"Of course you did." She stands, disappearing into the small kitchen area. "You win everything. It's annoying… to the defendants."
I head toward my office, peeling off my blazer. The space is exactly how I left it this morning: organized chaos. Files stacked on every surface, sticky notes covering my computer monitor, three coffee mugs in various stages of abandonment.
My desk phone shows fourteen missed calls. My email inbox counter reads 247 unread messages. The stack of contracts waiting for review has grown from concerning to architectural feat.
I sink into my chair and close my eyes.
Maggie appears in the doorway holding a plate of saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale. She sets them on the only clear corner of my desk without comment.
I stare at the crackers. "What are these for?"
"You tell me." She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm fine."
"Mmm-hmm."
"I am. Just a stomach bug."
"That you've had for over a week?"
"Three days. And it's stress related. I'm stressed."
Maggie's expression says she's not buying what I'm selling, but she doesn't push. Instead, she nods toward a thick envelope sitting on top of my inbox pile. "That came yesterday. From Preston & Associates."
The merger offer. Right. That thing I've been avoiding.
"I'll look at it later."
"Emma—"
"Later, Maggie."
She sighs but retreats, pulling my office door partially closed behind her. I can hear her at her desk, typing away at something that's probably more organized than my entire life.
I pick up a cracker and nibble it experimentally. My stomach doesn't immediately rebel, which feels like a small victory. The ginger ale is cold and settles things further.
Then I make the mistake of opening my email.
The most recent message is from my brother Brennen, subject line in all caps: NEED YOUR VOTE ASAP.
I already know what this is about. Celtic Knot Winery, the family business that Brennen runs with our brother Ryan's financial backing. He wants to expand—buy the adjacent vineyard property, increase production, grow the legacy. Or hecould sell to a corporate buyer, take the guaranteed money, and let someone else deal with the headaches.
The deciding vote is mine. Of course it is.
I'm the practical one. The logical one. The one who looks at numbers and makes the hard decisions. Ryan doesn't care either way—it's not a money-maker for Shadow Strike, he just backed Brennen because family. Brennen desperately wants to expand but won't do it without unanimous agreement.
Which leaves me.
I delete the email without opening it.
My phone immediately buzzes with a text from Brennen.
Brennen:Did you get my email? Need answer by Friday!
Friday. Everything needs an answer by Friday, apparently.
I silence my phone and shove it in my desk drawer.
