5. Anya
ANYA
I bury myself in work because that's what I do when my world tilts sideways. Filing. Scheduling. Answering calls with the kind of crisp professionalism that would make my literature professors proud.
The morning has been a lot—Jones last night, Eric this morning, being walked in on like we were teenagers sneaking around—and productivity is my anchor. Has always been my anchor.
Vincent's office door sits ajar. The same way it's been all morning. The same way it was yesterday when he appeared in the doorway and looked at me like he was solving an equation.
His presence hovers at the edge of my vision, quiet and watchful, and I'm hyperaware of it in a way that makes my shoulders tight.
He hasn't spoken to me since the conference room on my first day. Hasn't needed to. With Vincent, watching says more than most people's entire conversations.
The phone rings. Patient scheduling. Lab results confirmation. Insurance verification.
Each call gets my full attention because focus is the only thing standing between me and the memory of Eric's hands on my thighs, Vincent's brown eyes taking in every detail when he walked in on us.
"Anya."
Just my name. Calm, even, like he's called it a hundred times before instead of never. The sound cuts through the low hum of the air conditioning and settles in my chest like a stone dropped into still water.
I look up. Vincent stands in his doorway, one hand resting on the frame. He doesn't beckon. Doesn't gesture. Just says my name and waits, and somehow that's more commanding than anything Jones has ever barked at me.
My feet carry me across the open space before my brain catches up. His office smells different from his brothers'—no leather like Jones's, no subtle cologne like Eric's. Just clean linen and something distinctly him that I can't name.
The space itself matches Vincent perfectly. Minimal without being cold. A single bookshelf lines one wall, every spine aligned with military precision. No scattered papers on his desk like Eric's office. No imposing darkness like Jones's corner sanctuary.
Everything has its place, and everything is exactly where it belongs.
Vincent perches on the edge of his desk instead of sitting behind it. The casual position should make him seem relaxed, but it doesn't. There's too much intention in the way he settles there, too much awareness in how his brown eyes track my movement into the room.
"Close the door."
The words land between us like coins dropped on marble. No please. No explanation. Just an instruction delivered with the same steady voice he uses for everything else.
My hand finds the door handle, and the soft click of the latch echoes louder than it should.
When I turn back around, Vincent is watching me with that particular focus he reserves for things that interest him. Patient charts. Lab results. Me, apparently.
"How's Mrs. Patterson's follow-up scheduled?"
The question catches me off guard—professional, specific, completely at odds with the closed door and the way my pulse jumped when he said my name. But I know the answer because I catalogued every appointment, every note, every test result when I reorganized their disaster of a filing system.
"Thursday at two-thirty. Post-transfer monitoring."
Something shifts in his expression. Not surprise—confirmation. Like he expected me to know and is satisfied that I do.
"And the Hendersons?"
"Consultation Wednesday morning. Second opinion after two failed IVF attempts in Atlanta."
Vincent nods once. "The Delacroix case?"
"Egg retrieval tentatively scheduled for next month, pending hormone response. You flagged her file for additional monitoring because of her PCOS history."
Each answer comes easier than the last. Not because the questions are simple, but because I did the work. I read every chart, memorized every detail, organized every piece of information that passes through this office.
The competence feels good—solid ground under my feet after a morning of stumbling through attractions I'm still learning to navigate.
Vincent goes quiet, but his attention doesn't waver. Brown eyes steady on my face, unhurried and focused in a way that makes heat creep up my neck.
The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. More like he's processing something, filing away information the same way I organized his patient records.
"You did good work yesterday," he says finally. "Better than good. You turned chaos into order in eight hours."
The praise shouldn't affect me the way it does. I graduated cum laude, for God's sake. I don't need validation from anyone, least of all my stepbrother who's been watching me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
But warmth blooms in my chest anyway, because Vincent doesn't strike me as someone who gives compliments he doesn't mean.
"Thank you."
"Now tell me about this café of yours."
