I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.
It was the only sound in the room — steady, measured, calm — a complete betrayal of the storm churning inside my chest.
Tomorrow was the press conference.
Tomorrow, the world would have their eyes on me — their questions, their cameras, their judgments.
And if that wasn’t enough, my father’s election numbers had slipped two points overnight. Two. Points. His campaign manager had called me at midnight, practically begging for a soundbite, a quote, anything that would boost his image.
I wanted to crawl into bed and never get out.
Instead, I was curled on the couch, knees pulled to my chest, wearing the same sweatshirt I’d stolen from Ace last week. My phone buzzed on the coffee table again. And again. And again.
I shut my eyes tight. Just for a second.
“Brit?”
I jumped.
Ace’s voice floated from the doorway, soft but steady. I hadn’t even heard the door open.
When I lifted my head, he was standing there, hair damp from the rain, jacket slung over one arm, a grocery bag in the other.
“I brought Thai,” he said gently, walking in. “And those stupid cookies you like.” His lips quirked at the corner. “The pink ones with the sprinkles.”
My throat closed up.
He crossed the room slowly, like he knew I was balanced on the edge of something sharp. He set the bag down, crouched in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees.
“Talk to me,” Ace murmured.
I tried.
I really did.
But the words tangled in my throat — thick, messy, choking me. My heart was racing too fast. My fingers curled into fists without me noticing. My chest felt tight, too tight.
And then it happened.
I heard myself let out a shaky, high-pitched sound — not quite a whimper, not quite a sob. My vision blurred. And somewhere inside me, it was like a switch flipped.
Just like the doctors had warned.
My mind spiraled backward — back into a softer, younger place, one where none of this pressure existed, where I was just a little girl in an oversized sweatshirt, terrified and overwhelmed and wanting someone to tell her everything was going to be okay.
I started rocking without realizing it.
“I’m tired,” I mumbled, voice small, high, strange in my own ears. “I don’t want to do the press. I don’t want to talk to them.”
Ace’s face softened in an instant.
“Okay, baby,” he murmured, brushing my hair back gently. “Okay. You don’t have to. Not right now.”
I let out a hiccupping breath, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweatshirt. “Daddy’s gonna be mad. Everyone’s gonna be mad.”
“No one’s mad,” Ace promised, his voice low and sure as he moved beside me on the couch. “No one here is mad. Just you and me, okay?”
My heart was still pounding.
