That’s home.
And the truth is, I don’t know how to breathe without him anymore.
I can’t fucking breathe in here.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the wall, offering a view of the city’s skyline, littered with clouds of smog.
I sit up straight in a black leather chair that dwarfs me, swallowing me whole. My ankles are crossed, my hands folded neatly in my lap, like I’m auditioning for a role I never wanted.
My father sits beside me in a pristine, custom navy suit that probably cost more than my rent for the year. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are forward. He hasn’t looked at me once since we walked in.
Across from us sits Mike Lanson—a tech mogul, a shark in designer fabric. Every word that comes out of his mouth sounds like a press release. Polished. Rehearsed. Reeking of power. His gold watch glints under the lights, and I think it might be worth more than my father’s business.
But none of them are the worst things in this room. That honor belongs to his shitbag son.
Chase Lanson.
He’s lounging across from me like the world is his waiting room. One arm draped along the back of his chair, his legs spread wide, even his posture is entitled. He’s infuriatingly beautiful. His smirk is calculated. It lingers just long enough to make you wonder if you’re good enough, just long enough to make you hate yourself for wondering.
His black hair is styled neatly, and his suit is black, sinfully fitted, stretching around his biceps. His jaw is clean-shaven, smug, and sculpted for press photos and manipulation. I imagine what it’d feel like to slap him, then immediately picture how quickly my father’s grip on my arm would tighten if I did.
I don’t belong in this fucking world anymore. I’m drowning in silence, in expectation, in the weight of a future I didn’t choose. My nails dig into the flesh of my palm beneath the table, trying to ground myself.
But that fucking itch is back.
That familiar darkness, curling like smoke in my chest, whispering in my ear about how easy it would be to make it stop. Just some little white pills, one soft slip back into nothing.
No more pretending. No more performing. No more Chase.
I’m yanked out of the fog in my head the moment my eyes lift, crashing into Chase’s. He’s been staring at me since the second I sat down. His dark green eyes fixed on mine, his stupid, smug mouth curved like he’s in on some joke I’ll never find funny. He hasn’t said a single word, not even a half-assed hello, as he sits there, lounging like royalty, dragging those cold, dead green eyes over me like I’m a product he’s about to purchase.
Mike’s voice echoes in the background, every word another nail in the coffin. “Joint statement goes out Monday. Engagement photos by the end of the week. We’ll also schedule the fittings for Monday as soon as your team confirms Catalina’s availability.”
The word fittings makes me want to vomit, like I’m being prepped for display.
Vartan nods beside me, perfectly calm. He treats thislike another merger, another transaction, not the sale of his daughter’s future.
Why was I dealt such a shitty hand in him being my father?
“Of course,” he replies, his tone slick and professional. “She’ll be ready.”
No, I won’t fucking be ready for any of this.
I stare straight ahead, willing myself not to fall apart. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, pounding louder than the voices around me. The pressure builds behind my eyes as a knot tightens in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing it down, but my chest tightens, my breathing grows shallow, and the edges of my vision begin to blur.
My trembling fingertips pick at the hem of my skirt. I can’t break down. Not here. Not in front of them.
One. Two. Three. Breathe. That’s it, baby, breathe.
Carter’s voice flickers in my mind. God, I miss him so fucking much.
My eyes flutter open just in time to see Chase rise from his seat. He moves like he owns the room, and every step toward me makes my stomach twist tighter. He doesn’t walk so much as stalk, oozing confidence in that manufactured, soulless way of a man who’s never been told no.
Shit.
He drops into the chair beside me, his elbows resting on his knees, dead eyes dragging over me like I’m something on a menu.
“So,” he says, finally meeting my gaze, “are you the shy type or just well-trained?”
