He's not my dad

part 15

Bree brushed past me in the kitchen while I stood at the counter eating a bagel, the smell of toasted bread suddenly making my stomach churn. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word. Her jaw was set, her movements sharp and deliberate, like every step was a statement.

I’d hoped—stupidly—that sleep would smooth things over. That by morning we’d both be calmer, ready to talk it out like we always did. Bree and I had fought before. We always bounced back.
Apparently, not this time.

“Bree,” I said softly, turning toward her. “Can we talk?”

She stopped just long enough to look at me, her eyes cold. “Fuck off.”

The words hit harder than I expected. They weren’t shouted. They were flat. Final.
Before I could say anything else, she grabbed her bag, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut behind her so hard the walls rattled.
I stood there for a moment, bagel forgotten in my hand, my chest aching. It felt ridiculous to be this hurt over two words, but they cut deeper than any screaming match ever had.

By the time I left for work, I felt hollow. Like I was carrying a weight I hadn’t earned but couldn’t put down.

Before I start the car, I texted Kate.
Rough morning. Bree and I had a massive fight. Not talking.

Her reply came almost instantly.
Oh no. I’m so sorry. You can stay with me if you need to—seriously.

I stared at the message, grateful, but I already knew what I needed. Space. Neutral ground. Somewhere without slammed doors or loaded silences.

Thanks, I typed back. I think I’m going to get a hotel for a few nights. Let things cool off.
Probably smart, she replied. I’m here if you need anything.

I slipped my phone into my bag and leaned my head back against the seat, watching the city blur past. A few days apart might do us good. Give us both time to breathe, to think, to cool down.

I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into something longer than that.

...

Mr. Benjamin arrived in the office like a man being chased.

His tie was crooked, his usually immaculate hair slightly out of place, and he was muttering under his breath as he dumped his briefcase on his desk. I’d never seen him look anything other than polished and unbothered—today he looked one email away from a breakdown.

I didn’t ask questions. I just did what I was good at.

Within minutes, I was back in his office with a fresh coffee, setting it carefully on his desk. He looked up like he’d forgotten I existed, then visibly softened.

“Thank you, Taylor,” he said, before lifting the cup and taking an enormous gulp.
He let out a long breath afterward, the kind that came from deep in his chest. “God, I needed that.”

I gave him a small, reassuring smile and took a seat across from him. “Rough morning?”

“That’s one way to put it,” he said, rubbing his temple. “We’ve got a last-minute client meeting coming in today. Very last minute.”

My fingers paused over my notebook. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Richie and his team… well, they messed up a presentation last week. Badly. Misaligned messaging, wrong market data, the works.”

Oh.
“And now,” he continued, “the entire contract rests on this meeting. Millions, Taylor. Absolute millions.”

My stomach tightened on his behalf. “Who’s the client?”