“You’re twenty-bloody-five, darling. And you’ve been focusing on all the wrong things.” She gestures vaguely, which I can only assume is meant to encompass my entire sad existence. “Yes, your computer wizardry is impressive, but outside of that? You’ve said no to absolutely everything. Parties. Dates. Tabby had a better social life, and he was castrated.”
I bite my lip, cheeks burning. Impressive, really; I’m being roasted from beyond the grave.
Her voice softens. “I need you to be brave, darling. Say yes to things. To dates. To weird hobbies and questionable decisions.”
My throat tightens.
“You know what I see?” Riri says. “This brilliant girl with this incredible brain, and instead of using that mind to build a life that’syours, you’re stuck doing things out of obligation. Getting stepped on. I want so much more for you than that.Life is far too short to be someone else’s punchbag.”
I let out a choked sound.
She shifts in the bed, wincing but powering on. “And if you don’t follow my instructions, Iwillhaunt you. You need to fucking live, my darling. This is your promise to me. Now see you on the other side. Hopefully in about seventy years.”
She blows a kiss, and the screen cuts to black.
I sniff into my disintegrated tissue. “How would she even know if I’m doing it? That’s not measurable. As a programmer, that sits very uncomfortably with me.”
“She said she’d know,” Mr. Ainsworth says.
Of course she did.
I march through central London in a daze. All I want is to get home before the next wave of ugly crying hits.
My phone buzzes in my bag. I fish it out.
Craig.
Clearly, this day hasn’t finished kicking me while I’m down.
It’s Thursday night. The team’s out for post-work drinks. I skipped, officially because of the will reading, but honestly, I’d have invented some excuse anyway. As Riri so lovingly pointed out in her posthumous character assassination, my current social life consists of work, Netflix, and the occasional Tesco meal deal.
I hover over Decline. But I know what happens when I don’t answer—he’ll call repeatedly, then tomorrow there’ll be comments about my “commitment to the team.”
I sigh and swipe to accept. “Hello?”
“Georgie,” he barks, already sounding like a man with both feet in a pint glass. “Roy and I were just discussing IRIS. We cannot afford even a whiff of a hiccup on this rollout. Cannot. Afford. It.”
“Of course,” I say, bracing myself for whatever management nonsense is about to tumble out of his mouth.
“I need you to be accessible to Roy atalltimes when he’s in Skye. We’ll convert the small conference room into your dedicated workspace. Set up a monitor permanently linked to a live video feed of Roy’s desk in Scotland. Plus a private Slack channel just for you two.”
I stop dead on the pavement, jaw open.
Seriously?
Instead of sending me to Skye—the blindingly obvious, logical solution—Craig’s concocted some overengineered setup where I’m Roy’s round-the-clock technical babysitter via CCTV.
And he’s still rabbiting on like this is pure genius.
I take a steadying breath.
The past three months have been one long losing streak: tanking that presentation in front of Patrick, losing Riri, and now having the one thing I’ve poured myself into handed off to someone else while I clap politely from the sidelines like a good little girl.
Riri’s voice echoes in my head:Life’s too damn short to be someone else’s punchbag.
And the truth is, I don’t think I have many fucks left to give.
I let people talk over me, walk all over me, tell me who I am and what I’m worth. Even Riri’s calling me out from beyond the grave.
