Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Holly
Breakfast is already in full swing by the time I make it down to the dining room. The scent of coffee—a lifeline—as all eyes turn toward me the minute I step in.
Chance sits at the table like nothing happened. Like last night didn’t end with him kissing me like I was the only thing holding him together.
My lips still tingle where his mouth claimed mine. Not a performance kiss—not with the way his fingers dug into my hip, possessive and demanding. Like he couldn't help himself.
The thought sends panic clawing up my throat. Because this isn't how it's supposed to go.
He's not supposed to kiss me like he's drowning and I'm air.
And I'm definitely not supposed to want him to do it again.
Subtle touches to absolute destruction—both working in perfect synchronization. His hot gaze searing me to the spot with a look equal parts moth to a flame and run for your life.
And now he’s not even acknowledging my presence. Nope. He’s perfectly content to act like I don’t exist. Which, great—cool—awesome. Guess we’re right back to old Holly.
He definitely doesn’t look like he’ll show up to my room again, which tracks… old Holly didn’t get those benefits either.
Goodbye to those barely-conscious moments right before I drift off—the ones where I feel his fingers weaving through my hair, toying with the strands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My eyes sting, and something I can’t let myself examine parks its eighteen-wheel ass in my throat.
Abort.
Latching onto the promise of fresh coffee like a lifeline—and bacon thick enough to mask the anxiety churning in my stomach—I head straight for the beverage station, each step an exercise in looking casual while my insides wage civil war.
The North: protect the heart at all costs.
The South: surrender the lady bits.
I’m not hiding by the coffee.
Nope.
Yes. Actually, yes I am.
My hands tremble as I reach for the carafe, my skin prickling with a sharp awareness. The kind that says his gaze isn’t just on me—it’s touching me.
Proprietary.
Intimate.
Like he’s staking a claim without ever laying a hand.
The air whooshes from my lungs. Muscle memory takes over—grab mug, pour coffee, don't think about last night, don't think about the wagon, don't think about?—
"Holly."
Chance's voice hits me low in the gut, quiet and careful as he steps up beside me. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug, betraying the tremor in my hands.
"About last night?—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, brittle around the edges.
I keep my eyes locked on the dark liquid streaming into my cup, like maybe if I stare hard enough, I can drown the memory of his lips on mine, of the raw pain and desperation in his voice when he thought I used Everett to make him jealous.
Declaring I would never do that to him again, as though this was only the beginning—not the end after a flash so hot it’s left it’s permanent mark.
"You promised to keep up your end of the deal. Think you can manage that, playboy?"
Oh God—I meant soldier boy—why did I call him that?
He's silent for a long moment—long enough that I make the mistake of glancing up. The muscle in his jaw ticks, a telltale sign he's fighting for control.
Good. Let him fight. I spent all night doing the same. Lying in my empty bed, replaying every second of that kiss, wondering how his pain could feel so much like my own.
"Fine." His voice comes out rough, scraping against my nerves. "Whatever you want, princess. "
Ooooof, that landed.
He knows I hate that word, knows exactly what it means coming from him. But before I can respond, he's already walking away, leaving me with nothing but cooling coffee and the bitter taste of regret.
I slide into my seat, pointedly avoiding Charlie's questioning look from across the table.
Our mother’s discuss some karaoke social that—no, absolutely not—they really should not attend. I’ll stay in my room thanks—because who needs that emotional damage.
At least give me a chance to mourn for a year or two, for the death of the single best kiss of my life—until Nick slid in like the damn grim reaper.
I don’t even have a cock and he’s blocking it.
At the table, Blake's already holding court, carrying on about Asian markets and tech sectors, his voice carries that practiced confidence that makes my skin crawl.
I’ve forgotten more than he’s ever known about tech markets. But, this is the shiny new toy, and he’s excited—overconfident, pompous, cocky—pick a word.
All apply.
Finally, I have to cut in, because the information he’s spouting off isn’t even from this quarter—it’s from last—and life is too short to suffer this tool.
"If you look at the fourth quarter projections, there's a clear downward trend in?—"
"Holly, dear." My father's voice slides in smoothly, carrying that note—the one that sounds warm and paternal to outsiders but lands like a pat on the head to those who know better. "Blake has a real knack for navigating the complexities of tech markets. He’s one of our greatest assets. You might pick up a thing or two if you take a step back and listen.”
Normally, I’d let it roll off my back. A lifetime of pats on the head and dismissive smiles trains you for that—absorbing condescension like a sponge and praying it doesn’t seep into your bones. At the start of the week, it was even kind of funny. Ridiculous, but distant enough not to sting.
But now? Now it’s not funny. Now it’s infuriating.
I can’t keep sitting here, expecting everyone else to change. I can’t keep waiting for my father to wake up and see me as more than the polite applause at the end of his big show.
So, what if I’m supposed to start changing first?
Maybe the first step is making daddio to take a step back.
“Yeah, he’s a real rockstar,” I say, my voice syrupy sweet.
Must be why he didn’t pick up my emphasis on fourth.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink, huh?
I beg to differ. This fucker, Blake, can’t even be led to the damn water.
I prop my chin in my hand, the absolute picture of mocking interest. “Please, don’t let me stop you. There is nothing quite as fascinating as third -quarter projections in the fourth quarter. I look forward to hearing the histories from such a savant of the markets.”
The familiar ache is still there in my chest—but smaller.
