EMMA

The softest sliver of gray light slipped through the edges of the curtains, casting lazy shadows across the hardwood floor.

I lay still, the warmth of Jake's sheets tangled around my legs, listening to the quiet hum of the city far below. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its voice thin and tired, like even New York had celebrated too hard last night.

My body ached in the best way, warm and heavy beneath the comforter. His comforter. His scent, the faintest mix of cedar and soap, lingered in the fabric like a promise I wasn't meant to keep.

I blinked slowly, letting the memory of the night wash over me—the soft sway of lights on the Elevated Acre, the chill of the wind biting at my cheeks, the weight of Jake's arms pulling me close under the sky, his mouth on mine as the clock struck midnight.

I closed my eyes. I should have said no when he asked me to stay, should have slipped out before dawn like I had planned, should have done a lot of things.

But I didn't, because I couldn't.

The mattress shifted behind me. Jake's hand brushed my bare shoulder, his fingers drawing slow, lazy lines across my skin. I shivered, despite the warmth.

"Morning," Jake said, voice rough with sleep.

I smiled faintly into the pillow. "Barely."

His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. I let him and sank into his embrace, letting myself pretend, just a little longer. His breath tickled the curve of my neck.

"New Year's Day," he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. "We slept through half of it."

"I know." I turned to face him. His green eyes were warm, rimmed with sleep, his smile still lazy, and his hair a mess of soft curls. He was the most beautiful thing I would never deserve.

"I'm going to make you breakfast," he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Don't move."

I laughed quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He rolled out of bed, tugging a plain gray T-shirt over his head, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The smell of coffee and eggs drifted back a few moments later.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight in my chest growing tighter by the second. The truth was, I was going somewhere, sooner than he realized.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen stayed black. The phone was dead.

Shit.

I plugged it into the charger with shaking fingers, my stomach twisting with sudden dread. I didn't need to see it to know what would be waiting when it powered back on.

Eric was probably losing his mind. We had less than a week left, everything had to be perfect, and I had told him I wouldn't stay the night.

But I had, because I was weak, because I couldn't say no to this, to him.

I sat up slowly and pulled on the oversized sweatshirt Jake had laid out for me the night before. The sleeves swallowed my hands, and his scent clung to the fabric—warm, familiar, devastating.

I glanced toward the kitchen. Jake was humming quietly to himself, moving around the stove, completely unaware, completely safe. For now.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nose.

Get it together, Emma. Just a little longer.

I pulled my hair into a messy bun, rubbed at the tiredness under my eyes, and padded out toward the smell of coffee... and home.

Jake stood at the stove barefoot, the morning light catching in his hair as he moved with that quiet, easy rhythm that was just so him. And something in me cracked open at the sight—softly, deeply, like a thread being pulled loose.

I had bought myself another day with him, against my better judgment. And I knew I would pay for it later—with Eric, with myself. But the hourglass was already tilting, and the last grains of sand were tumbling fast.

"Perfect timing," Jake said as I stepped in. "You're on coffee duty. I'm busy being a culinary genius."

I swallowed hard, masking it with a smile, and reached for two mugs from the cabinet. "If you burn that, I'm never letting you live it down."

"You wound me," he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.

God. He was so achingly beautiful when he smiled like that—like the weight of the world wasn't sitting right between us. But it was, and I had to carry it for both of us for now.

I busied myself at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs with hands that weren't quite steady. The scent was rich, familiar, and my nerves were anything but.

Jake's voice broke through the fog in my head. "You've been quiet lately."

I froze, my back still to him. "Have I?"

"Yeah." I heard the soft scrape of the spatula against the pan. "Ever since we got back from Ithaca... you've felt a little farther away. I don't know—I guess I thought maybe it scared you. Us. How real it's gotten."

I heard my heart splinter just a little. I inhaled sharply, turned, and forced a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "It's just work," I said with a shrug that felt practiced. "And life. It's been a lot lately."

"Mm." He plated scrambled eggs and toast, then walked over and set a plate down in front of me. "You know you're allowed to let me in, right?"

I handed him his coffee instead of answering, wrapping my fingers around my own mug like it could anchor me. "Thanks for breakfast, Parker."

He chuckled, bumping my hip gently as we slid into our usual spots at the small kitchen table. His knee brushed mine under the surface—casual, absent-minded. But to me, it felt like a tether I was already grieving.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me over the rim of his mug. "So... how was Christmas? With your aunt and uncle?"

My chest tightened. I had lied to him about Christmas, told him we were visiting our family. The truth was, Eric and I spent it half-drunk, packing our lives into go-bags and finalizing our escape plan.

