The party raged on long after Emery slipped away.
She found herself wandering the private gardens behind the venue - heels in hand, silence wrapped around her like a shawl. Moonlight spilled across the stone pathway, soft and cold.
She needed air.
She needed space.
She needed something that didn't feel like a prison in designer clothing.
She didn't expect him to be there.
Beckett sat on the edge of the marble fountain, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up again, forearms resting on his knees. He didn't look surprised to see her - just tired. Like the weight he carried was finally wearing him down.
"You always find the quiet," Emery said softly.
He didn't look at her right away.
"Or maybe the quiet finds me."
She approached slowly, unsure if she was trespassing in something she couldn't name.
He nodded toward the space beside him. "You can sit. I won't bite."
"Shame," she murmured, and sat anyway.
For a moment, they just… existed.
No pressure. No performance.
Just two people wrapped in night and noise they didn't belong to.
Finally, she said, "You've known Grayson a long time."
"Yeah."
"Do you trust him?"
Beckett went still.
Then: "That depends on what you mean by trust."
She looked at him, heart already sinking. "What does that mean?"
He sighed and leaned back, staring up at the stars.
"He's brilliant. Strategic. Cold when he needs to be. He doesn't lose - not in business, not in deals, not in image."
"But?"
Beckett hesitated. "Let's just say he doesn't always get things above board. He's charming when it benefits him. Ruthless when it doesn't. I've cleaned up a lot of messes over the years."
Her stomach twisted. "Why are you telling me this?"
He finally looked at her - and for the first time, he looked....afraid.
"Because you deserve to know what you're stepping into. And because I hate watching you smile like you're not already drowning."
Emery felt the words crack something open in her chest.
"I don't know how to leave," she whispered. "My life isn't mine. It hasn't been in a long time."
His hand brushed hers - not a grab, not a hold. Just a touch.
"I'll never push you," Beckett said. "But I'll stand beside you if you decide to run."
She turned her hand over, letting their fingers rest together.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough."
"You are," he said. "You just haven't been allowed to be."
And for a moment - in the dark, under the moon - she believed him.