I flop back on my bed and groan. I know she’s worried about the bruise she saw a few weeks ago after a particularly bad episode where Dad thought I was someone else. For the life of me, I didn’t catch the name, not when he was trying to remove me from the penthouse physically. Thankfully, Matteo stepped in, and he hasn’t left since. And I’m sure they are seeing this… whatever it is between Kilovac and me that just keeps getting louder. Distancing myself will lessen whatever is pressing against the edges of things I can’t afford to let crack.
Fairfax doesn’t survive on impulse, and neither do I. So, I shut it down, tighten the walls, and do what I always do, work.
Which reminds me…
I’m over the giant spreadsheet; I printed it out in an attempt to figure out what feels off about the comm projections for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
The numbers are fine. That’s what’s bothering me.
Engagement is steady. Spend is within tolerance. Nothing is spiking, nothing is crashing. On paper, it’s a week everyone expects to be quiet. Soft launches, light touchpoints, placeholder language until the calendar turns.
But the phrasing is wrong. Not incorrect. Not sloppy. Just… aligned in a way it shouldn’t be.
The exact words are appearing in places that don’t usually talk to each other. Internal decks. Draft talking points. A set of “if asked” responses that no one has officially asked for yet.
Continuity. Familiarity. Reassurance.
The door opens without a knock.
“Nothing ever changes.” Matteo, coat draped over his arm, coffee in hand.
“You used to sit right there,” he adds, nodding toward my side of the desk. “Same week every year. Between Christmas and New Year’s. Always working on something no one else thought mattered yet.”
I don’t look up. “I still need it in print.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
“I just use less glitter now.”
“That’s growth,” he says solemnly, then leans over my shoulder, eyes flicking across the spreadsheet. “You’re not looking at the numbers.”
“No,” I say. “I’m looking at the echo.”
He hums quietly. “Someone’s practicing a story.”
“That’s what it feels like.”
Matteo straightens, unbothered. “Stories don’t practice themselves.”
The buzz from my desk phone cuts through the moment.
My secretary’s voice comes through, careful in the way it only gets when she’s concerned.
“Hugo Vale on line one,” she says, worry evident. “He says it’s… time sensitive.”
I sit down in Dad’s chair and reach for the receiver, “Put him through.”
As the line clicks open, Matteo squeezes my shoulder. “Let me know if you need me. I’ll be up with Arthur.”
“Thank you,” I mouth and hit the button. “This is Sofie.”
“Hugo Vale,” he says.
“Is this about Claudia or Savannah?” I ask immediately.
“No,” Hugo says. “But you and I need to meet.”
“Okay, when is a good time?”
