Chapter 2
Skyler
Islide my key card through the reader, watching the light blink from red to green.
Thompson Architectural Group—my father’s name before mine, always.
The glass doors part with a soft whoosh, ushering me into the lobby where everything gleams in silver and blue.
Father’s colors. Father’s building. Father’s legacy that I’m expected to uphold while simultaneously never quite measuring up to it.
I check my watch: eight-fifteen. Early enough to slip into my office before Robert emerges from his morning meeting with the board.
I’ve perfected workplace avoidance over the past three years of working here.
Once I make it upstairs, my secretary, Angela, sits at her desk outside my office, already fielding calls and organizing the day’s schedule.
Her dark-rimmed glasses slip down her nose as she looks up. “Morning,” she says, passing me a steaming cup of coffee. “Henderson called. Wants to know if you’ve incorporated the changes to the east wing design.”
“Tell him they’ll be in his inbox by noon.” I take the coffee, grateful for its bitter warmth. “Any sign of the dragon this morning?”
Angela’s lips twitch. Our code for my father is hardly subtle. “Board meeting until ten. Monthly performance review with Landry at eleven. Lunch with Carmiley Group at one.”
“So I’m safe until at least two-thirty.” I exhale a breath. “If that changes—”
“I’ll text ‘incoming,’” she finishes, already turning back to her computer. “Like I do every day.”
Her tone isn’t judgmental, but matter of fact. Angela has witnessed enough tense father-son interactions to understand why I prefer email correspondence to face-to-face confrontation. She’s been my shield for two years now.
I close my office door behind me, setting my briefcase on the polished desk—standard Thompson Architectural Group issue.
Dark mahogany with silver accents. No personal touches allowed, except for a single framed photo of Harley and me at Lake Michigan last summer, her smile bright against the blue water.
I keep it angled away from the door. Father doesn’t approve of “cluttering professional spaces with sentimentality,” and I don’t want anything to catch his attention and draw him in here.
My laptop wakes with a soft chime. I scan my calendar first. I have strategically scheduled back-to-back client meetings to minimize gaps where Robert might summon me. Each day, I carefully plot his movements through the building to avoid accidental encounters in hallways or by the coffee machine.
The email notification pings.
From: Robert Thompson.
Subject: Henderson Project Revisions.
My throat tightens immediately. My pulse quickens as if I’m facing an actual threat instead of just words on a screen. I force myself to open it anyway, each click of the mouse deliberate.
Skyler,
Reviewed your preliminary designs for Henderson. Materials selected fall below Thompson standard. Attached, you’ll find appropriate alternatives that better represent our brand. Higher luxury.
Client budget restrictions are negotiable. Get with Nicholas Wible if you need help in sales.
R. T.
Short. Direct. No greeting or closing—just orders thinly disguised as suggestions. The signature lacks even the pretense of familial connection. No “Dad.” Just the initial that matches the giant T on the building’s exterior.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, composing and deleting three different responses in my head before I settle on one that won’t provoke further correspondence:
Robert,
Alternatives noted. Will discuss feasibility with client and incorporate appropriate changes within project parameters.
Regards,
Skyler Thompson
Professional. Brief. No emotion or argument.
If I push back, he’d only make my life worse, like he does with my brother, Steven.
Short and agreeable is the perfect camouflage for the simmering frustration that makes my jaw clench.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately open the Henderson designs to make the changes Father demands. Best to handle it quickly.
My phone buzzes. Mother has already called twice this morning—and this time will be no different. I let it ring until it goes to voicemail, just as I did with the previous two. Thirty seconds later, a text appears:
Skyler darling, we simply must discuss the guest list. Amanda’s parents expect an invitation, and I’ve already assured them. Call me immediately.
I type back quickly: In meetings all day. Will call when I can.
A lie, but a necessary one. Elaine Thompson’s wedding concerns will consume hours if I let them.
And those are hours I don’t have today; hours I don’t want to sacrifice to discuss people I have no interest in inviting to my wedding—especially Amanda’s parents.
