16. Brittney
— ? —
Brittney
The presentation is going well.
I stand at the front of the conference room, walking through the community center’s final design specifications, and for once my brain isn’t running competing commentary.
The slides are clear. The model is precise.
The potential client - young, tech money, the kind of person who likes to invest in “community initiatives” for the tax write-offs and the good press - is nodding along like everything I’m saying makes sense.
“Your eye for natural light is incredible,” he says, standing too close as we review the scale model. His shoulder brushes mine. His cologne is expensive and aggressive. “Do you do private consultations? I’m renovating my apartment. Might need some… personal attention.”
I open my mouth to deliver a professional redirection, something about firm policies and scheduling through Helena’s assistant.
Shawn materializes at my shoulder like a possessive ghost with excellent timing.
I didn’t even see him come in. Which means he’s been watching. Which means he saw the client lean into my space. Which means-
“She’s very busy,” Shawn says. His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. His eyes are absolutely not.
Oh no. This is extremely problematic and also, unfortunately, kind of hot.
The client blinks, taking in the expensive suit, the calculated stillness, the smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near Shawn’s eyes. “And you are?”
“Her husband.” The smile widens. I recognize it from boardroom negotiations - the expression that precedes complete destruction. “The one who’s going to pull funding from your competitor’s Series B if you don’t stop looking at her like she’s on the menu.”
“Shawn,” I murmur.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “Couldn’t help it.”
The client excuses himself very quickly. I watch him retreat across the conference room, gather his things, and make a hasty exit without making eye contact with anyone.
Helena appears in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “Did you just threaten my client?”
“I made a strategic suggestion.”
“That’s terrifying.” She looks at me, assessing. “He can stay.”
She disappears back into her office. The conference room empties, junior architects filing out with barely concealed grins and significant glances.
I turn to face Shawn.
“What the hell was that?”
“He was standing too close to you.”
“He was a potential investor. Standing close is what they do. It’s a power move.”
“It was a move,” Shawn agrees darkly. “I didn’t like it.”
“You don’t get to not like it. You don’t live with me anymore. You don’t get a vote on this.”
“Current husband.” He steps closer. “Still married. Still very much invested in whether tech bros with wandering eyes treat you with respect.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “But I made it anyway. Sue me.”
I should be furious. I am furious - mostly. But underneath the anger, something warm and inconvenient is curling through my chest. He noticed. He noticed someone was making me uncomfortable and he did something about it.
The method was unhinged. But the instinct…
I file that thought away for later examination.
The parking garage is empty when we reach it.
I’ve been stewing the entire walk from the conference room - running through arguments, counterarguments, the precise words I need to make him understand why what he did was inappropriate and possessive and exactly the kind of behavior I swore I wouldn’t tolerate anymore.
The words evaporate the moment we’re alone.
I shove him against his car.
“That was insane.” My palms press flat against his chest, pinning him in place. “You can’t threaten people who flirt with me.”
“Watch me.”
“You don’t get to be jealous. You lost that right when you-”
He flips us. My back hits the car. His body cages mine, arms braced on either side, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him through his shirt.
“I know,” he says, voice wrecked. “I know I lost the right. I know I should be civilized and trust you and not want to break the hands of every man who looks at you. I know.”
His forehead drops to mine. We’re both breathing hard.
“But I spent years not paying attention. Years letting you feel invisible while I focused on everything else. And now I can’t stop.” His hands curl into fists against the car behind me. “Every time someone looks at you the way I should have been looking at you, I want to burn something down.”
“That’s possessive.”
“I’m working on it. Slowly.”
I kiss him.
Hard. Probably inadvisable. Definitely not professional, given that we’re in a parking garage attached to my workplace.
But his mouth opens under mine and his hands finally uncurl to grip my waist and I’m tired of fighting this, tired of pretending the wanting isn’t mutual, tired of being sensible when sensible feels like suffocating.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing like we’ve sprinted up six flights of stairs.
“I like it,” I admit, because apparently we’re doing radical honesty now. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”
“You like that I threatened a tech bro with financial ruin?”