I cleared my throat. "It was... complicated," I said, pushing scrambled eggs around my plate. "I hadn't seen them in years. It was awkward at first. But I think they still care—in their own way."

It wasn't a lie, not really. My mind had already drifted to the reunion with my parents.

Jake studied me quietly, the faintest crease between his brows. Then he reached over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing my temple. "I'm glad."

I swallowed hard and took a sip of coffee, hoping it would drown the unease clawing its way up my throat.

"I wish you'd just move in with me." Jake was still looking at me, his voice so quiet it nearly disappeared between us. "No more scheduling dinners around our ridiculous work hours. No more running across the city in the middle of the night just to see you."

My stomach twisted, nausea curling up my throat like a warning. I stared at him, heart hammering violently against my ribs. He looked so open, so hopeful, so sure. And I was about to shatter all of it.

"I—" I forced a breathy laugh and tried to deflect, falling back on the easiest mask I had. "I mean, I basically live here anyway. I've got a toothbrush and half a drawer. What more do you want from me, Parker?"

And I swallowed hard again, holding back the words I couldn't say. I'm sorry I'm lying to you, Jake. I love you too much to stay.

He laughed. "Fair point." His thumb traced absent circles against the back of my hand. "I'm serious though."

I forced another tight smile and squeezed his hand briefly, pretending I wasn't breaking apart piece by piece. Then his phone buzzed against the table, sharp and jarring in the soft quiet of the apartment. But it felt like a small mercy to me, sparing me from having to come up with another lie.

Jake winced. "Hold that thought. Can you pour me another cup?"

"Sure." I rose quickly, anything to give myself an excuse to move, to breathe.

I stood at the counter, pouring the steaming coffee, when the tone of his voice changed—subtle, clipped, tense.

"Yeah, Parker. I'm listening."

A pause.

"You're kidding me. After all this time?"

Another long silence.

"Alright. I'm on my way. Pull up everything we have on the Met guest list—the ones we interviewed, everyone."

I froze, coffee sloshing dangerously in the mug. A cold sweat prickled down my spine.

The Met.

The cup slipped from my grasp before I even realized my hand had started to tremble. It hit the floor with a sharp, violent crash.

"Emma?"

Jake's voice snapped me out of my daze. I was already on my knees, scrambling to gather the shattered ceramic with trembling fingers when the sting finally registered. I looked down. A thin ribbon of red was curling from the inside of my palm.

Jake was there in an instant, crouching beside me, his hands warm and firm as they closed over mine to still them. "Hey, stop," he said, frowning. "You're bleeding."

I stared at him, blinking. "I'm fine. I'm just... a little clumsy today."

Jake didn't buy it for a second. He pulled me gently to my feet. "Come here."

He led me to the sink and ran cold water over my hand, inspecting the cut with soft, clinical precision. I watched the blood swirl and vanish down the drain, feeling numb, distant.

Jake grabbed a clean dishtowel and pressed it gently to my palm, his thumb brushing soothing circles over my wrist as he held it. Then, he opened the cabinet above the fridge and retrieved the little first aid kit I had teased him about for being overly prepared.

"This is why I keep this," he muttered under his breath as he carefully bandaged my hand.

I watched him in silence. The soft drag of the gauze, the way his brow furrowed in concern, the brush of his fingers over mine when he tied off the bandage. And yet, I felt miles away, my mind already spiraling, trying to make sense of what I had just overheard.

Why now? Why were they calling him about that case? It had gone cold months ago—ever since Vitale was arrested and indicted. I thought that was the end of it.

Jake pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. I closed my eyes, helpless to stop the ache. Then his phone buzzed again. I felt him stiffen. A heavy sigh escaped his chest as he stepped back.

"They called me in," he said, the regret clear in his voice. "Some podcast went viral last night, claiming we botched the Met case."

The blood drained from my face. A podcast?

Jake, too busy slipping on his suit jacket, didn't notice. He tugged the tie loose around his neck, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I hate leaving you like this. Are you going to be okay?"

I nodded automatically. My voice came out quieter than I intended. "I'll be fine. Go."

He kissed my temple gently, his fingers trailing down to the bandage like he didn't want to let go. "Call me if you need me. Anything, okay?"

I forced a smile. "I will. Good luck."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt so much louder than it should have.

I stood there in the kitchen, staring at the broken pieces of ceramic scattered across the floor. Without thinking, I grabbed the dustpan and swept the pieces up in a blur of motion, each scrape against the tile ringing louder than it should have. Then I turned on my heel, bolted toward the bedroom, and snatched my phone from the charger. My fingers fumbled as I powered it on, dread already rising in my throat.

The phone buzzed violently to life on the nightstand, message after message lighting up the screen. I cursed under my breath. There were dozens of missed calls and voicemails. All from Eric.

