Page 59 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

My chest tightens with anger. “You haven’t cared about how your actions affect me in years.”

At that, she replies with a mean little chuckle. “I cared enough to tell you the truth. Men don’t tolerate chaos, Athena, and now you’ve brought chaos to my home too.”

The message is obvious. This is my fault. Fix it. Quietly.

“Mom,” I say, voice steady now, “I’m going to handle this.”

“You’d better,” she replies. “And don’t expect me to cover for you. If this gets worse, I’ll tell the police to speak directly with you.”

I end the call before she can keep going then stare at the dark screen in my hand. The silence after her voice feels like pressure in my ears.

Taking a few steps forward, I plop down on the edge of my couch with my hair still damp from an earlier shower I don’t remember taking, and I stare at nothing while my mind runs through my options like a checklist.

The threat isn’t just to me. Someone went to my mother’s house.

Someone wanted to prove they could.

My phone buzzes again, and I flinch, then realize it’s my alarm.

Work.

I stand up slowly and get dressed with the same mechanical exactness I use for hospital protocols. Scrubs. Shoes. Hair pulled back. Bag checked twice for wallet, keys, ID, and phone. I look in the mirror before I leave and my face doesn’t look like mine.

It looks like a mask that’s trying not to crack.

The hospital is awake when I arrive, the lobby full of coffee and footsteps. I swipe my badge at the entrance and walk toward pediatrics, then pause when I see a note taped to my unit door.

Athena Hale, please report to Human Resources immediately upon arrival.

My heart stutters. Surely the timing of this can’t be coincidental? Did mom call HR on me?

I turn on my heel and head toward the elevators before anyone on the floor can stop me. The corridors feel longer than usual, and my badge sits heavy against my chest. I keep my expression neutral as I pass nurses and residents, and I keep my pace measured even though every part of my body wants to run. HR sits on the second floor in a clean, functional little suite. The receptionist looks up as I approach, then glances at her screen like she’s been waiting.

“Athena Hale,” she says.

“Yes.”

She gestures toward a closed door. “Meredith is expecting you.”

I push the door open and step into a small office with a conference table and two chairs. Meredith sits behind the table with a folder in front of her and a cup of tea beside it. She looks up with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Athena,” she says warmly. “Thank you for coming in.”

I keep my hands at my sides and sit in the chair across from her, then place my bag carefully on the floor like I’m buying time.

“What is this?”

Meredith steeples her fingers on the table in front of her. “This is a conversation about professionalism.”

I stare at her. “I’m scheduled,” I reply. “I’m on the floor. If you have an issue, talk to my manager.”

Meredith’s smile deepens slightly. “You don’t have a manager issue. You have a medical director issue.”

My pulse speeds. “What?”

Meredith opens the folder and slides a photo across the table.

It’s me and Nathan, in the restaurant. His hand on my thigh.