A/N: A few people have been asking why I won't upload all 38 chapters of this story at once, so I just wanted to give you all my reasons for this: the first is that I do a LOT of editing every week (every day, really), so even though the whole story has been written, it's definitely not fit for human consumption yet. The second reason is that I've spent months writing all 195,000 words of this, and dropping it all at once feels like a bit of a disservice to the amount of work I've put in.

However! You guys have been sooooo lovely about this fic so far, and because I'm nothing if not a benevolent smut-peddler, I'm happy to change my schedule a bit. From now on, I'll be posting new chapters every Sunday and every Wednesday (unless I have Wednesday evening plans, in which case I'll probably do it Thursday instead).

I hope this is better for you guys! Thanks for all your amazing comments so far xx

Chapter 10

The next evening, Emma got home from work and immediately sat down cross-legged on her bedroom floor. The box of envelopes was pulled out in front of her. She'd spent most of the day psyching herself up for this moment – she'd even left work a few minutes early so Ingrid couldn't suddenly decide to keep her behind for three hours and make this whole thing impossible. But now that the time had finally come for her to take the lid off the container, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

She had to look through the letters eventually. She knew that. She had $10,000 to spend and Regina didn't seem intent on dumping her any time soon, so she was finally in a position to make a dent in the stupid decisions she'd made over the past decade. She'd been avoiding going anywhere near those envelopes for some time though, and the thought of finally opening them one by one and seeing the ugly truth of just how much trouble she'd manage to land herself in was enough to make her break out in a sweat.

Taking a breath, she reached out and quickly flicked the lid off the box. It was a band-aid that had needed ripping off for a while.

Where the hell should she start, though? There were dozens of letters in there. Hundreds, probably. The box was starting to overflow and some of the envelopes at the very bottom had been there since before she'd started college. Emma had been ignoring them for so long that it had almost become possible to pretend they'd never existed.

She shakily reached for the closest letter. It was thicker than she would have liked.

Peeling it open, Emma steeled herself for the cacophony of abuse and demands that were about to come flying out at her. She scanned her eyes down the page. She saw the word 'court'. She saw the word 'repossess'.

She immediately shoved the letter back into its envelope and scooted back against the wall, as far away from the box as the confines of her tiny room would allow.

There was a scrap of paper in her pocket and she pulled it free, smoothing it down against her thigh so she could remind herself of the totally feasible action plan she'd laid out:

1. Put the letters in date order

2. Work out who you owe what to

3. Start arranging payments

It was only three tiny steps, but it seemed like a mountain – and she'd already failed before she'd properly started to climb.

Her chest went tight and so, before she could give up entirely and hit the bottle like normal, she decided on a new system: she reached into the box, pulled out three random envelopes, and opened them to see how much she could realistically pay off from her first month's allowance. The amount contained in that handful of paper alone was way too much, more than Regina had given her, and so she tried again. When she was faced with a figure that was slightly more realistic, she grabbed the roll of money she'd tucked away under her mattress and headed to the bank before it closed.

When she got back to the apartment, she went in search of Mary Margaret and thrust six months worth of rent into her disbelieving hands. Parting with the money made her want to throw up, but the look of utter shock on her roommate's face was somehow worse.

"Where did you get all this from?" she asked, staring down at the notes. They'd been crisp when Emma had got them, but after 10 minutes in her sweaty palms, they were curling at the edges.

"I drained my savings account," Emma lied, hoping Mary Margaret would believe the idea that she could even have a savings account in the first place. Then inspiration struck. "Also, I got another job."

Mary Margaret blinked. "You left Caterpillar?"

"No, it's just a part-time hostessing thing," Emma said, hiding her clammy hands in her pockets. "Evenings and weekends. I might not be around so much for a while, but the pay is pretty good and the tips are even better."

And just like that, within the space of one hour, she was out $6,500. The envelope that Regina had given her was no longer bulging and instead flapped vacantly open at the top. Emma swallowed her panic and forced herself to look on the bright side: she was out of arrears with her roommate. She had finally, finally started to pay off her other debts. She still had over three thousand left with which to buy a few new dresses, and she might even be able to get something for herself in the process. She'd wanted a proper leather jacket for years, after all.

The sick feeling subsided slightly and Emma lay down on her bed, wondering how many months or years it would take before the sensation finally disappeared altogether. She couldn't imagine a life where she didn't dread every single phone call.

And, right on cue, her cell rang. She honest to God nearly screamed.

Scrabbling for it, she saw Tamara's name on the screen and answered with an anxious, "Hello?"

