Confirming her existence to Apollo had rattled something deep inside her. The past she tried to fold into silence was alive again, tugging at the edges of this borrowed life.
But the world didn't pause for revelations.
Her phone buzzed.
A name lit up the screen: Peter Smith.
Emily inhaled quietly and answered.
"Dad"..
"Emily," Peter's voice carried a forced warmth "Good morning. I need you and Timothy to attend the Smith family dinner tomorrow evening. It's important."
Important.
In the Smith family, "important" usually meant politics.
Emily's eyes narrowed faintly. "I'll inform Timothy," she said.
"And Emily," Peter added, "make sure he comes."
This is important, the company's future depends on it.
Emily eyes narrow "I'll see what I can do"
Okay, " I know you won't be mean to Dad"
He ended the call
Emily lowered the phone slowly. Peter, as always, cared less about family and more about optics. The daughter he had once dismissed as useless was suddenly valuable because she married Timothy Grant, the man whose name alone could open doors Peter had spent years knocking on.
Emily exhaled, a slow, measured release.
This life… its webs were different, but its predators felt eerily familiar.
She shut her laptop from the night before, the final message from Apollo still burned in her mind:
"Emily… how is any of this possible?"
There was no answer she could give without unraveling everything.
For now, living had to remain a secret.
---
Timothy stood in the hallway outside her suite, as though he had been about to knock. His tie hung loose around his collar, hair slightly tousled, giving him a rare, disarmed look. When his eyes met hers, something settled in the air heavy, wordless, strangely warm.
"You didn't sleep," he said quietly.
Emily blinked, caught off-guard by how easily he read her. "Neither did you."
His jaw flexed. "My father called late."
Emily raised a brow. "Let me guess. About bringing me to the capital?"
Timothy studied her expression before nodding. "He wants us there next week."
"And you told him…?"
"That it's not happening." His voice hardened, not at her but for her. "You're not ready. I won't put you in front of them until you decide you can handle it."
A small warmth flickered in her chest. Unexpectedly. Unwanted. But undeniably there.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Timothy shifted, clearing his throat as though the sincerity made him uncomfortable. "You're welcome."
She stepped aside, letting him enter. "My father called this morning," she said. "He wants us at the Smith family dinner tomorrow."
Timothy's eyes narrow "He called you?"
"Yes."
Emily gave a half-shrug, leaning against her desk. "He wants us both there."
Timothy's expression darkened as he looked at her "Do you want to go?"
Emily paused. For the first time since waking in this new life, someone had asked her what she wanted.
She hadn't realized how foreign that question felt.
"It doesn't matter what I want," she whispered.
"It matters to me." His voice cut through the quiet with precision, catching her off guard again.
She swallowed. "I'll go.
Timothy's eyes softened barely, but enough.
"I'll handle Peter Smith," he said. "You won't have to lift a finger."
His protectiveness wrapped around her like a shield she didn't ask for but didn't entirely reject.
"Thank you," she said again.
Timothy nodded once and stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of cedar, that unique scent on her body.
"Emily," he said slowly, "you're not alone in this house."
The words sank deep, deeper than she expected, threading heat beneath her ribs.
"I know," she whispered.
For a moment, it felt like they weren't talking about family dinners. Or obligations. Or secrets.
For a moment, it felt like they understood each other.
A soft chime broke the silence Emily's computer. A new message. Apollo.
Timothy glanced at the screen but didn't pry.
"I'll leave you to it," he said, his voice low. "But let me know your final answer about the dinner. I'll stand by whatever you decide."
He turned to leave.
Emily watched him go, a slow, unsettling realization spreading through her like the warmth of a sunrise she didn't ask for:
Timothy Grant was changing.
And so was she.
Once he was gone, she sat before her screen again.
Apollo's reply waited like a heartbeat.
"Emily…
I still feel like I'm dreaming. Can you tell me again that you are still alive?
tell me everything. Just tell me you're really alive."
Emily stared at the cursor blinking beneath his words.
Then she typed, with steady hands:
"I told you. It's me. I'm still alive."
She hit send.
And closed her laptop.