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Chloe had been right. It was a glass cage. For the first time in twenty years, Victoria realized with alarming clarity that she was completely, totally homesick in her own bedroom.

By the time she landed in Illinois for the second leg of the trip, the exhaustion had settled deep into her bones. Two days of posturing in boardrooms achieved what Harrison wanted, but every handshake felt hollow. Under Harrison’s unblinking watch, she forced herself to tear through contracts with ruthless precision, but she couldn't bring herself to care about a single margin.

It was late Wednesday night when she finally escaped back to her hotel room. Victoria kicked off her heels and sank into an armchair by the floor-to-ceiling glass, nursing two fingers of neat bourbon. She stared out at the Chicago skyline, an indifferent grid of sodium lights and moving traffic.

On the desk, directly in her line of sight, sat her open laptop and the printed intent documents for Richard Vance. All they required was her signature.

Her phone vibrated violently against the dark wood of the nightstand, breaking the quiet.

Victoria reached for the handset, bracing herself for Harrison.

Instead, the screen read: Lucy.

Victoria frowned and answered the call. "Is something wrong? Is Emma okay?"

"Nobody is dead, relax," Lucy said, sounding thoroughly drained. "Look, Sterling, you scare the hell out of me on a good day, but if Emma asks me one more time if I think you’ll bite her head off for sending a text, I will personally buy a plane ticket to Chicago just to throttle you."

Victoria blinked, a sudden rush of relief flooding her chest. "She wants to text me?"

"She is miserable," Lucy groaned. "She’s baking at two in the morning again. The café is overflowing with pastries. She doesn’t have enough guests to eat them all so she brings them to the café. Nobody can eat this many muffins. Just text her. Please. For the love of my sanity, put the woman out of her misery."

A genuine, irrepressible smile broke across Victoria’s face. The tension that had been strangling her for days vanished. "I will handle it."

"Thank God," Lucy muttered. "Have a good night, New York."

Victoria hung up. She picked up her phone, opened her messages with Emma, and didn't allow herself to overthink.

Victoria: Lucy informs me you are abusing the baking equipment.

The response came three minutes later.

Emma: Lucy talks too much. I was just clearing the pantry.

Victoria stared at the screen. The typing indicator appeared, vanished, and then surfaced again. She took a slow sip of her bourbon, letting the burn of the alcohol anchor her while she waited.

Emma: I’m sorry about how I acted when you left. Your departure caught me completely off guard...

Victoria exhaled. Protected by the distance and the anonymity of the city skyline outside her window, Victoria decided to lower her own defenses.

Victoria: I know. It felt strange for me too. I am sitting in a sterile hotel room in Chicago and I find myself missing your ridiculous village.

Emma: The ridiculous village misses you back

Victoria: What are you doing? Isn’t it almost midnight there?

Emma: Yeah, but it is too hot to sleep, I just got out of a cold shower. I'm lying here waiting for the breeze to come through the window, but nothing is moving

Victoria shifted in the armchair. The image of Emma stepping out of the water, her skin flushed in the end of June heat, sent a heavy rush of heat straight to her lower stomach. Her fingers moved across the keyboard before she could second-guess the impulse.

Victoria: Are you dressed at all?

The typing indicator paused. Victoria’s pulse raced a relentless rhythm.

Emma: No. I just laid down on top of the sheets. I only have a towel on. Why, Ms. Sterling?

The air in the room suddenly felt way too thin. Victoria leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the glowing text. She wanted to push her, wanted to see exactly how far her control could stretch across a thousand miles of distance.

Victoria: Take it off.