Angela’s lips twitch. Our code for my father is hardly subtle. “Board meeting until ten. Monthly performance review with Landry at eleven. Lunch with Carmiley Group at one.”
“So I’m safe until at least two-thirty.” I exhale a breath. “If that changes—”
“I’ll text ‘incoming,’” she finishes, already turning back to her computer. “Like I do every day.”
Her tone isn’t judgmental, but matter of fact. Angela has witnessed enough tense father-son interactions to understand why I prefer email correspondence to face-to-face confrontation. She’s been my shield for two years now.
I close my office door behind me, setting my briefcase on the polished desk—standard Thompson Architectural Group issue. Dark mahogany with silver accents. No personal touches allowed, except for a single framed photo of Harley and me at Lake Michigan last summer, her smile bright against the blue water. I keep it angled away from the door. Father doesn’t approve of “cluttering professional spaces with sentimentality,” and I don’t want anything to catch his attention and draw him in here.
My laptop wakes with a soft chime. I scan my calendar first. I have strategically scheduled back-to-back client meetings to minimize gaps where Robert might summon me. Each day, I carefully plot his movements through the building to avoid accidental encounters in hallways or by the coffee machine.
The email notification pings.
From: Robert Thompson.
Subject: Henderson Project Revisions.
My throat tightens immediately. My pulse quickens as if I’m facing an actual threat instead of just words on a screen. I force myself to open it anyway, each click of the mouse deliberate.
Skyler,
Reviewed your preliminary designs for Henderson. Materials selected fall below Thompson standard. Attached, you’ll find appropriate alternatives that better represent our brand. Higher luxury.
Client budget restrictions are negotiable. Get with Nicholas Wible if you need help in sales.
R. T.
Short. Direct. No greeting or closing—just orders thinly disguised as suggestions. The signature lacks even the pretense of familial connection. No “Dad.” Just the initial that matches the giant T on the building’s exterior.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, composing and deleting three different responses in my head before I settle on one that won’t provoke further correspondence:
Robert,
Alternatives noted. Will discuss feasibility with client and incorporate appropriate changes within project parameters.
Regards,
Skyler Thompson
Professional. Brief. No emotion or argument. If I push back, he’d only make my life worse, like he does with my brother, Steven. Short and agreeable is the perfect camouflage for the simmering frustration that makes my jaw clench. I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately open the Henderson designs to make the changes Father demands. Best to handle it quickly.
My phone buzzes. Mother has already called twice this morning—and this time will be no different. I let it ring until it goes to voicemail, just as I did with the previous two. Thirty seconds later, a text appears:
Skyler darling, we simply must discuss the guest list. Amanda’s parents expect an invitation, and I’ve already assured them. Call me immediately.
I type back quickly: In meetings all day. Will call when I can.
A lie, but a necessary one. Elaine Thompson’s wedding concerns will consume hours if I let them. And those are hours I don’t have today; hours I don’t want to sacrifice to discuss people I have no interest in inviting to my wedding—especially Amanda’s parents. Plus, I try my best to keep her out of our wedding plans…and our life.
Another ping, but this time my shoulders relax instead of tensing. Because it’s Harley.
Survived court. Small victories. Thai still on for tonight? Love you x
My face softens into a genuine smile—the first one since I kissed her goodbye this morning.
Proud of you, fighter of wrongs and protector of children. Thai definitely still on. Love you more x
The contrast isn’t lost on me. How tight my chest feels responding to my father and how naturally words flow when writing to Harley. How I’ve constructed an entire professional existence around avoiding direct contact with the man whose name hangs above my office door.