“I like that you noticed someone was making me uncomfortable and did something about it.” I search for the right words. “The method was unhinged. But the instinct was good. The instinct was really good.”
His smile goes soft. Dangerous. “I’ll work on the method.”
“Don’t work on it too hard.”
He laughs. Surprised and warm and real.
“God, I missed you.”
The restaurant is intimate. Candlelit. The kind of place couples go to pretend they’re in a romantic movie instead of real life.
We shouldn’t be here. We should be at Mom’s house, maintaining appropriate boundaries, working through our issues with the careful distance of two people who aren’t sure yet whether they’re reconciling or just delaying the inevitable.
Instead, we’re sharing a bottle of wine and brushing fingers over the bread basket and pretending we don’t notice the electricity crackling between us.
The waitress touches Shawn’s shoulder for the third time, and I think: I will burn this restaurant to the ground.
She’s pretty. Young. And she keeps finding excuses to lean over our table, brush against him, laugh at things that aren’t funny.
Shawn looks at me. Sees my face.
And slowly, deliberately, moves his chair closer to mine.
“Jealousy looks good on you,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying. It’s nice to know you care.”
“I don’t care. I just don’t want her fingerprints on my property.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Your property?”
I realize what I’ve said.
He grins. Wide and delighted and completely insufferable.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things.” His hand finds my knee under the table. “We can discuss them later. In private.”
The waitress returns with our entrees. She leans too close to Shawn’s side of the table. I watch his jaw tighten, watch him shift subtly away from her touch, watch him angle his body toward me like I’m the only person in the room.
She gets the message. She doesn’t touch him again.
When she’s gone, Shawn squeezes my knee.
“Better?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mm-hmm.” His thumb traces circles on my thigh. “My mistake.”
My phone buzzes. Mom’s number.
“Sweetheart.” Her voice is tight. Controlled. The voice she uses when she’s trying not to scare me. “You need to come home. Elise is here. And she says she’s not leaving until she talks to you both.”
The wine sours in my stomach.
I look at Shawn. “Your mother is at my mother’s house.”
His face hardens. The warmth of the past hour evaporates, replaced by something cold and sharp.
“Then let’s go end this.”
Mom’s porch. The streetlights cast long shadows across the yard. Neighbors are gathering at their windows, their doorways, drawn by the spectacle of Elise Ross in her designer coat standing on worn wooden steps like a queen condescending to visit the peasants.
Mom stands in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking the entrance to her home. She’s wearing her oldest cardigan and her expression promises violence.
“I told you,” Mom says flatly. “You’re not coming inside my house.”
“This isn’t a social call.” Elise’s voice is silk over steel. “I’m here to speak with my son and his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Mom corrects. “Near enough.”
“Still legally married. Which makes this a family matter.”
“Family.” Mom’s laugh is sharp. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
I step forward, Shawn close behind me. “What do you want, Elise?”
She turns to face us. In the streetlight, she looks older than she did at the gala. Smaller somehow, though her spine is still rigid, her chin still lifted. The pearls are absent from her throat - the pearls she gave to Mikayla, the pearls that were supposed to be mine.
“This is your final opportunity.” Her voice carries across the quiet street. “Come back to the family. Accept your place. Stop this embarrassing rebellion and remember what you owe us.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No?” Her smile is thin. “And what about your mother? Her little house on Caldwell Street? Property taxes get reassessed. Code inspectors find violations in old houses. And your precious community center needs sign-offs from people who owe me favors.”
My stomach drops.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’m prepared to be generous.” Elise steps closer.
“Disappear quietly. Leave the city. Stop embarrassing this family with your little construction projects. And I’ll make sure your mother’s neighborhood stays off my radar.
No reassessments. No inspectors. No complications with the community center permits. A clean exit.”
“You’re threatening my mother’s home.” My voice comes out flat. “To make me leave town.”
“I’m offering you an exit.” Her eyes are cold. “Take it or don’t. But understand what you’re choosing.”
“And Mikayla’s evidence? Her threats?” I watch Elise’s face carefully. “Let me guess. That leverage disappeared when she did.”
Something flickers in Elise’s expression. Just for a moment.
“Who do you think handed you that video, dear?”