Chapter 2: The Emotional Radar Goes Off

I'm a Cancer—classic emotional radar always pinging, hypersensitive to the tiniest shift. My moods, my sixth sense for trouble—like I’ve got emotional radar always pinging. Thanks, Mom, for the neurotic genes. She alphabetized the spice rack and color-coded the bookshelf. I inherited the anxious part.

Any small break in our routine set me on edge. Like when the grocery store rearranged the aisles, or daylight saving time stole an hour.

Men don’t just decide to shave at 9 PM. That means a meeting, an event, a reason.

I usually skip dinner—intermittent fasting, nutritionist’s orders—so Nathan eats out at his regular places: Giuseppe’s for pasta, The Blue Door for comfort food, or Koi for sushi. He always said, "Wining and dining is a waste of time. I’d rather be home with you."

So what could make Nathan break his habits? As CEO of a $2 billion tech company, what was big enough to throw him off?

Could it be a crisis—hostile takeover, SEC drama, a client bailing? Or something he was hiding to protect me?

I needed to see for myself. His company’s forty-story glass tower downtown shimmered like a promise—and a threat.

If there was nothing wrong, great. If there was, I wouldn’t let Nathan face it alone. That’s what marriage meant.

I called Ashley—CFO, and my college roommate from our UC Berkeley ramen-and-dreams days. When her family went broke from medical bills, I’d helped her, and later got her into Nathan’s company.

Ashley all but ran to meet me, heels clicking on the marble lobby floor. She dragged me toward the elevator, flashing her badge like she owned the place.

After a little catching up—she bragged about her new lawyer boyfriend—she grinned, nudging me with her elbow. "Emma, you never visit! The whole company lives for your drop-ins. Mr. Brooks is a terror when you’re not around. Yesterday he made an intern cry with one look. When you show up, it’s like the sun coming out after a week of Seattle rain."

I laughed. "So, has anything happened here lately?"

"Oh, something huge." Her eyes sparkled.

"What?" I froze, heart thudding.

"Profits doubled. Bonuses doubled. Christmas came early! Doesn’t that count as huge?" Ashley practically bounced.

She’d been through hell and still sent money home, but she was relentlessly upbeat. That’s why I loved her.

Nathan was in a meeting. Through the frosted glass, I saw silhouettes at the long conference table. Ashley kept me company in his office, which looked more like a penthouse than a workspace: floor-to-ceiling Bay views, Italian leather, a full bar.

Passing the GM’s office, I saw a handful of young women—designer suits, perfect blowouts, and those oversized tote bags every MBA seems to carry. They looked fresh from Stanford or Harvard.

A chill ran through me: Was Nathan dressing up for one of them?

The thought hit like a slap. My cheeks burned.

But then I scoffed at myself: This was Nathan. The man who once told a supermodel she wasn’t his type because she "wasn’t Emma."

Company events were always crawling with models and actresses. The tabloids tried to catch him in a scandal and got nothing.

Still, the thought lingered.

"What’s up?" Ashley asked, eyebrow raised.

I chewed my lip. "Did Nathan hire new assistants?"

Ashley thought, tapping her chin. "No new assistants. Oh, those girls? The company’s booming—three new Fortune 500 contracts—so he set up a PR team to handle events. That way, he can get home on time. They handle all the schmoozing."

She eyed me, teasing. "Emma, you’re a total knockout. You really worried? Remember when you won that modeling contest?"

I groaned. "Yeah, yeah. You and my therapist would get along."

She threw an arm around me, laughing. "Your overthinking never quits. Remember freshman year? You thought your roommate hated you because she didn’t say good morning. She had laryngitis! Don’t sweat it—those girls only handle outside stuff. Nathan has three layers of assistants between him and them."

After she left, I sat in Nathan’s ergonomic chair—probably cost more than my car—looking at our wedding photo on his desk, next to shots of our honeymoon and last Christmas in Aspen.

So the company was fine. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone else.

Maybe he just bought a new razor. Maybe it was nothing.

Rachel and Ashley always said, "Emma, you could find a conspiracy in a grocery list."

Honestly, if I hadn’t landed Nathan, I’d have driven a normal man nuts—or myself.

I’m textbook anxious. My therapist has a whole folder on me.

"Knock knock."

A woman stepped in, head down, carrying tea on a silver tray.

She placed the cup carefully on the desk. "Mrs. Brooks, please call me if you need anything."

It was Lauren Hayes. Nathan’s old secretary.

I hadn’t expected to see her here—not after what happened.