Where the hell are you?

You NEED to call me.

We have a serious problem.

I'm at the apartment. Get here. Now.

The air vanished from my lungs. I yanked on a pair of jeans, grabbed the sweater I kept here, and shoved my feet into the same heels I wore last night. My fingers trembled as I pulled on my coat, then I bolted for the door.

The taxi ride to the apartment felt like it took years. I sat stiffly, barely breathing, staring blankly at the blur of snow-dusted streets. My heart hadn't stopped hammering since I read Eric's messages.

When the driver finally pulled up outside, I shoved a crumpled bill at him and bolted out before the wheels even stopped turning.

I ran to the elevator, pressing the last floor button, my palms sweaty, my lungs tight. When the doors finally slid open, I stepped out and sprinted down the hall.

The second I burst through the door, I found him—Eric, pacing like a caged animal in the middle of our small living room, phone in one hand, laptop open on the table. His head snapped up the second the door slammed shut.

"Emma." His voice was sharp, clipped. "Where the hell have you been?"

I froze, breathless. "I—Jake's place. My phone died. I didn't—"

He swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "You weren't supposed to stay the night. You scared the hell out of me."

I stepped closer, peeling off my coat with trembling fingers. "What's going on?"

Eric spun the laptop toward me. "You need to see this."

The screen lit up with the logo of an anonymous podcast—black background, stark white lettering, a distorted voiceover introduction already mid-play.

My blood turned to ice. I sank onto the couch beside him as the words washed over me like cold water:

"One year later, and no arrests, no answers. Only silence from the people who swore they would bring justice. The Met Job: One Year of Lies and Failure."

And worse, there was footage. Grainy, but unmistakable. Guests laughing, sipping champagne beneath priceless art. Guards chatting idly. Doors left ajar. The Van Gogh exhibit in the background.

The voice continued, "The night the unthinkable happened, I was there. No, I wasn't a guest. I wasn't security. I was just another nameless face—watching. Recording. Waiting. And what I saw was failure."

I pressed my fingers hard into my palm, trying to ground myself. How the hell did this happen? How did I miss it—him? Whoever he was.

Eric hit pause. The sudden silence felt deafening.

"We missed him," he said bitterly. "We thought the Hauser Studios team were the only ones with cameras inside. We thought we closed every hole."

He jabbed at the laptop. "But this guy—he wasn't a photographer. He was something else. A guest. He had a hidden camera. Probably cufflinks, maybe a lapel mic—something small, professional."

I stared at the frozen frame on the screen. People in tuxedos blurred into faceless shadows.

"The footage is bad. We don't even know how much he got," Eric said, his voice tight. "He could've caught you on something."

He ran a hand through his hair. "And now he's accusing the FBI of a cover-up—of being in bed with the rich elite. Says the painting was found by 'luck,' and the real thieves were never caught." He scoffed. "He's not exactly wrong."

The bile rose in my throat. I couldn't move—I just stared at the podcast footage, frozen. My voice wouldn't come.

It was like watching a noose tighten in real time, and all I could do was stand there, silent, helpless, waiting for it to snap.

Eric gave me a hard look. "They don't know it's us. Not yet, at least. But this podcast is viral. Millions of downloads since last night. The FBI's scrambling. You think Jake hasn't seen this?"

The weight of the world slammed down on my chest. I shook my head slowly, forcing the words out. "He got a call. This morning. They brought him back in."

Eric nodded grimly. "Yeah. Well, the case just came back to life. They'll reopen everything."

I felt dizzy. This was wrong. Jake couldn't learn the truth this way. He just couldn't.

Eric shut the laptop with a soft, final click. "I've already started tying up the loose ends. We follow the plan. I'll erase what's left of our trail. We leave in a day or two, tops. If this blows up faster than I expect—tonight."

My vision blurred. Everything felt far away, like I had stepped out of my body and left someone else behind to deal with the fallout.

Eric crouched low, his voice breaking through the haze. "Em... it's time. We have to go."

I didn't answer. My eyes were still locked on the blank laptop screen. All I could think about was Jake. How long until he put the pieces together? How long until he looked at me and saw what I really was?

I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowed the scream clawing up my throat, and whispered the truth I could barely admit even to myself. "I have to tell him."

Eric stared at me in disbelief. "Emma—"

I cut him off, my voice breaking. "I can't let him find out on his own. I can't let him think I never cared."

I stood up, numb and hollow. I barely registered Eric calling after me as I walked into my room. My mind was already racing, scrambling for a way to tell Jake the truth—before it was too late.

Because the final countdown had already begun.

I had just kissed him under the fireworks.

Now, I had to prepare to break his heart.