Chapter 10
Clara
The factory holds a steady pulse that I can feel through the soles of my shoes.
Heat breathes off the presses, the floor hums underfoot, and the air carries that mix of oil, metal, and soap that means the day is doing exactly what it should.
A pallet jack glides past, Earl raises two fingers in greeting without breaking stride, and a sensor ticks from green to amber, then back again.
These are the small, obedient certainties I built my life around.
My phone buzzes in my pocket for the third time since seven.
I don’t have to check it, but I do. Dad’s name lights the screen above a thread of messages I refuse to open yet.
I slip the phone back and focus on the clipboard, align the purchase orders, and initial a maintenance log with a hand that doesn’t shake.
Order is not a preference here. It is the only thing that keeps the ground from tilting.
I make the morning circuit, checking temp, readings and scanning the charts.
My fingertip traces the colored blocks, following the rhythm that measures each cycle’s pace.
The spacing’s even, and the pattern is smooth like a steady pulse.
It means the line’s keeping up, the crew hitting their marks.
The presses bite clean, the air carries that metallic tang I’ve come to love, and for once, everything moves in sync.
Every click and hiss land where they should.
My shoulders loosen as I work, until memory catches up: a laugh against my throat, the faint sting where his mouth marked me, the way my body answered before my mind consented to anything.
Jeremy carries something I learned to avoid young.
It’s that bright, boyish edge that looks like risk.
My father wore that same glint when he made promises the numbers later could not keep.
The difference is that beneath Jeremy’s spark there is steel.
He plans. He executes. And he means it. He has no selfish bone in his body. As for my father…
“Ms. Bennett?”
I glance up from the clipboard. Sara hovers in the doorway, her knuckles white around the edge of the doorframe. The way she says my name already has my stomach tightening.
“There’s… someone here to see you.”
Her tone carries that uneasy edge people use when they know the news won’t land well.
“Who?”
She hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the hallway, then back to me. “He said he’s your dad.”
I straighten slowly. “My dad,” I repeat, letting the word hang. Sara’s face tells me she knows exactly what that means. Everyone here does.
I set the clipboard down with care. “Where is he?”
“Reception.” She swallows hard. “Do you want me to tell him you’re—”
“I’ll handle it.”
By the time I reach my office, he’s already there. Sitting in the chair across from my desk. At least he isn’t behind my desk this time.
He doesn’t belong here, not in this clean, orderly space. The room smells faintly of coffee and ink from the printer, but underneath I can smell his sweat, cheap aftershave, and booze.
“Clara, sweetheart.” His smile is all gums and no warmth. “You look good. Tired, though. Working too hard, huh?”
The sound of his voice and the false concern in it hit me like a stone in the gut. “What do you want, Dad?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands twitch. He’s all jitters and nerves. I close my eyes and shake my head.
“It’s not like that. I just need a small favor. Short-term loan, that’s all.”
“No.”
“Just enough to get the creditors off my back. You know I wouldn’t ask if—”
“No.” I keep my voice flat. “You’ve already taken enough.” I make eye contact and hold his gaze. I. Am. Not. Giving. In.
The words hang between us.
His eyes harden, the old bitterness surfacing like oil on water. “You always did think you were better than me.”
“I don’t think it. I know it,” I state with certainty. “The only thing I learned from you is what not to do.”
The door opens before he can spit something back. Jeremy fills the frame like a storm front. I take in his broad shoulders, his steady gaze, and that calm that hides a thousand calculations. He moves his attention from me to my father, and the air sharpens.
“Mr. Bennett.” His tone is polite, but the steel underneath makes my stomach tighten. “Did you make an appointment?”
My father bristles, chin lifting. “I don’t need an appointment to see my daughter.”
“You do to waste her time,” Jeremy says.
“Jeremy.” My voice is warning, but he doesn’t break eye contact with my father.
“You’ve had your say,” he tells him. “Leave.”
Dad pushes to his feet, all bravado and bad posture. “You think you can control her too? She’s my kid.”
Jeremy steps closer. His gate is unhurried but the quiet kind of dangerous. “She’s not a kid. She’s a woman running the company you nearly destroyed.”
The word destroyed lands hard. I stand, stepping between them, feeling their body heat radiating like two furnaces about to collide. “Enough. Both of you.”
Jeremy’s jaw tightens. “Clara, he’s—”
“I said enough.” My voice cuts through the air like a whip and is sharp and loud enough to make them both still.
Dad sneers, mutters something about being ganged up on, and stalks out. The door slams, rattling the glass in its frame.
Silence. I swallow.
Jeremy looks at me, the fight still in his eyes. “You shouldn’t let him near this place.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” The words snap out, raw and jagged. “He’s my problem, not yours.”
His hands flex once, then still. “He’s not just your problem when he shows up here, Clara. When he walks into this factory, he becomes mine too.”
“I can handle him.”
“I don’t doubt that.” His voice softens, and somehow that hurts worse than anger. “But why should you have to?”
Because needing someone is weakness.
Because if I let you in, you’ll see how much of me still cracks when he says my name.
Because control is the only thing keeping me upright.
I don’t say any of that. I just reach for the folder on my desk, using it like armor. “Go back to your office, Weston. I’ve got work to do.”
He hesitates. His eyes search mine, looking for the part of me that’s still shaking. When he finally nods, it’s the kind of gesture that says he’ll give me space for now but not forever.
“Fine,” he says.
He walks out without another word, leaving the door wide open.
The sound of his footsteps fades down the hall, and I sink into my chair. My hands tremble, traitorous things, so I press them flat against the desk until they stop.
Below, the factory drones its song. The sound is steady, predictable, and indifferent.
I close my eyes, counting the rhythm until it steadies me.
Control. Order. Numbers.
Everything that won’t leave.
Everything that won’t betray me.
Everything that’s still mine.