Faith
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Nothing feels real anymore.
That’s the strangest part. Not the fear, not even the bone-deep exhaustion, but the way everything around me feels like it’s happening to someone else.
Like I’ve stepped a half inch to the left of my own life, and now I’m watching it play out through thick glass, muffled and distorted.
Sounds come late. Sensations feel dull. My body moves, but I don’t quite feel like I’m inside it.
The city looks wrong.
It’s all sharp angles and mirrored surfaces, glass buildings scraping at the sky like they’re trying to prove something.
Traffic hums below in a constant, aggressive rush, horns snapping at one another like teeth.
Everything here is loud and fast and unforgiving, but at the same time, I feel frozen.
Stuck in place while the world keeps moving without me, like I missed a step and fell out of sync.
My father’s office occupies the top floor of a building so tall it makes my stomach dip when I look out the window. I used to think the view was impressive. Proof of success. Power. Now it just makes me dizzy, like if I stare too long, I might tip forward and disappear.
William Ross’s world is built to remind everyone that gravity bends toward him.
The receptionist barely looks at me as I walk past, heels clicking on marble floors that echo too loudly. No one stops me. No one asks if I’m okay. I’m expected. Delivered. Already accounted for.
I catch my reflection in the glass wall by the elevators. Pale, hollow-eyed, coat still on because I haven’t been told I can take it off yet. My hair looks dull, my posture folded inward like I’m trying to take up less space. I look like someone who wandered into the wrong building by mistake.
Which, in a way, I did.
This isn’t my life.
Or at least, it doesn’t feel like it should be.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the faint hum of cables and my own pulse roaring in my ears. I clutch my bag to my chest like it might anchor me. Like it contains something important I could lose.
My phone is still gone.
The absence of it feels physical. Like a missing limb I keep trying to reach for without thinking. I have no way to call my mom. No way to check the time. No way to ground myself in anything familiar.
The doors open directly into my father’s private office suite.
No waiting room.
No buffer.
No chance to breathe.
William Ross stands near the windows with his back to me, hands folded behind him, city skyline stretched out at his feet like a kingdom.
He doesn’t turn around right away. He never does.
It’s a small thing, but it’s deliberate.
It reminds you that he controls the pace of everything, even acknowledgement.
I stand there, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at me to run even though there’s nowhere to go.
“You’re late,” he says finally.
I glance at the clock on the wall, confused. “I… Evan brought me as soon as—”
“That wasn’t an accusation,” my father interrupts calmly. “Just an observation.”
My shoulders tense anyway.
He turns then, and my chest tightens.
My father looks exactly the same as he always does. Tailored suit, silver at his temples, expression composed and stoic. There are no signs of anger on his face. No visible concern. No disappointment.
That’s what scares me most.
Rage, at least, is loud. This is colder.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
I obey automatically.
The chair is too big, the leather cold through my coat. My feet barely touch the floor. I keep my hands folded tightly in my lap because I don’t trust them not to shake. My body knows this room. Knows the rules. Knows that stillness is safer than movement.
William takes his seat across from me, crossing his arms, studying me the way one might study a faulty investment. Something that once showed promise and is now hemorrhaging value.
“This situation,” he begins, “has spiraled further than I anticipated.”
I flinch at the word situation.
As if my life is a PR problem.
As if panic attacks, fear, and running for my own sanity are bullet points in a quarterly report.
“I didn’t mean for it to—” I start.
He lifts a hand.
I stop instantly.
“I know you didn’t,” he says. “You rarely do.”
The words land like a slap disguised as reason.
“You’ve always been reactive,” he continues. “Emotional. That’s not a flaw, Faith, but it is a liability if left unchecked.”
Liability.
The word echoes in my skull, heavy and dehumanizing. I stare at the edge of his desk, at the perfectly aligned folders, the framed awards on the wall behind him. Evidence of a life built on control and predictability. On winning.
“I was overwhelmed,” I whisper. “I panicked.”
“You ran,” he corrects. “In a wedding dress. In front of people who matter.”
The humiliation burns all over again, hot and sharp.
“I didn’t do it to hurt anyone,” I say, shaking despite my best efforts. “I just… I couldn’t breathe anymore.”
My father exhales sharply, the first crack in his composure.
“Breathing is not the issue here,” he snaps.