"Miss Swan," Tamara said from down the line. "Apologies for not contacting you sooner, today's been very busy. Regina's asked me to give you the details for an event that is happening this weekend."

"Okay," Emma said, wishing she still smoked so she could still her shaky hands a bit. "Go ahead."

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yeah," Emma lied. She heard Tamara sigh.

"I'll email the details in a moment," she said. "It's a dinner party at Mr Gold's house. I believe you've already met him."

Emma grimaced. "Yeah, I have."

"It's not black tie but it will be smart, and you'll need to be ready at 7:15 on Saturday evening. Sidney will collect you."

Emma nodded even though Tamara couldn't see her. "What does 'smart' mean? What should I wear?"

The pause that followed was long and loaded, and when Tamara eventually said, "Something elegant. Preferably in the right size," Emma wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

She couldn't imagine Regina bitching about her outfit choices to her assistant, which had to mean someone at the party had made a comment. Emma went hot and prickly imagining those superior rich people standing around sneering at her. Regina had told her she'd looked beautiful, but she'd obviously just been an embarrassment.

Emma surprised herself with how quiet her voice was when she said, "Okay. Thanks."

Tamara sighed. "Is there anything else I can help with, Miss Swan?"

"No, thanks. I've got to go."

She hung up without saying goodbye, because everybody always did that to her and it was nice to return the favour for once. Then, swallowing down her thick shame, she called Elsa.

"You need to take me shopping," Emma said when she answered.

"Uh oh," Elsa replied. "You sound super excited about that."

"Please," Emma said. "I made an even bigger ass out of myself last night than I thought and there's a fancy dinner this weekend and I need to look like I know how to dress myself. You have to help me."

"Of course I'll help, don't sound so panicked. We'll go Saturday morning, okay? Do you have money?"

Emma paused before saying, "Regina gave me some to buy something new."

"Ooh," Elsa let out a low whistle. "You've got yourself a real-life sugar daddy."

"Shut up," Emma replied. "And, look, you know I'm going to resist everything you tell me to try on, right?"

"I'm well aware. I'll be as ruthless as possible, and you'll look hot as hell. Promise."

"Can't wait," Emma sighed, catching sight of her despondent face in the mirror. After a day rummaging about organising the storeroom at work, she looked less than her best. "Do you think I should get highlights?"

"Sorry?"

"My hair used to be blonder. Should I do something about it?"

"Jesus, what's this woman done to you?" Elsa asked. "Yes, consider getting highlights. But let's deal with one thing at a time, shall we? I also need to talk to you about getting your eyebrows threaded. I'll see you at work."

"What's wrong with my eyebrows?" Emma asked, but Elsa was already gone. Apparently that was everyone's new way of saying goodbye to her.

As bad as Emma had been expecting their shopping trip to go, it had gone so much worse. She met Elsa on Fifth Avenue on Saturday morning, and she'd wanted to run home again for every minute afterwards.

"Emma, please. Just try it on," Elsa pleaded for the hundredth time that day, holding out a light blue dress with silver beads around the neckline. Emma wrinkled her nose.

"It's not really my style, is it?"

"That's kind of the point," Elsa insisted. "If you want to fit in at these parties, you're going to have to get out of your comfort zone."

"But—"

"God, please shut up. You've rejected everything I've shown you so far and you nearly gave the woman in Macy's a nervous breakdown when she tried to help us. Just take this and try it on. I'll find some other stuff while you're in there."

Emma begrudgingly snatched up the dress and headed for the dressing room. She thought she heard a collective sigh of relief from Elsa and the two sales assistants who'd been dealing with her for the past 20 minutes.

When she reappeared a few minutes later, Elsa was standing by the entrance to the dressing rooms somehow already clutching six more dresses. She took one look at Emma and snapped, "For God's sake, Em, can you at least take your socks off?"

Emma did as she was told before standing awkwardly upright, her hands bunched by her sides. The dress was pretty, sure, but it was also floaty and delicate and absolutely the polar opposite of something that she would choose to wear.

Elsa was already frowning at her. "It looked better on the hanger."

"Oh, jeez, thanks," Emma said, looking down at herself.

"That's not an insult," Elsa said, gesturing for her to take it off. "Sometimes things just do. It's definitely not worth spending $900 on, anyway."

"How much?!" Emma spluttered, turning to try and find the tag that was dangling between her shoulder blades.

Elsa sighed. "We're in a designer store, Emma. How much were you expecting to spend?"

"I don't know – shouldn't we just try somewhere else, in that case?"

"Like where?"

"I don't know... What about the snooty part of Zara?"

"Emma," Elsa snapped. "It's a black tie event attended by millionaires. If you don't wear something made by some dicky French designer, they won't even let you in the door."

