Intimate.
Like he’s staking a claim without ever laying a hand.
The air whooshes from my lungs. Muscle memory takes over—grab mug, pour coffee, don't think about last night, don't think about the wagon, don't think about?—
"Holly."
Chance's voice hits me low in the gut, quiet and careful as he steps up beside me. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug, betraying the tremor in my hands.
"About last night?—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, brittle around the edges.
I keep my eyes locked on the dark liquid streaming into my cup, like maybe if I stare hard enough, I can drown the memory of his lips on mine, of the raw pain and desperation in his voice when he thought I used Everett to make him jealous.
Declaring I would never do that to him again, as though this was only the beginning—not the end after a flash so hot it’s left it’s permanent mark.
"You promised to keep up your end of the deal. Think you can manage that, playboy?"
Oh God—I meant soldier boy—why did I call him that?
He's silent for a long moment—long enough that I make the mistake of glancing up. The muscle in his jaw ticks, a telltale sign he's fighting for control.
Good. Let him fight. I spent all night doing the same. Lying in my empty bed, replaying every second of that kiss, wondering how his pain could feel so much like my own.
"Fine." His voice comes out rough, scraping against my nerves. "Whatever you want,princess."
Ooooof,that landed.
He knows I hate that word, knows exactly what it means coming from him. But before I can respond, he's already walking away, leaving me with nothing but cooling coffee and the bitter taste of regret.
I slide into my seat, pointedly avoiding Charlie's questioning look from across the table.
Our mother’s discuss some karaoke social that—no, absolutely not—they really should not attend. I’ll stay in my room thanks—because who needs that emotional damage.
At least give me a chance to mourn for a year or two, for the death of the single best kiss of my life—until Nick slid in like the damn grim reaper.
I don’t even have a cock and he’s blocking it.
At the table, Blake's already holding court, carrying on about Asian markets and tech sectors, his voice carries that practiced confidence that makes my skin crawl.
I’ve forgotten more than he’s ever known about tech markets. But, this is the shiny new toy, and he’s excited—overconfident, pompous, cocky—pick a word.
All apply.
Finally, I have to cut in, because the information he’s spouting off isn’t even from this quarter—it’s from last—and life is too short to suffer this tool.
"If you look at thefourthquarter projections, there's a clear downward trend in?—"
"Holly, dear." My father's voice slides in smoothly, carrying that note—the one that sounds warm and paternal to outsiders but lands like a pat on the head to those who know better. "Blake has a real knack for navigating the complexities of tech markets. He’s one of our greatest assets. You might pick up a thing or two if you take a step back and listen.”
Normally, I’d let it roll off my back. A lifetime of pats on the head and dismissive smiles trains you for that—absorbing condescension like a sponge and praying it doesn’t seep into your bones. At the start of the week, it was even kind of funny. Ridiculous, but distant enough not to sting.
But now? Now it’s not funny. Now it’s infuriating.
I can’t keep sitting here, expecting everyone else to change. I can’t keep waiting for my father to wake up and see me as more than the polite applause at the end of his big show.
So, what if I’m supposed to start changing first?
