Emma made it back to her office before the shaking started.
Her hands. Her whole body, actually. Like she'd been holding herself together through sheer force of will, and now that she was alone—well, almost alone—everything was coming apart.
"Sit down before you fall down." Lena was already pouring whiskey. Top shelf. The bottle they kept for celebrating major deals or surviving personal disasters.
This felt like both.
Emma collapsed into her chair. Took the glass. Drank.
"Tell me you're not actually considering this," Lena said.
"I don't know what I'm considering."
"Liar." Lena perched on the edge of Emma's desk. "You've already pulled Sterling Tech's employee files. I saw the folder on your screen before you minimized it."
Damn. Emma couldn't hide anything from her.
"Three hundred and twelve employees," Emma said quietly. "I know some of them. Good people. They don't deserve to get screwed because James made bad calls."
"That's not your responsibility."
"Isn't it?" Emma pulled up the due diligence report her team had compiled. "Look at this. There's a hostile takeover brewing. Titan Capital is circling. You know what they do—they gut companies, sell off assets, keep maybe twenty percent of staff. Everyone else gets laid off with barely any severance."
Lena's face went grim. She knew Titan Capital's reputation. Everyone in their industry did.
"So you're saying if you don't invest, those people lose their jobs anyway."
"Exactly." Emma scrolled through the report. "At least if Phoenix takes the deal, I can protect the employees. Negotiate better terms."
"And see your ex-husband grovel." Lena's voice was dry. "Don't pretend that's not part of it."
Emma didn't deny it. Couldn't.
Her phone buzzed. Then again. And again.
James.
Three missed calls in the last hour. Two text messages. An email marked urgent.
"He's persistent," Lena observed. "I'll give him that."
Emma blocked his number. Then his email. Problem solved.
Except ten minutes later, security called. "Ms. Hartley? There's a James Sterling in the lobby asking to see you. Should we—"
"No." Emma's voice was sharp. "He doesn't get access. Tell him to leave."
"Yes, ma'am."
She hung up. Tried to focus on work. Failed spectacularly.
The next day, a handwritten letter arrived by courier. Expensive stationery. His handwriting—she'd recognize it anywhere.
Emma stared at the envelope for a full five minutes.
Then she put it in her desk drawer. Unopened.
Six months after the divorce
Emma's apartment was a shoebox in Brooklyn. Fourth floor walkup. Radiator that clanked all night. Neighbors who fought loud enough to hear through the walls.
It was nothing like the penthouse she'd shared with James.
It was hers.
She sat on her secondhand couch—Lena's castoff—eating ramen and scrolling through job listings on her laptop. Freelance tech consulting gigs. They paid okay. Kept her afloat.
Barely.
Her phone buzzed. Text from her mom: "Saw James and his new wife at a charity gala. She's pregnant. Just thought you should know."
Emma's stomach dropped.
She shouldn't look. She knew she shouldn't look.
She looked anyway.
Google: James Sterling.
First result: a photo from last night's gala. James in a tuxedo, Sophia in a designer gown with a barely visible baby bump, both of them smiling for the camera.
The caption read: "Sterling Tech CEO James Sterling and wife Sophia celebrate company's upcoming IPO."
Wife. They'd gotten married. Fast.
Emma clicked the article. Read it even though every word felt like swallowing glass.
"My success is built on knowing when to cut losses and invest in winners," James was quoted saying. "Both in business and in life."
Cut losses.
That's what she'd been. A loss to be cut.
Emma stared at that quote for a long time. Read it over and over until the words burned themselves into her brain.
Then something inside her shifted.
Snapped.
Changed.
She closed the laptop. Stood up. Walked to her tiny bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back looked tired. Defeated. Small.
"No," Emma said out loud. "No more."
If James wanted winners, she'd show him what a winner looked like.
Present day. Emma's phone rang again. Different number this time.
James. Of course.
She answered. "Stop calling me."
"I need to talk to you." His voice was raw. Desperate. "Please, Emma. Just dinner. One dinner. We can discuss terms, make this official—"
"Fine." The word came out before she could stop it.
Silence on the other end. Like he couldn't believe she'd agreed.
"Friday night," Emma continued. "Marea. Seven o'clock. I'm bringing my lawyer. This is a business dinner, James. Nothing more."
"Okay. Yes. Thank you—"
She hung up.
Lena was staring at her from the doorway. "Did you just agree to have dinner with your ex-husband?"
"Business dinner," Emma corrected. "Public restaurant. My lawyer present. Completely professional."
"Right." Lena didn't look convinced. "Because that's definitely all it is."
Emma ignored her. Turned back to her computer. Work. She had work to do.
But her hands were shaking again.
One year post-divorce
Emma sat in a Starbucks, trying to look more confident than she felt.
Her laptop was open. PowerPoint presentation queued up. Coffee getting cold because her stomach was too nervous to handle caffeine.