"But it's just a dress. How can a dress cost nearly a thousand dollars?"

"Take it off," Elsa said, sounding suddenly exhausted. "Look, I found some other options."

She thrust the pile of clothes towards Emma's chest and then turned away, leaving Emma to wobble back into her cubicle and close the curtain behind her.

After an hour of dead ends and near-tears, Emma came out of the cubicle wearing a fitted strapless dress that reached her knees. It was made from dark teal-coloured fabric, and it gave Emma some kind of curves where normally she had none.

Elsa, who had long collapsed into a chair just outside her cubicle, looked like she might cry. "Get that."

"But it's not really comfortable," Emma said, because there was some kind of wire bodice beneath the heavy satin fabric and it was already tight around her ribs.

"You'll get used to it – nothing expensive ever is," Elsa said, gesturing for Emma to do a little spin. "Your ass looks great, though."

Emma smirked to herself and said, "I think that's the first time anyone's ever said that." Then, all at once, she remembered Killian muttering those same words to her right before he bent her over a bathroom sink, and she stopped twirling.

"You need new shoes too," Elsa said, "And a purse. All your stuff is hideous, no offence."

"Isn't that all going to get kind of expensive?" Emma asked, already thinking of the rapidly deteriorating pile of money that was stashed in her backpack. The dress she was wearing was made by someone called Diane von Furstenberg and it was already going to set her back $800. "I have shoes."

"You do not. And besides, you have a millionaire funding this."

"Right, but—"

"But nothing. Sophie," Elsa called over her shoulder, because apparently she was on first-name terms with one of the sales assistants now. "What shoes do you have to go with this?"

The woman's eyes lit up, and she ran off to the other side of the store to rustle up some options. As she disappeared, Elsa screamed "And bags!" after her.

When Emma put the dress on again later, she felt the tiniest twinge of excitement in the base of her ribcage. She'd found time to wash her hair that afternoon and, after an hour sat in front of an increasingly frustrating YouTube tutorial, she had managed to pin it up into a twisty chignon that she was terrified was going to disintegrate any time she moved her head. The dress, which was the most expensive thing she'd ever owned by a factor of about 300, was sleek and beautiful and made her look five inches taller. Her ridiculous new heels actually did make her five inches taller.

But when she pieced it all together and finally looked in the mirror, something was missing. She looked like she'd thrown all the right elements onto her body, but there was nothing holding them together. A child could have drawn her with brightly coloured crayons.

She fell flat when she realised it was because the dress simply didn't suit her: she was a tank-top-and-jeans kind of girl, and she always would be. She couldn't believe it had taken her more than a thousand dollars to realise that these types of clothes didn't look right on people like her.

Emma looked at the time and sighed, because it was nearly seven and she'd run out of chances to find anything better. Regina would be there in 15 minutes and she would look at her and sigh and say "Well, you'll do" and then Emma would want to die all over again.

She swallowed down her rising dread and grabbed her make-up bag, determined to make a silk purse out of this sow's ear if it killed her.

A quarter hour later and she was carefully navigating her way down the stairs, unable to move at more than a glacial crawl with her tight dress, towering heels and delicate hairstyle restricting her from all sides of her body. When she reached the lobby, she took one look outside and realised that Regina's car was already there.

With a horrified squawk, Emma threw the doors open and tottered outside, pushing aside her desire to look sleek and sophisticated and instead aiming for simply not being too late. Sidney stepped out of the car to meet her, and as she garbled her thanks to him, she was already slipping inside.

"Hi, sorry," she said, ducking her precious hair under the roof. "I didn't realise I was running la—"

Then she stopped, because there was a face looking back at her that definitely didn't belong to Regina.

A small boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a curious expression was staring at her from the other side of the backseat. Emma immediately saw some of Regina in the jut of his jaw.

She blinked and said much more abruptly than she'd intended, "Hi?"

There was a laugh from the front seat, and Emma turned to find Regina looking back at her. "Emma, this is my son. Henry, this is Emma."

Emma looked back to find the boy very formally holding out his little hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," Emma said, shaking it and then settling back into her seat. "Are you coming out partying with us tonight?"

"I'm afraid not," Regina answered for him from the front of the car. "We're dropping him off at the sitter beforehand."

"That's a shame," Emma said, hesitating before she continued. In spite of the industry she'd chosen to work in, she'd had very little experience of being near children in any capacity. Still, this kid seemed to be more grown up than she was, so she decided she could probably handle it. "You're not a fan of caviar and sushi?"

Henry made a face. "Really not."

