I strode past the receptionist, flashing my ID card for what would probably be the last time, and slid through the closing elevator doors. The people in the elevator looked confused, and possibly frightened; in their defense, I was radiating rage.

Each one of them seemed to have a stop on a different floor, and with every pause, I only grew more furious, convinced of the righteousness of my mission. How dare they slow down the swift axe of justice!

At last, I was alone, and I rode the remainder of the way to the 43^rd floor. The penthouse.

Most offices have some kind of key code on the elevator to prevent random folks from wandering into the executive suites, but Swann Innovations was the only company in the building, and more importantly, nobody in their right mind would meander into Ashton’s office. His terrifying reputation loomed too large.

I’d never thought I would come face to face with the reality of that reputation, but here I was.

The doors dinged, and without so much as a steadying breath, I stalked out of the elevator, down the hall, and right up to Ashton’s office door. I rolled up my shirt sleeves, in a rather literal display of my resolve, and pushed open Ashton’s door. Distantly, I could hear his secretary—or one of them, at least—try to stop me, but I was well past the point of caring.

The doors swung back, revealing a placid Ashton, seated at a vast oak desk. He looked up from his computer, made eye contact with me, and said, “Hey there, Harley.”

His tone was as mild and noncommittal, as if he were addressing some distant relative at a wedding.

“Hey there?” I repeated incredulously. “That’s all you have to say?”

This asshole had the nerve to look confused.

I pressed on, “You cancel our trip with no warning, saying you have some kind of ‘business emergency’—” I emphasized this with air quotes, “and now all you have to say is hey there? I don’t think so.”

“I apologize for being out of touch these past few days,” he said with no discernible emotion in his tone. “But I had a death in the family.”

My flaming fury was doused by the cool water of this announcement.

“What?” I questioned. “What happened?”

Ashton remained seated, and swiveled his chair towards the window. In profile, he was the image of a haunted man—features drawn, skin pale.

In a low voice, he began, “That morning in the Bahamas. The phone call…I was informed that my father was on his deathbed.”

Despite myself, I gasped.

“Apparently, he wanted to see me before he passed,” Ashton continued. “I was more startled by this than anyone else. As you know, my relationship with my father is rocky, at best. We hadn’t spoken in years, though I’m not sure how many exactly. It was just too painful a count to maintain.

“In any case, I knew I had to do the responsible thing—I had to fly back and see him. Regardless of how poorly he had treated me, he was still my father, and the one close relation I had left. I was told that the clock was ticking, and if I didn’t hurry, I’d miss my final opportunity to speak with him.”

I breathed, “So that’s why we had to leave so fast?”

“Yes,” he affirmed.

His face morphed into a mask of grief, then, just as quickly, reverted to that of an implacable statue.

He went on, saying, “I had to fly back to San Bravado first, to make sure everything was in order at the office. After that, I was on the plane once more, racing to my family home in Texas. The flight…it might have taken ten minutes or ten hours, I couldn’t tell you. I kept willing the plane to go faster, to defy gravity and wind and weather and get me home.”

Ashton paused, took a deep breath, and lowered his head as if in prayer.

“But I didn’t make it,” he said in a hushed tone. “I landed on the tarmac, raced off the plane, and drove the SUV myself. I drove like a maniac, and arrived at the ranch fifteen minutes after landing; the drive usually takes 35. The place looked exactly the same. That was the eerie part, you know? Usually, things change, they grow old, they shift. But not the ranch.”

His frown deepened as he prepared to continue. “You can believe this next part or not, but it’s true: I knew, the second I arrived at the house, that he’d died. That I’d just missed him. Maybe it’s because the ranch was so much his that, without his presence, the entire property didn’t make sense. It was the same place, but it was no longer alive.

“I sprinted inside, and was immediately greeted by Colin, my father’s long-time assistant. And he said…he said—”

Ashton broke off, I could feel my body trembling, urging me to comfort him, but I knew I needed to hear out his story. That was the only peace I could give him right now.

