“Thanks for the insight,” I say, my bandaged hand starts throbbing more. “Anything else you’d like to point out while I’m already having the day from hell?”
“Well, now that you mention it—” Martin starts, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts him off.
When Ezra appears in the doorway, his expression shifts from neutral to concerned as he takes in the chaos of my office. His eyes land on my bandaged hand, and I see the familiar mixture of disappointment and worry that’s been there since we were kids.
“What happened?”
“Just redecorating,” I mutter, flexing my bandaged hand. “Thought the office needed a more chaotic vibe.”
“He had a disagreement with gravity,” Martin chimes in, gesturing dramatically at the mess. “The coffee won, the blueprint lost, and Noah’s knuckles came in third.”
I shoot Martin a death glare that would wither most people, but he just grins wider, clearly enjoying my misery.
Ezra’s eyes narrow as he surveys the destruction, then focus on the bandaged hand. His jaw tightens—the same way mine does when I’m trying to restrain myself. It’s a family trait apparently.
“The Newside presentation,” he says, not a question but a statement. He knows me too well.
My nod is curt and sharp. No need to explain anything; he knows how much this project means for me.
“It’s ruined,” I admit, hating how defeated I sound. “The final presentation is tomorrow, and I’ve got nothing to show them. Like a fucking idiot, I didn’t save a copy.”
“You’ve got your bloody knuckles,” Martin quips, wiggling his eyebrows. “Very dramatic. Maybe wave your bandaged hand around—everyone loves a tortured artist.”
I clench my jaw so tight I can hear my molars grinding. “Martin, I swear to God?—”
“Perhaps,” Ezra cuts in, his voice measured but tense, “you could reconstruct it from memory? You’ve been working on this for months.”
I laugh but the sound comes out hollow and bitter. “It took me weeks to get those measurements perfect. The elevation calculations alone—” I break off, running my good hand through my hair.
Ezra’s expression darkens as his gaze zeroes in on Bea, who is silently moving toward my desk to stack the last of the scattered papers. “Why is your assistant cleaning up your mess?”
“Excellent question!” Martin chimes in, bouncing on his heels. “Maybe she’s gunning for a promotion to ‘Office Disaster Recovery Specialist.’ I hear the benefits are terrible, but the drama is top-notch.”
I shoot him another glare. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Preferably another continent?”
Martin grins, completely immune to my fury. “And miss this family reunion? Not a chance. It’s like a reality show where everyone’s too rich and too angry.” He picks an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve. “I’m just waiting for someone to flip a table.”
“Already did that,” I mutter, and I’m about to tell Martin to go fuck himself when Bea suddenly rises from the floor, slamming the pile of paper onto the desk with athump.
“Enough!” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “All of you, just stop it!”
The room falls silent as three pairs of eyes turn to stare at her, including mine—I didn’t know she possessed such a commanding tone. She’s standing with her hands on her hips,her cheeks flushed pink, all five feet of fury looking more alive and fierce than I’ve ever seen her.
“Noah’s project is ruined,” she continues, her voice is steady despite the fire in her eyes. “The one thing he deeply cares about. And instead of helping, you’re both just what? Making jokes? Lecturing him?”
Martin’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Ezra’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.
“This isn’t helping anyone,” Bea continues, her voice rising with each word. “You two are supposed to be his support system, but you’re acting like this is some kind of entertainment!”
I stare at her, stunned into silence. Beatrice Wrong—my assistant, my adversary, the woman I spent weeks tormenting—is defending me. To my brother. To Martin. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh, but there’s something in her eyes that stops me cold.
“Noah needs help, not an audience,” she says, turning to Martin with a glare that could melt steel. “And you—” she rounds on Ezra, not a hint of intimidation despite his imposing presence, “—your brother is clearly struggling, and your first instinct is to criticize him for how I’m choosing to help?”
Ezra’s face darkens. “I wasn’t—” Ezra starts, but Bea cuts him off with a raised hand.
“No. You both need to listen.” Her voice quivers with barely controlled emotion as she steps between me and them like the most beautiful human shield in history. “Noah has been working on this project for months. It matters to him. It matters to the community. And to your damn company because of your damn board. And instead of helping, you’re both just making it worse.”
I stare at her back, at the rigid line of her shoulders, completely stunned. The woman who’s been torturing me for weeks with her tight skirts and sharp tongue is defending me like a lioness protecting her cub.
