Chapter 3 Isn't Emma an Assistant?

Isabella's voice was loud enough to reach all corners. Her sudden shout snagged the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Michael included. Luckily, he just shot a quick look their way. Without a word, he took off from the hotel with his long strides. After the crowd dispersed, Isabella, buzzing with gossip, sidled up to Emma. "What's up with Mr. Brown? Why did he ask that?" She was at sea, baffled by the anticlimactic turn of events. She had braced for a bombshell, only for this letdown? Emma felt like she had dodged a bullet and exhaled a sigh of sheer relief. When she finally found her voice, it was scratchy and thin. "Maybe he wanted to swap rooms? Mine did have a good view." "That's it?" "How am I supposed to know?" Isabella grimaced, sensing that the social chasm between Emma and Michael was too wide for any gossip. "You reckon someone like Mr. Brown, with his icy vibe, turns into a fireball of passion in the sack?" Emma rolled her eyes. To say 'fireball of passion' might be laying it on thick... Hold up, why was she even thinking about this?! The saying went, 'You're colored by your company,' and Isabella was certainly unique. Mr. Taylor made his entrance into the lobby shortly. He was dressed to the nines in his sharp business suit and polished shoes. His hairline was in full retreat, but that was the last thing on his mind as he took the paperwork from Emma. He scanned it and muttered in annoyance, "The IOP's been clamping down hard these last couple of years. It was a struggle to land this deal, and now this mess! If we're hit with a hefty margin call, you can kiss your bonuses goodbye." Emma remained silent, offering no response. Meanwhile, Isabella could not help but sneak a scornful glance his way. After all, wasn't it Mr. Taylor who had muddled it up in his rush to win the project? He was reckless enough to nod along with the risky financial stunts! Then, as if struck by a thought, Mr. Taylor's stern gaze softened when it landed on Emma. "Emma, am I right in remembering you hail from Verdantopolis?" "That's right, I'm from Eastfield," she confirmed. "Ah, Mr. Brown from our firm is a Verdantopolis man too. How about I wrangle an invite for him to dinner tonight? You, playing the hometown card, could subtly gauge his stance." It sounded almost like he was asking for her input, but Emma could feel the invisible walls closing in. There was no real choice here. The thought of meeting Michael made her pause. She voiced her concern in a mild protest, "Mr. Taylor, I'm not sure I have the standing to rub shoulders with Mr. Brown." "A casual chat over a drink at the same table… That's all in good form, isn't it?" "But—" "Consider it settled. Dress your best tonight, and don't let me down." He left it at that, striding off toward the hotel doors. He left Isabella to roll her eyes in disbelief before nudging Emma to follow. ... The sun dipped low, casting the city in a golden glow as the first round of negotiations with Skydancer Corp wrapped up. Mr. Taylor was all but pushing Emma to the hotel to prepare for the evening. By some means or another, Michael was indeed waiting in the hotel's private dining room when the group arrived. Emma took in the scene as she entered. Michael, the centerpiece of the room, had shed his suit jacket and undone the first few buttons of his crisp white shirt. The casual look was stark against his stern demeanor and those gold-rimmed glasses that always seemed to catch the light just so. Only four of them were there—Emma, Mr. Taylor, Michael, and his assistant. Mr. Taylor, spotting Emma's hesitation, took matters into his own hands. He guided her to the seat next to Michael. "Here, Emma. This one's for you." She hesitated, her heart racing. However, she eventually moved to take her place. Before she could settle in, Michael's voice cut through the room. It was icy and sharp. "I was under the impression Emma was our assistant. Has she taken on a new role in public relations?"