Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“You’re late, Miss Swan.”
Emma feels the disapproval before the words even land. The office door clicks shut behind her, far too loud for nine in the morning and far too familiar this week. She forces a breath, then a smile.
“I know. Sorry. My car wouldn’t start, so I had to take the subway.” She lifts the cardboard cup like a peace offering. “I brought you coffee.”
Regina’s eyebrow lifts, sharp enough to cut through Emma’s attempt at charm. “You’ve been late every day this week, and you think caffeine is an adequate compensation?”
Emma shrugs, trying not to look as tired as she feels. “Well… it’s a start.” She swallows a sigh and sets the cup on the edge of the desk, careful to keep it off any documents. “And in my defense, it’s your order. Triple shot, extra hot, one pump vanilla, one pump hazelnut with oat milk. Which, by the way, is obnoxious to say out loud in public.”
Regina’s lips twitch. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s not quite a scowl either. “And yet you continue to say it.”
“Because you pay me to,” Emma says, a little lighter now, because Regina hasn’t actually bitten her head off yet and that has to count for something. “And because your barista flirts with you through me. I’m pretty sure she gave me a pity cookie last time.”
“That was for me,” Regina says absently, eyes scanning the email on her monitor. “You simply intercepted it.”
“Story of my life,” Emma mutters, then pretends to be fascinated by the nearest stack of folders when Regina’s attention flicks back to her.
“Miss Swan,” Regina says.
“Yes, Miss Mills?”
A beat. Regina’s gaze lingers on her, assessing. “You are aware your contracted start time is nine o’clock.”
Emma checks the gold rimmed clock hanging on the wall behind Regina. 9:10. Of course.
“I am,” Emma says. “And I’m also aware it is currently ten minutes past the time my car decided to stop existing.”
“That is not the dramatic victory you think it is.”
“I’m just saying,” Emma tries, “I’ve been here until 11 almost every night this week. I figured maybe I’d earned a five minute grace period.”
“Your overtime is noted and compensated,” Regina replies crisply. “Punctuality is not a concept that bends to your personal narrative.”
Emma suppresses a snort. “Wow. Remind me to get that on a mug.”
“By all means. Perhaps you can read it,” Regina says, turning back to her screen, “while you arrive on time.”
There it is, the clean, familiar sting of being put in her place. And okay, maybe she deserves it. Maybe. But after all the bullshit she’s dealt with this week, Emma doesn’t have it in her to argue.
“Understood,” she says. And because she isn’t totally suicidal, she adds, “It won’t happen again.”
Regina hums noncommittally and pays no attention to Emma still standing at the foot of her desk.
“My schedule?” Regina prompts, holding out her hand.
Emma pivots automatically, slipping into the rhythm that- on most days- she’s actually good at. She pulls the tablet from her bag, wakes it with a swipe, and places it in Regina’s waiting palm.
“Okay,” Emma says, shifting into her work voice. “You’ve got an operations review with the regional managers at 9:30, finance at 11, lunch with PR at 1, and the pre-brief for the Mills Foundation Weekend at 3. Legal moved tomorrow’s contract review to this afternoon at 4:15, and your mother called twice and then texted ‘call me’ with no punctuation, so I assume that’s code for ‘a crisis.’”
Regina’s jaw tightens in a subtle way Emma has learned to recognize. “You may inform her I will be returning her call at noon.”
“Got it.” Emma taps a note into her phone. “Oh, and Graham from creative says he needs your final approval on the gala staging concept by Friday, or he’s going to have, quote, a ‘professional nervous breakdown.’ His words, not mine.”
“Aren’t all of his breakdowns professional?” Regina murmurs, flicking through her calendar.
“Yes, but this one sounded extra glittery.”
That earns her a tiny huff of amusement- barely there, but Emma catches it and tucks it away like a win. In this office, she has to take them where she can get them.
“You’ll sit in on the 9:30 meeting,” Regina says. “Take notes. I want the summary on my desk before lunch.”
“Done.”
“And you will,” Regina adds, eyes cutting back to Emma, “be on time.”
“Message received,” Emma says solemnly, hand over her heart. “I will personally arm wrestle the MTA if necessary.”
“Please don’t. I don’t need HR getting involved. I have enough on my plate.”
Emma smirks and backs toward the door. “I’ll sort your emails and confirm the conference rooms. Anything else?”
Regina studies her for a beat that’s just a tad too long for Emma’s liking. She tries not to fidget.
