“He was fourteen. Decided he was going to make beef stroganoff because he saw it on a cooking show. Except he didn’t know you had to boil the noodles before adding them to the pan.”
Her lips twitch again. “He didn’t.”
“He did. Set off every smoke alarm in the house. Anya was screaming about her hair smelling like burnt pasta for a week.”
This time, she can’t hold it in. A small laugh escapes, followed by another. She covers her mouth with her hand, but her eyes are bright with amusement.
“There it is. There’s that laugh.”
“Stop.” But she’s still smiling. “Seriously. Go to bed.”
“Only if you come with me.”
She freezes. “What?”
“Not for that,” I quickly clarify. “Just… sleep. I sleep better when you’re there.” The admission feels strange on my tongue, but I’m too tired to pretend anymore. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”
She studies me for a long moment. I can see her weighing the options. Part of me expects her to refuse. To retreat to her own room and her own walls and leave me to face the night alone.
Instead, she takes my hand.
“Fine,” she concedes. “But just sleep. Nothing else.”
“Just sleep,” I agree.
She leads me down the hall to my bedroom, and I follow willingly. We climb into bed together, fully clothed, and she curls up against my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I wrap my arm around her and pull her close. Her head rests on my chest, her breathing slow and steady. The weight of her against me is grounding. Real. A reminder that I’m not alone in this.
“Thank you,” I mumble into her hair.
“For what?”
“For listening. For staying. For not running away when you had every reason to.”
She doesn’t answer. Just inches closer and closes her eyes.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out into sleep. I lie there in the darkness, holding her, and for the first time in days, the weight on my chest feels a little lighter.
Chapter 17 - Kirsten
The champagne is flowing, and for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal.
We closed a deal this afternoon that we spent the last three months negotiating and revising. There were more late nights than I care to count. But we did it. The whole team did it. We made Shyman & Sons ours, and now we’re celebrating at a trendy bar downtown, the kind of place with exposed brick walls and overpriced cocktails and music just loud enough to make you lean in when someone speaks.
I’m sandwiched in a booth between Derek from analytics and Priya from legal, nursing my second glass of champagne while the others trade war stories about the deal. Dennis from sales is doing an impression of Shyman’s CFO that has everyone in stitches. Even stoic, no-nonsense Priya is laughing so hard she has to dab at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.
“And then,” Dennis continues, puffing out his chest and adopting a nasal voice, “he says, ‘I don’t see why we need to revisit the liability clause. It’s perfectly adequate as written.’”
“Perfectly adequate!” Derek howls. “The man wanted us to assume liability for acts of God. Actual acts of God. Earthquakes, floods, locusts—”
“There were no locusts in the contract,” Priya interjects, still wiping her eyes.
“There might as well have been. The clause was insane.”
I sip my champagne and smile. It feels good. Normal. Like I’m just another employee celebrating a win with her colleagues. Like my life hasn’t turned into something out of a crime drama over the past few weeks.
Except I’m not just another employee. Not really. Not anymore.
