Chapter 10
Addison
The numbers on the spreadsheet I’ve been staring at for twenty minutes blur.
I blink.
My phone says it’s almost midnight, and I’ve been here since seven this morning. Seventeen hours.
The lunch container that River picked up for me sits three feet away, unopened. The salad inside is probably warm by now and definitely wilted.
I should eat.
I try to analyze the spreadsheet again, but I can’t focus.
My head throbs at the temples, and my throat feels raw. I swallow, and it hurts.
I have three more reports to finish before tomorrow’s meeting. That gives me twelve hours. I just need to focus.
I type a sentence for the report. Delete it. Type another. The words come slower than they should. My fingers feel clumsy on the keys.
When did the office get so cold?
I pull my cardigan tighter. The movement makes my head swim, and I grip the edge of my desk until the room steadies.
I really need to get these reports done.
Stopping means going home to my empty apartment.
Stopping means sitting in silence with nothing to prove I’m worth the space I occupy.
Stopping means admitting I’m exhausted and alone and losing control in a job where three men watch my every move, and I can’t tell if I want distance or something more.
So, I won’t stop.
My parents taught me that lesson well. You’re only valuable when you’re producing something. When you’re useful. When you’re achieving.
Rest is for people who can afford to be ordinary.
I open the next file.
The words won’t focus. They slide across the screen in waves. I close my eyes. Just for a second.
“Addison.”
My head snaps up.
Liam stands in my doorway. Suit jacket gone. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks at me the way you look at something broken.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks.
“Working.” My voice sounds hoarse.
He steps into my office and closes the door behind him. “It’s midnight.”
“I’m aware.”
“When did you eat last?”
I glance at River’s container. Liam follows my gaze, and his mouth thins.
“That looks like a lunch container that you never touched,” he says.
I turn to my screen. “I’ll eat when I’m done.”
“You’re done now.”
“I have three more—”
“Addison.” He moves closer. “Look at me.”
The room tilts, and I force myself to make eye contact.
His expression changes. “You’re sick.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You’re pale. You’re shaking.” He rounds my desk. “Stand up.”
“Liam, stop.”
“Stand up,” he commands.
I push my chair back and rise. The floor shifts under me. I catch myself on the desk.
His hand closes around my elbow, steady and warm.
“When did you last sleep?” he asks.
“Last night.”
“How many hours?”
I calculate how many hours in my head. “Four.”
“And the night before?”
Four hours. Maybe less. I haven’t slept properly in a week. But I stay silent.
“You’re working too much,” Liam says. “And you need to stop.”
“I can’t.”
His fingers tighten on my arm. “Why not?”
Because stopping means I’m not enough. Because if I’m not working, what am I worth? Because the only time my parents looked at me was when I had something to show them. And now I am worried that if the triplets don’t see how hard I’m working, I will never get my company back.
I can’t say that.
“I have work to finish,” I tell him.
“Whatever you are working on is not as important as your health.”
“Liam, I’m okay. Really.”
“You’re coming home with me.” The way he says it sounds less like a demand and more like concern. “You’re swaying on your feet.” He retrieves my bag from the floor. “I’m taking you home.”
He guides me toward the door. I should argue. Fight. Prove I don’t need him.
But my head is pounding, and my throat burns, and I’m so tired of holding everything together.
So, I let him lead me out.
We ride to his building in silence, and he holds me up while the elevator takes us to his penthouse, which takes up the entire top floor.
Two walls are nothing but glass. The furniture is minimal, and everything has its place. But the bookshelves surprise me. Real books, worn and read, some stacked sideways where they didn’t fit.
“Sit.” He points to the couch.
I sink into leather that’s softer than it looks. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with water and two pills.
“Ibuprofen,” he says, handing them to me.
I take them.
He sits beside me. Close, but not touching.
The water soothes my throat on the way down, but it still aches.
He stands. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
He disappears into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he returns with toast and scrambled eggs. By now the ibuprofen has started working. My headache has faded, and swallowing doesn’t hurt as much. I realize I’m actually hungry.
I take the plate. The eggs are perfect. Not too dry. He added cheese.
“You know how to cook,” I say.
“Someone had to.” He settles beside me with a slight smirk. “We had a nanny growing up, but she couldn’t cook to save her life. Everything came out of a box or a can. By twelve, I learned so we’d have something edible.”
“You took care of your brothers.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” he says. “It was cook or watch them live on cereal.”
I eat slowly. Each bite helps ease my hunger, and I feel more stable.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He takes my empty plate. When he returns, he doesn’t sit as far away, and our knees almost touch.
