Chapter 5 The Secret Behind the Ink
The tattoo was an old one. It was etched deep into the flesh, with a permanence that spoke of years, not days.
Emma pondered Isabella's revelation. If the tattoo indeed marked the birthday of Michael's sweetheart, it stood to reason.
It certainly was not Michael's own date of birth. She knew he celebrated his in April, and both his high-profile parents were July celebrants.
Her own birthday was a distant November 14, galaxies away from the four numbers inked onto his skin.
It struck her. Only a profound love could compel a man as stoically reserved as Michael to brand himself with ink. Such a gesture was both wild and naively youthful.
A wave of regret washed over Emma. In the heat of last night's impulsiveness, why had she not confirmed if Mr. Brown was even available?
Despite Michael's allure—his looks, physique, and competence—she held her principles close. Another woman's man was off-limits, no exceptions.
"Isabella, do you know anyone close to Mr. Brown born on August 25th?"
"How could I possibly know that? Colossus Corporation, our company, is but a limb of the Brown Group tree, yet it commands a vast share of the market. Michael's at the helm of the conglomerate. His private life? That's way above my pay grade!"
Above her pay grade, perhaps, but her knowledge was hardly lacking.
A thought struck Isabella. "Hold on, Brown Group's lead attorney, Jasmine Moretz, is an August baby. I glimpsed her resume once. She's the embodiment of privilege and wealth. And she's been in the limelight alongside Mr. Brown before. I'll dig up a photo!"
"Let's leave it at that," Emma interrupted before Isabella could spiral further.
The bits and pieces she had gathered were enough to fuel an epic saga of love and luxury, the kind that splashed across tabloid pages.
It made sense now. Michael's brusque demeanor earlier was not personal; it was his armor. By keeping her at arm's length, he safeguarded them both from idle talk and rumors.
'Clever man,' Emma thought with a wry smile. It took no small amount of cunning to navigate the treacherous waters of corporate power.
The call ended, and Emma retreated to her sanctuary. After a quick rinse and a change into comfortable clothes, she was soon immersed in her laptop. She pieced together a new project proposal.
Thoughts of love had no place here, not with the weight of her mother's medical bills anchoring her to reality.
She typed away, oblivious to her phone screen that was lighting up with missed calls and messages.
Exhaustion eventually claimed her, and it was only before succumbing to sleep that she saw Michael's missed attempts to contact her. There were three voice calls and a message from hours ago.
[Call me when you wake up.]
Why did he reach out? She imagined a stern warning or a clumsy bribe, but she would not be part of such games. She readily replied: [Let's pretend last night never happened. I'll keep quiet.]
In the end, however, she did not send it. Deleting the message felt cleaner and simpler.
With the phone now out of her hands, she drifted off to sleep.
It was the sharp ring of Mr. Taylor's call that snapped her awake.
"The project contract, give it to Anna."
"Mr. Taylor, I—"
The line went dead, her words caught in her throat. A frantic search ensued. She turned her belongings inside out, but the contract was nowhere to be found. Panic gripped her as the realization hit.
The morning's rush, the chaos, and now, a missing contract.
Her heart sank. It had to be with Michael, left behind in room 1501 in her haste.