Blake smirks with amusement from across the table, clearly enjoying his front-row seat to this little misogyny fest. It’s exactly his speed, and he looks ready to order popcorn.
My stomach twists, the humiliation churning violently in my stomach, the coffee turning rancid.
It’s not just what he said—it’s the way he said it. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m supposed to smile and nod. Don’t make a scene. Just grab the dish.
But it’s Chance’s expression that cuts the deepest—so damn casual, like I’m nothing but a convenient afterthought.
I see my mother in my head, delivering my father’s meals. And when he walked away, leaving his dishes behind, she’d swoop in and think nothing of cleaning up after him. After all, he was the breadwinner building a legacy.
And if that’s what she wanted, what she was happy with—I have no problem with that.
But what I keep circling back to over and over is how he never thanked her. Not once do I recall him acknowledging her show of support—not one single time.
“You’re right. Iamalready up.”
“Appreciate it, peasant.” He drums his fingers. The picture of causal. Nowhere to be—but in no hurry to get up and do such a menial task.
I pop my head just outside the doorway where I remember seeing John working, hoping he’s still there.
“Good morning, John.” I flash him a genuine smile. He has no idea how his very presence just made my damn day. “Youmind?” I gesture to the hammer handing from his belt. “I’ll bring it right back.”
“Is there something I can do?—
“Nope, will only take a minute and you’re a busy man.”
The minute I grip offered hammer, the weight just feels right in my hand—solid, real, grounding.
The rage builds in my chest, hot, sharp, and unstoppable.
Because this isn't just Chance being an ass. This isn't just him trying to keep up appearances. This is every moment I've fought against, every expectation I've tried to break free from.
And coming from him—after last night, after everything—it's worse somehow. Like he reached inside me and found exactly where to twist the knife.
"Holly." Nick's voice carries a warning, but I barely hear it.
With all the encouragement of theDon’t get mad, get evenpanties I chose this morning I bring the hammer back, and in one confident swing—execute the perfect arc—landing a precision hit.
Because I get shit done.
GI Fuckwit should be able to appreciate the beauty of nailing it.
Shards scatter across the polished table among a chorus of gasps—shattered expectations glinting in the morning light.
A deep scar splits the wood where the hammer struck—a lesson and cautionary tale.
Hands flat on the table, the hammer pinned under my palm—the way I was pinned under this son of a bitch last night, I lean in real close.
Just so we’re fucking clear.
"And that’s the last time you'll ask me to take care of your bowl." My voice comes out steady, calm, even as my pulse pounds in my ears.
Pushing off the table, I head straight for John. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
He rewards me with a knowing grin and a shake of his head.
Behind me, I hear Nick's voice, low and sharp: “What the hell is wrong with you?"
But I don't stop and listen for Chance’s answer.