"Me either," Emma confided. "Hey, maybe I can come to the sitter with you instead."

Laughing, Henry said, "She makes me eat a lot of broccoli."

"She does? That's gross."

"Yeah," Henry sighed like this was the cruellest fate to have ever befallen a human being. "Besides, I'm only going there because Mom forgot I was meant to be at hers tonight."

An excruciating silence filled the car. Emma glanced up to see that Regina's entire body had gone stiff.

With an awkward cough, Emma asked, "Surely that's on Tamara, isn't it?" There was a long pause.

"I forgot to tell Tamara," Regina eventually said. "But we had a nice day together, didn't we, Henry? And I'll collect you tonight and then tomorrow we're going to the zoo."

"The zoo!" Emma said quickly, trying to sound excited. "That'll be great. Won't it?"

"I guess," Henry shrugged. "If Mom doesn't have to work again."

Another silence. Suddenly Emma felt wistful over the dress-related panic she'd been having 20 minutes earlier.

Regina's shoulders had slumped, and it hurt Emma to look at them. She glanced up and caught Sidney's eye in the mirror.

Taking a deep breath, Emma leaned towards Henry and said, "I grew up in foster care. You know what that is, right?"

If Regina had been a puppy, her ears would have perked up with interest right at that moment. As it was, she just straightened up slightly. Emma ignored her and focused on her grumpy son.

"I think so," Henry said, wrinkling his nose. "Is that like being adopted?"

"Sort of. It's like the waiting room before you get adopted. Sometimes I was in big houses with other kids and sometimes I went to live with real families for a while."

"That sounds fun," Henry said. "Like boarding school."

Remembering it always made Emma's throat ache, but she smiled. "Kinda. Either way, there were always a load of kids running around while the grown ups tried really hard to be parents, and I can't tell you how many times they forgot about me."

Henry was already giggling. "They did not."

"They so did," Emma replied. "One time I was left wandering round a grocery store for an hour because my new parents had gone home without me. By the time they came back, I had decided they'd left me forever and so I'd already managed to get in trouble for stealing a box of cookies."

She wasn't certain that Regina would appreciate her telling her son about her life of petty crime – or the very PG version of it, anyway – but Henry was laughing outrageously.

"Did you get arrested?"

"Nah, they let me off because I was so adorable," Emma said. "Or maybe because I was only six."

"What else happened?" Henry asked, his earlier moodiness completely forgotten. When Emma glanced towards the front of the car, she could see a tiny smile on Sidney's face. Regina, however, was looking out the window, not saying a word.

"In one foster home, two of the adults would go with all the kids to school every morning to make sure they got there okay. One day they didn't check if they had everyone and I got missed because I was stuck upstairs trying to remember how to tie my shoelaces. They were so mad when they got back and found me."

Henry clapped his hands with glee. "What else, what else?"

And so Emma carried on, reeling off stories that were less painful now that she was trying to make a 10-year-old laugh at them. She told him about the time that a foster family had gone to visit a relative and had gotten 20 miles down the highway before they realised she wasn't in the car. She told him about the time when she'd been waiting alone in the playground for two hours after school because her carer had forgotten to come and collect her. In every instance she missed out the parts where she was sick for days afterwards from standing in the cold for so long, or where a particularly angry foster worker had smacked her across the face with the back of his hand for making him look stupid in front of the store employees. She focused on the whimsical stories, the ridiculous ones, and the ones that would hopefully remind Henry that he shouldn't be so hard on the doting mother he'd been handed.

By the time they reached the sitter, Henry was pink in the cheeks from laughing. Emma was glad she'd managed to cheer him up, but she was still worried about the silence coming from the front seat.

"Have a good time at your party, Emma," Henry said as he climbed out of the car. There was a huge backpack sitting between his feet and he nearly toppled over as he tried to tug it out after him.

"Thanks, kid. I hope you have a good night too," Emma replied. Regina got out of the car with him, and through the slightly darkened window Emma watched as she walked him up to the front door. A woman opened it, and Regina leaned down to give her son a fierce hug. He didn't return it.

Regina kissed his cheek before she headed back down the stairs. The second her back was turned, Henry scrubbed his face clean.

The edges of Emma's stomach were curling in on themselves when Regina slid into the seat next to her, her cheeks pinched and her lips pursed. She didn't look round as she buckled herself in.

"So," Emma said after two minutes of painful silence. "He's a cute kid. He looks like you."

"Do you think so?" Regina asked, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah. He's got your scowl," Emma said, hoping a lame joke would drag Regina out of her funk. She got a brief flicker of a smile for her efforts.

