I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Sloane, we’ve talked about this. I’m not actively participating in?—“
“Your absence is becoming a problem.” Her voice is crisp, efficient, the same tone she uses in investor meetings. “Shareholders are asking questions. They want to know why one of the founders isn’t participating in company decisions. It looks bad, Emma. It looks like there’s internal conflict.”
“Thereisinternal conflict,” I say flatly. “That’s why I left.”
“You didn’t leave. You’re still on the board. You still have voting rights. You still have our last name attached to this company.” I can hear her jaw tightening through the phone. “You can play teacher all you want, but that doesn’t change the reality of your position.”
Play teacher.I feel the words land like a slap. Like what I’m doing here, building a life I actually care about, is just some cute little hobby I’m indulging before I come back to the real world.
“Our parents built this company from nothing,” she continues. “They put our names on it. And you’re out there playing house in some small town while the rest of us deal with the fallout. You don’t get to have it both ways, Emma. You don’t get to keep your shares and your board seat and your family name while pretending none of it exists.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” I say quietly. “And I’m not using my shares. They’re sitting in a trust for emergencies. I haven’t touched the dividends in years.”
“Whatever. I can’t talk to you when you act like a child.” Her voice is ice. “The board meeting is January fifteenth. I expect you to be there. This affects all of us, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. The cozy warmth of the classroom suddenly feels suffocating. I set the phone down and try to go back to grading, but the words blur together on the page. I read the same sentence three times without absorbing any of it.
Sloane’s voice keeps echoing in my head. I gather my things slowly, shoving papers into my bag without really looking at them. The drive to Theo’s house feels longer than usual, the dark roads winding through forest and farmland, my headlights cutting through the evening mist.
I pull into his driveway and flip down the visor mirror tocheck my makeup, trying not to let Sloane’s words burrow any deeper than they already have. My eyes are glassy. Shit. I will not cry. I refuse.
My entire life I’ve considered myself a confident and extremely competent person. I graduated high school two years early, finished college summa cum laude at twenty, came home and immediately got my teaching certification because I wanted to do something I was passionate about. I took debate in high school and mock trial in college and I’ve never backed down from an argument in my life.
Yet for whatever reason, the universe decided that even when I’m pissed as hell, my body’s first reaction is to produce tears. It’s infuriating. I can be absolutely furious, ready to tear someone’s head off, and my eyes will still water like I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle confrontation.
I dab under my eyes with my sleeve and take a deep breath, then another. Get it together, Hayes. I flip the visor back up and grab my bag.
Theo’s front door is unlocked, so I let myself in.
“In here!” His voice calls from the kitchen.
I drop my bag by the door and follow the smell of something savory and warm. He’s standing at the stove in a navy cable-knit sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, stirring something in a large pot. He looks up when I walk in and his smile falters slightly.
“Hey.” He sets down the wooden spoon and crosses to me immediately, his hands finding my waist. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t even know where to start.
“Long day,” I say, which isn’t a lie but isn’t the whole truth either.
He studies my face for a moment, his thumb stroking gently along my hip. Then he pulls me into a hug without another word. I let myself sink into it, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in the smell of him. Safe. Solid. Warm. I exhale slowly, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly.
I tell him about Sloane’s call. The board meeting. I tell him about the guilt I’ve been carrying for months, the feeling that I ran away instead of staying to fight, the way my sisters’ voices still echo in my head every time I think I’ve finally escaped.
“I just... I tried to get Sloane to see my side when the changes first started happening, but she had Morgan and Erica convinced, and Sophie was too young to have any real influence back then.” I shake my head, frustration tightening my throat. “Sloane just steamrolled everyone. She didn’t care what I thought. None of them did.” I trail off, suddenly exhausted.
He reaches over and wipes away a tear I didn’t realize had escaped. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says softly. “That sounds incredibly hard. Feeling like you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.”
I try for a half smile but it comes out wobbly. “Ugh. What do you think I should do? About the board meeting?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see him thinking. Considering.
“Do you want my honest opinion?” he asks.
“Yes.” I lean into him, resting my head against his chest. “I feel so lost in the middle of all this. I need an outside perspective.”
