"Samuel," I say, keeping my voice as low as I can manage. "Come out from under there."
There's a rustle, then Samuel's curls appear, followed by the rest of him. He looks unbothered, syrup on one cheek, one hand still gripping the pancake. "It was quiet."
"It's not a breakfast place."
He looks at the pancake, then at me, clearly unconvinced that location affects food. "I was saving it."
James picks up the dinosaur before I can ask for whom. "Papa fixed him."
Samuel nods once, approving the repair, then studies my face for too long. "You look like when Luca says he's fine but he isn't."
That one gets through.
I set both hands on the edge of the desk and make myself smile because they're little and this isn't theirs to hold. "I've got a lot of work this morning. That makes me look tired. Take the dinosaur and the pancake back to the kitchen before Grayson comes looking for all three of you."
James goes first, because he's always understood a dismissal when it's gentle enough not to wound him. Samuel lingers for another second, his eyes cutting toward the screen I closed too quickly, then he follows his brother into the hall. Their voices fade toward the kitchen, already arguing over whether the dinosaur needs a name change after surgery.
The office feels too empty the moment they leave.
I open the legal comments again.
By 8:30, the launch issue's stable enough that no one else sounds panicked, which leaves me free to panic more efficiently. The development team needs final wording for player messaging. Marketing wants approval on a sanitized replacement for the campaign language, and it's somehow worsebecause now I can see the shape of what they want through the places they've tried to hide it. Legal sends a question about whether Ember House can be referenced as "a parallel expression of Keller values," and I type no, delete it, then write a paragraph that can't be accused of being a feeling.
Quentin calls while I'm rereading the sentence.
I decline it.
He calls again.
I turn the phone facedown and keep typing.
Then Victor's email arrives.
Not to me. To Luther, with me copied beneath the legal team and someone from investor relations, as if I'm not the person whose rejection notes he's discussing.
Luther, given Blake's current bandwidth and the intensity of his comments, I wonder whether it may be more productive for us to align at the principal level before circulating further revisions. His concerns are understood, but the language may benefit from executive calibration before the broader team loses momentum.
I read it once, and the office goes quiet in a way that's got nothing to do with sound. Current bandwidth. Intensity. Executive calibration. Each phrase is chosen with the kind of care that lets a man insult you while leaving no mark deep enough to photograph. He doesn't have to call me unstable. He only has to put the idea in Luther's inbox and let everyone else breathe around it.
Someone on my headset asks whether we should proceed with the second rollback option.
I realize I've been on a call the entire time.
"Yes," I say, and my voice comes out normal enough that no one pauses. "Proceed with option two, but don't push messaging until I approve the player-facing language. I want the first draft in ten minutes, not twenty, and keep support out ofapology language until we know how many accounts are actually affected."
They answer. I answer back. I forward Victor's email to the review channel with a reminder that all platform and sanctuary-adjacent language stays documented, and if anyone wants to discuss my notes, they can do it where my team can see it. My wrist vibrates again. The room tilts a little at the edge of my vision, but my hands stay on the keyboard, and as long as my hands are moving, I can pretend the rest of me's negotiable.
A plastic cup appears beside my mouse.
Rosalie stands at my elbow in a crown, sparkly socks, and the grave expression of someone arriving with a medical solution no one requested but everyone apparently needs. The cup's pink and empty except for two beads, a sticker, and what looks like the arm of a tiny plastic doll.
"You have tea," she says.
I look at the cup for a second too long.
Her little brow pinches. "Papa."
That pulls my face into something softer. I pick up the cup with both hands because she's watching closely, and because if I hold it carelessly, she'll know. "Thank you, sweetheart."
