Page 20 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

Just last week, he would have stopped to ask about my latest sustainability algorithm. He would have teased me about thepurple sticky notes decorating my monitor. He would have at least acknowledged that I exist.

“Ouch.” Natalie appears with a fresh cup of coffee, wincing at the interaction—or lack thereof. “That was cold, even for his new ‘strictly professional’ act.”

“He’s just focused.” I accept the cup, pretending my hands don’t shake slightly. “The board delayed their Project Phoenix vote another week. The Johnsons are still reviewing both proposals, and Brighton keeps announcing new technology partnerships.”

“Uh-huh. And that focus requires treating you like office furniture because...?”

I take a long sip instead of answering, burning my tongue in the process. How can I explain that Lucas is trying to protect my work by erasing our connection?

Before I can respond, my computer pings with a new email:

Re: Johnson Integration Proposal Revisions

Lucas Walker

To: Emma Hastings

Please review the attached changes. From now on, all client communications must maintain appropriate professional standards. We’ll meet in about an hour to discuss this.

“And now he’s emailing you from thirty feet away.” Natalie peers at my screen, her lips pursed. “What happened to the guy who spent Tuesday’s presentation looking at you like you invented sustainable energy?”

I open the attachment, my stomach knotting as I scroll through the document. Every casual phrase has been replaced with corporate jargon. My “innovative hybrid approach” is now a “systematic integration of established methodologies.” Even my color-coded sustainability metrics have been changed to match Brighton’s traditional format.

The rainbow of innovation I’d worked so hard to create has been transformed into corporate blues and grays. It’s like watching someone paint over a vibrant mural with beige house paint.

“He’s protecting the company,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to me. “The board’s concerned about our aggressive timeline, and with Brighton offering guaranteed board seats...”

“Emma.” Natalie’s voice softens. “He’s not protecting the company. He’s running scared.”

I trace a finger over the screen, stopping at a particularly soulless paragraph that had once contained my passionate argument for sustainability-driven analytics. James Walker had loved that section. Had highlighted it in his copy with the note “This is why we’re different.” Now it reads like something generated by an AI programmed for maximum corporate blandness.

“Ms. Hastings.” Lucas appears in my doorway, perfectly polished in that navy suit that used to make my heart race. Now it just makes my chest ache. “Do you have time to review those revisions now?”

I study his face, searching for any hint of the man who had his hand on my back during our presentation, who whispered “breathe” in my ear, who looked at me like I mattered. His expression could be carved from marble.

“Of course, Mr. Walker.” I gather my tablet, slipping it into a folder with mechanical precision. “Would you like to discuss them in the conference room?”

“My office will suffice.”

The walk to his office feels endless. Three days ago, we moved in perfect sync, finishing each other’s sentences while we revolutionized sustainable analytics. Now, every step echoes with calculated distance, the space between us charged with things we aren’t saying.

Staff members watch us pass with curious glances. The office grapevine has clearly been active. Speculation about what happened between the dynamic duo from Tuesday’s presentation and today’s Arctic formality is probably fueling the break room conversations.

“These changes,” he starts as soon as his door closes, not quite meeting my eyes, “will present a more traditional approach. The board feels—“

“The board?” Something in me snaps, sharp and sudden. “Or you?”

His jaw tightens, that muscle jumping the way it always does when he’s holding back. “The board has concerns about our timeline. About the wisdom of experimental approaches when Brighton offers proven technology.”

“Experimental approaches that had the Johnsons practically signing on Tuesday afternoon,” I challenge, stepping closer. “Or did you forget how Mr. Johnson said our ‘fresh perspective’ was exactly what they needed?”

“That was before—“ He stops, running a hand through his hair. For just a moment, I see my Lucas underneath the CEO mask. Then it slams back into place. “The situation has evolved. We need to project stability, confidence—”

“As opposed to what? My usual strategy of tripping over office furniture until clients sign out of sympathy?”

A flash of a smile appears before he quickly suppresses it, and that glimpse of the real Lucas makes me even angrier. He doesn’t get to find me endearing while simultaneously erasing everything I’ve built.

“Emma—“

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