POV Emilia
Being back in Manhattan feels like stepping out of a fairy tale and directly into a corporate blender set to “nightmare mode.”
The Alps were this perfect bubble where Adrian and I could pretend we were just two people figuring out how to be together without the weight of family expectations, media scrutiny, and board meetings that could reshape entire industries.
Now we’re back to reality, which includes sitting in conference rooms with people who probably read every single headline about our “fake” engagement.
“The Morrison account needs restructuring,” I’m saying to a room full of senior executives who are pretending not to stare at my engagement ring. “Their current approach is bleeding money faster than a severed artery.”
Adrian nods from across the mahogany table, all professional CEO composure, but I catch the slight smile when I use medical metaphors for financial disasters.
Three days ago, he was teaching me to ski and laughing when I face-planted in powder snow. Now we’re back to performing competence for an audience that includes his father and about twelve other people who could probably buy small countries.
“What do you propose?” Richard Marlowe asks, because apparently my opinion matters now that I’m wearing his son’s ring and sitting in meetings instead of fetching coffee.
“Complete overhaul. New strategy, new team, new execution timeline.” I pull up the presentation I’ve been working on since 5 AM because jet lag is a bitch and my brain doesn’t understand time zones. “We cut the dead weight, focus resources on high-yield opportunities, and actually deliver results instead of pretty PowerPoints.”
Someone coughs. Someone else shuffles papers. Richard looks like he’s watching a chess match he didn’t expect to find interesting.
“Aggressive timeline,” observes our CFO.
“Aggressive situation,” I counter. “Sometimes you need surgical precision, sometimes you need a fucking sledgehammer. Morrison’s a sledgehammer scenario.”
Adrian’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh at my boardroom profanity. Professional Emilia doesn’t usually drop f-bombs in front of senior leadership, but Alps Emilia apparently gave zero fucks about corporate decorum, and she’s bleeding through.
The meeting continues with the usual corporate theater—strategic discussions that could probably be emails, presentations that explain the obvious, and enough buzzword bingo to make my eyes bleed.
But something’s different now. People actually listen when I talk instead of looking through me like I’m furniture with opinions.
“Excellent work, Emilia,” Richard says as people file out. “Your insights are… refreshing.”
Translation: You’re not boring us to death with diplomatic non-answers, which is apparently noteworthy in corporate America.
When the room clears, Adrian and I are left with the awkward transition from public professionals to whatever the hell we’re becoming privately.
“Hungry?” he asks, loosening his tie in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“Starving. Jet lag makes me want to eat everything or nothing, and today’s an everything day.”
“Good, because I ordered way too much food.”
He leads me to his office—our office, technically, since I apparently work here now in some capacity that’s still being defined by lawyers and HR departments.
Spread across his usually pristine desk is enough takeout to feed a small army: Thai, Italian, sushi, and what looks like gourmet burgers from that place that costs forty dollars for a sandwich.
“Jesus, Adrian. Were you feeding a board meeting or planning for the apocalypse?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got options.”
There’s something endearing about successful billionaire Adrian Marlowe being nervous about lunch choices. Like he’s more comfortable negotiating million-dollar deals than figuring out if I prefer pad thai or carbonara.
“This is sweet,” I tell him, stealing a french fry. “Excessive and slightly insane, but sweet, Mr. Marlowe.”
“I missed this,” he says, sitting on the edge of his desk instead of in his intimidating CEO chair.
“Missed what? Overpriced takeout?”
“Missed you not calling me Mr. Marlowe. Missed you saying exactly what you think instead of what you think I want to hear.”
Honesty hits differently here. In the Alps, everything felt possible. Here, reality keeps intruding with phone calls and meetings and the constant awareness that we’re being watched by people who have opinions about our relationship.
“The meeting went well,” I say, because focusing on work feels safer than processing feelings in his office.
“You were brilliant. Richard looked like he was reconsidering every assumption he’s made about you.”
“Good. I like keeping powerful men slightly off-balance.”
“Is that your strategy with me too?”
“Adrian, you’ve been off-balance since I walked into your office and quit without notice. I’m just maintaining consistency.”
He laughs, and the sound makes something warm unfurl in my chest. This feels easy. Natural. Like we might actually figure out how to be real together without imploding spectacularly.
My phone rings.
The ringtone cuts through our comfortable bubble like a fire alarm, and when I see “Mercy General Hospital” on the screen, everything inside me goes cold.
“I should take this,” I say, already knowing with absolute certainty that whatever news is coming will change everything.
“Miss Hart?” The voice is professional, controlled, the kind of tone medical professionals use when they’re about to destroy someone’s world. “This is Dr. Martinez. I’m afraid I have difficult news about your father.”
The takeout containers blur together. Adrian’s office feels like it’s tilting sideways.
“Miss Hart? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Your father passed away this morning at 11:47 AM. His heart stopped during routine monitoring. We did everything possible, but his condition had deteriorated significantly overnight.”
The words hit like physical blows. *Passed away. Heart stopped. Did everything possible.*
“Miss Hart?”
“I…” My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. “I’ll be right there.”
I end the call and stare at the phone like it might explain how my world just ended during lunch in Adrian’s office.
“Emilia?” Adrian’s voice seems far away. “What happened?”
“He’s gone.” The words feel impossible, like speaking a foreign language. “My dad is gone.”