My father’s a bit smaller too.
I glance at my mother, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders. It’s almost imperceptible, yet it feels like a warning. Truth is, I don’t really know her—not the way a daughter should.
I know the woman she shows the world: the capable, social wife who caters to my father’s every need, so polished and poised you’d think she was born that way. But now, watching her study her plate as if it can solve the quiet battles she’s been fighting alone for far too long. I’m realizing there’s a whole other side to her.
Maybe there’s a part of her that’s sick of this shit too.
Something shifted last year when Nick confronted her about the way she treated Charlie. It was small at first—like the edges of her carefully tailored persona had started to fray. Now, as she tries—really tries—to mend those broken parts, new cracks are forming, letting me glimpse something raw and real beneath the surface.
I don’t know yet what that something is. But I can feel it. It’s changing her.
And it’s changing me, too, because it makes me want to know her in a way I never have before.
Maybe she feels the same, but she’s lost about where to begin.
And maybe that shared uncertainty is our common ground.
When I finally let my gaze pass over Chance, definitely not stopping to linger—armor’s in the shop and all—his expression remains carefully neutral.
But there's something in his eyes I can't read—but weighs more than my father’s condescension and Blake's barely concealed derision combined.
Everett strolls in then, hands casually tucked in his pockets, “What did I miss?”
Don’t ask—you’re the lucky one.
The men shift back into their conversations, and just like that, the sharp edges in the air dull a little. My father picks up where he left off with Blake, and even Nick and Everett fall into their usual rhythm, with Chance eventually joining in.
I push back my chair, keeping my movements casual, and reach for my cup. I’ve got a few asses to kick, they won’t kick themselves—although the picture in my head of them trying makes me laugh.
Instant relief.
I’m halfway to the sideboard when Chance’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation.
“Hey, sugar lips,” he says, his tone loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. The hum of conversation dies instantly. A low murmur of surprise ripples through the room, and all eyes swing toward me.
“What did you just say?” Turning to him, I keep my voice low, steady, as I turn to him. But heat is already rising in my chest. “What did you just say?”
Unease ripples through the air. Nick strangles his fork in his fist—brotherly instincts overruling friendship—his most scathing warning glare locked on Chance.
Charlie and Eve flank Nick with looks of fury mixed with a good dose of disgust.
I’m not alone in this. And it’s something.
“You heard me,” he says, nodding toward his plate. “You mind taking care of this for me, while you’re up?”
Blake smirks with amusement from across the table, clearly enjoying his front-row seat to this little misogyny fest. It’s exactly his speed, and he looks ready to order popcorn.
My stomach twists, the humiliation churning violently in my stomach, the coffee turning rancid.
It’s not just what he said—it’s the way he said it. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m supposed to smile and nod. Don’t make a scene. Just grab the dish.
But it’s Chance’s expression that cuts the deepest—so damn casual, like I’m nothing but a convenient afterthought.
I see my mother in my head, delivering my father’s meals. And when he walked away, leaving his dishes behind, she’d swoop in and think nothing of cleaning up after him. After all, he was the breadwinner building a legacy.
And if that’s what she wanted, what she was happy with—I have no problem with that.
But what I keep circling back to over and over is how he never thanked her. Not once do I recall him acknowledging her show of support—not one single time.
“You’re right. I am already up.”
“Appreciate it, peasant.” He drums his fingers. The picture of causal. Nowhere to be—but in no hurry to get up and do such a menial task.
I pop my head just outside the doorway where I remember seeing John working, hoping he’s still there.
“Good morning, John.” I flash him a genuine smile. He has no idea how his very presence just made my damn day. “You mind?” I gesture to the hammer handing from his belt. “I’ll bring it right back.”
“Is there something I can do?—
“Nope, will only take a minute and you’re a busy man.”
The minute I grip offered hammer, the weight just feels right in my hand—solid, real, grounding.
The rage builds in my chest, hot, sharp, and unstoppable.
Because this isn't just Chance being an ass. This isn't just him trying to keep up appearances. This is every moment I've fought against, every expectation I've tried to break free from.
And coming from him—after last night, after everything—it's worse somehow. Like he reached inside me and found exactly where to twist the knife.
"Holly." Nick's voice carries a warning, but I barely hear it.
With all the encouragement of the Don’t get mad, get even panties I chose this morning I bring the hammer back, and in one confident swing—execute the perfect arc—landing a precision hit.
Because I get shit done.
GI Fuckwit should be able to appreciate the beauty of nailing it.
Shards scatter across the polished table among a chorus of gasps—shattered expectations glinting in the morning light.
A deep scar splits the wood where the hammer struck—a lesson and cautionary tale.
Hands flat on the table, the hammer pinned under my palm—the way I was pinned under this son of a bitch last night, I lean in real close.
Just so we’re fucking clear.
"And that’s the last time you'll ask me to take care of your bowl." My voice comes out steady, calm, even as my pulse pounds in my ears.
Pushing off the table, I head straight for John. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
He rewards me with a knowing grin and a shake of his head.
Behind me, I hear Nick's voice, low and sharp: “What the hell is wrong with you?"
But I don't stop and listen for Chance’s answer.
I don't turn back. Because some lessons are worth the price of fine china, and some scars need to be visible—carved into mahogany and memory—to remind us why we can never go back.
Let them see that scar for years to come. Let them remember the day Holly McAdams decided she was done being what everyone else wanted her to be.