Page 59 of The Love Operation

Suddenly, the air shifts. I feel like I’m in an intervention I didn’t agree to. Like they’re trying to soften me. Tame me. Sand down the parts of me that make them uncomfortable.

Neither of them speaks. Maggie opens her mouth, then closes it.

I let out a sharp breath. “You know what? Never mind.” I straighten. “You two can keep coasting through life, but that’s not me.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I work hard. I set goals. And I achieve them. I won’t apologize for that.”

Maggie presses her lips together.

Everett exhales. “She’s not going to listen. Let’s go.”

They leave the kitchen without another word.

I don’t follow. I just stand there, staring at the space they left behind, my mind buzzing like static.

Since when did ambition make me the difficult one? Since when did I become an illness?

A laugh rises in my throat, sharp and bitter, but I choke it back. Guilt and resentment churn in my gut, locked in some kind of slow-motion brawl.

I need to talk to Mom and Dad. I need answers. Because this can’t be as sudden as it feels. If there’d been signs, I could’ve braced for the impact. But this? This feels like someone took a sledgehammer to the foundation of my life. No warning. No chance to prepare. How am I supposed to react?

Actually, no. I need space. From all of them.

Everett’s words loop through my head like debris in a storm: Maybe the problem isn’t them.

I find Tad Cooper and run my fingers over his cool, smooth scales, grounding myself in something solid. Something that hasn’t shifted. Something that stays.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Time stretches and bends; it’s thin and unreliable.

It’s late. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I’m not on call. I can afford to stay up.

This night makes me want to do something. To prove—to myself more than anyone—that a full life can hold work and more. Much more.

I can juggle it all. I can do it well—better than well. I can change the world. And I won’t let anyone—not even my family—convince me I shouldn’t try.

I glance at the clock. Midnight. My chest still hums with the kiss, the argument, the ache, and I’m filled with a sudden electric resolve.

I quickly change, then grab my phone and hit call instead of typing out a text. Because this is my life, and I’m going to run it—every part of it.

The line rings. Once. Twice.

“Cordelia?” His voice is sleep logged, deliciously husky—and it spikes my blood pressure like a caffeine drip.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, just dozing.”

“Liar.”

A soft, amused breath. “Fine. I was asleep. But I’d much rather be talking to you.”

My heart drums against my ribs. “I needed you to know my answer tonight. I didn’t feel right stringing you along.”

There’s a rustling sound. I picture him sitting up, fully awake now.

His voice is clearer, alert. “You made a decision about us?”

“I have.”

I’m not making a mistake. I know I’m not.