As for Chloe?
When Thatcher’s empire crumbled, she pulled her golden parachute.
Last I heard, she’s trying her luck as alifestyle coach,selling self-worth one Instagram post at a time.
Poetic, in a way.
And me?
I don’t regret walking away. I don't miss the politics. The fake smiles. The way loyalty there was just another currency waiting to be spent.
Rhodes & Co. is thriving. Tammy’s amazing, as always. Rishi starts next month. And I don’t answer to anyone but myself anymore.
Maybe that’s the best kind of win.
The quiet kind. One you don’t have to shout about.
And now, here I am—in a tiny restaurant tucked into the rainy edges of Seattle, poking half-heartedly at my plate with the tip of my fork, shaking my head like I still can’t believe it. Because I can’t.
“I can’t believe we’re working with a mac and cheese company.”
Across from me, Tammy snorts, stirring sugar into her tea likes she’s mad at it. “Mac and cheese is a billion-dollar industry, Nolan.” She lifts her pinky dramatically. “We’re not sellouts. We’re visionaries.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Visionaries, huh?”
“Absolutely. You think you’ve reached the pinnacle of your career, and then—bam—you’re branding cheese powder dreams.” She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Admit it. It’s hilarious.”
I laugh, because it is.
A year ago, I was grinding my life away in glass conference rooms that smelled like the desperation of men and women who thought $300 cologne could cover up rotting ambition.
Now I’m consulting for Big Marty’s Mac Shack, sitting across from my best business partner, who is currently giving a passionate speech about the emotional impact of elbow pasta.
This is my life now.
And honestly?
I love it.
Mostly.
By every metric that used to matter, I’m winning.
And yet...
There’s still this hollowed-out space inside me. A room left half-furnished. I’m waiting for something—or someone—to walk back in and fill it.
Some ghosts don’t leave easy.
I reach for a fry on my plate, but before I can even get it to my mouth, Tammy swipes it right out of my hand like a damn savage.
“Seriously?”
She shrugs, completely unapologetic, crunching into it like it was hers all along.
“Proven fact,” she says around a mouthful of stolen goods. “Fries taste better when they’re stolen.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Suddenly, I’m back in that anonymous text thread. Back in the early days when stolen fries were a joke, and a I was part of a slow, beautiful unraveling. Back on that plane, stealing them off Rorie’s tray and catching her smile like it was mine to keep.
