FIFTEEN
The incessant tappingof keys fills the room, and my focus narrows to the rows of figures and text on the screen. I’m compiling a report that Dr. Cockwomble requested—an analysis that, no doubt, he will critique with his usual disdain.
Just as I align another section, Langley’s voice booms from the doorway. “Hendricks, are you ready for our meeting?”
I don’t even bother looking up. It’s their weekly status update in Langley’s office, something I’ve never been privy to. He doesn’t deem it necessary to offer me the same courtesy of privacy, choosing instead to address my performance openly, often disparagingly, in front of Hendricks.
In a way, I prefer it. The thought of being alone with him in a room makes my skin crawl. And not just for the obvious reason.
It reminds me of the numerous times I had to visit my father in his office.
The cool darknessof Father’s office wraps around me like a shroud as I step inside. His desk, a massive, imposing slab of dark wood, sits between us like a barrier—a barrier that feels more like a judgment seat today. Mother sits quietly inthe corner armchair, her presence small and withdrawn, her hands folded neatly in her lap. I search her face for some sign of support, but she offers none, her eyes downcast, her silence heavy.
Father’s voice cuts sharply through the tense silence. “Amelia Charlotte, sit down,” he commands, pointing to the chair across from his desk. The chair feels like an electric chair as I sink into it, my heart pounding in my chest.He doesn’t waste any time, his words slicing through the air like a whip. “This school report is a disgrace,” he begins, his tone dripping with disdain as he flicks the piece of paper across the desk toward me. “You are my daughter, Amelia Charlotte Stanley. You carry my name. And yet, you perform like this? Like you have no regard for what I’ve built for this family?”
I glance down at the paper, the grades printed on it now reading like a list of my failures. Each numbered grade feels like a brand, marking me as less than what he expects.
“How can you be so indifferent to your future? To our legacy?” he continues, his voice rising in anger and disappointment. “Do you want to end upmediocre? Is that it?”
The words sting, each syllable a lash that flays open old wounds—wounds of never being enough, of always living in the shadow of a sibling who could do no wrong. My throat tightens, and I struggle to hold back tears, knowing that any show of emotion will only fuel his anger.
I try to speak, to defend myself, but the words catch in my throat, strangled by years of similar lectures, by the fear of making it worse. “I-I’m trying my best,” I manage to stutter, barely above a whisper.
“Your best?” He scoffs, leaning back in his chair as if my efforts are something foul he needs to distance from. “This is not the best of a daughter of mine. August never brought homegrades like these. He understood the value of excellence, of striving beyond mediocrity.”
I look to Mother again, silently pleading for her to say something, anything, to defend me or to soften the blow. But she remains silent, her eyes fixed on some distant point, her expression resolute in its fidelity to her husband.
Never to me.
“You need to reconsider your priorities, Amelia Charlotte.” My father’s voice booms again. “You need to start living up to the family name, or I will have to take serious measures.”
His threats hang in the air, heavy and ominous. I nod, unable to speak, my voice lost in the maze of my choked emotions. As I rise from the chair, the feeling of inadequacy clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of my failures and the vast gulf between Father’s expectations and my own reality.
Walking out of his office, the door closing behind me feels final, like the sealing of my fate—a fate where I’m always found wanting, always lacking,never enough. As I retreat to my room, the silence of the house envelops me, a silence that speaks louder than any words of comfort could as my hand wanders to the back of my head.
The office doorshuts with a decisive thud as they leave, snapping me back from the edge of a memory that was threatening to swallow me whole. I grab my phone in an attempt to anchor myself in the present and keep from overthinking my position, job, and life choices.
Puppy videos.
I queue up a clip featuring Bernese Mountain Dogs—a breed I’ve been absurdly fantasizing about owning despite my too-small apartment and my non-existent work-life balance.
They’re big and somewhat clumsy, always seeming slightly out of sync with their limbs. And they look like the best cuddle buddies.
Just as I’m about to lose myself in the next video, Grey’s voice cuts through the tranquility from right beside me. “So, this is what the Smart Home Development Department does when they need a break, or is this research for a new gadget?” His tone teases, and I jerk in surprise, my chair swiveling as his presence invades my space.
“Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me,” I exclaim, my heart not just racing from the shock. His closeness is unsettling. The intoxicating scent of coffee and buttered rum emanates from him, his body heat enveloping me. Our cheeks are only inches apart, and I can feel the brush of his stubble against my skin as I take a deep breath.
Well, that would have been even worse if it was Dr. Cockwomble coming in unnoticed.
But something tells mehewouldn’t have been this stealthy.
“Sorry,” Grey says as he straightens up, his apology sounding half-hearted. He offers a not-quite-sorry smirk, his hands casually tucked in his pockets. His stance is relaxed yet still close.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice even, to mask the tremor that his sudden appearance has stirred within me.
“Getting you for lunch,” he smoothly replies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course.