Emma sighed. "Hey. I'm sorry he gave you such a hard time."

"It's no problem," Regina said in her tightest voice. "That's what children do to their parents."

"Yeah, but—"

"Emma, it's fine," Regina said, finally turning to look at her. Emma heard the message in her voice loud and clear: don't go there.

And so Emma nodded and settled back in her seat, wishing that her stomach would stop churning. She turned her head to watch as the city rushed past the window.

"You look beautiful, by the way."

She jumped, looking back across the car. Regina was on her phone, flicking through her emails, and Emma could have been forgiven for thinking she'd imagined the compliment she'd just been given.

"Thanks," Emma said quietly, reaching up to check her hair hadn't fallen down yet. "So do you."

Another brief smile passed across Regina's face, but she didn't respond. Emma went back to looking out the window, letting the rest of the journey pass in silence.

Mr Gold – who either didn't have a first name or had simply gone to painstaking lengths to make sure no one ever used it – lived in a sprawling mansion on Long Island. It was separated from its neighbours by 10 acres of gardens, and when Sidney pulled up to the iron gates, he had to produce an honest to God invitation before he was allowed to drive through.

"This is going to sound stupid," Emma said as they rolled up the long driveway, "but before I met you, I really thought that everyone who worked in art was impoverished."

Regina chuckled. "Only the ones who aren't very good at it."

"And Mr Gold is good, I guess?"

"I suppose," Regina said, checking her lipstick in a compact.

"As good as you?" Emma asked. It was the right question, apparently, because Regina smirked at her.

"No one's as good as me."

Without question, Emma believed her.

They pulled up outside the house and Emma forced herself to climb out of the car without hesitating, because if she took another moment to think about how much she didn't want to go through with this, she would have ended up bribing Sidney to drive her back across Manhattan again. As soon as her heels hit the brick path, she hoisted herself upright and smoothed down her dress, picking off an imaginary fleck of lint so there was one less thing for someone to haul her out for the second she stepped inside.

She looked up to find that Regina was standing four paces away and watching her slightly bemusedly.

"What?"

"I like this very much," Regina said, gesturing to the dress. "Is it Diane von Furstenberg?"

"Yeah. How did you know?" Emma asked, looking down again to check she hadn't left the tag hanging off it.

"I have an eye for quality," Regina said. "You look perfect. Don't act so worried."

"I'm not worried," Emma croaked, which earned her another wry smile from her date. "I just don't want to show you up."

"You won't," Regina said, holding out her arm. Emma wobbled forwards and hooked her own arm through it, only now realising that she was a lot taller than Regina in her new shoes and probably looked like a total idiot gangling along beside her. "I'm not sure who Gold has invited, but it's usually less than 12 people. He likes these things to be intimate. He's also old fashioned, so there won't be any sushi – I can't promise there won't be caviar, though."

Emma grimaced. "I don't know if I like caviar. I don't even know how to eat it."

"Just follow my lead," Regina said, nodding to the man who was waiting on the door as they passed through. God, she sounded so fucking calm. It should have made Emma feel better, but all it did was make her feel even more out of her depth. "I'll introduce you to everyone and after that, you'll be fine. Just try not to get drunk."

It was a little concerning that Regina felt the need to say this any time they went anywhere, especially since Emma always managed to fail at it. She straightened her spine. "I'll do my best."

And she meant it, because she was determined that tonight was going to go better than last time. She almost looked the part, so surely being able to act it would come naturally.

But then a man wearing a dark grey suit threw open the doors to a living room that was bigger than Emma's entire apartment, and she nearly choked. She tightened her grip on Regina's arm and let herself be led forwards.

"Gold," Regina said, directing her towards their host and letting the stiff air kissing begin all over again. She placed a hand on Emma's back and nudged her forwards. "You remember Emma."

Emma was already thrusting a hand towards him, because there was something entirely creepy about this wizened old man and there was no way she was ready to kiss him yet.

"Of course," Mr Gold said, his soft voice swirling with an accent that was half-English and half-Scottish and already intimidating the crap out of her. He returned her handshake and never took his eyes off of her. "How nice to see you again."

Emma felt sick. Actually, physically sick. But she forced a smile and said, "You too. Your house is beautiful."

The hand that Regina still had pressed against the small of her back squeezed gently, and Emma took that to be a good sign.

"Thank you, dearie. I'm glad it meets your approval." He turned back to Regina and said, "I really need to discuss your new exhibition with you, Regina."

"I'm sure you do," Regina murmured. "There's plenty of time for that, though. For now I think I should introduce Miss Swan to some of your other guests."