He continued, “Colin informed me that my father had died an hour before. I’d missed his last breaths by a single goddamn hour. Nobody but Colin was by my father’s side when he died. Can you imagine that? This man spent his life building an empire, and that’s what he had to show for it.

“Colin handed me a picture frame, and I turned it over to find that it was an old photo of me and my dad, taken on my graduation day. Apparently, it had been on my father’s bedside table for a few weeks before then, and in his final moments, my father requested that it be given to me when he was gone.”

“I was surprised, to put it mildly, that my father would want that to be his last memory of me. I had been graduating summa cum laude, but all he could focus on was the fact that I hadn’t yet secured myself a job. We had a terrible argument about it; even though it came as no surprise that that’s what he cared about, still—it stung. I wanted to play it off like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t need his approval but…I did. I always have.

“He made what should have been a wonderful moment into a terrible memory. He had a habit of doing that, frankly. Clouds followed him. But I guess it doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead. My father was a stickler for the truth, though, and the truth was that he was a complicated man. Fiery, brilliant, and hard-working to a fault. He didn’t live well, but he lived hard, something akin to the American dream.”

Ashton trailed off, lost in his thoughts, in his memories. I stared ahead, helpless. No more words came readily to my lips; I had to wait for him to move the train forward.

Seeming to realize the onus was on him, Ashton pushed back his hair and straightened his tie, appearing to brush away the pain with it.

“Anyway,” he said, more lightly than I believe he could have possibly meant, “I apologize for being out of touch this week. I’ve had…a hard go of it. I’ve been berating myself for missing out on the final moments, the possible reconciliation, with my father. These past few days have shown me sides of myself I almost wish I hadn’t found.

“And his final gift, the picture. What was that about? Was it a last, cruel reminder of the pain I inflicted upon him during his lifetime, the endless disappointment I was? Or was it meant to be an olive branch, a token of goodwill? I don’t know. I’ve been up for days on end, and I still can’t crack the code. No surprise, though; he was never the most forthcoming man.

“I got my lawyers to go over his will. Not out of any financial motivation, obviously, but because I thought it might contain some kind of explanation, or special note. But no. That was too high of a hope. It was just a plain old-fashioned will: it divided up his remaining, and considerable, assets. Nothing emotional, or fussy.

“And the will, in a way, was the most accurate recount of his life. Straightforward, material-oriented, and painfully professional. I read it looking to find a man that he wasn’t, and it was a hard but necessary reminder that people don’t change just because you want them to; that to keep expecting a shift is like waiting for oil on a barren plain—taxing, and ultimately worthless.”

His words were broken off by a strangled sob, which he quickly tamped down, so fast I wondered if I’d heard it.

Those blazing brown eyes looked up from their fixed position on the floor, and gazed into mine, searching for a reaction.

“Well?” he asked finally. “What do you have to say?”

Wait, what? Was he looking for some kind of apology?

Unsure, I replied, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I saw his mouth snap into a hard line, as if it were a crack in the sidewalk.

“That’s it?” he questioned. “You don’t want to, I don’t know, say you’re sorry for berating me while I’m grieving the loss of my father? For accusing me of abandoning you? For jumping to the worst conclusions about me, in spite of how well you know me?”

I was most definitely not going to take that lying down.

I fired back, “Did you ever think that maybe you’re not the only one having a hard week, Ashton? That, maybe, other people have shit going on, too? No, don’t bother. I know it didn’t cross your mind.

“Wanna know why I came here today? It’s because I’ve been kicked out of my apartment. And they moved my eviction date up, illegally, so I have less than 24 hours to clear out. There’s no affordable housing left in San Bravado, so I’m moving, to Oxnard. Not because it’s some kind of cultural haven, but because that’s the only place I can afford to live. Not that I even have my own place set yet; I have to live with my cousin, on her couch.

“On a couch! I’m 25, with a child, and I’m sleeping on a relative’s couch. I guess I’ll be able to find a job there, but who knows? Maybe, maybe not.”

