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"Times have changed. We can't just bully suppliers anymore. We need to maintain relationships, especially with the supplychain issues everyone's facing." I try to keep the frustration from my voice, but it seeps through anyway.

"Relationships." He spits the word like it's distasteful. "Is that what they're teaching at business school these days? How to make friends instead of profits?"

The familiar sting of his disapproval burns in my chest. "Our profits are up eighteen percent from last year. The board is thrilled with our performance. This one issue with paper costs?—"

"Is a symptom of a larger problem," he cuts in. "You're soft, Charles. Always have been. You think everyone can be reasoned with, that business is about finding win-win scenarios." He gives a short, humorless laugh. "It's not. Business is about winning, period. Your job is to ensure Emerald City Coffee comes out on top, not to make sure some paper supplier feels good about their “relationship” with you."

I press two fingers against my temple, where a headache is blooming. "I'm handling it."

"Not well enough." The bluntness of his assessment shouldn't surprise me after all these years, but somehow it still does. "You've got to toughen up, son, or you're going to run this business into the ground."

His words land like a blow. Despite the company's growth, despite the accolades from industry publications, despite the expansion plans that are proceeding right on schedule—none of it matters in the face of this one issue that, in his mind, proves my fundamental weakness.

"I'll take it under advisement," I say stiffly.

"Do more than that. Fix it." The line goes dead.

I set my phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. Thirty-eight years old, CEO of a thriving company, and still chasing my father's approval like a kid trying to put a trophy on the mantel that he'll actually notice.

The drive home is a blur of stoplights and frustrated thoughts. By the time I unlock my door, my jaw aches from clenching it.

Hans greets me with his whole body wiggling, tail working overtime as he skitters across the hardwood floor. I drop to one knee, letting him climb into my lap and lick my face with frantic enthusiasm.

"What a good boy," I murmur, scratching behind his ears. His warm weight against my chest helps loosen the knot that's formed there.

I set my keys in the silver dish by the door and shed my jacket, leaving it draped over the back of a chair. The living room wall is made entirely of glass, offering a panoramic view of the city lights coming alive as dusk settles. Usually, it calms me—that sense of Seattle spreading out below, the evidence of life and movement. Tonight, it just makes me feel isolated, watching the world from too high up.

Hans follows at my heels as I move to the stereo system and pull up my Sinatra playlist. The opening notes of "Fly Me to the Moon" fill the room, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting Sinatra's smooth voice wash over me.

I wander into the kitchen, Hans's nails clicking on the tile behind me. Even though it's way too late and I know better, I reach for a coffee mug. The familiar ritual of grinding beans, measuring water, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe—it settles me, gives my hands something to do.

When the coffee's ready, I pour a generous mug and add sugar—one spoonful, then another, then a third. The memory surfaces unbidden: my father watching, eyebrows raised, as teenage me doctored my coffee at the breakfast table.

"Christ, Charlie, why don't you just have a milkshake? You're ruining perfectly good coffee."

I stir the sugar in with more force than necessary, watching it dissolve into the dark liquid. I've never developed a taste for the bitter brew my father prefers, never learned to appreciate the subtle notes and complex flavors that he and other coffee purists discuss like sommeliers.

Ironic, isn't it? The CEO of Emerald City Coffee takes his with enough sugar to make a dentist wince.

I carry my too-sweet, too-late coffee to the couch and sink down, Hans immediately leaping up to settle against my thigh. Sinatra has moved on to "The Way You Look Tonight," his voice wrapping around each syllable like silk.

The coffee's warmth spreads through me, and I try to let go of the conversation with my father. Tomorrow, I'll call the paper supplier and deliver the ultimatum Dad wants. I'll be tough, uncompromising. I'll win.

But right now, I just want to sit with my dog and my coffee and Sinatra, and wonder why, after all these years, my father's approval still matters so damn much.

I'm successful by any objective measure. I have the successful company, the penthouse, the respect of my peers, and now, unexpectedly, Tess and the twins on the way. Yet one phone call from Bill Astor can still make me feel like I'm coming up short.

Hans nudges my hand with his nose, demanding attention. I smile despite myself, setting down my mug to scratch his belly.

"You're right," I tell him as he stretches in contentment. "He's just one person. What does he know?"

Hans looks at me and perks his ears up slightly. I swear this dog understands every word I say…

When I’m done with the coffee and the love fest with Hans, I change into something more comfortable before I head to the Thai restaurant to pick up our to-go order. I feel like a different person than I did when I walked in here thanks to Hans, Frank Sinatra and some damn good super sweet coffee.

Chapter 25

Tess