Page 144 of I’m The Worst

My phone suddenly chimes behind me on the bed.

I spin around so fast it’s embarrassing, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug in my rush to grab it. Snatching the phone off the bed, I unlock the screen.

Not him.

Just another notification from my father’s assistant.

Disappointment crashes through me so violently I almost throw the phone across the room.

Your father needs you in his office today at 2:30 PM.

Another fucking check-in.

Another conversation about healing and recovery and security protocols and “adjusting.”

I don’t want to talk to my father.

I don’t want to sit across from him in that cold office, pretending I’m okay when half the time I still sleep underneath my own bed because the open room makes me panic.

But I can’t exactly say that.

So I force myself to type back a quick:

Okay.

Then I toss the phone back onto the mattress harder than necessary. Sienna catches my expression immediately.

“He’ll text you, AJ.” She slides off the bed with a laugh. “You’re a Commander’s daughter. He’d be a dumbfuck not to.”

Something twists strangely inside me at the words. Wolff never cared who my father was. He looked at me like I was just…me.

She grabs one of the pill bottles off the bed and waves it casually. “I’m taking these, by the way.”

“Shocking.”

With a grin, she tosses the bottle into her purse before slinging it over her shoulder. Then she leans down and kisses my cheek on her way toward the door.

“Stop being so fucking mopey. Go get your pussy ate. And seriously, consider being one of my stage girls. I’ll even let you carry a whip.”

She laughs as I flip her off.

I hate walking the concrete halls of the Citadel.

The underground Sovereign headquarters beneath Chicago feel colder than I remember. Endless gray corridors lined with security checkpoints, armories, training facilities, medical wings, command centers—every inch of it built for war.

For power.

For men like my father.

But for Servants who have nothing, it’s just a hi-tech kind of prison.

My arms tighten around myself as I walk, keeping my head down while boots echo around me. Men glance up when I pass. Some stare openly.

I feel every single set of eyes.

Even in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, their attention sears into my skin and leaves a mark. I never used to notice it this much before. Now it feels impossible not to.

Two guards near the east wing track me the entire way down the hall. One of them smirks slightly when our eyes accidentally meet.