But my feelings are short-lived with a soft chime from my computer pulls me back. Angela’s instant message appears in the corner of my screen:
INCOMING. Elevator from the first floor. ETA 45 seconds.
My heart rate spikes. I grab my portfolio and phone, striding to the door with urgency. By the time I hear the elevatordoors open, I’m already halfway down the hall, moving toward Conference Room E, where I know the Henderson team is preparing for tomorrow’s client meeting.
“Skyler.” My father’s voice echoes down the corridor as my hand reaches for the conference room door.
I pretend not to hear, slipping through the doorway with a quick nod to the startled design team already assembled inside. “Sorry to interrupt, just need to grab those material samples we discussed yesterday.”
Through the glass walls, I watch Robert pause, considering whether to follow me in. His silver hair catches the overhead lights as he checks his watch and continues toward his office.
Crisis averted, for now. He’ll send me another email, which I can handle.
“You don’t actually need anything, do you?” asks Liu, our head interior designer, amusement dancing in her eyes. The team has witnessed this particular maneuver before.
“Just sanctuary,” I admit, settling into an empty chair. “Mind if I work here for fifteen minutes?”
“Your building.” She shrugs, returning to her presentation boards.
But it isn’t my building; it’s his. Every inch of it. Every decision. Every design. Even when the blueprints carry my signature, they bear his influence. The Thompson legacy weighs heavy across my shoulders as I flip open my portfolio, pretending to review drawings until Angela officially texts the all-clear.
By noon, I’ve received two more calls from my mother and another curt email from my father. I ducked into three different meetings where I wasn’t needed and took an unnecessarily complex route to the restroom, just to avoid the main hallway where Robert typically holds informal discussions with senior staff.
This is success in the Thompson Architectural Group: completing my actual work while simultaneously navigating the invisible minefield of family dynamics. No direct confrontations, no uncomfortable conversations. Only the polite fiction that we’re merely colleagues with the same last name, maintaining professional distance while designing buildings that will outlast us both.
While the café three blocks from the office isn’t anything special, with its two top tables and generic mug wall art, it’s still my special place. There’s no Thompson name embossed on the door. No fathers lurking around corners with opinions disguised as guidance. It’s just me, a turkey sandwich with too much mayo, an Americano, and thirty precious minutes where I don’t have to be a Thompson. Here, I’m just another suit on lunch break.
I claim my usual corner table—entrance-facing, with its back to the wall. It’s an old habit from years of avoiding unexpected parental appearances. Luckily, I learned early on that Father never comes in here, and Mother is much too occupied with her brunch crew.
The sandwich tastes like nothing, but I eat it anyway. My phone rests beside my coffee cup, and I swipe through it without much interest. I go through my email. News. Weather. Then, without really thinking, I open Instagram.
Then I see her.
Amanda. Standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, champagne flute raised toward the camera, hair gleaming in perfect golden waves that never seem to suffer from humidity or wind.
The photo caption reads: “Last day in Paris with the old crew to usher me home! @CarolynMichaels @LucasDavis #lawfirmperks #livingthedream”
Carolyn and Lucas were mutual friends of Amanda and me in college. We’d sent them both wedding invitations, then had to awkwardly rescind them after Amanda and I ended things. It’s been three years since I’ve spoken to either of them. Apparently, they sided with Amanda after the break.
I could zoom in, examine their faces for signs of how they really feel about her now. I could check who else liked these photos, map the social connections that once defined my world. I could even—if I were feeling particularly masochistic—click on Amanda’s profile to see what else she’s been doing since we ended our engagement and I disappointed both sets of parents by failing to cement the merger of our family empires.
Instead, I deliberately scroll past. Three photos down is a post from a college classmate’s architecture firm in Seattle. I like it without reading the caption. Five photos after that is someone’s new baby. I type “Congratulations” and move on. All are normal, bland social interactions to cleanse the palette.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harley.
Contemplating faking my own death to avoid paperwork. Pros: no more forms to fill out. Cons: would miss you and Thai food. The verdict is still out.
I smile, feeling my shoulders relax.
If you fake your death, who will help me hide from my mother’s wedding planning calls? Selfish move, Matthews.
This is real and not at all the carefully posed photos from a life I never actually wanted. Not the path laid out for me by parents, who saw marriage as a business strategy. Just Harley, making me laugh between client meetings and case files.
I finish my sandwich, close the social media apps, and walk back to the office with determined steps. The ThompsonBuilding looms ahead, glass and steel reaching toward the clouds like my father’s ambitions. I straighten my tie before entering, building my guard back up.
Angela intercepts me at the elevator. “He’s been looking for you,” she murmurs, falling into step beside me. “Three times in the last hour.”
“Any idea why?” I keep my voice neutral, though my stomach tightens.
