chapter one
NINA
*unedited, subject to change*
I didn’t have time for chaos–which was unfortunate, considering my life basically ran on it.
By eight-thirty a.m., I’d already answered twelve emails, negotiated two contracts, and rescued the toaster from whatever “engineering experiment” Liam had been conducting last night with cereal and marshmallows. The kitchen still smelled faintly of burnt sugar and stress.
Morning light streamed through the big windows over the sink, spilling across the counters in soft, golden streaks.
The space was open and bright, all white tile and pale wood–sunny, modern, and a far cry from the cramped, cluttered kitchen I’d grown up in.
It still caught me off guard sometimes. Living here.
This house–the house I grew up in–looked nothing like it used to.
The owners who’d lived here after my mom sold it had gutted the place.
They added a whole new addition at the back.
They took down the wall that once separated the living room from the kitchen, completely opening it up.
Put a powder room in the master bedroom.
Painted everything in soft grays and warm whites, like they were trying to cleanse the history out of it.
And maybe they had.
Because this place didn’t feel like my childhood anymore. It didn’t feel like sticky floors and yelling behind closed doors. It didn’t feel like empty bottles under the sink or whispered threats or cold stares across the dinner table. It just felt… still. Quiet. Mine.
I’d been renting when I first moved back to Brookhaven–cheap places with creaky stairs and bad plumbing, ones that didn’t feel like home and weren’t meant to.
But when this house came on the market, I don’t know. There was something in my gut. Something that said: Do it.
Not because I had great memories in this house. I didn’t.
But because it felt like something I needed to face. Something I needed to take back. And I was glad I did. Even if it sometimes felt like the ghosts hadn’t entirely left.
And right now, that safe, spotless kitchen looked like a mild disaster zone. A mixing bowl sat half-submerged in pancake batter. My laptop balanced on the island beside a stack of project folders, and my coffee mug perched precariously on top like a stress trophy.
I flipped the next pancake with one hand and refreshed the spreadsheet I’d stayed up too late perfecting with the other.
Two more formulas to double check, one last pitch deck to send before the meeting.
If I finished in the next fifteen minutes, I’d even have time to reheat my coffee–ambitious, I know.
The faint, indignant squawking coming from outside pulled my attention toward the backyard. The chickens were already awake, and judging by the noise, unimpressed that breakfast was running late.
I sighed, hit send on the email queued for my nine o’clock meeting, and set the spatula down before heading through the living room and down the hall. Sunlight pooled across the hardwood, catching on the framed drawings and school photos lining the wall–our little collection of almost-normal.
Liam’s door was closed, his name spelled out in mismatched wooden letters he’d painted himself. I knocked once, then pushed it open.
His room was the definition of boy chaos: a pile of laundry in the corner, shelves stacked with books and Lego kits, a half-finished model airplane on the desk.
The morning light spilled over the bed where he was still out cold, chestnut curls flopped over his forehead, one arm tucked beneath his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Liam.”
He groaned softly and rolled to his other side, pulling the blankets over his head.
“Uh-huh,” I said, crossing my arms. “Your kids are screaming bloody murder out there.”
A muffled sound came from under the blanket. “They’re chickens, Aunt Nina. They can wait.”
I lifted a brow. “No way, dude. You wanted those chickens–no, not just wanted, frikkin begged me to keep those chicks last year. And now we have six of them. You’re the chicken dad. Get your butt out of bed and feed your kids.”
He pulled the blankets off his head and cracked one eye open, squinting at me. “It’s summer. Normal people sleep in.”
“Normal people don’t have livestock depending on them,” I said, backing toward the door. “Up. Now.”
I left him groaning into his pillow and headed back down the hall toward the smell of something not-so-subtly burning.
“Shit.”
By the time I made it back to the kitchen, the pancakes were beyond saving. Smoke curled from the pan in delicate, traitorous wisps. I sighed, scraped the charred remains into the garbage, and grabbed the cereal box from the cupboard.
“Breakfast of champions,” I muttered, sliding it onto the counter beside a carton of milk. I’d just pretend this had been the plan all along.
