I needed to learn respect.

Which version is true? The warm praise from a stranger, or the cold dismissal from the man whose opinion apparently matters most?

I grip my tablet so hard my knuckles ache, staring at the screen like it’ll tell me why his words cut deeper than Giuseppe’s praise. My chest feels like it’s caving in, like I’m still waiting for Mom to look up from her phone and say, “Good job, Emma,” for once.

Giuseppe’s words should make me feel good, right? But all I can think about is how Massimo looked at me earlier - like I was something that disappointed him.

God, I’m pathetic.

I scan the room without meaning to, and there he is. Across the crowd, Massimo’s talking to someone important-looking, all sharp angles and controlled gestures. His expression gives nothing away, but something pulls me toward him anyway. Like gravity I can’t fight.

God, I’m so f****d.

⸻

The night finally ends around midnight. I smile at the right people, fix the last problems, make sure everything’s packed up properly. Technically, it couldn’t have gone better.

I’m supervising cleanup when Samantha grabs my arm, practically vibrating.

“Emma, you’re not going to believe this! Do you know what Mr. De Luca just told Daniel?”

My stomach drops. “What?”

“He wants you for his next project! The big hotel opening in Florida! Daniel’s practically hyperventilating!”

The world tilts sideways. “What?”

“He said, and I quote: ‘Miss Miller understands the business. I want her in Florida.’ Can you even believe it? This is huge!”

Samantha grabs my arm, still buzzing, but her smile softens when she sees my face.

“Hey, for real, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I force a laugh, but it comes out like a cough. “Just… a lot.”

She hesitates, then pulls a crumpled candy wrapper from her pocket, offering it like it’s gold.

“Stole this from the break room. Chocolate helps, right?”

It’s such a dumb, sweet gesture that my throat tightens. I take the wrapper, even though it’s empty.

“You’re ridiculous, Sam.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” she winks, but her eyes linger, like she’s checking if I’m still in one piece.

For a second, I almost tell her about the alley. About how he tore me apart. But then the moment passes, and I shove the wrapper in my pocket, nodding like everything’s fine.

By the time I finish packing up, it’s almost two. The cleaning crew is breaking down my lighting system. In a few hours, there’ll be no trace of tonight except the memory of his voice cutting me open.

Daniel claps me on the shoulder.

“Emma, this Florida thing is incredible! De Luca specifically requested you. We’ll meet tomorrow to discuss details. Hope you’re ready for the opportunity of a lifetime!”

I nod, keeping my face blank.

Outside, the cool air hits my overheated skin like a blessing. My heels echo on empty sidewalks. Somewhere up there, Massimo’s probably wrapping up his perfect evening, satisfied.

Does he even remember breaking me? Does he care?

I close my eyes and let exhaustion wash over me. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face Daniel’s excitement, and somehow figure out what I’m supposed to do about Massimo De Luca.

⸻

At home, Simba greets me like I’ve been gone for years instead of hours. Pure joy, no strings attached.

I collapse on the couch still wearing my dress. Simba jumps up, resting his warm head on my lap.

“At least you don’t play games,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears.

That’s when the dam finally breaks. Everything crashes down at once: humiliation, confusion, the way he looked at me like I was something stuck to his shoe. His words echo in my head, mixing with my family’s voices from every dinner table argument I ever lost.

When they make me look weak… I can’t afford that.

I see myself at fourteen, trying to defend some stupid opinion while Mom rolled her eyes. “Emma, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dad nodding along. Ethan looking embarrassed to be related to me.

It’s always the same script: tear me down, then dangle something shiny. Approval with strings attached.

I cry until there’s nothing left, Simba patient and warm beside me. When the tears finally stop, I’m empty but clear.

My phone buzzes. Email from Daniel:

“Emma, we need to discuss Florida first thing tomorrow. Get some sleep, big day ahead!”

I stare at the screen, something hardening inside me. Cold and final.

No.

I won’t be his project. His puppet to play with. I’ve spent twenty-two years in that cycle, and I’m f*****g done.

I type fast, without hesitation:

“Daniel, I cannot accept the Florida project. Please give my regrets to Mr. De Luca. Thank you for the opportunity. Emma.”

Half a second of doubt. Career suicide. Madness.

Then I remember his eyes. His voice.

I hit send.

For the first time tonight, I can actually breathe.

I’m done being the girl who accepts destruction in exchange for scraps of approval. Even if it means staying invisible forever. Better to stay small, quiet. In the dark, no one notices when you break.