“That will be all, Miss Swan.”
“Copy that.” Emma turns, opens the door, and steps into the main office.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The executive floor of Mills International Resorts and Hotels doesn’t look like any normal corporate space. It’s all glass and clean architectural lines, with furniture so expensive people hover near it rather than sit. A massive suspended sculpture made of brass and cut crystal hangs from the ceiling, scattering light across the marble floors like the lobby of a five-star hotel.
Everyone here walks a little faster, speaks a little softer, and dresses as if the building itself would judge them otherwise. Emma likes to think everyone in this building has a major stick up their ass.
“Mornin’, Emma,” calls Neal from the reception desk. “Boss lady let you live?”
“Barely,” Emma says, dropping her bag beside her smaller workstation outside Regina’s office. “If I’m late again, she’s going to replace me with an algorithm labeled ‘optimal efficiency.’”
Neal laughs. “She was in a mood before you even got here. Must be the Foundation Weekend. The email chain is a disaster.”
“26 people replying and all with no actual decisions,” Emma groans as her computer wakes. “Classic MIRH leadership energy.”
“That’s corporate,” he agrees. “Oh, and there’s a delivery with Mills’ name on it. Pastries.”
Emma perks up. “Are they anonymous benefactor pastries or ‘Legal is buttering us up’ pastries?”
“Definitely Legal,” Neal says. “Somebody wants something.”
“Don’t they always,” Emma mutters, clicking into her inbox.
98 unread messages. Perfect. Just what she wanted before 10 a.m.
She gets to work. Sorts Regina’s emails, flag urgent ones, delete nonsense, reply to things other assistants have somehow managed to complicate. Emma might be chronically five minutes late, but once she’s here, she runs Regina’s universe with military precision. She’s pretty sure her head would be on a stick if she worked any other way.
Her eyes snag on a subject line she hadn’t fully processed earlier:
MILLS FOUNDATION ANNUAL WEEKEND – FINALIZED AGENDA & EXPECTATIONS
Oh shit.
She opens it.
The email is painfully formal, almost like the writer is afraid of Regina’s wrath. Which to be fair, is not something you ever want to be on the receiving end of. Emma speaks from experience.
Dear all,
As we approach the Mills Foundation Annual Weekend, please review the attached agenda and guidance…
There’s a full schedule: welcome reception, charity auction, board strategy breakfast, “family brunch,” gala, press conference, closing remarks. Emma scrolls past bullet points on messaging, guest interaction guidelines, and expectations for executive presence.
Then the line that makes her snort:
All executive leadership are encouraged to bring their spouses/partners to foster an image of stability and work-life balance consistent with the hospitality values of MIRH.
Right. Because nothing says stability like a seventy hour workweek and smiling through forced mingling with multimillion dollar donors.
She glances at Regina’s closed door, suddenly understanding the stakes with sharper clarity.
This weekend isn’t just a fundraiser. It’s a microscope. Family, shareholders, press, and the board all in one place at a resort branded with Regina’s name. If the email “encourages” partners, it means it’s expected.
And Regina… does not date.
In the year Emma has worked for her, she hasn’t seen so much as a flirty text or a dinner out that wasn’t business.
Emma drums her fingers on her desk. She tries to picture Regina with a partner at her side, smiling for cameras, making small talk, pretending she isn’t cataloguing every error in the seating chart.
It’s difficult. Painful even, in a way Emma doesn’t want to unpack.
Her phone buzzes. Internal message from PR.
PR – All Exec Assistants:
Please confirm whether your principals will be bringing partners to the Mills Foundation Weekend. We need counts for accommodations, press coaching, and event seating.
Please respond by end of day.
“Fantastic,” Emma mutters. “Nothing like asking Regina Mills about her non existent romantic life before noon.”
She sets a reminder and dives back into work.
By 9:28 she’s juggling three documents, a phone call, and a pen stuck in her hair. She knocks lightly on Regina’s door.
“Come,” Regina calls.
Emma slips inside.
“Meeting room B is set,” Emma says, ending her call. “Regional ops is already headed there. I printed the briefings and sent everything to your tablet.”
“Thank you.” Regina closes her report and rises, smoothing an already perfect suit jacket. “You’re coming.”
Not a request. It never is.
Emma grabs her notebook. “Always happy to crash a party about room occupancy projections and brand consistency this early.”
Regina’s mouth curves slightly. “Try not to antagonize operations. They’re still recovering from your suggestion that ‘no one actually reads a twenty page guest satisfaction packet.’”
