Janie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. Only I notice.
"The budget breakdown on page twenty shows the cost efficiencies of our approach," she continues smoothly.
Under the table, my knee bounces, a small betrayal of the storm inside me.
Yet watching her command the room, seeing the project that will help thousands of children come to life under her leadership, something unwelcome stirs beneath my anger.
Pride. Damn it.
The meeting adjourns with handshakes and congratulations. I pack my notes with mechanical precision, sliding each document into its labeled folder.
"Warren, do you have a minute?" Janie's voice is low, meant only for me.
I snap my briefcase closed.
"No. I've got to get back to the office."
"Alright. Well, that does it, gentleman. I'll be in touch."
And without a second glance, she's gone. God, why do I have to be such a dick?
My condo sits dark.The only light is the blue glow of my phone as I scroll through Beckett’s soccer schedule. I already know it by heart, but the ritual steadies me. Tuesday, 4:00. Thursday, 5:15. Saturday at 9:00. A rhythm to cling to while everything else is unsteady.
Thankfully, Margaret slipped me the printout. It's easier this way. Easier than asking Janie directly, easier than putting myself in that situation when I don’t have to.
This isn’t how co-parenting and custody work, not really. I know better than anyone that sideline promises and casual drop-ins won't cut it in the long run. To do it right, there have to be petitions, filings, and orders.
But I'm not ready to go there, yet. So I’ll settle for this. For now.
The ringtone startles me. The screen flashes with an unknown number, but it's vaguely familiar. It's a Palm Beach area code.
My stomach tightens. I can't say why, but I have a hunch this has something to do with my father.
Against every instinct, I answer.
"Warren." It's not a question. And it's spoken with a voice I’ve heard only once in the last twenty years. It's thinner than I remembered, but still carrying that steel edge beneath the polish.
“Mother.”
Silence stretches, not decades this time, but days. The space between the call about my father’s death and this one.
“The funeral is Friday.” She clears her throat. “Private. Family only.”
My laugh comes out harsh. “I’m not family. That was made abundantly clear.”
“You’re his son.” Her voice cracks, surprising me. Eleanor Carter doesn’t crack. “Please come. For me.”
I pace to the window, watching palm trees bend in the night breeze. The same view my father likely had from his hospital room. Something twists in my chest.
“Fine. I’ll come. But I won’t sit up front with the family.”
"Thank you." A pause. "There's something else."
Of course there is. The twist in my chest hardens to stone.
"What is it?"
"Carter Corp is broke."