He places a hand on my knee, and his warmth steadies me. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
I could deflect. Change the subject. But I’m too tired to keep performing.
“Working hard makes me feel like I’m useful.” But that’s not the whole truth. “My parents only paid attention when I was accomplishing something.” The words taste bitter. “Good grades, awards, achievements. That’s when I mattered.”
Liam says nothing. Just waits.
“When I was twelve, I won a national writing competition. They actually took me to dinner. Told everyone.” I stare at my hands. “My father looked at me when I spoke. Really looked at me.”
“And when you didn’t win something?”
“The next week, I brought home a science test. B-plus.” I can still hear my father’s voice. “My father said, ‘Is this really the best you can do?’ Then he went back to his work like I wasn’t even there.”
Liam’s quiet for a moment. “So you kept winning.”
“I kept trying to be useful. To matter.” I meet his eyes. “Everyone wants something from me. I guess I want to be wanted. To be needed. So I work too hard to make sure they need me.”
He leans back slightly. “Is that why you left Apex? They wanted too much from you?”
“They wanted me to bury a story. Pharmaceutical company covering up trial data that showed their drug was hurting people.” My hands twist together in my lap.
“I realized I’d spent my whole life doing what other people needed.
Being useful to them.” I pause. “I wanted to build something that was mine.”
“Archer Media.”
I nod. “Where I could do work that mattered to me. Not just work that made someone else look good.”
“And then I bought it.”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the couch. “I built something to escape being measured. And now I have to perform for three years to earn it back.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making you feel like you’re only valuable because of what you can do for us.” He drags both of his hands through his hair.
“You work just as much as I do,” I say finally. “Why do you do it?”
His shoulders drop. The careful composure he always wears cracks at the edges.
“For me, it’s not about being useful, but I need to feel like I am in control.
” The words come slowly. “My mother died the day I was born. Giving birth to us. To me. My father never recovered. He was there physically, but emotionally, he checked out. Buried himself in work. By the time I was eight, I was the one making sure Axel and Nolan did their homework. Making sure they were okay when our dad forgot to ask.”
“You were so young,” I say.
“Someone had to hold things together.” His voice stays level. “When I asked my father for help once, he said, ‘Palmers solve their own problems.’ So, I stopped asking.”
I see it now. A boy raising his brothers. A man who never learned to need anyone. And this is why he needs control.
“When he died eight years ago, I stepped into his role. Twenty-four years old and running a multi-billion-dollar company.” He meets my eyes. “I’ve been responsible my entire life. And I’m terrified that if I stop, if I let go for even a second, everything will fall apart.”
“Has it ever?” I ask. “Have you ever tested that?”
“No. Because what if I am right?”
“That’s not living, Liam. That’s just controlled drowning.”
He flinches. “Maybe. But at least I’m still afloat.”
“Are you?” I challenge. “Or are you just treading water until you go under?”
He doesn’t answer.
He’s revealing so much of himself to me, and as much as I want to enjoy this moment, a nagging sense of guilt overtakes my thoughts.
“I need to tell you something.” The confession rises before I can stop it.
He turns toward me and waits.
“Something happened between Axel and me.” I swallow. “Last week. In the supply closet.”
I watch for anger, or maybe even jealousy.
Instead, his expression stays open. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Axel came back to the office grinning like he’d won something.” Liam’s expression sharpens with amusement. “And you avoided the executive floor for days. Not exactly subtle.”
I’m suddenly too aware of my body. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.
“Because I’m here. With you. After what happened with Axel.”
“Addison.” He closes the space between us. “You told me everyone wants something from you.”
I nod.
He continues. “I’m not asking you for anything right now. Not a commitment. Not a decision.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Honesty.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “About what you’re feeling. What you want.”
I stop breathing. “I don’t know what I want.”
He smiles. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
I didn’t know how much I needed to hear those words. I lean my head against his shoulder without thinking. Just exhausted enough to let myself need someone.
He goes still for a moment, then his arm comes around me. Solid. Steady.
“You should sleep,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Addison.” His hand moves to my forehead, checking for a fever. “You’re burning up.”
I close my eyes under his touch. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He stands and extends his hand. “Come on. You need to rest.”
I don’t argue. I take his hand.
He leads me to his bedroom and pulls back the covers while I slip off my shoes. When I climb into his bed, the sheets are cool against my skin.
“Will you stay?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
He lies on top of the covers beside me, not touching, just there.
“Sleep, Addison.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then we’ll just lie here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I close my eyes. And for the first time in weeks, I let go.