Page 4

TORACK

T he conference tent’s hot. Not just warm— stifling . The kind of heat that makes tempers short and patience microscopic. I smell stress and overpriced cologne before anyone even opens their mouths.

Dena’s already flapping a fan at herself, sitting beside Renault, who’s gone full high-horse in a linen vest that looks like it’s never seen a day’s labor. The rest of the board—less important, more decorative—crowd around a collapsible table littered with glossy pamphlets and my notes.

Behind me, the flap rustles.

Lillian slips inside.

I don’t need to turn around to know it’s her. The air shifts, like it always does when she enters a space. My chest tightens. She shouldn’t be here. Not now.

I glance over my shoulder. She’s got that look on her face—the one where her eyes sparkle with mischief but her chin’s set like concrete. Trouble brewing. I’ve seen it before.

“Lillian,” I say quietly. “Back outside.”

She crosses her arms. “I have something to say.”

“Now’s not the time.”

Renault chuckles under his breath. “Looks like the public’s arrived.”

I grit my teeth.

“I want to talk,” she insists. “It’s about the playground.”

My shoulders stiffen. “You’ve already told me?—”

“I built a model. With sticks. It’s better than the one in the plans.”

I catch Julie in my peripheral, standing awkwardly near the side of the tent, half-hidden by a stack of presentation boards. She’s watching Lillian with this… softness. Like she sees something I’ve missed.

“Lillian,” I say, firmer. “Go wait outside.”

Her lip wobbles. “You said the camp was for me.”

“It is.”

“Then why can’t I help?”

My patience is paper thin, and the murmurs from the table only feed the burn rising in my throat. Dena shifts in her seat. Renault smirks. A few others lean in like they’re watching a slow-motion train wreck.

“Because this is not a game,” I snap. “This is a meeting. With people who signed contracts and wrote checks. This isn’t a backyard fort.”

Lillian’s mouth opens like she might say something more, but she doesn’t. Her fists clench. Her chin trembles. And then, without another word, she spins and bolts out of the tent.

Julie moves before I do.

“Excuse me,” she mutters, brushing past me without a glance, like she’s on a mission.

The tent’s silent for a beat. Then Renault exhales dramatically.

“Well. That was certainly democratic.”

I don’t answer him. I pick up my agenda and flip to the next item, pretending I didn’t just watch my daughter’s heart crack in half.

The meeting drags on.

Talk of margins. Material delays. Fae contractors needing time off for lunar alignment. The usual.

I nod at the right moments. Push for safety over aesthetics. Defend Groth’s latest change order even though I know it’ll be another PR nightmare once the elf forums catch wind.

But my mind keeps drifting.

To Lillian’s face.

To the way she stood there—tiny and furious and right —and how I shut her down like a stranger.

I was trying to keep order. Trying to maintain professionalism. But hell if it doesn’t feel like I kicked a puppy in the chest.

By the time the last board member files out, I’m already halfway across the gravel path, headed toward the cabin she and Julie have been using to store art supplies and paperwork.

I hear them before I see them.

“I just wanted him to listen,” Lillian says, voice muffled, small.

“I know, sweet pea,” Julie replies. “And you were brave for trying.”

“I had a whole speech.”

I stop outside the door. My hand rests on the frame, but I don’t knock.

“Dad doesn’t like speeches,” Lillian mutters.

Julie lets out a soft sigh. “He’s got a lot on his plate.”

“I am his plate.”

The words hit like a punch. I swallow hard. Why can’t she understand?

Julie’s voice comes quiet, but steady. “That man loves you more than his own life. But sometimes adults forget how to show it. Doesn’t make the love less real.”

“She always listened,” Lillian whispers.

My heart turns to stone.

Julie doesn’t ask who she is. Doesn’t need to. She just says, “I bet she would’ve loved that playground idea.”

Lillian sniffles. “I used the bendy sticks.”

“The bendy ones are the best.”

I step back. My chest feels too tight. Like something’s pressing from inside, trying to break free but not quite strong enough.

Later, I find Julie alone near the admin tent, sorting through sign-in forms and camp wristbands. Her hair’s down today, loose and curling at the ends from humidity. There’s mud on one knee of her pants. She’s humming. She stops when I approach.

“She’s fine,” Julie says before I can ask. “Back with her bugs.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“She just wanted to be heard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That gives me pause. I narrow my eyes.

“She’s grieving too,” Julie says, stacking papers. “And she’s eight. She doesn’t have emails to bury herself in.”

“I’m not burying?—”

She looks up. Cuts me off with her stare alone.

I sigh. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“I know you didn’t. But you did.”

There’s a silence between us. Not cold. Not angry. Just… heavy.

“You’re doing the best you can,” she says, softer now. “But sometimes, the best thing isn’t building a perfect camp. It’s letting her feel like she matters more than the next blueprint.”

I drag a hand down my face. “I don’t know how to do this part.”

“Then let her teach you,” she says. “She’s got a lot to say.”

I look at her for a long moment. The woman I hired to be a secretary is looking at me like she knows me. Not the public-facing businessman. Not the guy with perfect balance sheets. Me.

And I don’t hate it.

I nod once.

“Thanks,” I say again.

“You say that a lot.”

“Means I mean it.”

Julie smiles, just a little. “Then maybe next time, listen to her playground pitch.”

I smirk. “Only if you sit in on the next budget call.”

Her smile widens. “Deal.”