Hendricks smiles back at me, pulling Willow closer, though she quickly pushes him away and stands beside him with a bit of distance.
Typical preteen.
Hendricks doesn’t seem fazed, though, as he begins to explain, “You know, there’s something subtle but significant that happens when we talk about people, especially in professional settings. When men achieve something noteworthy, we often refer to them by just their last name. Darwin, Dickens, Shakespeare. But when it comes to women, even those who are equally accomplished, we tend to use their full names. Marie Curie, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen. It’s as if there’s an underlying bias that suggests a woman isn’t as widely recognized or deserving of prominence, so we feel the need to specify her full name. But by doing that, we can unintentionally diminish her standing, as if she’s not on the same level…” He pauses, locking eyes with me, and there’s a depth of sincerity in his gaze that makes my breath hitch.
“So, when I call Stanley by her last name, it’s a deliberate choice. She’s brilliant, already doing incredible things, and I have no doubt she’ll accomplish even more in the future. I want to acknowledge her the same way I do with any other male colleagues I respect… by her last name alone. And honestly, it’s not just about her. It’s about the kind of world I want my daughter to grow up in. I want Willow to see that women can be recognized and respected just as much as men without needing extra qualifiers. Stanley deserves that recognition, and I’m committed to making sure she gets it.”
His words hang in the air, and for a moment, I’m stunned. I’ve always taken the last-name thing in stride, never really thinking much of it. But hearing Hendricks explain it like that—knowing he’s thought so deeply about it, about what it means for Willow and me—makes me see it and him in a new light.
It’s not just a habit. It’s a statement.
A small but powerful way of showing respect and equality.
I realize that despite all the mess he’s created, his intentions were rooted in something good, something I can forgive.
We’re all here, flawed and struggling but trying to do right by each other. A soft smile forms on Willows’ lips as she steps slightly closer to her dad again.
We’re all trying.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sunday night has settledover Seattle, the city’s hum providing a soft backdrop to the quiet in the apartment. Our home office is dimly lit, screens flickering with various camera feeds of Elysium’s hallways.
I’ve spent hours planning this, ensuring that any trace of tonight’s activities goes unnoticed. Tapping away on the keyboard, I manipulate the security system with precision as a bead of sweat trickles down my forehead.
The stakes are high, but the reward is worth it.
Across the street, Oliver and Misha are gearing up, buckets and plastic bags in hand, ready to liberate some neon tetras from corporate life.
“We’re in position, Grey. You sure we’re all clear?” Misha’s excited voice crackles through my earpiece—a twin to the ones he and Oliver are wearing that we bought for a Comic-Con cosplay once—tinged with both excitement and a hint of nervousness. My heart races as I watch them on the camera feeds, each movement carefully choreographed.
I toggle between feeds intently, my fingers hovering over the controls. Amelia is sleeping in my bed a few rooms down,oblivious to what we’re about to do, and the thought of her reaction when she discovers our surprise keeps me focused.
“Clear as day,” I respond, keeping my voice steady. “Stick to the plan, and no one will ever know you were there.”
“Copy that,” Oliver chimes in, sounding more self-assured than I expected. “Heading to the tank now.”
I hold my breath as they navigate through the dimly lit corridors, the soft glow of the neon tetras visible even through the grainy security feed. The cylindrical tank looms before them, and the fish dart about in mesmerizing patterns.
“How did I never notice how tall those damn things are? How did Amelia manage that?” Misha’s muttered comment brings a smirk to my face.
Oliver gives Misha a once-over and grins. “Looks like you’re going to need a boost, short stack.”
I chuckle.
God, I love how much of a confidence boost Oliver’s gotten since Amelia stepped into our lives.
Or since we plowed into hers.
Misha’s half-amused, half-exasperated response only adds to my amusement. “Seriously? I’m not that short.”
Debatable.
“Yeah, well, this tank begs to differ,” Oliver quips back. “Come on, I’ll lift you.”
Misha prepares himself, setting the buckets down and grabbing a plastic bag and a net. Oliver hoists him up, and for a moment, Misha wobbles precariously before finding his balance.
I let out a relieved breath.
