“Not clearly enough, I guess.”
“Then start there.” Dad sounds certain, clear on the path forward. “Skyler loves you—I’ve seen it in how he looks at you—but he’s spent thirty years learning how to navigate his parents’ expectations. He might need help to see them through your eyes.”
A young couple walks past, hands intertwined, laughing about something private. I watch them, wondering if they have any idea how complicated love becomes when it collides with family expectations and long-established patterns.
“You’re stronger than you think, Harl,” Dad continues, filling my silence. “That’s always been true. You bend, but you don’t break.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling some of the weight lift. “I needed that perspective.”
“Anytime, kiddo. That’s what dads are for.” His voice shifts slightly. “Maria wants me to remind you about dinner this weekend. Says she’s making your favorite lasagna.”
Right, dinner. The sheer normalcy of the invitation—home-cooked food in a house where no one judges my mug placement—nearly breaks my composure. “Tell her I wouldn’t miss it. We’ll be there.”
We say our goodbyes and promise to talk again soon. As I slip the phone back into my pocket, I realize I’ve walked all the way to the corner of the Thompsons’ street. The mansion looms in the near distance, less intimidating now that I’ve armed myself with Dad’s steady wisdom.
I watch the young couple cross the street, still hand-in-hand, completely absorbed in each other. They make it look so simple. Maybe it never is, but maybe it doesn’t have to be as difficult as I am currently allowing.
I square my shoulders and resume walking, my steps purposeful now. I won’t declare war on the Thompsons, but I won’t surrender my identity to keep the peace, either. I will find the middle path—maintaining my boundaries with quiet determination while helping Skyler find his voice with his family.
And maybe we will emerge from these two months stronger than before. A team, not despite the Thompson influence, but because we learned how to withstand it together.
I reach the wrought-iron gates that mark Thompson territory and punch in the code Skyler gave me. As they swing open, I make a promise to myself: This house will not define me. This family will not diminish me. And the man I love will either stand with me or watch me stand alone.
Either way, I’ll remain Harley Matthews—coffee mug and all.
Chapter 8
Skyler
The Four Stool café sits nestled between financial institutions. It may have a name that implies ‘bar’ but it’s anything but. Inside is a sea of suits.
I check my watch. I’m two minutes early, which means I’m already five minutes late by Thompson standards. Through the window, I spot my father at our usual corner table, back straight as a ruler, documents spread before him. My stomach tightens into the familiar knot it’s formed since childhood whenever I’m summoned to his presence. I straighten my tie—a reflexive gesture—before entering.
Inside, the muted conversations of Chicago’s financial elite create a soft backdrop to the clink of heavy silverware. A hostess materializes, recognizing me with a practiced smile.
“Mr. Thompson is already seated,” she says, though I haven’t spoken a word. Robert Thompson has never been late for anything in his life.
I follow her across Italian marble floors, past tables of men in suits. Father doesn’t look up as I approach, his attention fixed on project financial spreadsheets.
“You’re late,” he says without glancing at his watch. He doesn’t need to.
“Traffic,” I lie, settling into the chair across from him. We both know I left my office with plenty of time to spare but lingered in my car, delaying this meeting by precious seconds.
A waiter appears instantly, as if Father summoned him with invisible signals. “Your usual, Mr. Thompson?”
I nod, grateful to skip the performance of studying a menu I’ve memorized. Father orders a prime rib, done rare. I request the sea bass as usual.
“Henderson called this morning,” Father begins once the waiter retreats. “He’s impressed with the revisions to the atrium design.”
“Good,” I say, reaching for my water glass to occupy my hands. “The structural reinforcements actually improved the aesthetics while maintaining budget parameters.”
“Smart compromise. Though I still believe the cantilever would have made a more significant statement.”
“The client preferred function over statement,” I reply, the mild disagreement already making my palms sweat.
“Clients don’t always know what will serve them best in the long term.” Father shuffles his documents into a precise stack. “That’s why they hire experts.”
The familiar argument settles between us.
