The receptionist barely looks at me as I walk past, heels clicking on marble floors that echo too loudly. No one stops me. No one asks if I’m okay. I’m expected. Delivered. Already accounted for.
I catch my reflection in the glass wall by the elevators. Pale, hollow-eyed, coat still on because I haven’t been told I can take it off yet. My hair looks dull, my posture folded inward like I’m trying to take up less space. I look like someone who wandered into the wrong building by mistake.
Which, in a way, I did.
This isn’t my life.
Or at least, it doesn’t feel like it should be.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the faint hum of cables and my own pulse roaring in my ears. I clutch my bag to my chest like it might anchor me. Like it contains something important I could lose.
My phone is still gone.
The absence of it feels physical. Like a missing limb I keep trying to reach for without thinking. I have no way to call my mom. No way to check the time. No way to ground myself in anything familiar.
The doors open directly into my father’s private office suite.
No waiting room.
No buffer.
No chance to breathe.
William Ross stands near the windows with his back to me, hands folded behind him, city skyline stretched out at his feet like a kingdom. He doesn’t turn around right away. He neverdoes. It’s a small thing, but it’s deliberate. It reminds you that he controls the pace of everything, even acknowledgement.
I stand there, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at me to run even though there’s nowhere to go.
“You’re late,” he says finally.
I glance at the clock on the wall, confused. “I… Evan brought me as soon as?—”
“That wasn’t an accusation,” my father interrupts calmly. “Just an observation.”
My shoulders tense anyway.
He turns then, and my chest tightens.
My father looks exactly the same as he always does. Tailored suit, silver at his temples, expression composed and stoic. There are no signs of anger on his face. No visible concern. No disappointment.
That’s what scares me most.
Rage, at least, is loud. This is colder.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
I obey automatically.
The chair is too big, the leather cold through my coat. My feet barely touch the floor. I keep my hands folded tightly in my lap because I don’t trust them not to shake. My body knows this room. Knows the rules. Knows that stillness is safer than movement.
William takes his seat across from me, crossing his arms, studying me the way one might study a faulty investment. Something that once showed promise and is now hemorrhaging value.
“This situation,” he begins, “has spiraled further than I anticipated.”
I flinch at the wordsituation.
As if my life is a PR problem.
As if panic attacks, fear, and running for my own sanity are bullet points in a quarterly report.
