The violent pounding on her apartment door ripped Faith from a nightmare.

She groaned, her head throbbing with a vicious migraine. She dragged herself out of bed and opened the door.

A delivery man shoved a thick FedEx envelope into her hands.

Faith looked down. The red, embossed seal of AURA Automotive's Legal Department glared back at her.

Her hands shook so badly she tore the paper trying to open it. She pulled out the formal letter. Her eyes jumped straight to the bolded numbers.

It was a massive five-figure penalty fee. Tens of thousands of dollars she absolutely did not have.

The room spun. Black spots danced at the edge of her vision. She dropped the letter, grabbed her phone, and dialed Marion's number.

"Ms. Cole," Marion answered, her voice devoid of any human warmth.

"Marion, please, I just need a little more time—"

"Ms. B is furious," Marion cut her off. "You either deliver a flawless final draft by tonight, or we see you in court."

The line went dead.

Faith slid down the wall until she hit the floor. The cold, hard reality shattered her fragile pride into dust.

She had to write it. But her brain was empty. The fear had paralyzed her completely.

With trembling fingers, she opened her phone's settings and removed his number from the blocked list.

Her phone immediately vibrated with dozens of missed call alerts from Marion. She desperately checked her filtered messages inbox.

A new text notification from Emerson appeared at the top of the screen, having just been delivered the moment the block was lifted. She opened it. A second message followed immediately after. The second one read:

Running away is far more disappointing than not having a degree.

The words stung like a needle piercing her skin. But beneath the pain, it sparked a tiny, stubborn ember of defiance in her gut.

She forced herself to stand up. She walked to the desk and opened the half-finished draft.

To survive, she had to swallow every ounce of her pride. She opened the text thread with Emerson.

She typed, deleted, and typed again.

I'm sorry. I still need your help. If you can, please name your price.

She hit send. She buried her face in her hands. The humiliation burned her skin.

In a glass-walled office in Manhattan, Emerson sat at the head of a conference table. His phone lit up.

He glanced at the screen. He raised his hand, silencing the executive currently giving a presentation.

He stared at the words name your price. A flash of irrational anger flared in his chest. This woman had an incredible talent for pissing him off.

My consulting services are billed by the minute at a premium rate, he typed, his jaw tight. The time it takes to fix this will cost more than your penalty fee. You can't afford me.

Faith read the reply. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Fresh tears pricked her eyes.

Before she could put the phone down, another message arrived.

Bring your laptop. Download this encrypted calling app. I'll call you in five minutes.

Faith froze. A massive wave of relief crashed over her. She wiped her eyes aggressively and downloaded the app with shaking hands.

Exactly five minutes later, the app emitted a sharp, jarring ringtone. An unknown encrypted ID flashed on the screen.

She took a deep breath, shoved her earbuds in, and pressed accept.

A faint crackle of static filled her ears. Then, a voice.

"Can you hear me?"

It was a man's voice. Low, resonant, and laced with a trace of irritation. It sounded like aged cello strings vibrating in a quiet room.

A violent shiver erupted across Faith's skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

She cleared her throat. "I... I can hear you," she said, her voice trembling.

Emerson paused on the other end of the line. The sound of her voice caught him completely off guard. It was soft, slightly nasal from crying, and incredibly tight with anxiety.

His irritation vanished. He lowered his voice, adopting a tone that left absolutely no room for argument.

"Now, dry your tears, and open page three of the document."

Faith obeyed instantly. The late-night, cross-class audio session began.

The sound of paper shuffling echoed through Faith's earbuds. Emerson's breathing was steady, picked up with devastating clarity by his high-end microphone.

"The fatal flaw is on page three," Emerson's deep voice vibrated in her ears. "Your word choice here is too frivolous. AURA's target demographic is old money holding onto capital, not some hotshot kid on Wall Street who just got his first bonus."

Faith chewed on the end of her pen. "But the brief explicitly said to capture the attention of the younger generation."

Emerson let out a low, breathy chuckle.

The sound slid straight down Faith's spine like a sudden jolt of electricity, leaving a tingling sensation buzzing at her fingertips.

"The younger generation wants the privilege of old money," Emerson explained smoothly. "They don't want to turn old money into a streetwear brand. Change the word."

Faith surrendered to his logic. She typed the correction.

Two hours of intense, high-pressure editing left Faith's throat completely parched. She unconsciously licked her dry lips and swallowed.

The faint, wet sound of her swallow was magnified by the microphone.

On the other end of the line, Emerson stopped mid-sentence. His eyes darkened. He tapped his knuckles against the mahogany desk.

He forced his focus back. "Take five minutes. Go get some water."

Faith pulled out her earbuds, sprinted to the kitchen, chugged a glass of ice water, and ran back. She shoved the earbuds back in, panting slightly.

"Why are you running?" Emerson asked, a hint of genuine amusement bleeding into his voice.

"I'm afraid you're billing me by the second," Faith joked, her voice still soft and breathless. "I can't afford it."

Emerson leaned back in his leather chair. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Her soft, slightly nasal voice was doing strange things to his chest.

Then, a thought struck him. Since the landmine about her degree, he hadn't verified a single detail about her life.

