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“No more making any decisions without you.” I reach for her hand, relief flooding me when she allows the contact. “Partners. In everything. The good, the bad, and the occasionally disastrous board politics.”

“Even crazy ideas about revolutionizing manufacturing processes?”

“Especially those.” I draw her closer, encouraged by the warmth returning to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I tried to control things instead of trusting you.”

“I’m sorry, too.” She returns the pressure on my fingers. “I walked away instead of telling you how it made me feel. Kind of ironic after I spent two years wishing you’d stayed and talked things through.”

“We’re both works in progress?” I offer.

Her smile emerges the first genuine one since Brighton interrupted our dance. “But we’re progressing together.”

Inside, the orchestra begins a new song. The opening notes of “The Way You Look Tonight” drift through the open doors—the same song we practiced in Sophie’s apartment.

“Dance with me?” I ask. “Not to show anyone anything. Just because I love you.”

She steps into my arms like she belongs there. Maybe she always has. Here on the moonlit terrace, away from watchful eyes and corporate politics, we sway together to the distant music. Her head nestles perfectly under my chin, her hand warm in mine.

“Emma,” I say after a moment, “there’s something else I need to tell you. About what Clara said to my mother.”

She tenses slightly. “Is it worse than restructuring my division?”

“No, but it’s important you know everything. She implied that some board members are questioning not just our professional judgment but our authority—that the Johnsons might pull their contract if our relationship becomes public knowledge.”

“But they already know. We presented to them tonight as a couple.”

“I know. That’s why it’s such an effective manipulation. Clara’s trying to create problems where none exists. Our approach impressed the Johnsons, who were unconcerned about our relationship.”

She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “So what do we do? Pretend we’re just colleagues?”

“No,” I say firmly. “We show them exactly what they’re afraid of—that being together makes us stronger, not weaker. That we can be professional partners and personal ones. That’s how we win this.”

“By not hiding?”

“By not letting them dictate the terms of our lives. Professional or personal.” I trace the curve of her jaw. “I spent two years in New York trying to prove something to my father, and all I proved was that running from problems doesn’t solve them.”

As the song ends, Emma rests her head on my shoulder again. “Tonight’s been...”

“Overwhelming?” I suggest, still holding her close.

“That’s one word for it.” Her sigh resonates against my chest. “Between Clara’s appearance, the board politics, your mother’s earrings, Brighton’s offer...”

“Brighton’s offer?” I pull back slightly, surprised.

“He offered me the head of global sustainable technology at Brighton Analytics,” she says matter-of-factly. “Creative control. My name on the patents.”

“I...wow.” I process this new information. “That’s quite an offer.”

“Yes, but that’s a discussion for later when I can think clearly. When we can both think clearly.”

Her candor—her willingness to tell me about a competing offer instead of using it as leverage or keeping it secret—amazes me. How many times have I witnessed power plays between executives over less significant issues?

“Too much corporate drama for one evening?”

“Just a lot to process.” She looks up at me, her expression softening. “I love you, and I’m glad we talked, but—”

“But you need some space to think?” Something twists in my chest, but I understand. This is me trusting her, even when it’s difficult.

“Not space exactly.” She adjusts my lapel, smoothing the silk with careful fingers. “Just...”