A glance at the workload on the mahogany desk is enough to get me spiraling in thought.
I take a sip of cold coffee to steady my mind. More clients are investing in the company—normally a good thing—but these days, the extra work is a pain in the ass. I've spent three days at the office just going through documents that have already been disclosed. I could call them furnished, but there's always a loop somewhere, and some employees are lacking.
"Boss," Mark's deep voice resonates through the room. I sit upright as the white doorknob jiggles.
He drops to his knees as soon as the door opens. His dark Indian hair is glued to his forehead in sweat.
"What's wrong?" I anxiously tap at the documents with a pen, my heart racing so fast I'm afraid it will escape my ribcage. Damn coffee.
"Your mom called… I said you were still in the office and that you had to do some work, and—" His words jumble, and he paces in circles, talking endlessly.
I clear my throat loudly, and he freezes.
"Talk slowly." My patience is thin, my head throbbing. I'm still stabbing the pen on the document, trying to keep my anger in check.
"Your mom has been calling. She said it's urgent," he says panicked, fanning his face with a thin paper he's clutching.
"Go." I massage my temples and slowly let my head fall onto the desk.
As soon as the door closes, I unlock my phone and dial her number.
She picks up on the first ring, as if she's been expecting it.
"Mom," I greet.
"Cian. Finally, you picked." Her voice is strained, aged since our last meeting.
"What's going on? Mark says you called." Muffled noises echo in the background, then footsteps. She seems to have stepped out, the slam of a door following.
"Cian, darling." When we were younger and my brother and I did something terrible, we knew we were in deep shit when Mom used this tone—a sing-song voice that almost melts your heart.
"Yes." I know better.
"You need to come home. Aria hasn't seen you for three days; she's worried."
"Aria knows that sometimes I stay overnight at the office," I say. I called her the first night to explain that I wouldn't be home, and she understood.
"You need to come home now, Cian Desmond." Her voice is so loud, I pull the phone from my ear.
"I have some work to do." I mentally count the neatly clipped documents—at least a hundred of them.
"Work can wait." Perhaps the reason Mom likes Ethan more is that he isn't swamped in responsibility.
"I can't. If the company fails, I'm going to be broke, and then we'll have nothing." My voice wavers. We both know I'm lying. Even if the company collapses, we'd be well off for the next fifty years.
"Listen to me, Cian. Since your dad took his last breath ten years ago, you've been working your ass off. And I say this as a concerned mother: come back home right now." She whisper-yells, an indication that either she has visitors or Aria is close by.
"Mom, I have to go through these papers. I have—"
"Reschedule them." She cuts me off before I can argue.
"Okay. I'll go through a few more, then I'll come back home," I say defeatedly.
"No. Come back home now. I'll be expecting you in the next few minutes." Mom's tone is final.
I try one more time. "I have to go—"
"Do you hear yourself? You're on the verge of collapsing. I don't see you, but I know you're exhausted and need sleep. I'll see you in the next few minutes. Your wife is waiting for you."
Wife?
The word echoes in my head as I drive home.
—🥀—
The second I dismiss Mark and the other employees, the word 'wife' rings like a lost song in my ear throughout the drive home.
I knock on the door once, twice.
The security by the gates stares at me hard. They do that on days I spend consecutive nights at the office.
Aria hugs me hard as soon as the door opens. She's dressed in a princess-themed pink dress.
"Welcome home, daddy." Her voice melts my stress away.
"Your dad has something important to attend to," Mom tells her.
Aria removes her tiny hands from my neck and gently places a kiss on my cheek.
"Okay, grandma." She smiles and walks upstairs, carrying the hem of her dress in both hands like the princess she is.
"Look at you." Mom rushes forward, clasping her hands on my face. "You look so tired."
She takes my suitcase. I remove my jacket and hang it on the rack.
"This way." With her hands on my back, she leads me through the ash-coated hallway to the living room at the far end.
"Here he is, the groom." I've never seen Mom this happy. Her hands are in the air, gesturing wildly.
All I can see is a lady's back, dressed in a pink shirt that pops against the dark-themed interior. Her blonde hair falls gracefully on her neck, and her scent is intoxicating—strawberry-like.
She slowly turns around. My heart races like never before; my palms are clammy.
What the hell is going on?