The younger Millers ask good questions, but we anticipated most of them. Liam lets me answer, only occasionally chiming in.
“They will destroy what my father built here,” Graham protests, ignoring me, his accusation aimed at Liam.
Liam looks at me as if he needed my permission to speak, or perhaps to remind the old man who is in charge.
I open my mouth to answer, but I realize getting this deal is more important than trying to penetrate the outdated views of the owner. I nod to let Liam know he should answer.
He frowns, cocking his head like he wants to make sure I mean it. Or he wants to fight me about it. Like with my attire for this meeting. Or my hesitation when entering the meeting.
I raise my eyebrows, and he finally turns to Graham and lays out arguments that shut the founder up.
When we’re finally done I have to pace myself, because all my instincts are pushing me to run away from there so I can finally breathe.
Graham shakes Liam’s hand, his previous warmth gone. I expect him to skip me, but he does take my hand, and I brace for another patronizing pat.
Instead, he gives me a firm shake. “We’ll be in touch.” He turns and leaves.
“You’re a good team,” the older son says as he walks us out.
Wearea good team.
The adrenaline claws at my ribs, buzzing under my skin like someone wired me to a generator.
My cheeks actually ache. But I can’t stop grinning. I didn’t just survive that presentation. I conquered it.
I cut through their bullshit, stood my ground, and forced a room full of men to take me seriously.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I didn’t just play the game. I owned the board.
And maybe that’s why everything feels so hot and bright and too big for my body as we walk across the lot toward the car.
The cool afternoon air bites my cheeks, but I barely feel it. I’m vibrating. I’m proud. I’m so alive.
“Slow down, Thunder,” Liam murmurs behind me.
Oh, that voice. Too calm for what we just did. Too controlled. I spin toward him without meaning to, the gravel crunching beneath my heels.
He’s watching me with that unreadable, unblinking stare—like he’s trying to take something apart in his head. Or keep something in.
I’m not going to let him spoil this for me. I meet his stare with a smile and continue toward the car.
The driver jumps out, but Liam stops him and opens the door for me.
The gesture is old-fashioned and annoyingly gentlemanly. I don’t fight it. I can open my own door.
But something shifted in me during thatmeeting. Or perhaps it was a gradual process over the past few weeks.
Sometimes, a dominant gesture is a sign of trust. Not every man needs to assert their masculinity by degrading you. Some of them just want to show you their respect. And that’s okay.
I slide in, chest still rising too fast. The door shuts with a thud.
Liam rounds the hood and gets in on his side. The confines of the car feel suddenly tiny.
Too warm. Too close. Too full of the impossible energy ricocheting around my rib cage.
I just won a battle, and now I need to be confined in a small space like this? When all I feel is the need to fly?
The engine rumbles to life.
