He winces, the curve of his shoulders losing their rigidity. “It’s more complicated?—”
“No.”
I’m not going to back down. And my father isnottaking my CEO title. At least not prematurely.
If he decides to return to work in a few months, with medical approval, then that’s something I’ll have to deal with. But I won’t let this opportunity be taken from me because of Raffael Cavallo.
“They’ll survive the breakup, Dad. And we’ll be all the better for it.” I turn and start for the hall.
“You have until five o’clock, Isla.” he calls after me.
I don’t respond.
Don’t look back.
I snatch my purse off the entry table and continue walking until I’m out the front door and face-to-face with Fletcher—my father’s long-time driver, now mine by default.
He opens the back door of the black Bentley parked at the curb, his graying hair gleaming in the sunlight. “Where to now, Ms. Cross?”
“The office.” I stride to the vehicle and slide onto the leather seat. “Take the long way.”
The drive is a blur of fluctuating anger and regret I’m determined to smother before I have to face curious employees. Fletcher navigates past the park where my mother used to take me, then the old deli we’d stop at after school.
Every corner carries a whisper from my childhood, the memories echoing insecurities I’ll never outrun.
My parents always wanted a son.
Someone to carry the family name. Someone strong enough—worthy enough—to inherit the empire my grandfather built.
They tried. Again and again.
But each pregnancy after mine resulted in miscarriage or stillbirth, until my mother couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore.
I was twelve when she took her own life.
Too young to understand why I wasn’t good enough, despite the straight A’s and good behavior. Yet too old to ignore how much power a pair of chromosomes could hold over the shape of my future.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
Maybe I overplayed my hand.
Maybe I should’ve waited… Been smarter… Less…me.
I glare out the side window, doubt eating away at my insides.
I let it fuel me once we reach our building, the raging storm a fortifying shield as I stalk across the CrossPoint floor and close myself into my office.
I dump my purse onto the couch, peel off my blazer, and head straight for my private kitchenette.
Caffeine isn’t optional.
A soft knock sounds behind me, followed by the gentle squeak of door hinges as I retrieve a mug from an under-bench cupboard.
“You okay?” Quinn asks, the door clicking shut.
I paste on a smile and glance over my shoulder. “Yep. Good.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” She crosses the room, takes the mug from my hand, and places it beneath the coffee maker, pressing the necessary buttons to make it splutter to life. “If your forced posture wasn’t a dead giveaway, the devastation in your eyes is.”