"Leo said you're a writer with potential," Emerson asked casually. "How long have you been doing this?"

Faith stiffened. Her fingers gripped the edge of her laptop. "A while," she answered vaguely.

Emerson listened to her evasive, deer-in-the-headlights tone. His analytical brain rapidly pieced the data together.

She dropped out of school. She had zero corporate defense mechanisms. Her voice sounded incredibly young. She was terrified of a standard contract penalty.

The conclusion hit him like a bucket of ice water.

There was a raw, unpolished genius in her writing, mixed with a reckless, desperate impulse that reminded him of the brilliant but fragile Ivy League freshmen he occasionally guest-lectured. He painted a picture in his mind: a girl fresh out of school, incredibly talented but completely defenseless. She was probably nineteen. Maybe twenty. Barely out of high school.

Emerson was thirty. He was a ruthless, seasoned corporate shark.

A heavy, suffocating wave of moral guilt crashed down on him. The physical attraction he had felt toward her voice just moments ago suddenly felt deeply inappropriate. Sickening, almost.

The atmosphere on the call plummeted below freezing. Faith felt the shift instantly.

"Let's keep moving. Work only," Emerson said. His voice was completely stripped of warmth. It was pure ice.

Faith's chest ached. She didn't understand what she had done wrong, but she swallowed the hurt and nodded, even though he couldn't see her.

For the next hour, Emerson was a machine. He was efficient, brutal, and entirely cold.

At 4:00 AM, the copy was perfect. Faith stared at the final draft, letting out a long sigh of relief.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Beard," she said, using the most formal, respectful tone she could muster.

Emerson heard the word Mr. It cemented his theory. He let out a silent, self-mocking sigh.

"Send the invoice to AURA," he replied flatly. "If you have work questions in the future, use email."

He cut the connection before she could say goodbye.

Faith listened to the dead silence in her earbuds. She stared at the black screen of the app. A hollow, painful ache settled in her chest, as if someone had just snatched a precious gift right out of her hands.

Three days later, AURA approved the draft. Ms. B gave a rare nod of approval, but immediately demanded a supplementary copy tailored for the European market.

Faith's stomach churned. She had no choice. She opened the encrypted app and called Emerson.

It rang for a long time before he finally picked up.

Background noise-clinking glasses and faint chatter-filtered through the line.

"Ms. Cole," Emerson's voice was exhausted and distant. "I'm in Geneva on business."

Faith flinched at the cold formality of Ms. Cole. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said quickly. "Ms. B added a new requirement."

Emerson sighed. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window of his hotel suite, looking out at the dark waters of Lake Geneva. "Read it to me."

Faith read the brief. They fell back into their work rhythm, but the invisible wall between them was thicker and colder than before. Emerson's critiques were sharp, but he actively dodged any conversational openings.

Just as they were debating a specific marketing verb, a sharp, distinct knock echoed through Faith's earbuds.

Faith stopped talking. The silence on the line amplified the sound of the knocking.

Emerson frowned. "Give me a second," he said to the phone, setting it down face-up on the desk.

Faith heard his footsteps walk away. She heard the click of the heavy hotel door opening.

Then, a woman's voice drifted clearly into the microphone. It was a sultry, honeyed voice with a thick French accent.

"Emerson, you are still awake?"

Faith's brain exploded. The pen in her hand jerked, slashing a thick black line across her notepad.

The woman continued. "I brought your favorite Bordeaux. Can I come in for a drink?"

A violent wave of nausea hit Faith's stomach. A sour, burning jealousy clawed its way up her throat, choking her.

She glanced at the clock on her laptop. 2:00 PM in New York. That meant it was 8:00 PM in Geneva.

Eight at night. A woman with wine knocking on a man's hotel room door. It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Suddenly, Emerson's coldness over the past three days made perfect, humiliating sense.

He had a girlfriend. They lived together, or traveled together. And Faith was just the pathetic, annoying workaholic calling him in the middle of his evening.

She heard Emerson's low rumble in the background. He was saying something, probably turning the woman away, but his voice was too muffled to understand.

Faith's pride shattered. She refused to be the background noise to someone else's intimacy.

She leaned close to her laptop microphone.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening!" she yelled, her voice loud, fast, and dripping with defensive panic. "I'll figure the rest out myself!"

She slammed her finger onto the red end-call button.

In the Geneva hotel room, Emerson stood in the doorway, physically blocking his colleague, Livia, from entering.

He heard Faith's sharp, panicked yell from the phone on the desk. He turned his head, stepping back toward the desk, but the screen already showed the call ended.

He stared at the phone, his jaw clenching. He had absolutely no idea why the girl had just lost her mind.

"Emerson," Livia pressed, leaning against the doorframe. "It's just one glass of wine. Don't be so boring."

Emerson's eyes turned to ice. He looked at Livia.

"Livia," his voice was a lethal, quiet threat. "If you want to remain on this team, you will turn around and go back to your room. Now."

He didn't wait for her response. He slammed the heavy door shut, the loud bang echoing in the suite.

He picked up his phone and hit redial on the encrypted app.

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