Chapter 11
WORTH
The floor is dead. It’s past seven and everyone is gone.
A supplier changed delivery dates this afternoon and blew up the schedule, so I’m here fixing plans for a meeting at eight a.m tomorrow morning with our partners.
If I don’t clean this up tonight, we will lose weeks.
I’m halfway through the terrace sheet when my phone lights up with an unknown number.
I answer. “Worth Miller.”
A voice I haven’t heard in months echoes through the phone. “Worth.”
Cold slides under my skin. “Vanessa.”
“I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
“Yet you still called.”
Brianna’s mother is still the rawest nerve in my life. The way she left us, like marriage and motherhood were disposable titles, still boils my blood. Last I heard, she was floating through Asia with some boy toy, not a care in the world.
I don’t keep in contact. I just pay a PI to check in every now and then. Not because I give a damn, but in case Brianna ever asks, I’ll have the answer ready.
She never does. Never even says her name. But I know Bri wonders. I know she misses her mom in ways she won’t admit.
But I don’t miss my ex-wife. I don’t think about her unless I have to.
Vanessa laughs awkwardly. “Still working at the office late, I see?”
“Clearly.”
“How’s… how’s work?”
“Same as always.” I flip a page. “Say what you called to say.”
A pause. “I saw a photo of Bri. The one Maggie posted of her science fair thing? She looked tall. Older.”
“She is.”
Another pause. “How is she?”
“Fine.”
She exhales. “Does she sleep okay? Is she eating? Still drawing all the time?”
“She’s fine, Vanessa. Cut the shit.” I’m tired of the circling. “What do you want?”
“I want to see her.”
“No.”
“Right out the gate?” She clicks her tongue. “Still charming.”
“You said that last time,” I say, eyes on the darkening Seattle skyline. “And the time before that. You never show. I’m not doing this again, Vanessa. It always ends with my kid crying into her pillow.”
“I had a job, Worth. I had things—”
“You always have things.”
“You make me the villain every time I try,” she snaps. “I want to be present. She’s my daughter.”
“She’s our daughter,” I correct. “And Brianna needs consistency more than your apologies.”
“I can do next Sunday,” Vanessa rushes out. “Two hours, public place. You can sit at the next table if that makes you feel more in control.”
“What makes me feel in control is knowing my daughter won’t spend time getting ready for someone who won’t arrive.”
“You think I don’t feel sick about that? You think I don’t—”
“I don’t think about you,” I cut in. “I think about Brianna.”
“God, you’re impossible.” A jagged breath. “Fine. Keep her from me. Keep playing the perfect dad—”
“I’m not perfect,” I say. “But it’s more than you’ll ever be.”
Another silence. When she speaks again, it’s low. “If you don’t let me see her, I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Then do it,” I say, tired and done. “Your lawyer knows mine.”
“Worth—”
“Good night, Vanessa.” I end the call and set the phone face down, rubbing my temples to ease the eminent headache.
Then, I sense movement in the hallway.
I pivot.
Mya stands just outside the door, laptop hugged to her chest, guilt written across her face like she’s been caught trespassing.
Of course she’d be here late. She has been every day of her first week here. She’s the only other person who voluntarily lives in their work.
I press my thumb into the bridge of my nose, exhale once, and wave her in. “Come in, Ms Jones.”
She steps in, careful, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry. I was going to ask about the terrace detail, and then you were on the phone and I—”
“It’s fine.” It comes out sharper than I mean to. Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she nods.
“How can I help you?” I ask, gesturing to the desk.
Mya sits hesitantly, and sets her laptop down. “Are you okay?” Something that looks like concern flashes in her eyes.
“I’m working,” I deflect, flipping a page I’m not even seeing. “What do you need for A9?”
She doesn’t take the bait. “I know I’m a new employee and basically no one to you, Mr. Miller, but if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
I exhale through my nose, but the frustration from the call doesn’t abate. “That’s not in your job description.”
“Neither is staying ‘til seven, yet here I am.”
I should send her back to her desk. Instead, words I haven’t said out loud in a long time spill out.
“My ex called,” I say, jaw tight.
Mya’s expression softens. “That must be complicated.”
“It’s not,” I bite off, heat burning under my skin. “She left us, and now she suddenly wants back in again.” My fingers drum on the table. I drag a breath through my teeth.
“We were happily married for five years before Brianna was born. Then it just went downhill.” My throat tightens as I speak.