The oven clock read 8:47. My meeting with the new boss started at nine sharp, and I still looked like I’d been in a minor flour explosion. I tossed the spatula in the sink, took a gulp of lukewarm coffee, and mentally switched from domestic disaster manager to professional powerhouse.
“Get going, Liam!” I shouted down the hall.
He muttered something unintelligible in response.
I rolled my eyes, shoving my hair out of my face.
I’d soundproofed my office so the chaos didn’t matter–but the last thing I needed was another visit from my grumpy neighbor, Mr. Henderson, mid-Zoom call.
The man lived to complain. I could already hear him now, voice dripping with self-righteous misery: I thought there’d finally be peace and quiet after your mother left, but clearly, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
A statement I have heard more than a few times over the past nine years.
Barefoot, I padded down the hall on the opposite side of the kitchen–the one that led to my office–and pushed open the door. My sanctuary. Clean desk, closed curtains, ring light, and the illusion of composure.
I slipped my professional blouse over my tank top, checked my reflection in the black screen of my monitor, and exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair. My reflection stared back–poised, composed, not a single trace of the pancake fire or poultry uprising behind her.
No one would ever know the disaster running inside me based on how I looked on the outside.
The clock on my laptop blinked 8:50 a.m. I clicked on the meeting link and pasted on my best “I don’t take any shit from anyone and my life is completely together” expression–the one I’d mastered years ago. The one that hid how much depended on me keeping it all together.
The company logo filled the screen, followed by a handful of familiar faces in little squares–some old, some new, all pretending not to judge each other’s backgrounds.
After more than a decade with the publishing house, I’d seen my fair share of these meetings.
People came and went, climbing the ladder, burning out, or deciding corporate wasn’t “creative enough” for their big literary dreams.
I gave a polite smile to the marketing lead, Sarah, who always joined from her car, earbuds tangled and sunglasses on like she was starring in a spy thriller.
Then to the junior editor from Toronto who’d started three months ago and still looked perpetually terrified to speak.
The accounting guy was there too, his square always muted, his background frozen mid-blink in a way that made him look like he’d been trapped in a spreadsheet since 2016.
There were a few faces I didn’t recognize–new hires, probably, or transfers from the Seattle office. Fresh enthusiasm. Uncrushed spirits. Poor souls.
I sipped my coffee, bracing myself. I’d survived six department restructures, three CEOs, and one fiscal-year firestorm that nearly tanked our imprint. Whatever this “new leadership announcement” was, I could handle it.
“Good morning, everyone,” a voice said, smooth and commanding, cutting through the chatter.
Deep. Polished. The kind of voice that filled a room even through a computer speaker.
And there he was. My new headache.
Not because he’d done anything wrong yet, but because I’d seen this exact type before.
Every new higher-up who parachuted in came with the same playbook: change everything, call it innovation, then micromanage the people who’d been keeping the place afloat long before they showed up.
They always thought they could make things “better.” Usually, that meant more meetings, more reports, and less time for actual work getting done on the clock.
“Let’s jump right in,” he said, wasting no time with pleasantries. “I’m Nolan Hayes, taking over as regional director effective immediately. I’ve had a look at everyone’s quarterly reports and upcoming projects, and I’ll be setting up one-on-one check-ins later this week.”
Crisp navy suit, white dress shirt without a single wrinkle, a silver watch that probably cost more than my car.
Dark hair combed with precision, sharp jawline, eyes the color of cold steel–and a faintly impatient expression that screamed corporate alpha who hasn’t smiled since 2017.
He looked like he ate quarterly reports for breakfast and used ambition as a side of protein.
The screen flickered as he scrolled through something on his end. I could practically smell the cologne through the screen–clean, expensive, and a little suffocating.
“Some of you have been with the company a long time,” he continued, “and I’m sure you’ve gotten comfortable with how things were done before. But standards are changing. We’re moving toward tighter oversight and accountability.”
A pit opened in my stomach. Tighter oversight was management speak for someone’s about to get babysat.
I took a long sip of cold coffee and forced my jaw to unclench.
Deep breaths. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t throw the laptop.