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I power through the first ten emails, responding with bored efficiency. The rest require actual thinking. There’s a spreadsheet from the entertainment division listing profit margins for last month’s events. I scan for errors, highlight the ones that bug me, and shoot back a snarky note to the accountant about “basic addition.”

Next, a spreadsheet from the bar manager, who still can’t seem to figure out how to calculate pour costs. I type and delete the phrase “Try again, asshole,” three times before settling for “Please double-check these numbers.”

The frustration builds in my jaw, migrating down to my neck. I clench, unclench, clench again, until it feels like my molars are grinding to powder.

The morning sunlight finally breaks through the French doors, splashing gold across the perfectly staged living room. Everything in here is some variation of white, tan, or pale yellow. It’s all pristine, like it was staged for a magazine shoot, and it drives me fucking nuts. I should’ve fired my goddamn decorator, but she’s my sister, so I didn’t.

When I sit back down, I hear the faintest buzz. It’s my phone, shimmying against the marble countertop. Maggie, again.

I let it ring out, and then open my texts.

Maggie

U alive?

Seriously, answer your phone. I’m worried about you.

Stop being an asshole.

I type a response, then delete it. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Maggie before coffee cup number two. If I know my sister, she’s feeling bad about my back injury and is already planning some way to fix me. Since her “fixes” usually end up torturing me, I’ll find a way to deal with this myself.

I walk to the fridge, grab a pre-made protein shake, and slam it while standing in front of the open door. The cold hits my sinuses, and for a second, the headache dulls to a manageable throb.

I close the fridge, take another sip of coffee, and force myself to breathe. I can do this. I can get through one day without stabbing anyone in the eye with a mechanical pencil.

I open the email again and reread what I wrote to the bar manager. I consider sending a follow-up apology, but the rational part of me knows that would only make things worse.

At exactly eight-fifty-nine a.m., I log into the Silver Spoon Falls Family Business Zoom Room, the digital equivalent of a medieval torture chamber where my siblings come to do battle over profit margins and marketing plans. I adjust my webcam and attempt to sit up straight without wincing.

Hudson materializes first, his face taking up the entire left half of the screen. He’s in his office at the ranch, backdrop perfectly curated for maximum intimidation: a pair of mounted longhorns, several shiny belt buckles, and a photo of the governor shaking his hand. His Stetson sits on the credenza behind him, but his hair is so perfectly in place I’m convinced he sleeps with a helmet. Hudson’s jaw is set in its usual “one wrong move and I’ll eat you” configuration.

Next up is Silas, who joins from a truck, earbuds in, sunlight leaking through the windshield. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and straight into the front seat—T-shirt with a cryptic slogan, sunglasses propped on his head, and a day’s worth of stubble. He acts like we’re at a tailgate, not a six-figure planning session.

Cole logs in last, from his office at his Montana ranch. He’s wearing a plaid button-down, has next-level bedhead, and is drinking from a mug that says, “World’s Okayest Brother.”

He grins wide. “Morning, ladies,” he drawls, and I can practically hear the eye-roll from Hudson through the screen.

I almost ask where Reine is, but I don’t need to because she appears in the background, giving us a little wave.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Hudson says, drawing out ‘gentlemen’ like he’s challenging us to live up to the word.

“Morning, boss.” Silas grins, immediately taking a swig from a giant tumbler that could contain a little vodka mixed with coffee. “Tanner, you look like ten miles of bad road. Rough night?”

I ignore the bait and launch straight into the agenda. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got contractors showing up in an hour to fix the north fence line.”

Hudson gives me a hard look. “Someone’s in a mood. Maggie warned us you’ve been nursing the little injury for all it’s worth.”

“Little injury, my ass,” I snap back, even as I realize how uncharacteristic that is. Usually, I’d find some way to make a penis joke out of “north fence line,” but my sense of humor is currently on backorder. “I’m dying over here.”

There’s a micro-pause, just long enough for Silas to interject, “Do you need me to take you to the emergency room for a little Band-Aid, bud?”

I have no idea why I expected sympathy from these fuckers.

“Bite my ass,” I say.

“Enough,” Hudson cuts in. “Let’s focus. The Charity Rodeo is two months out. Vendor placements need to be finalized today.”

I glance at the shared screen, where a color-coded map of the event grounds glows with an anxiety-inducing array of dots and labels. Normally, I’d launch into a standup routine about our “Festival of Sausage” food court or the “Lone Star Massage Zone” that Silas tried to book three years running. Today, it all feels like one big set of headaches that I’d rather be shot than deal with.