I shake my head violently. “Stop. I can’t do this—”
“You can’t do it because you know I’m right,” he pushes, voice climbing again. “He didn’t build you. He built the brand. Everything you created, he took credit for. Every limit you reached, he pushed harder. And every time you broke, he called it a ‘setback’ instead of a person.”
My breath shatters in my throat.
“I said STOP!” I yell, chest heaving. “Just— stop, Banks!”
He goes still, watching me like he’s trying to hold my pieces in place from across the space between us.
“You think I didn’t see what he did to you?” he asks, voice rough. “I was there, Lucky. I saw you lose yourself one deadline at a time. I saw the panic attacks you hid in the bathroom. I heard him tell you you weren’t ‘trying hard enough’ when you were practically shaking apart.”
My eyes sting. My hands won’t stay still.
“Get out,” I whisper.
Banks flinches. “Lu—”
“I said get out,” I choke. “I can’t— I don’t want to hear this anymore.”
He swallows hard. Something inside him caves.
Then—slowly—he stands up and steps toward me and places a warm, steady hand on my shoulder.
“You can throw me out,” he says softly. “You can scream at me. You can hate every word I said today. But I’m your friend first. And I’m not going to stand here and watch you give your power back to the man who spent years taking it.”
His thumb brushes once—gentle, grounding—then he drops his hand.
The words hit something tender in me — and I react the only way I know how when something feels too close.
I bare my teeth.
“Friend?” I scoff. “You’re on my payroll, Banks. Just like everyone else. Maybe watch how far you step.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, regret slams into me so hard I sway.
His face goes blank — not cold, not angry. Worse.
Hurt. Deep, stunned hurt that he tries to swallow down.
“Wow,” he breathes, more to himself than me. “Okay.”
“I didn’t—” The apology catches in my throat, strangled. I can’t force it out. I can’t let it out.
He shakes his head gently. “No. It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it.”
But the way he says it?
Yeah. It’s not fine. And we both know it.
I can’t look at him — not with the burn crawling up my throat. So I turn away, stepping toward the railing, gripping the wood so tight my knuckles go white. The lake glimmers in front of me, sun warm, water calm — everything inside me is the exact opposite.
My eyes sting. I blink hard, letting my hair fall forward like a curtain. If I stay still, if I breathe slow, maybe he won’t hear how close I am to breaking.
Behind me, Banks exhales — long, tired, full of things I’ve made heavier.
“I’m not your employee, Lucky,” he says quietly. “I’m the idiot who stayed when everyone else left because I care about you more than my own sanity.”
I don’t answer.
