I let out a throat-scraping yell,my blood running hot as I storm over to my drawing table. My latest plan—a month of late nights, precise measurements, every angle just right—lies ruined, drowned in a giant brown coffee stain. The ink is getting smeared into a cruel, blurry mess.
Dozens of hours of work, gone. Forever. I don’t do digital drafts first because screens make my brain stall, so I draw by hand. And this was my best drawing for the community center. The same one that was supposed to draw the attention of multibillion-dollar companies and convince them to redirect their funds to invest in communities because in people is where the future lies.
The stain seeps through the paper like blood from a fresh wound, and I feel that wound right in my chest.
When my hand slams the desk, sending pens flying from the holder, a sharp sting shoots through my wrist. I snatch the ruined sheet while my pulse hammers in my ears, holding it up like it’s proof that my father has been right all along.
“Damn it!” I shout with raw rage, and the sound bounces off the sleek office walls while my vision turns red at the edges.
I spin around, searching the empty room for something to blame, anything to make this not my fault. But the office is dead quiet.
So I make it loud.
I throw the chair into the wall. The framed picture of my very first building, a small coffee shop in Connecticut, drops to the floor. I smash my fist into my desk, sending the remaining pens and pencils flying.
My knuckles crack against the rough edge of the steel filing cabinet. The skin splits open like tissue paper, and I barely register the pain at first. It starts with a burn, and then a throbbing follows.
I stare dumbly at the scarlet streaks now decorating my hand and at the bright crimson beading along my knuckles. The throb catches up a heartbeat later, but I welcome it. Physical pain is easier to process than the churning mess of rage and helplessness eating me alive from the inside.
“Shit,” I mutter, flexing my fingers and watching blood slowly run between them.
A soft sound of a closing door registers through my distracted haze, and I glance toward the sound. Beatrice stands by the door with a pink coat draped over her arm. Her ever-present tight, black skirt hugs her hips while her white blouse shows off a hint of lace that likes to tease me underneath. Her face is calm, unreadable, but her brows lift just a fraction, calmly studying the picture of chaos around her.
I expect her to scream and run away, calling the police as she goes, but she doesn’t.
Since our site visit over a week ago, our dynamics have changed. So has my coffee. Now it’s black without the side ofa sugar coma. Maybe it’s because I’ve been bringing her lunch every single day, and she’s been properly bribed.
Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe she sees me more like a man now than the tyrant she used to call me behind my back. She addresses me as Noah more often, brings me random coffee too. My life has never been so organized since Bea started working for me, but the past week took it to a whole new level.
I crumple the paper in my fist, feeling my knuckles itching with the newly opened wound.
“This can’t happen,” I say in a low, rough voice, more to myself than her. “This was it, Bea.” I hate how my voice breaks saying her name. “The one that was supposed to fix everything.”
“The community project?” Her tone is soft, probing.
I nod.
She tilts her head while her eyes flick to the crumpled mess in my hand, ignoring the ruins around. “Looks like coffee,” she notes without a trace of judgment.
She is right. I was here late, drinking that damn coffee, distracted, with my head all over the place. Mom is refusing to take her meds, her latest spiral making me feel like when my life gets better, hers gets worse. The pull of my old coping activities claws at me, and I don’t remember it being as strong as it is right now.
I left the cup next to the most important plans of my career, knocked it over without thinking, and let the liquid eat away months of work. The thought makes my stomach twist. I screwed myself over. Again.
“Doesn’t matter,” I snap in a sharp voice, tossing the destroyed paper onto the desk. “It’s gone. And I don’t have time to start over. I have to present this in our next zoning meeting which is tomorrow morning.” I drop into my chair, dragging my hands down my face, and press my fingers into my temples, trying to squeeze out the frustration. My knuckles burn,the scars—jagged lines from years of self-abuse—standing out against my skin.
I feel her watching me, and when I look up, her eyes are on my hands, lingering on the blood. Not with pity but with curiosity.
“What?” I ask roughly.
Unfazed, she meets my eyes. “Just wondering how many tables you’ve punched,” she says lightly, surprising me. This is probably the last thing I expect her to mention.
I let out a short, bitter laugh, and the sound scratches my throat. “More than you’d guess,” I reply gruffly, leaning forward and daring her to push back. Most people would have flinched by now, especially after seeing this psychotic side of me, but Bea just stands here with her chin up, ready for whatever I throw at her.
She doesn’t look scared. Not even a little. Most people would be halfway down the hall toward HR by now after witnessing me destroy my office, but Bea just stands there with her coat draped over her arm, studying me like I’m the most interesting puzzle she’s ever encountered.
Whatever comes out of her mouth will determine the course of our future communication. She has all the power. So, naturally, the tiny, blond spitfire surprises me, per usual.
“You’re bleeding,” she says in a no-nonsense voice while her eyes drop to my knuckles.
