Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My throat constricts. A burning sensation rushes up my spine.
Please know this has nothing to do with your performance. These changes are sweeping and impersonal, and they do not reflect your talent or potential. I believe in you deeply, and I hope you’ll stay in touch. If there’s anything I can do to support you, I will.
With regret and admiration,
Julie
I lower the termination letter. The apartment, which just seconds ago had returned to a level of acceptable stability, is suddenly unsteady. Beau lifts his head from the floor and looks at me, sensing the shift.
Income.
Flexible hours.
My livelihood.
All… gone.
I glance toward the fridge, where Dylan’s plate sits neatly covered in foil, and the weight of it presses down harder than the smoke alarm ever did. I stand there in the kitchen, Julie’s letter still in my hand, and realize that everything just changed.
The letter slips from my hand onto the counter.
For a what feels like an eternity, I stare at the box of my things like they belong to someone else. Someone with a steady paycheck and a plan. Effective immediately. The words echo in a flat, corporate voice that doesn’t care how rent gets paid.
This job was supposed to be the stepping stone. The foot in the door. The industry access. It was how I learned what customers hated, what they returned, what they wished someone would fix. It was also how I paid the bills.
My eyes drift across the kitchen to the stack of envelopes I’ve been avoiding.
They’re not subtle.
Vet bills from Beau’s emergency visit. Grocery receipts folded into statements. Utilities with bright red due dates. Rent circled twice in pen. And underneath, the medical bills from Dylan’s horrible bout with the flu last month—sterile, heavy, unavoidable.
My stomach cramps and I think I might be sick.
Beau pads over and sits in front of me, looking up with those big brown eyes that always seem to know when something goes awry. I crouch down and pull him into my arms, pressing my face into his fur. He leans into me without hesitation, solid and warm and unaware of corporate takeovers.
“I didn’t plan for this,” I whisper. He exhales softly against my shoulder.
How do I replace that income? How do I keep everything balanced? How do I not let Dylan see the crack in the foundation?
I pull back and hold Beau’s face between my hands. Those soulful eyes stare at me with a steadiness I need. He trusts me to care for him, just as Dylan does, and I won’t let them down. “I’ll figure it out,” I say, even though my chest feels uncertain. “I promise.”
His tail thumps once against the cabinet.
Across the room, the bills sit in their pile. The fridge hums. The apartment seems to close in around me.
But I stay there on the kitchen floor, holding him, because there isn’t another option.
I will figure it out. I have to.
Chapter 3
Julian
Percy opens the front door before I reach it, timing the movement perfectly, as always.
“Your car is waiting.”
“Never a doubt in my mind,” I reply with a grin, stepping into the brisk Manhattan air. “I can always count on you, my friend.”
Percy doesn’t acknowledge the endearment. He’s far too proper and British for that.
The townhouse settles behind me in dignified silence.
“I trust today will prove manageable,” Percy says.
“I hope so,” I reply, pausing at the top of the steps for half a second, already cataloguing the problems waiting for me at the rink. “Given the current complaint aimed at the Vipers, manageable may be ambitious.”
He raises his head slightly, reading between the lines as he always does. “Then I wish you a productive day, sir.”
Percy closes the door behind me and I trot down the steps to the sidewalk. The black Town Car idles at the curb, a driver standing at the open rear door waiting for me. I’m half distracted by the impending call I have to make, but I’m slightly surprised that my driver is a female. At least that’s the impression I have in the two-second glance I give her as I approach—slight build, petite, blond hair in a long ponytail at the base of her neck.
“Good morning, sir,” she says, and I offer a smile and nod in return before sliding into the back seat.
When the woman settles into the driver’s seat, she consults her phone and says, “I understand I’m taking you to the practice facility?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I say distractedly, pulling out my phone from my inside jacket pocket.
We slide into traffic, the city already buzzing. Newsstands stacked with magazines. Delivery trucks clogging side streets. A digital billboard flashing the Vipers’ logo alongside an article headline I would prefer not to read.
I place the call and put it on speaker. “Julian,” my head of operations, Jimmy Ballantine answers.
“Tell me the damage.”
“We’re trending again,” he says grimly. “Not in a good way. Social media’s flooded with complaints about the ticketing fiasco. The presale link crashed. Apparently, fans waited for hours and some were double charged. Customer service lines are overwhelmed.”