The shift is subtle, but it’s there now. The tension, the impatience coiled beneath the calm. His jaw tightens. His eyes harden.
“You embarrassed me,” he says flatly. “You embarrassed Evan. You embarrassed yourself.”
Tears prick my eyes. I blink fast, trying to hold them back.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Intentions,” he says, leaning forward suddenly, “are irrelevant.”
His hand slams down on the desk.
The sound makes me flinch violently.
“I spent months putting that wedding together,” he continues, his voice rising just enough to vibrate with anger. “Do you have any idea what that event represented? The clients. The optics. The connections?”
I shake my head numbly.
“You made me look weak,” he says, eyes blazing now. “You made us look unstable.”
The word us feels like a cage snapping shut.
He drags a legal pad across the desk toward me. My name is written neatly at the top. Below it are bullet points.
Structure.
Reputation.
Stability.
“This is how we move forward,” he says, dropping back into control like rage is something he can switch on and off at will. “You cannot return to the life you were living.”
My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”
“The event planning,” he says dismissively. “The wandering. The experimentation.”
Experimentation.
Buckhorn.
Dallas.
Feeling safe at long last.
“That chapter is closed,” he continues. “You need oversight. Purpose.”
He taps the pad. “You’ll help me. I mean, obviously, Charles won’t have you working for him after what you did, so you can start again here. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
I stare at the words, my vision blurring.
“My business needs a softer image,” he explains. “More warmth. Social presence. You’re good at that. You always were. You can manage our online branding, our public-facing communications.”
Social media.
The room tilts violently.
For a moment, I’m not here anymore.
I’m back at the McCoy ranch, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug between my hands. Dallas leaning against the counter, watching me with that quiet, thoughtful look.
You could run the ranch’s social media, he’d said. You’ve got an eye for it. Might be fun.
Fun.
Not a leash.
Not a punishment.
An option.
“I don’t want to do it here,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
My father’s gaze snaps to mine, sharp and furious now. “Explain.”
“I don’t want to stay,” I say, the words tumbling out now, desperate. “I want to go back. To my mom. To Buckhorn.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
My father stands so suddenly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“That town,” he snarls, “is poison.”
“It made me happy,” I say, sobbing now. “It made me feel like myself again.”
“Happiness,” he snaps, “is not a strategy!”
He looms over me now, his shadow swallowing mine.
“You don’t get to chase feelings,” he continues. “You don’t get to humiliate me and then run back to some small-town fantasy because it’s comfortable.”
I curl inward, my hands twisting in my sleeves.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. “I’m so tired of being scared all the time.”
My father straightens, his rage cooling into something far worse.
“Crying will not solve this,” he says coldly. “You need to take responsibility.”
“For what?” I ask, barely audible.
“For fixing what you broke.”
The words crush the last bit of air from my lungs.
“I can’t keep cleaning up after you,” he continues. “And if you continue to resist, if you continue to embarrass us, I will have to reconsider how much freedom you’re allowed.”
Allowed.
The room goes cold.
Fear blooms sharp and sudden in my chest, crawling up my spine like ice.
“I don’t want to punish you forever,” he adds, almost gently now. “But you leave me very few options.”
Punish.
I curl my fingers into my sleeves, nails biting into skin, grounding myself in pain because my emotions feel too big to contain.
“I’ll do better,” I whisper.
He nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
The meeting ends without ceremony.
I don’t remember walking out of the office. I don’t remember the elevator ride down. I only know that at some point I’m standing on the sidewalk, city noise crashing over me, my reflection staring back from a darkened window like a stranger.
I feel small. Managed. Like a child again.
Evan pulls up to the curb.
He gets out and opens the passenger door without asking.
“Ready?” he asks.
I hesitate, and his hand comes to my lower back. Light, insistent, guiding me forward. Ownership disguised as concern.
My body goes rigid.
I get in.
The door shuts with a final, echoing thud.
Evan’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at me, smiling thinly.
“Your dad wants constant updates,” he says. “He’s worried about you.”
I stare straight ahead, my breath shallow, heart racing.
I am never alone.
Somewhere far away, so far it feels like a dream, there’s a porch light glowing warm against snow. A quiet town that knows my name. A man who asked me what I wanted and meant it.
The thought hurts so badly it almost breaks me.
And I understand with terrifying clarity:
They aren’t just trying to control my life.
They are trying to close every door I might use to escape.