I set him down gently and walk to the large windows overlooking the pool. Sunshine streams in, painting everything gold and perfect, mocking my misery.
For a brief moment, I wonder what would happen if I stopped trying and just accepted what everyone seems to already know—that I’m a failure. That I’ll never be anything more than Nikko Farrarah’s disappointing daughter.
The thought sits heavily on my chest.
I wait another thirty minutes of no guests, the food growing cold, and then give in.
I guess I should start cleaning up.
Methodically, I begin closing the foil down on the pans. “We have enough leftovers for the next six months,” I say to Cocoa, who just tilts his head at me.
I’m startled by a heavy knock on the doorframe of the lounge. I turn, my eyes meeting a pair of golden irises that feel like relief.
Dom stands there in basketball shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. His hair is still damp from a shower, but his skin’s got that post-practice shine, the flush of someone who worked hard and liked it.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “Guess I missed it? Practice ran a little late.”
I swallow the urge to cry. “Hey…” My voice cracks, so I clear it and try again. “Sorry, just having a day.”
He nods, eyes flickering to the untouched food behind me. “Rough meeting?” he asks quietly, setting his gym bag down by the door.
I attempt a laugh, but it comes out hollow and broken. “You could say that.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just moves to the nearest table and starts gathering plates, stacking them neatly.
“You don’t have to—” I begin.
“I know,” he interjects. “But I’m going to anyway.”
For a moment, I just watch him, this giant of a man carefully handling delicate glassware with his massive hands. There’s something profoundly touching about it, about the way he doesn’t ask questions, just rolls up his metaphorical sleeves and helps.
We work in silence for a few minutes, me collecting napkins and silverware, him handling the heavier items. Cocoa, seeming to sense a shift in the energy, hops down from his chair and trots over to Dom, nudging his leg.
“Hey, trouble,” Dom murmurs, giving Cocoa a scratch behind the ears. “Staying out of mischief today?”
The simple interaction makes my throat tighten again. It’s just sonormal. Like the world hasn’t completely fallen apart around me.
“So,” Dom says finally, as we’re loading dishes into a plastic bin I brought from my apartment. “What happened?”
I focus intently on arranging forks, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing important. Just a practice run that didn’t go as planned.”
He doesn’t push, just nods and continues working. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything I’m not saying.
Finally, as we’re wiping down the last table, I crack. “They were awful.”
Dom looks up, his golden eyes meeting mine. “The people who came?”
“Three women from the building,” I explain. “They basically told me I’m a failure who should stop embarrassing myself by trying to be an entrepreneur.”
Dom’s jaw ticks. “That seems unnecessarily cruel.”
“Well, they’re not wrong,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I mean, my skincare linedidsmell terrible. And the dog treatsdidmake a couple dogs sick.”
“Everyone fails,” Dom says simply.
“Not like I do,” I counter. “I’m like the Michael Jordan of failing at business.”
“Michael Jordan got cut from his high school basketball team,” Dom points out.
