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No shit. “But doesn’t that make him better suited? He has less on his plate. I don’t understand why—“

“Your job isn’t to understand, but to do as you’re told,” he snaps. “Unless you want to inherit a sinking ship in six months.”

I want to argue that he’s exaggerating, that CalTek’s stocks have never been higher, and that our operating system’s revenue is through the roof. But truthfully, the bitter man is retiring in the spring, and he’s made it clear that if AVA fails, it’ll be my fault, just like everything else.

He murmurs something off to the side before pressing his phone to his ear, signaling the end of our conversation. “We’ll discuss this further at Thanksgiving. See you in a few weeks.”

Just like that, the call disconnects, leaving me staring at a blank screen. The taste of bitterness floods my tongue as I bite down hard on my cheek, and the composure I’d been clinging to begins to crack. My knee bounces anxiously under the desk as my fingers grip the mouse until it creaks from the pressure.

I need a distraction—something to take the edge off and quiet the roiling storm of inadequacy that’s been brewing since I was fifteen. A stiff drink, a mindless hookup, anything to numb the weight of expectations pressing down on me. Anything to dull the ache of a father’s approval I’ll never earn.

I need Shilo.

That thought alone has me inhaling sharply, shoving away from my desk to stomp into the living room, angrily grabbing a bottle of bourbon off the bar. Pulling the cork with my teeth, I spit it onto the ground and take a hefty swig, glaring around my empty condo.

I don’t need anything, least of all a single person. There’s an entire phone in my pocket full of hookups I could call if I wanted. They’d all answer. They always do. KC definitely would. The fact that I don’t feel like speaking to any of them right now means nothing. I’m just tired. Overworked. Burnt out.

Lonely.

With a scoff, I chug a few more swallows, taking the bottle with me to my bedroom, where I crash into a cold king-sized bed and drink myself to sleep.

It’s probably for the best that Shilo had other plans.

Because I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.

Shilo

By the time we get back from our trip Sunday night, the fall chill has settled deep into my bones, and I’m sick—shivering, feverish, and puking up all the Budweiser Dad forced on me.

Real men drink beer, he’d said, handing me can after can while I silently begged Paige with my eyes to make it stop. Eventually, she started drinking them for me when Dad wasn’t looking, but it didn’t save me from the final shot he insisted I take—the one that secured our Thanksgiving dinner. I threw up after that, too. Honestly, I didn’t keep anything down all weekend. I hate this time of year.

The only silver lining was prying the truth about Ryann and Declan’s mom out of Paige. She died in a house fire, apparently. How sad is that? They were home when it happened, too, which explains Ryann’s scars. No wonder neither of them ever talk about it.

I’m so drained that I call off work Monday and Tuesday, stuck in bed with chills and a crushing mood that leaves me unable to move—even to use the bathroom. I hold it until the pain in my bladder is unbearable, finally dragging myself to the toilet with tears in my eyes. I can’t even bring myself to do schoolwork.

Mom and Paige check on me regularly, but I can’t help myself—I keep glancing at my phone, hoping Ryann might have messaged to ask if I’m okay. He never does. He didn’t even respond when I told him I couldn’t make it on Friday, and we haven’t spoken since that morning when he gave me a blowjob in front of his office window.

I wish he would text me.

By Wednesday morning, I’m feeling a little better—but not much. The hollow ache in my stomach only deepens when Ryann ignores me during the morning meeting, even though I got his coffee right. Declan, on the other hand, claps me on the shoulder, says he’s glad to have me back, and asks if I need anything. But not Ryann. He doesn’t even spare me a glance.

Whatever. I’m sure he hooked up with someone over the weekend since I wasn’t available, so he’s probably satisfied for now. That thought has my insides boiling, and I’m angry at myself. Angry at my dad. Angry at the world.

The rest of the week passes in a haze. I move through the days like a zombie, robotically following orders without a second thought. Every minute is a countdown to getting home, where I collapse into bed and hide under the covers. KC keeps pestering me to hang out or hop online for a game, but I can’t muster the energy to talk to anyone. Even work calls feel like too much, so I’ve started letting them go to voicemail and responding with an email instead.

Another Friday rolls around, and I have two hours until I’m off, sitting at my desk with my head resting on my arms. Just breathing. For once, I finished all my tasks quickly, if only to hide in the shadowy cocoon of the hoodie I chose over dress clothes today. Ryann barely reacted, just raised a brow as his indifferent gaze swept over me this morning. Fine by me. I didn’t want a reaction from him anyway. I just want the day to end so I can spend the weekend watching Master Splinter run around my room while Attack on Titan plays on repeat. Maybe, if I feel up to it, I’ll finally install the new CPU I bought with my first paycheck—

“Shilo.”

His deep, rumbling voice brings me out of my thoughts, and I tense, lifting my head to peek at Ryann from under my hood. He’s wearing a navy blue suit today with a pale green tie that compliments the gold in his eyes. Tastefully handsome. A strand of hair falls over his forehead when he tilts his head down at me, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Was the coffee cold?” Frowning, I straighten in my seat. “I can ask Kansas to heat it up if you want. Or get you a fresh one.”

He blinks, opening his mouth to say something before closing it. Then he opens it again. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

That only confuses him, and he sets the cup down with an odd glance. “The coffee is perfectly fine.”