The shift happens so fast it gives me whiplash. One moment he's acknowledging my competence, the next he's prodding at the thing that makes me most defensive.
My chin lifts automatically—a reflex I can't control when someone questions something I care about.
"What else do you want to know?"
"Start with your market research."
The words land like ice water. Market research. Of course. The thing I haven't done because I've been too busy falling in love with the dream to examine the logistics of making it real.
"I've been to every coffee shop and bookstore in Charlotte," I say, which is true but not the same thing and we both know it.
"Customer demographics?"
"People who like books and coffee." The answer sounds stupid the moment it leaves my mouth, defensive and incomplete, but pride keeps me from taking it back.
Vincent's expression doesn't change. He doesn't smile or frown or give me any indication that he thinks my answer is as thin as it sounds. He just absorbs the information and moves to the next question.
"Average startup cost for a dual-concept business in this market?"
"I already told you." Heat creeps up my throat. "I'm still researching specific numbers."
"Competition analysis?"
"There are a few independent bookstores, but nothing exactly like what I'm planning."
"Revenue projections for year one?"
"I—" The word sticks. My jaw tightens because he's asking questions I should have answers for, questions any serious business owner would have considered, and I hate that he's finding holes in something I want so desperately to succeed at.
"Staffing requirements? Inventory management? Health department regulations for food service?"
Each question hits like a dart thrown with perfect accuracy. Not cruel—Vincent doesn't sound mean or mocking. He asks them the same way he asked about his patients, with clinical precision that strips away emotion and leaves only facts.
But the facts are that I don't know, and that gap in my knowledge sits between us like an accusation I can't defend against.
"You think I haven't thought this through," I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"Have you?"
The simple question makes my teeth clench. "Yes."
"Then answer the questions."
"I will when I'm ready."
"When will that be?"
"When I decide it will be."
Vincent tilts his head slightly, studying me with the same focused attention he gave my patient answers. But this time, instead of confirmation, I see something that looks like understanding.
"You're angry."
"I'm not angry." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Of course I'm angry. He's poking at every insecurity I have about this dream, every doubt that wakes me up at three in the morning wondering if I'm deluding myself into thinking I can make this work.
"You are. Your shoulders are up near your ears, your jaw is tight, and you stepped closer without realizing it."
My breath catches because he's right on all counts. I did step closer—close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him even though he's sitting on the desk edge. Close enough to see the way his stubble catches the light streaming through his office window.
"You watch too much."
"I watch exactly as much as I need to."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I noticed you the moment you walked into that conference room. Noticed how you grip your bag strap when you're nervous. How your chin lifts half a second before you argue. How you bite the inside of your cheek when you're thinking about something you don't want to admit."
The accuracy of his observations makes my stomach flip. I do all those things. All of them. And apparently Vincent has been cataloguing every tell, every nervous habit, every piece of body language I thought I was keeping to myself.
"You can't read me that easily."
"Can't I?" His voice drops lower, still steady but with an edge that wasn't there before. "You want that café because it represents everything you think you should be. Independent. Successful. Proving to everyone that you don't need help or guidance or?—"
"Stop."
"—that you have everything figured out when the truth is you're twenty-one years old with a literature degree and a dream you haven't bothered to turn into a viable business plan."
The words hit like a slap. Not because they're mean, but because they're accurate. Every single one. I do want independence. I do want to prove I don't need help.
And I haven't done the work—the real, unglamorous work of spreadsheets and permits and market analysis—to turn my dream into something solid.
"You don't know anything about what I want."
"Then tell me what I'm missing."
Heat flashes through me, sharp and immediate. "You're missing the fact that it's my money and my choice and my business, literally, whether I want to open a café or buy a circus or blow it all on lottery tickets."
"True. And when you fail because you didn't do the groundwork, whose fault will that be?"
The question hangs in the air between us like a challenge. My hands curl into fists at my sides because he's pushing every button I have, finding every soft spot and pressing just hard enough to make me react.
"I won't fail."
"Prove it."