"Yes, yes, by all means," Mr Gold said, his cold grey eyes back on Emma once more. "We'll chat at dinner."

Emma only let herself breathe again when they were 10 paces away and headed for a table filled with champagne glasses. "Was that okay?" she muttered out the side of her mouth.

"It was fine," Regina said, handing her a glass. "No conversation with Gold is ever better than that. Drink that, but please don't have anything else until dinner."

Emma wanted to roll her eyes, but she knew Regina was right to restrict her: if it were up to her, she would end up working her way through the entire tray before the hors d'oeuvres had been served.

Emma gripped hold of the glass with one sweaty hand and let herself be guided towards a group of men and women who were loftily chuckling together. She sucked in a breath, straightened her spine, and plastered on the smile that she knew she'd get very used to over the coming months.

When dinner finally began, Emma found herself positioned between Regina and a softly spoken red-haired man with round glasses. The dining room was enormous, more French chateau than Long Island manor, and when Emma looked down at her lap, she wasn't surprised to see that her hands were shaking.

So she squeezed one of them into a tight fist and used the other to take a sip of her water, because it would have been way too easy to get hammered on the free-flowing chardonnay and she was determined not to let that happen. Regina herself was clutching a glass of merlot, which always seemed to make her laugh a little darker.

"You look a little lost," came a voice from her right. She turned to find the redheaded man looking at her.

He didn't seem the type to openly mock her, so she gave him a wobbly smile. "Just doing my best to not spill anything down myself."

He chuckled. "I'm Archie. You're here with Regina Mills, is that right?"

It made Emma a little nervous that people always referred to her date by her full name. "Yeah, I am. Sorry, I'm a bit new to all this – are you a collector too?"

"Oh, no," he shrugged quite contentedly. "I have nothing to do with any of this – I'm a psychiatrist."

The fact that he was just another unimportant plus one finally helped Emma relax a little.

"That sounds cool," she said. "I took a couple of psych courses in college. Not that I did too well in them, but they were interesting."

"What did you end up doing instead?"

"I work in publishing." It was her go-to line when she wanted her job to sound more impressive than it really was. "It's not as challenging as what you do, I'm guessing, but I love it."

"What kind of publishing?"

"Children's books."

"Really?" Archie asked, and he sounded genuinely interested. "That must be very rewarding."

Normally, Emma played down her work whenever she could – it wasn't cool to go to a bar in Brooklyn and start ruminating over how passionate she was about watercolour illustrations. But she was out of her comfort zone and surrounded by people who lived to impress and be impressed, and so maybe it was time to schmooze a tiny bit.

"Yeah, I guess it is," she said. "I don't get to do as much hands-on work as I'd like, but that's okay for now. Everyone has to pay their dues, right?"

"Absolutely," Archie said. "I can't tell you how many unpaid workshops and painful group sessions I had to do while I was trying to get my doctorate."

Emma laughed. "Well, I don't have one of those. I am on first-name terms with half of Starbucks, though."

A woman across the table suddenly piped up, "You know the CEO of Starbucks?"

Oh, sweet hell. "No, no. I meant my local Starbucks. I'm in there a lot getting coffee for my boss."

"Oh, I see," the woman said, pressing her thin lips together. "I have to say, I try to avoid Starbucks wherever I can. For such a big corporation their servers are very slow."

Emma jolted like she'd been electrocuted. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. If I go in on my way to work, I'm often waiting five or 10 minutes for my order."

Emma knew it wasn't her place to shut this woman down. She knew people were already looking at them. But still, she heard herself say, "Well, if you go in in the middle of rush hour and ask for a tall decaf skinny extra hot triple shot cap with no foam, I'm sure it probably will take them a few minutes to get that together."

The woman shot daggers at her just as Archie started laughing. "That's what they're paid to do, dear."

"Sure, but how much do you think they're paid?"

The woman scoffed. "I have no idea."

"Take a guess."

"I really couldn't estimate."

"Well, I worked in a coffee shop for a year, and I ended up on minimum wage doing 12-hour days, every day, sometimes six days a week. I guess they're probably doing the same, or maybe even more, given Starbucks' reputation. I couldn't even pay my rent from that so I'd say whatever work they're doing, they're already working way too hard."

There was a long, painful pause. From the other end of the table, Emma could feel Mr Gold's cold eyes on her.

Then the woman chuckled and said, "Well, if they worked a little harder to get my order right, maybe they wouldn't be on minimum wage anymore."

Emma opened her mouth to let all hell break loose, and for once she couldn't even blame alcohol. She didn't care – she was furious and her younger self was already clawing its way out of her overpriced designer dress, rolling up her sleeves and ready to knock this woman's veneers out of her head.

