Chapter 15 A decision
“That was an inappropriate question,,, forget I asked.”
I actually laugh under my breath. A short shake of my head. No chance. He opened the door, he doesn’t get to decide I don’t walk through it. I type back without hesitation.
“You know I'm not going to do that.”
I watch the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then nothing.... I picture him doing exactly that....starting, stopping, second-guessing himself. The thought pulls a smile from me. I lean back, swivel my chair slightly, and type again.
“You don't ask questions like that unless you're already thinking about the answer.”
There's more silence. I loosen my tie, just a little. The air feels warmer suddenly.
Then....
“It doesn't mean anything.”
I scoff softly. It means everything.
“It means you were curious . And now you're nervous because I noticed. Same way I noticed how you watched my mouth while I talked.”
The pause stretches longer this time. I can practically see the color rising in his face, the way his ears pink when he’s flustered. The image does something sharp and satisfying to my chest. He eventually responds.
“You’re reading too much into nothing.”
“No, I'm not. I'm just being honest. You should try it. It suits you when you stop holding back.....You wanna watch next time?”
I set the phone down for a second, this electricity feels better than anything has in a long time. The dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
Finally....
“Don’t push this.”
I grin. He wouldn’t be texting if he wanted me to stop. I pick the phone back up.
“If looking at a picture was enough to get me that unhinged, I can't imagine what the real thing would do to me.
You standing close. Watching me.
I’d probably lose my damn mind.”
And it’s true. I’m not like this, I don’t circle, I take what I want decisively. But Ryan has this quiet gravity to him. This hesitation that makes me want to slow down, to draw it out, to see how far he’ll lean before he bolts. There’s something careful and devastating about him, and it makes me want to meet him somewhere I don’t usually go.
My phone buzzes again.
“Bye. I've got a class.”
There it is, retreat. I expected it but still, I type.
“So you don't wanna watch me?”
The reply comes instantly this time.
“I don't.”
My gaze sharpens. I sit forward, elbows on the desk.
“What about me then?
Can I watch you?”
Another beat.
“Michael....we should stop.”
I feel the warning in it. I also feel the space he’s leaving open.
“Fine, no watching.
But touching ....
Would you let me do that?”
The pause that follows is long enough for me to wonder if I finally crossed the line.
Then he sends a curt...
“Bye.”
I smile, thumb hovering as I reread the thread one more time before setting the phone face-down on the desk. I didn’t scare him off, I just stirred him. I lean back in the chair and let my gaze drift around the office, the frames awards. Proof that I belong here, at least on paper.
None of it moves me.
Those few texts did more to me than any of this ever has. I exhale, shake my head once, and open my laptop, intent on losing myself in something “productive.” The screen flickers to life, inbox loading automatically.
And right there at the top sits a very recent email from Susan. My smile fades, just slightly. She doesn’t ask to see me, she summons. The email is short.
“When you have a moment, Michael.”
Which, translated, means now.
I don’t move, I sit at my desk and stare at the screen. I check a report I’ve already read. Scroll through emails I’ve already answered, then I sigh.
Calling her my stepmother still feels wrong. We’re close enough in age that the word sounds like a joke. Five years. That’s all that separates us. Five years and a marriage contract. She wasn’t always Susan Foster, CEO. She was an aspiring editor once. Ambitious and hungry in a way I recognized because I’d worn it myself. I interviewed her.....me, not my father. Sat across from her, watched her answer questions like she’d rehearsed them in the mirror until they gleamed.
She was good, I’ll give her that. Knew how to speak the language of publishing without sounding like she was trying to impress anyone. I deemed her worthy and signed off on her hire. Even mentored her, briefly.
But even then, before the marriage, before the title, before she started signing emails with authority she hadn’t earned yet....there was something about her that never quite sat right with me. Surface-level depth. The kind of person who knew all the right things to say about passion and integrity and storytelling, but only as long as it served the image she was curating. She talked about loving books the way people talk about loving the idea of love.
And somehow, that was enough for my father to elevate her past people who’d bled for this place, people like me.
The door to my office opens without a knock. Her assistant...bright smile, practiced neutrality, leans in. “Susan wanted me to check whether you saw her message.”
She absolutely had someone tell her the second I walked back into this building.
“I did,” I say, already standing. “I’m on my way.” She nods and disappears.
Susan’s office is exactly how she likes it. Floor-to-ceiling windows, city skyline. Power framed as taste. She doesn’t look up when I enter.
“Close the door,” she says.
She finally lifts her gaze, assessing me with that same polished calm she uses in boardrooms and press interviews.
“Sit.”
I don’t, I lean against one of the walls by the entrance instead. Her mouth tightens just a fraction.
“Michael,” she begins, folding her hands on the desk, “I wanted to check in.”
That's the corporate euphemism for ‘you’re becoming a problem.’
“I’ve been told,” she continues, “that your presence here has been intermittent.”
“Intermittent?” I repeat.
“You’ve declined several projects,” she says smoothly. “Passed off others. And from what I can see, you haven’t taken on anything of strategic importance in months. What exactly are you working on right now?”
“Things that interest me,” I say. She exhales through her nose, just barely.
“This isn’t a passion project space, Michael. This is a business.”
I almost laugh at the irony. Almost.
“You’re right, it is.”
She stands then, moving around the desk like this is a performance. I can smell her perfume, chosen to be memorable without being accused of trying.
“I’m concerned,” she says softly. “About your level of engagement. About what message it sends.”
“To whom?”
Her eyes sharpen. “To everyone.”
“I’ve carried my weight here, for years.”
“And that's appreciated,” she replies too quickly. “But appreciation doesn’t exempt you from accountability. I need to know our goals are aligned.”
I straighten, finally standing properly. I think of the empty feeling. Of how I’ve been avoiding this building like it might swallow me whole. Of how, for the first time in years, something outside these walls has made me feel awake.
And I wonder what I'm still doing here....