Chapter 5 - THE AFTERMATH BEGINSBy Sunday morning, my phone had turned into a vibrating weapon of mass destruction.
I woke up at 8:00 AM to a barrage of notifications that hadn't stopped since midnight. Missed calls from Mom. Voicemails from Dad, sounding ten years older and desperately pleading for a callback. Three long, hysterical text messages from Lois, oscillating between screaming insults and begging me to "explain the situation to Mr. Sterling" before Monday morning market opening.
Even Uncle Gary had chimed in with a cautious, overly polite text asking if I could "put in a good word" regarding his upcoming logistics contract.
I stared at the glowing screen of my phone as it buzzed against the bedside table, then calmly switched it to Do Not Disturb and tossed it onto the couch.
I got out of bed, made a cup of black coffee, and walked over to my apartment window. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating my living room—the bookshelves I had curated myself, the art I had bought with my own salary, the plants I had kept alive through sheer stubbornness.
It wasn't a sprawling Connecticut estate. It didn't have trimmed hedges or catered appetizers.
It was mine. Every single square inch of it was built by my own hands, without a single handout, compromise, or apology.
A soft knock at my apartment door broke the morning quiet.
I frowned, walking over and peering through the peephole.
Miles stood in the hallway. He wasn't wearing his work boots or his faded cotton shirt today; he was dressed in a crisp, dark tailored button-down and slacks, holding a white bakery box in one hand and two coffees in the other.
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Good morning," Miles said, holding up the box with a smile. "I brought cinnamon rolls. The kind that are terrible for your cholesterol and completely worth the existential dread."
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms, unable to suppress a grin. "You realize my entire family thinks you're either a corporate warlord or a supernatural entity sent to destroy our bloodline, right?"
"Is that a bad thing?" Miles asked, stepping past me into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He set the coffee and pastries on my small kitchen island. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like an improvement."
"My mother called seven times before eight o'clock."
"Did you answer?"
"Of course not."
May you like
Miles turned around, leaning against the counter, his expression turning a bit more serious. "Good. Because today is Monday, and the real fallout is about to hit Sterling Corp's regional desk."
I froze, the mug of coffee halfway to my lips. "What do you mean?"