And then Archie, of all people, scoffed. "That's a terrible attitude to have. Surely as privileged people it's our job to recognise the hard work of others and do whatever we can to support them, even if that's just being patient and giving them a decent tip."

Emma focused her seething glare on the woman, refusing to break eye contact. "Exactly."

Out of nowhere, Regina spoke next. "Have you ever worked for minimum wage, Sandra?"

Emma wasn't surprised when Sandra – because of course her name was fucking Sandra – said, "No, I can't say I have."

"Well then," Regina said, crisp and efficient because she knew the argument had been won. "Perhaps this is one of those instances where you should try keeping your opinions to yourself."

Emma beamed at her, but Regina didn't look back. She already knew she held the entire room's attention.

"Speaking of opinions, Regina," Sandra said, and her face was turning red now. "I'd like to talk to you about your behaviour at Jeremy's exhibition last month."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. She turned her head to find Regina nonchalantly sipping her wine. "Be more specific."

"You know what I'm talking about," Sandra snapped. "When you insulted my taste in acquisitions by saying my latest artist was nothing more than an overpaid finger-painter. Then, 30 minutes later, you were luring him onto your side."

"Oh, yes," Regina nodded. "That."

"Care to explain yourself?"

Regina thought for a moment, then said, "It's a dog-eat-dog world."

"That doesn't excuse you stealing my artists!"

"I'm pretty sure it does," Regina said, and there wasn't even the slightest tremble to her voice. She lifted her chin. "If you were better at your job then he wouldn't have left your contract. I'm just providing a much better deal than you."

"Excuse me?" Sandra demanded, and she was practically spitting. "Regina, in case you hadn't noticed, I was waiting for an apology."

But she continued to wait, because Regina simply looked back at her, her glass cradled in one hand and her eyebrows slightly raised. Emma could feel beads of sweat starting to prickle up on her exposed back.

Eventually, Mr Gold laughed. "Now now, ladies. Let's try and save the dramatics for after dinner, shall we?"

Regina rolled her eyes at him, but Sandra was already screeching, "She's a backstabber!"

"Sandra, please," Regina sighed. "You needn't be so dramatic. I'm sure another overpaid finger-painter will wander into your midst soon enough."

A chuckle ran around the table, and before Sandra could even think about swiping back at her, Regina had turned away, going back to the conversation she'd been having with the man to her left before Emma had interrupted everything with the working-class chip on her shoulder.

Swallowing hard, Emma turned back to Archie. She'd been expecting him to look as shaken as she did, but he was still chuckling.

"Was that my fault?" Emma asked.

"No," he said simply. "These dinners are always punctuated by arguments, and Sandra's been stewing about Regina for the past five weeks. I'm sure it'll happen all over again before we've had dessert."

Emma blinked. "That sounds kind of stressful."

"You'll get used to it," Archie said. He nodded to the wine in front of her. "Have a drink. That helps it go by a lot faster."

Emma paused. "I promised Regina I wouldn't have too much."

"Was that before or after the yelling started?" Archie asked.

"Way before," Emma admitted, but she still hesitated. She left the wine was where it was and instead scooped up her water glass, doing everything she could to stop her hand from trembling.

Regina was still occupied talking to the softly spoken Italian man sitting on her other side, and so Emma dove right into what she hoped was light, breezy small talk. "So, what kind of psychiatrist are you?"

The meal passed slowly, although Emma did find herself enjoying it at times. Archie was interesting and he didn't talk down to her like everyone else did. She also had a sneaking suspicion that he might be gay, but he didn't bring it up himself and even she knew better than to ask.

The food was more of a problem than the conversation, because it seemed all rich people had some kind of fetish for seafood and Emma was still trying to refine her palate enough to actually enjoy it. But she managed to copy Regina and Archie when they ate so she didn't humiliate herself, and the six courses went down eventually, if not very, very slowly.

Regina had been busy talking to other people for the majority of the meal, and so when everyone got up to move into another room, Emma stayed by Archie's side, talking to him about the different things her company looked for in manuscripts from new authors. It turned out he was a child psychiatrist, which Emma realised could even be useful in the future when they needed a professional opinion at work. It felt like her skin was fizzing when she realised that she'd just made a contact without even thinking about it. The PR people in her office always made networking sound so convoluted.

"You've been busy," a voice purred against her ear, and Emma shivered when she felt a hand sliding round her waist.

She turned to find Regina smiling at her. "So have you."

"All business, dear," Regina said, nodding to Archie as he excused himself. It was the first time Emma had been alone with her since they'd arrived and she was surprised by just how comforting Regina's presence was now that it had returned.

