Although my focus is a little scattered, I accomplish a lot during the morning. I’ve never minded staying late to work, but I have found a reason to get home on time now, which pushes me to be efficient and have a better work-life balance.
A commotion in the hallway outside makes me check the clock on the bottom right corner of my screen. As I suspected, it isn’t lunch break yet. So, what’s that about? When the noises intensify, I remove my glasses and stare at the closed door, listening. The voices outside are urgent, clipped. Something isn’t right. My stomach tightens, an instinctive warning I can’t explain.
Before I can get up to check, the door flies open so violently it slams against the wall, making the frames there rattle. My brain barely has time to process what happened before they flood in, quick, purposeful, unstoppable, and merciless. A rush of noise follows, sharp words thrown into the space between us, but I can’t hear them, not really. The world narrows to the sudden weight in my chest, the brutal certainty of what’s happening curling around my ribs.
I’ve heard people say that in the final moments, your life flashes before your eyes. Some instinct of the brain, a desperate flood of memories, a last rush of something before the inevitable. Whatever happens to me is the same, but I don’t see my past. I see my future. That’s all that matters—snippets and images of moments that have yet to come, memories of the man I could have been, faces that aren’t born yet…
I see Andrea barefoot in the kitchen of the home we were going to build, stealing bites of my breakfast as the scent of pancakes fills the air. I see a summer afternoon, the laughter of freckled children mixing with the cry of seagulls on a beach we haven’t visited yet. I see the life that should have been ours. The life we were owed.
The noise around me swells—too much, too loud—but my body won’t move, won’t react. I’ve spent years bracing for disaster, expecting the worst, but this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Not now.
Not when I finally have entire decades to look forward to.
Not when everything I never even let myself hope for is waiting for me.
Not when I haveher.
“I’m still mad at you for taking Lex away so early,” Mace protests.
“We wanted to celebrate the new year our own way—with no one around.”
“Sharing is caring, boo.”
“That applies to cupcakes, not boyfriends,” I retort with a grin. “And I did share him with everyone at the party.”
“That’s true. We had fun, didn’t we?”
“A lot, yes. I know Lex did, too. I’m thrilled everyone was okay with him being there. I was worried it’d be weird.”
“Nah, this gotta be the country’s most inclusive and accepting company. We ain’t discriminating against no one—even if they’re rich and our boss.”
I chuckle at the way he frames it. Kelex and its people indeed have a great mentality. Still, I’m delighted the New Year party went well.
“Are you done with your edits?” Mace asks.
“Almost. Give me another five.”
The app is a hit with beta testers. We have a mountain of bug reports to tackle and a handful of user-suggested features to consider. My favorite—one we should have thought of—is adding face calls, allowing video chats where our real-time algorithm instantly translates speech and sign language.
The excitement fuels me like an overcharged battery. I’ve been buzzing all morning, elated by the positive feedback. The app is still far from reaching its full potential, but it’s already an essential tool for some users—much more than I ever hoped.
I just sent Mace the script when I get a text from MC.
MC the Main Character
Dile a tu novio que se guarde su lástima. Yo quiero un reto de verdad.
Tell your boyfriend to keep his pity. I want a real challenge.
Giggling, I reply that I’ll pass the word on to Lex. My abuela is competitive as hell but also a very sore loser. I understand why Lex would let her win, or at least not obliterate her at their online game. He has to be a little less obvious about it, though.
I’m halfway into writing a text to Lex when Brian barges in, out of breath and alarmed. “Guys!” he shouts. “The feds are here!”
“What?” Mason asks before we can.
“Yeah, Mouly was with some of them in the elevator! Three guys in suits, ten more geared up—like they’re about to make an arrest. And she said they were going just upstairs.”