“She suffered from postpartum depression; we got her the help she needed. After that, she just seemed so disconnected. She began traveling all the time, leaving Bri with our nanny while I was at work, building the company.”
My jaw locks, and I stare past Mya to the dark pane of glass. “We barely saw each other. I felt like it was my fault, like I wasn’t there enough, and that’s what made her seek happiness elsewhere. The more money I made, the less present Vanessa became.”
I flatten my palm on the desk, steadying myself.
“When I confronted her about what she was doing—who she was seeing, where all the money was going—she flipped, packed a bag, and walked. She didn’t even say goodbye to Brianna.
” I swallow hard, the memory hitting like a body blow.
“I had to explain her disappearance to a three-year-old.”
I don’t say that it gutted me, too.
How the house went too quiet at night, that I’d stand in the doorway of Bri’s room, counting her breaths, because it was the only thing that was still steady. How I slept on the couch for months, because sleeping in our bed felt wrong.
I don’t say that work wasn’t just work after that—it became my escape.
If I kept the numbers growing and the schedules tight, then at least something held.
If I made the company impossible to shake, maybe I’d stop shaking.
You learn to lock it down and make the face that tells everyone you’re fine—until you almost believe it yourself.
I don’t say I’m still angry at how much it hurt.
Brianna needed a spine, not a puddle. So I took the hit, packed it behind my ribs, and kept moving.
Mya’s throat works. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy.”
“I didn’t offer sympathy,” she says gently.
I stare at the skyline beyond her shoulder. “She called tonight, saying she wants to make it right.” I huff a laugh that isn’t real. “You can’t make right what you never stayed for.”
Mya folds her hands, thinking. “Do you want Brianna to see her?”
“I want Bri to be okay.” The answer is automatic. “Every time Vanessa promises and bails, I’m cleaning up the fallout. I’m not running that play again.”
“Maybe if Vanessa really means it, she’ll keep showing up. And if she doesn’t, you protected your daughter from another hit.”
I nod once. The muscle in my jaw finally loosens. “Yeah.”
I don’t know why I’m saying any of this to Mya. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the way she listens, like she can quiet the static in my head just by standing there. This is dangerous. Lines blur fast when you let someone make the noise stop.
I pull the mask back on and file my vulnerability away, back in the drawer where I keep things that hurt.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“Oh, yeah. The terrace detail. Your note about drainage was right. I rerouted the scupper here.” Mya turns the laptop, walks me through the change.
I look where she points. It’s good. “Fine. Push it.”
Mya nods and starts to stand, then glances at me. “I meant it, by the way. If you ever need to talk.”
Something in my chest warms, but I shut it down.
“I’m good. This isn’t a therapy office after all,” I say, back to clipped. “If you’re done, you can go home.”
She nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Good night, Mr. Miller.”
“Night, Ms. Jones.”
The next morning, Mya and I hit the revolving doors of Miller Towers at the same time.
“Morning, Mr. Miller,” she says, before giving security a nod. Constantine beams at her and she flashes those pearly whites back.
I’m irritated for no good reason. He’s being friendly. But I’m not an idiot. I know what he’s looking at. Anyone with eyes can see she’s gorgeous. Most people would trip over themselves to get her attention.
I flash my badge; Mya does the same beside me. We move through together.
“Good morning,” I finally respond.
It’s not exactly awkward between us, but it’s definitely tight around the edges.
I shouldn’t have said that much last night. I went home, stared at a dark ceiling, and mentally tore into myself for handing over pieces I don’t hand to anyone. It was too personal, but what’s done is done.
We walk towards the elevators in silence, and step in together when the car dings open. Without looking, we both reach for the panel.
Our fingers touch.
A clean, electric brush of skin against skin. A spark snaps up my wrist. Mya freezes; so do I. Her breath hitches, audible in the small box, and her chest lifts once, like she’s trying to force oxygen to her ribs.
My gaze flicks to her mouth, then away, but I don’t move my hand.
She’s the first to break, hand curling back to her side, knuckles whitening around her laptop sleeve.
I press fifteen, and the door slides shut.
The air hums as the floors tick up, one by one. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the pulse at her throat beat fast. Mine does the opposite.
Finally, the bell chimes and fifteen lights up.
The doors part, and I gesture for Mya to get out first. “After you, Ms. Jones.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”