Page 11

Guilt pinches behind my ribs like a crab that's moved in and started redecorating. I've barely seen them since the street festival besides a few rushed check-ins and unanswered texts.
“I'm just... trying to save twenty-five years of my father's work,” I say, tracing a finger over the nameplate on my desk:Layla Carmichael, COO.“Some days I feel like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes. Other days I'm terrified I might be the only grown up making decisions.”
“Meanwhile, you’re working yourself into an early grave. Stellar plan, Lay. I can see the epitaph now: 'Here lies Layla Carmichael. She had incredible spreadsheet skills but forgot humans need sunlight and fun to survive.'”
“I’m doing OK.”
“OK? When was the last time you even had sex? It’s great for stress relief, you know?”
“Need I remind you what happened the last time you talked me into approaching someone?” I say, sharper than I mean to. “I spent two weeks diving for my phone like Pavlov's dog, waiting for a call that never came.”
“Festival Guy?” She lets out a huff. “Please. His jawline wasn't even that impressive.”
“You literally called him a 'living sculpture.' You said his cheekbones could cut glass.”
“I was drunk on sangria and high on matchmaking hormones. My judgment was compromised. Those dimples were a tactical diversion.”
I laugh, spinning my chair to face the window. Theoriginal Carmichael Innovations building sits at the front of the campus, small, brick, and proud. The birthplace of everything. Dad's dream given physical form. And lately, the weight of all that history feels like it's pressing on my spine, vertebra by vertebra.
“I really thought we clicked,” I admit. “And then… nothing. Radio silence. Not even the courtesy ghost.”
“His loss,” Serena says. “He was probably intimidated by your massive?—”
“Professional accomplishments?”
“I was gonna say tits, but sure. Let's go with your brain and leadership qualities.”
Before I can respond with the appropriate level of outrage, an email notification pings. Subject line: BOARD MEETING – URGENT.
Dad's name.
My pulse jumps like it's been electrically shocked. “Listen, I have to go. Dad called an emergency meeting in thirty.”
“On a Friday? That's ominous. Did something explode in the lab again?”
“Probably just R&D budget stuff.” The lie lands bitter in my mouth, coating my tongue like cheap coffee. “Routine panic.”
“Fine, abandon me in my hour of need,” Serena huffs. “But this isn't over. I'm texting you time slots. I've created a PowerPoint presentation on the benefits of human interaction. There are pie charts, Layla. PIE CHARTS.”
“I'm not promising anything.”
“You don't have to. I already promised the universe. Love you, mean it, bye!”
She hangs up before I can argue. I toss my phone ontomy desk and press my fingertips to my temples, trying to chase away the headache forming just behind my eyes. It's been my constant companion for weeks now, right alongside insomnia and that persistent twitch in my left eyelid.
The ArterialSeal recall destroyed our safety net. Dad's new prototype, while brilliant, has drained our R&D reserves, and the vultures have started circling. Private equity firms. Competitors. The kinds of people who don't see legacies, only liabilities. The kinds of people who'd gut the building, keep the patents, and send everyone else packing.
I glance at the time. Twenty minutes. Just enough to prep the projections and pray Dad hasn't done something drastic.
The boardroom is too warm, the air stuffy with anxiety and overcompensating cologne. The usual pre-meeting small talk has been replaced by tense silence and darting glances. Even the coffee tastes bitter today, like it knows something we don't.
I settle into my usual seat beside Dad's. The board members filter in, and we exchange polite nods. Everyone knows something's coming. We just don't know what.
The door opens, and Dad enters, straightening his burgundy gear-print bowtie—a Christmas gift from the engineers that he wears to every ‘important’ meeting. Usually it makes me smile. Today it makes my heart hurt.
He doesn't sit.
He grips the back of his chair and looks around the room like he's bracing for a wave about to crash over all of us.