The snort of derision is out before I can stop it. "When I try to show him what I can do, he only sees two possibilities. Either I'm his lily-white daughter marrying the right guy, having the exact right amount of babies, and throwing a mean dinner party for her husband's colleagues—or—I'm the black sheep.
The girl who wears concert tees and checkered Vans off the clock.
The disappointment who'd rather land the account of the decade than land a husband who thinks thinks like my father, and would never consider planning the dinner party because it’s his wife’s job and beneath him."
Chance studies me for a long moment before speaking, his voice careful. "You know you're taking one hell of a risk."
"Sometimes the biggest risks have the biggest payoffs." I adjust my glasses, still unused to their weight after a day in contacts. "I just need one chance." My voice drops to barely a whisper. “One opportunity to prove I belong at the helm of his company and can take his legacy and make it even better."
"Be careful what you sacrifice to prove yourself, Holly. Trust me," he says quietly, tension threading through his words, "becoming what they want doesn't always work out the way you think it will."
Something flickers across his face—a shadow of old hurt I almost miss. Almost. I study him in the dim light, searching for more glimpses of that raw edge underneath. "You did it too, didn't you? Tried to be what someone wanted?"
He shifts in the chair, muscles bunching beneath his shirt. "Let's just say I made some choices. Trying to prove myself." His jaw works. "Ended up proving all the wrong things to all the wrong people."
"This isn't like that," I insist, but his words needle at something tender inside me. "I'm good at this, Chance. The numbers, the strategy, reading people—it's not just about proving something. It's who I am."
"And if your father can't see that?" The question lands soft but cuts deep. "If he's so busy looking for the next version of himself that he misses what's right in front of him—can you live with that?"
"I already am." The words scrape past the lump in my throat. "At least I'll know I tried. That I didn't let him have the final say on my worth."
He nods, something shifting in his expression. "Then it’s time to make sure that presentation is bulletproof."
An hour later, my eyes burn from reviewing slides, but my strategy feels solid. Maybe even unshakeable. I close my laptop, darkness swallowing us whole, and reach for my phone. One quick Google search later?—
"You're a penetration tester???"
He lets out a low groan."Christ, Squirt... aren't you tired?"
"Yes, but now I have questions, and you have answers." The mattress squeaks as I sit up straighter, suddenly wide awake.
"We use the term pen testers."
"Oh, I'm sure you do." I bite back a grin. "Doesn't change the fact that you're definitely a professional penetrator."
He heaves an exasperated sigh. Or maybe it’s the sound of his surrender. He’s known me my whole life. He has to know he’s not getting out of this.
"You're not giving this up anytime soon, are you?"
And there it is. The resignation of a man who knows he's cornered. "Not a chance. What's the accident rate in your line of work? Do you have early withdrawal penalties?"
"Holly..."
The warning in his voice only eggs me on. His resistance is just another asset to leverage. “Remember what I said about training wheels? I ditched mine a long time ago, at the bottom of a an ocean of tequila, but that’s a story for another day.”
His teeth grind loud enough for me to hear, followed by a muttered, "Goddammit."
“Probably a story for a different audience too.”
A few seconds later, his exasperated, "Jesus, not again."
Whatever that means.
"If you don't paint me a picture, I'll just have to use my imagination."
He scoffs. SCOFFS. "I'm not worried. I've seen your art. Stick figures on the back of junk mail—and that's being generous."
"Wow. GI Jackass, I actually have to give you credit for that one."
