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Gratitude Has Its Limits

Hypothetical Question: Never be able to smell again, or only be able to smell garlic?

Nate

“You gotta stop smiling down at your phone like a loon.” Kai’s voice distracts me from focusing on Carina and her dumb questions. We always ask at least one per day. They might have been my idea, but she’s just as into it as I am.

“I can’t help it,” I groan, running a hand through my hair as I glance back at the laptop screen before me. The quarterly report for Haven is glaringly incomplete, its numbers mocking me with their emptiness.

“Yeah, well, the grant committee probably doesn’t give a shit about whether you’d rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck,” Kai mutters, shoving a stack of papers toward me. “These cases need approval. Today. Or we lose funding for the new shelter.”

I sigh, set my phone down—face-up, just in case Carina texts back—and lean forwards. The file titles blur together: emergency housing requests, funding allocations, and therapy initiatives.

“You know this is important, right?” Kai prods, his tone serious now. “You’re the one who wanted Haven to grow. You don’t get to slack off because some girl has you all...” He waves a hand in the air, searching for the right word.

“Whipped?” I offer dryly, laughing as I pick up a file.

Kai snorts. “Distracted. But hey, if the shoe fits.” He shrugs, smirking at me.

As he walks away, muttering something about needing a new best friend, I force myself to focus. Carina can wait. The women depending on this funding? They can’t.

I dive into the work like a man possessed, crunching numbers and making calls to secure the funding for a new shelter in Camden. We’ve got shelters all over London now and a few further out. One day, I’d love to expand across England, maybe even the rest of Britain. But for now, I focus on the women here—because nothing says privilege responsibly, like running a charity instead of buying a yacht.

Having as much money as I do feels wrong, and not using it for something good would feel worse. My father’s business took a hit about eight years ago, which should have ruined him, but the man is savvy—scarily so. He clawed his way back like nothing ever happened. His savvy—or sheer stubbornness—means I’ve got the funds to make a difference, even if he doesn’t understand why I’d rather build shelters than schmooze with the rich and privileged.

And that’s the rub: gratitude. It’s why I still let him drag me to company events, even though I’d rather perform oral surgery on myself with a rusty spoon. But gratitude has its limits, so I refuse to take over the family empire. Let him find some other sucker to wear the Future CEO badge. I already have one.

As for my salary? A joke. I’m technically the CEO of Haven, but I funnel almost everything back into the organisation. I live off the bare minimum, using my trust fund to cover the rent for my apartment—a fact that drives my father insane. The idea of me living somewhere normal would send shockwaves through the elite. Heaven forbid the family name be associated with anything less than marble countertops and heated floors.

I check the time on my phone to see that the day has slipped away.

Realising I had never sent my daily question to Carina, I send her a quick text before packing away, using Kai’s earlier jab as inspiration.

Daddy Death: Hypothetical Question: Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?

My phone chimes just before heading out the door. Everyone else has long since gone home. I switch all the lights off and head down the stairs to my car.

Queen Carina: Bring on both.