Plus, I try my best to keep her out of our wedding plans… and our life.
Another ping, but this time my shoulders relax instead of tensing. Because it’s Harley.
Survived court. Small victories. Thai still on for tonight? Love you x
My face softens into a genuine smile—the first one since I kissed her goodbye this morning.
Proud of you, fighter of wrongs and protector of children. Thai definitely still on. Love you more x
The contrast isn’t lost on me. How tight my chest feels responding to my father and how naturally words flow when writing to Harley. How I’ve constructed an entire professional existence around avoiding direct contact with the man whose name hangs above my office door.
But my feelings are short-lived with a soft chime from my computer pulls me back. Angela’s instant message appears in the corner of my screen:
INCOMING. Elevator from the first floor. ETA 45 seconds.
My heart rate spikes. I grab my portfolio and phone, striding to the door with urgency. By the time I hear the elevator doors open, I’m already halfway down the hall, moving toward Conference Room E, where I know the Henderson team is preparing for tomorrow’s client meeting.
“Skyler.” My father’s voice echoes down the corridor as my hand reaches for the conference room door.
I pretend not to hear, slipping through the doorway with a quick nod to the startled design team already assembled inside. “Sorry to interrupt, just need to grab those material samples we discussed yesterday.”
Through the glass walls, I watch Robert pause, considering whether to follow me in. His silver hair catches the overhead lights as he checks his watch and continues toward his office.
Crisis averted, for now. He’ll send me another email, which I can handle.
“You don’t actually need anything, do you?” asks Liu, our head interior designer, amusement dancing in her eyes. The team has witnessed this particular maneuver before.
“Just sanctuary,” I admit, settling into an empty chair. “Mind if I work here for fifteen minutes?”
“Your building.” She shrugs, returning to her presentation boards.
But it isn’t my building; it’s his. Every inch of it.
Every decision. Every design. Even when the blueprints carry my signature, they bear his influence.
The Thompson legacy weighs heavy across my shoulders as I flip open my portfolio, pretending to review drawings until Angela officially texts the all-clear.
By noon, I’ve received two more calls from my mother and another curt email from my father.
I ducked into three different meetings where I wasn’t needed and took an unnecessarily complex route to the restroom, just to avoid the main hallway where Robert typically holds informal discussions with senior staff.
This is success in the Thompson Architectural Group: completing my actual work while simultaneously navigating the invisible minefield of family dynamics.
No direct confrontations, no uncomfortable conversations.
Only the polite fiction that we’re merely colleagues with the same last name, maintaining professional distance while designing buildings that will outlast us both.
While the café three blocks from the office isn’t anything special, with its two top tables and generic mug wall art, it’s still my special place.
There’s no Thompson name embossed on the door.
No fathers lurking around corners with opinions disguised as guidance.
It’s just me, a turkey sandwich with too much mayo, an Americano, and thirty precious minutes where I don’t have to be a Thompson.
Here, I’m just another suit on lunch break.
I claim my usual corner table—entrance-facing, with its back to the wall. It’s an old habit from years of avoiding unexpected parental appearances. Luckily, I learned early on that Father never comes in here, and Mother is much too occupied with her brunch crew.
The sandwich tastes like nothing, but I eat it anyway. My phone rests beside my coffee cup, and I swipe through it without much interest. I go through my email. News. Weather. Then, without really thinking, I open Instagram.
Then I see her.
Amanda. Standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, champagne flute raised toward the camera, hair gleaming in perfect golden waves that never seem to suffer from humidity or wind.
The photo caption reads: “Last day in Paris with the old crew to usher me home! @CarolynMichaels @LucasDavis #lawfirmperks #livingthedream”
Carolyn and Lucas were mutual friends of Amanda and me in college. We’d sent them both wedding invitations, then had to awkwardly rescind them after Amanda and I ended things. It’s been three years since I’ve spoken to either of them. Apparently, they sided with Amanda after the break.