Him at work. Him in suits. Him beside flashy cars. Him awkwardly posing next to a horse like it’s a prop instead of an animal.
Boring. And suddenly… unsettling.
I shake my head and block him. If he stops seeing me, maybe he’ll stop thinking about me. I’m hoping he will just fade into the shadows and move on to pestering someone else.
And after yesterday, distance feels necessary.
My laptop sits open on the dining table beside me, property listings filling the screen. Turns out most apartments in town are owned by Reese or companies under his firm. I ended up down a rabbit hole of his company structure to be safe.
Of course they are.
The only two options not tied to him?
Huge houses. Expensive houses. I guess it’s good that I checked my investment portfolios this morning, and they’re way up. My parents have money if I need it, but that’s the last thing I want to use.
I sigh.
At least our lease here ends next month. It could work out quite flawlessly.
I tap my fingers against the table, saving the listings to show Violet later, before dropping onto the couch.
My phone lights up.
Dad.
I groan before answering.
“Dad.”
“Hi, love,” he says warmly. “How are things going? Bored yet?”
I roll my eyes. Twenty-seven, and they still talk to me like I’m a teenager on summer vacation. “I’m relaxed, not bored. Big difference.”
He chuckles. And despite everything, I love them. I know they worry about me. They just split their love between me and their fashion empire.
I just don’t think they realize their version of protection feels more like clipping my wings. Keeping me safe in a very pretty cage.
“Relaxing sounds boring,” he counters.
“Yeah? Tell that to your cardiologist. The way you live is killing you. Life here? I’ve never felt more energized.”
He exhales through his nose. Dad believes in work.
Work until you collapse.
Exactly what I don’t want for myself. If I have kids, I want to be an active part of their lives. And have more than just one. I don’t want to give my kids the life that I had. With nannies and mansions that felt lonely.
“Lazy, Lola. That’s what that is.”
I scoff. “People work hard here. Actual manual labor. Not sitting behind desks all day. And still manage to have a life outside of work.”
He changes tack. “Your investments are up. Have you checked?”
“Nope. But thanks. I’m sure Steve’s handling it.” I lie.
I’m not stupid, I know you need money to survive. And I’m careful with my own. But I don’t want my parents thinking I’m interested in their business.
Corporate talk now feels like listening to paint dry.