“I know.”
And I do. He thinks he’s being helpful. In Patrick’s world, the rules are simple: be loud or be lunch. Survival of the loudest, most ruthless voice.
But maybe Idoneed to fight back. Just a little. I stood up to Chef MacLeod today, and I’m still breathing.
“Are you saying the person with the loudest voice is automatically the most competent person in the room?” I ask.
He frowns, clearly not expecting pushback from the mouse in IT. “No. But having no voice at all isn’t the answer either.”
“But we’re all different,” I say, testing out words I’ve never said out loud. “That’s why teams exist. Not everyone needs to be an alpha personality fighting for airtime. Some of us contribute differently.”
I take a shaky breath, channeling Riri’s spirit. “Mozart wasn’t holding group workshops to compose symphonies. Einstein wasn’t busy playing office politics when he developed the theory of relativity. Some people need quiet to create.”
His eyebrow shoots up. “You’re comparing yourself to Mozart and Einstein?”
“No! God, no. I just mean... people work differently. The traditional corporate approach—speak up or get left behind—isn’t the only way to add value.”
My pulse hammers as I force out the next words. “In my humble opinion, the loudest voice in the room isn’t always the smartest. Sometimes it’s just the most insecure, trying to drown out everyone else.”
It’s the closest I’ve come to calling Craig out, and it feels like walking on shaky ground.
Patrick’s eyes narrow. “So what are you suggesting? That I coddle every introvert on my payroll?”
“No.” I shrink into my chair but keep going. “Just... maybe give this particular introvert a chance? Don’t send backup from London. Let me prove I can handle this project. Please.”
He studies me for what feels like an eternity. Finally, he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But no more chefs threatening to quit over your communication skills.”
“Deal.”
It’s not exactly a vote of confidence—more like agreeing not to fire me immediately—but I’ll take it.
We lapse into an awkward truce.
“Thanks for helping me tick something off my list,” I say, desperate to lighten the mood.
His jaw is doing that clenching thing again.
“The haggis,” he says, voice strained.
FIFTEEN
A nun’s habit with leg holes
Patrick
There’s nothing more liberatingthan running beside the wild Scottish sea. It’s the kind of freedom that reminds you what your body’s built for—not being boxed into a boardroom where people bicker over margins, but cutting through salt air with lungs burning and legs pounding.
Skye gets clogged in summer, tourists choking the roads with rental cars and selfie sticks. But step off the designated tourist trails, and you can run for miles without seeing another soul; just sheep and the odd Highland cow.
By the time I jog back into Portree, my lungs are burning, but it’s the good kind of burn.
Clachmòr rises on the horizon, exactly as it did when I was a boy sneaking through the fences with Liam. I used to stare up at it and imagine what it would be like brought to life again, full of people.
It stuck with me, even when I forgot, buried under the grind of building smaller hotels, chasing each new project. The dream was still there, like an author chasingThe Timeslist or a chef going for a third star. And when I finally had the money, I bought it and restored it.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. Jake.
I swipe to answer. “Thought you’d be too busy freezing your arse off in the middle of nowhere to call.”