“Do you know anyone that actually reads that entire thing?”
“In my packet,” Regina says, sweeping past her, “they should.”
Emma follows. People automatically part for Regina like she’s gravity, and everyone else is debris in orbit. Partly (okay mostly) because they are scared of her and partly because she is so greatly respected.
The meeting is exactly as Emma expects. Charts, occupancy forecasts, renovation timelines, feedback metrics. She takes notes and watches Regina run a room with surgical precision. Regina might be obsessive, intimidating, and allergic to free time but god, she’s good at this.
And Emma knows exactly how precarious her world is right now. One bad headline, one perception of instability, and people will circle like sharks.
After the meeting, as people file out, her phone buzzes with the PR reminder.
“All executive leadership are encouraged to bring their spouses/partners…”
Emma chews the inside of her cheek.
“Miss Swan,” Regina says quietly. “Walk with me.”
Emma’s heart flips like an idiot.
They walk the corridor in sync, Regina’s heels clicking sharply against marble.
“I received the Foundation Weekend agenda,” Regina says.
“Yeah, I saw it. I see they’ve also scheduled something called a ‘mandatory fun hour.’”
Regina sighs. “Mandatory fun. An oxymoron if there ever was one.”
They reach Regina’s office. Regina enters and Emma moves to slip away.
“Close the door, Miss Swan.”
Never a good sign.
Emma shuts the door and turns. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck start to stand up. Regina stands near the seating area and not behind her desk which is somehow worse.
“You’re not firing me for being five minutes late, right?” Emma jokes. “I already named the plant on my desk.”
“If I intended to terminate you, Miss Swan, you would know it,” Regina says with a pointed glare.
“Comforting,” Emma mutters.
Regina gestures to the chair opposite. Emma sits. Regina crosses her legs, poised and unreadable. She’s flawless in a charcoal suit and white silk blouse, makeup sharp, nails immaculate, not a single dark hair out of place. Emma can’t help herself when her gaze drops to an exposed ankle. Her skin is as smooth and as silky as her blouse.
“You’re aware,” Regina begins, “that the Mills Foundation Weekend is… significant.”
“Oh yeah. Charity, family, board, shareholders, press. Sounds like a real ‘fun for the whole family’ situation.”
Regina gives her a flat look. “The board has been increasingly vocal about the importance of projecting stability. Relatability.”
“Right. ‘Humanizing the brand,’” Emma air quotes.
“Among other nonsense,” Regina mutters. “Nevertheless, appearances matter.”
“Okay,” Emma says. “So you need talking points, maybe-”
“That is not the issue.” Regina cuts her off gently but firmly. “The email mentioned partners.”
Ah.
Emma leans back. “Right. I can RSVP that you’re attending solo. Spin it as independence, dedication to the company-”
“That is precisely the narrative they are using against me,” Regina says. “‘Married to the job.’ ‘Closed off.’ ‘Lacking balance.’”
Emma grimaces. “Someone’s projecting.”
“Regardless,” Regina continues, “they are looking for reasons to challenge my position.”
Emma swallows. “So… what do you need from me?”
Regina inhales, visibly bracing.
“I need to attend this weekend with a partner. Someone competent. Someone I can trust. Someone who can… soften my image.”
Emma’s pulse stutters.
“Oh,” she says faintly. Then, she scrambles. “Right. Is there someone in the building you can take? Maybe a friend or-”
“No.” Regina’s voice slices through the air. “I will not introduce a stranger into a setting involving my family, my board, and the press.”
“I hardly think the people in this building are strangers to you. Everyone knows who you are, even if they don’t know you and-”
“I said no, Miss Swan,” Regina says firmly. “I need someone I can trust.”
Emma suddenly understands and is horrified. Horrified yet slightly… intrigued.
“So… what’s the plan, then?” she asks softly.
Regina holds her gaze, calm and devastating.
“You’re going to come with me,” Regina says.
Emma blinks. “To the weekend foundation.”
“Yes.”
“Um.”
Regina’s eyes don’t flicker.
“As my girlfriend.”
The word hangs between them, charged and terrifying.
Emma’s heart lurches.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Regina tilts her head and Emma can sense some vulnerability slipping through the firm mask that she is so accustomed to seeing.
“Can I count on you, Miss Swan?”
Emma stares at her, every rational thought chasing itself in circles, and realizes this weekend is going to be so much more than a meeting on a calendar.