The Billionaire's Secret Midnight Obsession

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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