Yeah, it’s clear as day: Brodie MacRae hates my guts.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Focus, Charlie.You handled it. Stayed cool, stayed in control. Didn’t let him see how much he rattled you.
I pull up the spreadsheet for my next meeting. The numbers blur, but I read through them anyway. Just to be sure. Even though I know them by heart.
My mobile buzzes, and my pulse jumps.
What does my dad want?
He hasn’t been in touch since I left Harrington Sports Management at the end of March.
What is he up to now?
He’s not the type to chase, and he sure as hell isn’t calling for a chat.
I glare at the screen, pressure clamping around my ribs. Four months since I walked out of Harrington Sports, and he still can’t accept that his eldest offspring chose her self-worth over his empire. That I dare to exist outside of his shadow.
He never calls anyone unless he wants something. He most certainly never apologises. I could pick up to find out what my price is this time. But I don’t. I turn the phone face down until it silences itself. He lost that privilege four months ago.
I can still hear his clipped voice, exactly as he said it then.You’re being emotional, Charlotte. Boys will be boys. You’re tainting everything I built because Cal slept with another woman. So? Move on.
He still doesn’t get it.
Edinburgh summer rain lashes against the window. A steady drumming that matches the riot running through my bloodstream. The sky is slate grey, heavy, pressing in like it wants to crush the city. Feels appropriate.
I stare at my reflection. Tense shoulders, jaw set like I’m holding back a war cry.
This is what I wanted. What I chose.
To be the boss.
I glance around, corralling my thoughts into line. The office is small and practical. Nothing flashy. Glass, brick, and simple furniture. A single step up from a glorified start-up, but it’s mine. I’d scrounged together enough to rent this space for a year – my office and the two adjacent ones.
Theo’s in the smallest one right now, pacing like she always does when she’s planning a social media campaign. The other is shared between Alex and Mac, legal consultant and junior agent-slash-publicist, respectively. Frosted glass walls separate us, muting voices but never fully shutting them out. I can hear Alex murmuring into their headset and Mac clicking away at his laptop.
It’s not much. But it’s real. And I’m building it with my own damn hands.
On my desk, the only personal touch: a framed photo of Mum with my little sister Hannah. They’re laughing, heads thrown back, Hannah’s face lit up from some joke Mum cracked right before I took the picture. I know, London’s only a day away and the move to Edinburgh was the change I needed. But I miss them.
I’ve sunk everything into this agency. Leveraged my future on the gamble that I could make it without George Harrington’s safety net. Charmed investors. Hired three fabulous people whose ability to pay the rent depends on me.
And now I’m shackled to a ticking time bomb with a temper.
Shit.
I drag my fingers through my hair, pressing hard against my temples.
Shit, shit, shit.
Brodie fucking MacRae.
The man who’s been Callum Fraser’s nemesis since they were teenagers. The loose cannon. The walking PR disaster whose behaviour could single-handedly sink my fledgling agency before it gets off the ground.
A soft knock. Theo pokes her head in. ‘Charlie? Your ten o’clock is here.’
My spine straightens so fast it aches. I exhale through my nose. Damage control. Regroup. Fix things. That’s what I do. No time for panic. No time to fall apart. If I slip now, even for a second, it’s over.
