"Jesus, boy, I didn't leak a damn thing! And Solene? That’s your baggage—I had nothing to do with her crawling out there. But this piece? 'Dallas King in the Dirt'? You've got the board in meltdown—stock’s hemorrhaging, investors bailing because their 'stable heir' looks like a fugitive hiding from his responsibilities. Reporters hounding us about your 'fling' with that ranch girl. What the hell were you thinking, getting photographed like this?"
"Fling?"
The word ignited something primal in me. Rage surged white-hot through my veins. My free hand clenched into a fist, nails biting crescents into my palm.
"Oh, sure—because Pops' granddaughter is just some tramp I’m screwing in the hayloft, right? Some convenient distraction for the rich boy playing cowboy? Classy, Dad. Real fucking classy."
Silence. Dead, crushing silence that pressed on my eardrums like deep water. I could picture him—jaw tight, eyes narrowing like I was a boardroom rival instead of his son, calculating how to spin this conversation into ammunition. My breath came ragged, each inhale burning in my chest. The cut on my palm throbbed in time with my racing pulse.
For a beat, the world narrowed, just me, the darkening yard, and the weight of twenty-four years of his disappointment crashing down like a collapsing building.
Then, low and venomous "Watch your mouth. This isn't about her—it’s about you making us a laughingstock. I sent you there to change, Beau. 'Come back a man, or don't come back at all.' That was the deal. Those were my exact words. But now? You're exposed, the ranch is a target, and Sterling Corp is paying the price for your little identity crisis while you play farmer."
Something inside me snapped. Not loudly, but completely. Like a bone breaking clean.
"Change? You shipped me off like defective merchandise—'fix yourself or fuck off forever.' And now you're pissed I actually am? You can't make up your goddamn mind! One day it’s exile, banishment, 'learn to be a man.' The next it’s sabotage and damage control. Solene magically gets the address—how else would she find this place?—and this article drops like clockwork. You wanted me broken enough to beg for home, desperate enough to fall in line. But I’m not."
I took a breath, my voice shaking. "For the first time in my life, I’m useful without your empire hanging over me. Without the parties, the scandals, the endless cycle of fucking up and fixing and proving I’m worth the Sterling name."
"You’re delusional. Ungrateful." His voice dropped to that cold register I’d learned to fear as a kid. "I built everything for you. The company, the legacy, the opportunities most people would kill for. And you throw it back in my face for what? Manual labor and small-town bars? That ranch is a phase—a joke you'll laugh about in ten years when you're running board meetings."
"Then why are you so threatened by it?" The words erupted, raw and unfiltered. "If it’s just a phase, why the emergency calls? Why the board meeting? Because maybe—just maybe—you're realizing I don't need you. That I’m actually happy for the first time since... since I don't even remember when. And that terrifies you because you can't control it. Can't spin it. Can't turn it into a PR win."
"Board meeting tomorrow, 8 AM: show up, spin this as 'strategic personal development,' smile for the camera, or I’ll yank you out myself. Summer ends soon—end of August, that was the agreement. You come back to Dallas shaped up, ready to take your place in the company, or you're cut off. No trust fund. No family name. No safety net. You'll be nobody."
"Fine. Cut me loose. Cut the cord, sever the ties, whatever makes you feel powerful." My voice broke, cracking on the last word, but I pushed through. "Because this?" I gestured wildly at the ranch, even though he couldn't see it. "This is real. Not your puppet show where I perform Sterling competence for investors. If being 'nobody' means waking up with purpose, actually mattering to people who give a shit about me beyond my last name, then make it happen. Pull the trigger."
The words hung in the charged air between us, and I realized with sudden clarity that I meant them. Every syllable.
"You'll regret this conversation," he said quietly, the threat velvet-wrapped but unmistakable. "When reality hits and you're scrambling without resources, don't come crawling back."
"I won't."
Click. Gone.
I slumped against the truck, chest heaving, the silence roaring louder than his voice ever had. It hit like a physical blow—years of resentment, the hypocrisy gutting me, the terrifying freedom of burning that last bridge.
Tears stung, hot and furious, tracking down my cheeks before I could stop them. I swiped them away viciously, angry at myself for the weakness, but they kept coming. My shoulders shook with the force of holding back sobs, hand pressed over my mouth to muffle any sound.
Twenty-four years. Twenty-four years of trying to be enough, and the first time I stood up for myself, he’d confirmed every fear: I was disposable. Replaceable. Nothing without the Sterling machine behind me.
But underneath the grief, something else stirred—something harder, brighter. Relief. Bone-deep, terrifying relief.
"Beau? Cassie’s about to peel out without us! You coming or what?"
Winnie’s laugh cut the night, pulling me back to earth.
I straightened, swiping my face one last time, forcing steel into my spine. The tremor in my hands was fading, replaced by a strange calm.For better or worse, I’d made my choice. Now I just had to live with it.
"Coming!" I called back, voice only slightly rough. "Let’s bury those Hendersons."
Trivia. Noise. Distraction. But Dad’s ultimatum echoed under the music: Shaped up, or cut off.
Summer was fracturing, days bleeding away faster now. And when it finally shattered—when August ended and Dallas came calling—what pieces of myself would I salvage? Which world would claim me?
BEAU
The Sterling Hungover
