She squints at me. “Do you want him to?”
“For my dignity? Yes. But it doesn’t really matter. We’re over and done.” I cut across my throat to validate the meaning. Landon Winters can choke on his regret for tossing me away.
“What about your contracts?” Clea refills our drinks from the sweaty pitcher.
“I guess we’ll wait and see. There hasn’t been word from him according to Vince.” I hold up my crossed fingers.
“Too bad he turned out to be such a dick,” she murmurs.
“It’s really a bummer because he has such a nice one.” A sigh has me sagging deeper into my chair. “I should’ve listened to you.”
Clea doesn’t bother masking her smug expression. “I’m well aware.”
“Now is the time when you let me cry on your shoulder.” My support system has selective hearing.
She lifts a brow. “When was the last time you actually shed a tear?”
I squint toward the sky while contemplating. “Valid point, as always.”
And he’s definitely not wrenching one from me. That smarmy jerk only deserves my venom. With a long inhale, I attempt to muster my initial motivation to strike him down. All I find is a hollow ache. I had a revenge plan, dammit. Now that seems trivial, and extremely weak against his cruel defenses. Pretending he never existed might be my best course of action.
Presley studies me with eerie scrutiny. She almost gives me a chill. “So, what’s your plan?”
I motion along my reclining form. Archer blabs from where he’s perching on my legs. “You’re looking at it.”
“I’ll need my baby back eventually.” She makes kissy noises at the goobering distraction I’m relying heavily on.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “He loves his auntie right now. If you keep wiggling your cans, I’ll be reduced to chopped liver.”
Presley squeaks and pats my head in what’s meant to be comforting. “There, there. No need to get upset. I’ll let you two be. Absorb the good vibes, Van.”
It’s only then that I realize my bottom lip is quivering. There’s a noticeable warmth attacking my eyeballs too. I fan my face, chasing away the hot spikes piercing me. “Good grief, I’m a mess. What has this man done to me?”
Clea is cringing when I glance at her. “I don’t think your story with him is over quite yet.”
I sniff Archer’s head, needing all the warm fuzzies that sweet smell brings. “Please don’t put another curse on me. I can’t handle it.”
“You’ll come out on top, Van. Just roll with the punches.”
“That sounds painful,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “Not if you’re expecting the blow.”
I frown. “That’s part of the problem. He tends to appear when I least anticipate it.”
“This is unacceptable!” I crash a fist against the table and coffee splashes from my mug.
Four blanching expressions meet my outrage from their huddled corner in the conference room. The budget analysts scramble with their tablets, scrolling through the report electronically while comparing the numbers from the packet we’ve just reviewed. Maybe they’re hoping that a screen will allow them to uncover the gaps I’m ranting about. They weed through the data with trembling fingers as I seethe across from them. I can practically taste their fear.
“Well?” I provide the prompt after the team remains silent for over a minute.
A guy with glasses clears his throat. “I haven’t found an error, sir.”
Another bobs his head in agreement. “Where exactly did you see the issue?”
I rub my throbbing temples. Repeating myself gets more taxing with each second that ticks by. “Our profit share margins are stagnant.”
A unified gasp comes from the quad. With bent heads, they pore over the figures again. I tap my thumb for thirty seconds. Their quiet contemplation might as well be a marching band in my ears. The brunette has a furrow between her brow, which I latch onto.
With my cool mask fastened in place, I sit forward and focus solely on her. “Did you find the issue?”
She swallows hard enough that her gulp is audible. “No, Mr. Winters. I’ll keep looking, though. There has to be an explanation.”
“Yes, there certainly does.” My reply is met with trembling pursuit to discover the flaw.
I resume my thumping while waiting for one of them to call me out on the bogus findings. Their entire purpose at my company is to manage the quarterly income statistics. They should have these charts memorized. Any problem should’ve been reported weeks ago. These accusations are faker than the one dude’s tan. The accounts they’re currently combing through only show significant gains. There’s not a loss or plateau to be found. Yet this batch has nothing to defend their work.
The empty pit in my gut yawns wider at their continued tolerance. All I want is someone to correct me. I’m being unreasonable on purpose, but that point is being missed based on the perspiration damping their brows. Standing up against me shouldn’t cause a panic attack. If anything, I should be complaining louder about their incompetence. This bunch is too terrified to use their sorry excuses for backbones. I had similar reactions from the marketing and finance departments yesterday. It’s as if everyone is afraid to speak their fucking minds. Everyone except her, of course. But she’s long gone. I made sure of that.
A familiar ache grinds into my chest and I rub at the sore spot. Fucking Vannah and her viper claws. She sunk in deep enough to leave a mark.
I don’t miss her. That’s not what’s causing this imbalance. I’ve just been knocked off-kilter by her. Period. This… situation will sort itself out soon, starting with getting these analysts to recover their balls. Even the woman has a pair buried somewhere—figuratively or not.
Planting faulty evidence to ensure my employees are doing their jobs is common practice. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in that case. Acting like a tyrant while toying with my staff is another matter entirely. I’ve officially hit a new low for the week. It’s probably safe to admit that I’m not in the finest form as of late.
The pounding against my skull drums harder. Sitting in their tense presence is becoming a chore. No one is willing to reveal the truth. Perhaps they’ve always been like this and I’ve failed to notice. Nothing stuck out as painfully dull until Vannah scrambled my brain. This is a one-sided game of chicken that isn’t worth playing. It’s apparently my responsibility to call off their useless hunt.
“You’re dismissed.” I flick my wrist at the door.
Without a peep, they scurry out fast enough to kick up dust. Fucking pansies. It’s as if they’re truly scared of me. I’m demanding and severe, but that’s not unreasonable for a man in my position. Maybe those are no longer admirable traits considering my recent decisions.
I stalk to my office with a storm cloud chasing me. Walt is sulking at his desk for whatever reason. His flavor of the day probably dumped him on TikTok. With a closed fist, I slam the door and beckon the comfort to seep in. The reliable quiet never fails.
It only takes ten seconds for me to realize that the peace I’ve come to expect from my domain doesn’t arrive. It’s silent, but in that grating way that makes me want to cover my ears. This isn’t a welcome reprieve, not in the slightest. The only thing this soundless bubble will achieve is allowing my thoughts to run rampant. How in the actual fuck do I escape a prison of my own making?