"Apart from the cat fighting," Emma said, and Regina smiled wickedly back at her.

"Oh, poor Sandra. She really thought she could get an apology out of me."

"Couldn't she?"

"No," Regina said flatly. "I don't do apologies. Did you and Dr Hopper get along alright?"

Emma blinked, wondering whether to follow up on that admission, before deciding it probably wasn't worth it.

"Yeah, he was nice," she said, wetting her lips. "Have I done okay? He isn't someone you hate, is he?"

Regina laughed and squeezed Emma's hip. "You've done just fine. Did you see the man I was talking to?"

Emma nodded, spying the older, Italian man who'd been holding her attention all night long. He was standing on the other side of the room, and Archie was just approaching him as she looked.

"That's Marco," Regina said. "He's a sculptor. Very famous, very traditional. He doesn't let anyone represent him, but we all love to try."

Emma was mid-laugh when she saw the way Archie touched his arm. "Oh – they're together?"

"They are."

"Married?"

"Long-term partners," Regina said. Her voice was strangely soft. "I didn't intend for you and Archie to get along like such a house on fire, but I must say, I'm very pleased that you did. Perhaps we can use this to our advantage in the future."

Emma cleared her throat. "I didn't do that on purpose. I wasn't trying to manipulate him or anything."

"Miss Swan, this entire thing is a game," Regina said. Thin tendrils of hair had begun to escape from Emma's complicated chignon, and she reached out to tuck one of them behind her ear for her. "All anyone is ever thinking about is how they can get ahead in the next round. You and Archie got along well and it's very nice that you didn't have an agenda, but maybe you should think about getting one. You were talking to him so beautifully."

"I was only doing that because the other option was sitting awkwardly by myself," Emma admitted. "Talking to him was the only thing that would stop people thinking I was just there to try and steal the silverware."

For a second, Regina just looked at her. And then she threw her head back and laughed – a real laugh that was rich and unguarded and that Emma hadn't heard before. The sound of it lit her up inside like someone had set off a firework in her chest.

In the middle of the party, not caring who was watching, Regina reached forwards and cupped Emma's face. She pressed a kiss against her lips that was soft enough to make Emma's legs wobble.

"I do love how honest you are," Regina said when she pulled away. Her lipstick had faded slightly and Emma wondered whether it was on her own mouth.

"Thanks," Emma replied, sounding slightly breathless.

"Come on," Regina said, linking their arms together. "Let's go and talk to your new best friend again. It'll really mess with Sandra's head when she sees us chatting with her favourite sculptor."

Emma reached up to remove the pins from her hair as soon as the car pulled away from the kerb. Regina was already knee-deep in her inbox, and the car was quiet.

"Are we picking Henry up first?" Emma asked after a few minutes. She hated interrupting Regina when she was on her phone, but sitting in silence was never particularly enjoyable for her either.

"No," Regina said, her thumb still swiping. "He'll be asleep by now anyway. We'll drop you off at your apartment and then go back to collect him."

Emma nodded: another night where she wasn't expected to stay with Regina, and she was surprised by how disappointed she felt.

She turned to look out the window with her chin resting on her hand. She was exhausted, she realised, so maybe it was a good thing that Regina was intent on taking this side of things slowly. She'd probably fall asleep underneath her if they tried to do anything else.

She closed her eyes for a moment, content to let the soft sound of the radio wash over her.

"The things you were telling Henry on the drive here," Regina suddenly said. Emma jumped, opening her eyes. "Were they true?"

Regina still wasn't looking at her when Emma turned her head, but there was something in her voice that told Emma she wasn't reading any emails either.

"Yeah," Emma said, then paused. "Mostly. I left out a few details."

She saw Regina swallow. "I didn't realise you grew up in foster care."

"I didn't tell you."

Regina nodded. Then, with a breezy sigh, she said, "He seemed to like you. Henry, I mean."

"Do you think so?" Emma asked. She was treading carefully, not wanting to push it, but for some reason she was desperate for this to be true.

"Yes," Regina said, finally locking her phone and dropping it into her lap. After a moment, she added, "A lot more than he likes me at the moment, anyway."

It was the most painfully sad sentence Emma had ever heard, and she reached out to try and touch her hand. "Regina..."

"Sidney," Regina suddenly barked, and Emma snatched her fingers away again. "Could you turn the music down?"

He did so, and Regina picked her phone up once again. "I have to make a call."

She didn't, and they both knew it. But she still dialled a number and began talking rapidly at someone about a temperature-controlled storage unit. Emma went back to quietly watching the city rush by.