I punctuated my sentence with an exaggerated huff, which felt childish even as I was doing it. But who cared? He was being equally childish. A grown man wouldn’t try to make everything about him all the time, especially not when said grown man had behaved very poorly, not even a week ago.

Ashton’s mouth had fallen open, as if shock had a literal weight.

“You’re…leaving?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth. “Leaving the company?” The rest of the sentence—“leaving me?”—hung unasked.

“You heard,” I replied sharply, my words like daggers. I could see that they cut him, but I didn’t care; I wanted Ashton Swann to feel a fraction of the pain that he’d inflicted upon me.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You can’t leave.”

I gasped, “What?”

“You can’t leave. Please, I’m…I’m asking you to stay.”

“You don’t get to ask for anything from me, you entitled asshole.” I was on a roll now. “And how could I have possibly told you, when you spent the entire week ignoring my calls? That’s—”

He interrupted, shouting, “My father died. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“And I’m really, genuinely sorry about that. I just don’t understand why, when the going got tough, you bowed out. That’s what couples do, don’t you get it? They lean on one another when they need support.”

“Who said we were a couple?” Ashton bit back.

I could feel tears beginning to spring into my eyes, but I held them back, not wanting to be vulnerable in front of a man who had just proved all of his detractors right; I’d been the fool all along.

“You’re right. We’re not a couple. Because I can’t trust you. I need a man who will be there for me and my son, not one who’s half in, half out. And, you know what else? I need a man who will show his emotions to the world, not just the woman he’s dating. You’re so riddled with this toxic, bullshit masculinity that people think you’re an asshole. It’s not their fault for not digging deeper, getting under the surface—it’s yours, Ashton. Your reputation is the one you deserve.”

I broke off, panting. The air had been drained from my lungs. The room was painfully silent as I waited for him to beg my forgiveness. That’s what came next, right?

Apparently not. Ashton’s face was devoid of emotion, his cheekbones seemingly made of marble, his brow set in stone. I realized, then, that I was arguing with a statue, someone who could hide their feelings whenever they chose. How could we ever be equal in this, when I so stubbornly wore my heart on my sleeve? It wasn’t fair.

He responded coolly, “Perhaps you’re right.”

“What?” I sputtered. That wasn’t where I’d seen this going.

He seemed almost pleased by my confusion, and I resented him for that cockiness, a confidence that only comes from having won the game. But this wasn’t a game; it was my life.

“Maybe I can’t be the man you and your son need,” he continued, hammering one nail after another into the coffin. “I refuse to playact at being someone I’m not. I can’t change myself to suit your demands.”

“You can’t mean that,” I said in disbelief. “I know this isn’t the real you.”

“Sure it is, whether or not you like it. This is pure Ashton Swann, no play-acting, no pretense. Not pretty, is it? But you wanted to see me, so here I am.”

He stood up from his desk, towering over it. I saw a mythical figure; he was no longer a man I’d liked—possibly loved, even—he was a monster carved in a semblance of a person. The dramatic cut of his jaw, the stiffness of his torso. It all seemed unreal, as though painted by a troubled artist.

“I hope it works out for you,” he finished coolly.

The world stopped spinning. Or was it spinning faster? Either way, I was dizzy. Where was the kind, caring man I’d seen at our first dinner, or throughout (almost) the entirety of the vacation? Had I imagined him? Had I so desperately wanted to like Ashton that I’d crafted him into something he wasn’t? I realized, then, that everything he’d warned me about was true. Perhaps I was, indeed, the one who’d been in the dark all along. The thought was a punch to the gut.

I needed to leave, to get out, before I could make things worse, before Ashton could hurt me more than he already had.

“Goodbye,” I said quietly. Then, louder, “And fuck you.”

With that, I turned and stormed out the door, my heels echoing on the hardwood floor, tears clouding my eyes as I yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind me. Striding away, I thought I heard the muffled sound of shattering glass, but I didn’t care.

Let it break, I thought. Let everything break.