The door chimed. David Chen walked in—her old MBA classmate, now VP of Technology at a major financial firm. She'd reached out to him three weeks ago. Cold email. Apologizing for losing touch, asking if his company needed any tech consulting.
He'd said yes.
"Emma Hartley." David grinned, sliding into the seat across from her. "It's been what, seven years?"
"Eight." She shook his hand. Professional. Confident. Fake it till you make it. "Thanks for meeting with me."
"You said you have something that could revolutionize our market analysis. I'm intrigued."
Emma opened her laptop. This was it. Her shot.
She'd spent six months building this. Late nights, early mornings, every spare minute. A proprietary AI algorithm that could predict market trends with scary accuracy. She'd tested it on her own tiny investments—the last five thousand from her settlement money—and watched it grow to twenty thousand in three months.
Now she needed a real client. Someone with actual capital.
"What if I told you I could increase your investment returns by thirty percent?" she said.
David raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you're either a genius or a con artist."
"Let me show you."
She walked him through it. The algorithm. The data. The projected returns.
He started out skeptical. By the end, he was leaning forward, asking questions, scribbling notes.
"How much do you want?" he asked finally.
Emma had rehearsed this part. "Twenty percent of profits generated by the algorithm. And I retain full ownership of the code."
"Done."
Just like that.
Emma walked out of that Starbucks with her first real client. Her first real chance.
She sat on the subway heading back to Brooklyn and let herself cry. Happy tears this time.
She was going to make it.
Eighteen months post-divorce
Phoenix Ventures.
Emma stood in the empty office space, hardwood floors echoing under her heels. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. Room for a team.
Her team.
The algorithm had worked. Better than worked—it had made David's firm fifteen million in six months. Word spread. Other clients came calling. Emma hired Lena, then Jennifer, then Marcus. Built something real.
And now this. Her own investment firm. Official launch next week.
"You sure about the name?" Lena asked, walking through the space with a tablet, making notes about furniture.
"Phoenix Ventures." Emma smiled. "Rising from the ashes. Yeah, I'm sure."
Her phone buzzed. TechCrunch article notification: "The Dark Horse Investor: Meet Emma Hartley, the Woman Everyone's Betting On."
She'd made it. Actually made it.
That night, driving through Manhattan, Emma saw it. A billboard for Sterling Tech's new product launch. James's face forty feet tall, looking successful and polished and exactly like the man who'd destroyed her.
She pulled over. Stared up at it.
And smiled.
Not a bitter smile. Not a sad smile.
A satisfied smile.
Because she'd done it. She'd rebuilt herself into something stronger. Something he could never touch.
The pain had made her powerful.
The cost, though. That was harder to quantify.
She went home alone. To an apartment full of expensive furniture and empty spaces. She hadn't dated anyone since James. Couldn't imagine letting someone that close again. Couldn't imagine trusting anyone with the pieces of her heart she'd carefully glued back together.
She'd built walls. High ones. Strong ones.
They kept her safe.
They kept her lonely.
But lonely was better than broken.
Present day. Friday night. Marea Restaurant.
Emma arrived first. Designer dress—black, elegant, armor. Jennifer sat beside her, leather portfolio open, already reviewing contract terms.
"Remember," Jennifer said quietly, "you're in control here. Whatever terms you set, he accepts or walks."
Emma nodded. She'd prepared for this. Run the numbers. Established boundaries.
She was ready.
The door opened. James walked in.
Alone.
No Sophia. No assistant. No entourage. Just him in a suit that looked expensive but somehow wrong on him. Like he'd lost weight and hadn't bothered to get it tailored.
He saw her. Hesitated. Then walked over.
"Ms. Hartley." Formal. Careful.
"Mr. Sterling." Emma gestured to the seat across from her. "Sophia couldn't make it?"
Something cracked in his expression.
"Sophia left me," he said. Just said it. Right there in the middle of the restaurant. "Three months ago. Took our son. She's living with my VP of Sales now. They're engaged."
Emma felt her breath catch.
"Oh," was all she managed.
"Turns out she was exactly who I taught her to be." James's laugh was hollow. "Someone who trades up. Someone who cuts losses and invests in winners." He threw her words—his words—back at himself. "Poetic, right?"
He looked gutted. Absolutely gutted.
Emma should feel satisfaction. Should feel vindicated.
Instead, she saw pain. Real, raw pain.
She saw the man she'd once loved—before he'd become cold and cruel—sitting across from her, broken and humbled and human.
"James," she started.
"Ms. Hartley." Jennifer's voice cut through the moment. Professional. Efficient. "Shall we discuss terms?"
Emma blinked. Pulled herself together.
Right. Business. This was business.
"Yes," she said, not taking her eyes off James. "Let's discuss terms."
But something had shifted. She could feel it.
This was going to be more complicated than she'd thought..