Love so Hot (Misfit Millionaires #1)

Chapter 55Lawrence

Chapter Fifty-Five

Lawrence

The office looms ahead, a monolith of glass and steel reflecting the early morning sun in blinding flashes. I push through the revolving doors with purpose, my footsteps echoing against the marble floor as I make a beeline toward Emily's office. Today, there’s no time for pleasantries or the usual cup of coffee from the break room; the weight of responsibility presses down on my shoulders, heavy with the anticipation of tomorrow's press conference.

Emily’s door is ajar, and without hesitation, I step inside. The soft hum of her computer greets me before she does, and she looks up from her desk with eyes that mirror the seriousness of the situation.

"Good, you're here," she says briskly, waving me into a chair across from her. The corners of her mouth tighten momentarily—a telltale sign of her concern. "We need to talk about tomorrow. The press is already having a field day with this explosion, and we need to manage the narrative carefully."

Her fingers are laced together, knuckles white, betraying the poised composure she projects effortlessly on any other day. This isn’t just about the pipeline; it’s about safeguarding the company from the smoldering embers of public scrutiny.

"The attack has left everyone on edge," Emily continues, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of urgency. "The future of the pipeline is under question, and so is our image. We can't afford to get this wrong."

I nod, aware of the gravity of her words. "Actually," I begin, my voice carrying a weight of conviction that seems to hang in the air, "I've been thinking. We should take the press conference in a different direction."

A flicker of curiosity dances across Emily's typically unreadable features. It’s subtle, but it betrays a crack in her usual armor of professionalism. Her eyebrow arches just enough to invite explanation.

Without another word, I reach into the inner pocket of my blazer, drawing out a crisp piece of stationery that crinkles softly in the silent room. My hand moves confidently as I uncap my pen—a deliberate dance of ink across paper as I scrawl the beginnings of a speech that feels more like a manifesto.

Minutes tick by, marked only by the quiet scratch of pen on paper and the occasional shuffle as Emily shifts, watching me transform thoughts into words. When the last period is dotted, I look up, meeting her gaze squarely.

"Here," I say, extending the handwritten draft toward her. "Could you give this a once-over? You know—massage it into something more... palatable?"

The paper exchanges hands, the texture of my resolve imprinted on the fibers. She takes it, her mask firmly back in place, yet her eyes still hold a glimmer of uncertainty.

"Of course," she replies, her tone even, betraying nothing of her thoughts.

Emily's eyes traverse the lines I have penned, a frown creasing her forehead as she processes each sentence. The silence in the room grows heavy, punctuated only by the faint hum of distant office machinery. Then, slowly, her gaze lifts from the page to lock with mine, a clear note of incredulity resonating in the deep blue of her irises.

"Are you really sure you want to do this?" Her voice, usually so composed and authoritative, wavers with a hint of disbelief.

I take in a steady breath, feeling the weight of the decision settle firmly onto my shoulders. My response is a decisive nod, the gesture sharp and without hesitation. "Yes."

The skepticism in Emily's stance is palpable; it hangs in the air like a dense fog. Yet she exhales, a silent acquiescence to the path I have chosen. With a reluctant click of her tongue, she warns, "People aren't going to like what you have to say."

I lean back against the cool leather of the chair, anchoring my resolve with a steadiness I have never felt before. "Emily," I begin, my voice carrying a new timbre of defiance, "I don't care about people's reactions anymore." My eyes lock onto hers, willing her to understand without further explanation. "There’s something else that matters more to me now."

The statement hangs between us, a gauntlet thrown down in the midst of our usual careful strategizing. Emily's eyebrow arches, a silent question mark etched above her skeptical gaze. She holds my stare for an intense moment, searching for the cracks in my armor, but I offer none. Without a word, she lets the silence speak her thoughts and turns back to the task at hand.

Emily’s hands move to the keyboard, where they begin their familiar dance over the keys. The clack of each keystroke punctuates the room, a testament to her ability to adapt and finesse even the most controversial of messages. I watch the top of her head, the way her hair falls forward as she concentrates, and I find myself admiring, not for the first time, her unwavering professionalism.

My own reflection stares back at me from the darkened screen beside her—a mirror to the calm determination that has settled in my chest. There is no turning back now. With every mark she makes on my original draft, with every sentence she hones, we are crafting a new future, one where my newfound priorities will no longer remain unspoken.

Emily pauses, her fingers momentarily still, then resumes her work with renewed vigor. I remain silent, trusting in her expertise to shape my raw honesty into something palatable, if not entirely comfortable, for the world to hear.

Emily's fingers slow, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reads through the latest iteration of my speech. My gaze drifts to the framed accolades on the wall, symbols of our success, now overshadowed by the weight of the decision before us. I know that what I propose we share with the press tomorrow will either redefine those triumphs or tarnish them forever.

"Done," Emily announces at last, breaking the stillness. She turns the screen toward me, revealing a document marked with her meticulous edits. Her eyes lock onto mine, a silent question lingering in their depths.

"Thank you," I say, my voice steady. "I know it's not... conventional, but it's time for transparency. For responsibility."

"Conventional has never been your style," she replies with a half-smile. There is a trace of doubt there, a hint of concern for the repercussions that tomorrow might bring.

I stand. "We've always been a good team, Emily. And I trust your judgment. But this—" I gesture towards the screen, "—it's more than just a press conference now. It's about setting things right."

Her nod is reluctant, but in it, I see the emergence of understanding. "Just be prepared," she cautions. "Not everyone will see it your way."

"I'm ready."