Adison’s POV
The voices reach me before I round the corner to Zachary's office.
"—completely irresponsible—"
"—treating me like I'm twelve—"
"—forwarded confidential information to the entire department—"
"—made me redo a simple task five times because the font looked aggressive—"
I stop in the doorway, and the argument freezes mid-accusation. They're standing on opposite sides of Zachary's desk like boxers in their respective corners, both flushed with righteous indignation.
"Don't stop on my account." I lean against the doorframe, fighting the smile threatening to crack my composure. "This sounds fascinating."
Zachary straightens his tie with sharp, controlled movements. "Adison. Your roommate—"
"Your assistant," Violet cuts in, her voice tight with defensive sarcasm, "decided that Comic Sans is a violent threat to corporate communications."
"I said the font looked unprofessional." Zachary's jaw tightens. "There's a difference between aggressive and completely inappropriate for a senior executive memo."
"It was an internal memo about office supply ordering." Violet crosses her arms. "I hardly think font choice matters when we're discussing printer paper."
"Everything matters." He turns to me, his professional composure cracking at the edges. "She also responded to Anthony Bauer's email inquiry with 'sounds good, my dude.'"
I press my lips together. Hard.
"He asked if I could send him last quarter's numbers." Violet's voice rises defensively. "I said yes. In friendly language."
"Anthony Bauer is a senior managing director." Zachary enunciates each word with painful precision. "You don't call senior managing directors 'my dude.'"
"Maybe senior managing directors need to lighten up."
The silence that follows feels combustible. I watch them glare at each other across the desk, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite the chaos they're describing.
"Sounds like a wonderful beginning." The words escape before I can stop them.
They both turn to stare at me. Unified in their confusion for the first time today.
"Wonderful?" Zachary's voice carries disbelief bordering on betrayal. "She forwarded confidential acquisition details to forty-seven people."
"It was an accident." Violet's defense comes out smaller now. Almost genuine. "I hit 'reply all' instead of 'reply.' Anyone could have made that mistake."
"Anyone who wasn't paying attention." Zachary doesn't soften the assessment. "Which is exactly my point."
I push off the doorframe, straightening my blazer with deliberate calm. "Well, you two clearly have this handled."
"Handled?" They say it simultaneously, voices overlapping in perfect horrified harmony.
"I'm leaving for the day." I reach for my bag, already moving toward the door. "Jake arrived an hour ago, and I miss him badly."
Zachary's expression shifts from frustration to strategic concern. "We still need to finalize the press release strategy—"
"Not now." I cut him off gently but firmly. "Tonight, I'm going home to the man I love. You'll survive without me for twelve hours."
"Adison—"
"Zachary." I turn to face him directly, letting authority bleed into my voice. "Make sure Violet gets back to my penthouse safely. She has a key, but I'd feel better knowing you confirmed she arrived."
The request lands exactly as I intend. His posture shifts from argument to reluctant acceptance.
"I'm not a babysitter." The protest comes out automatically. Defensive.
Violet straightens, offense radiating from every line of her body. "And I'm not a child who needs escorting. I can summon my own taxi."
I laugh—genuine, surprised, delighted by their unified indignation. "You're a perfect team."
"We're not—" Zachary starts.
"Absolutely not—" Violet overlaps.
But I'm already gone, escaping into the hallway before either can marshal a proper argument. Their voices fade behind me, still protesting in synchronized frustration, and the smile I've been suppressing breaks across my face fully.
They'll figure it out. Or they'll kill each other. Either way, they'll do it together.
The elevator deposits me into the lobby, and I'm halfway to the revolving doors when my phone buzzes. Victoria's name glows on the screen, and my stomach tightens instinctively.
I press the phone to my ear. "Victoria."
"Adison." Her voice carries something I've never heard before—worry threaded with genuine fear. "I need to know if you've spoken with Violet."
I step out onto the sidewalk, letting the city noise wash over me while I calculate how much truth to offer. "I have."
"She disappeared." The words tumble out faster than Victoria's usual measured composure allows. "She won't answer her phone. She didn't come home last night, and I—" She stops. Breathes. "I'm concerned."
"She's staying with me." I deliver the information without softening it. "At my penthouse. She's safe."
The silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the call dropped.
"I see." Victoria's voice hardens back into something familiar. "And you didn't think to inform me that my daughter was—"
"Your daughter is nineteen years old." I cut through the building accusation. "Old enough to choose where she stays. Old enough to decide which relationships are worth maintaining."
"Adison—"
"You treated her exactly the way my father treated me." The truth escapes sharper than I intend, but I don't soften it. "Cold assessments. Impossible standards. Constant reminders that she'd never measure up to the child you actually valued."
Victoria's breath catches. "That's not—"
"It is." I keep walking, my heels clicking against concrete in rhythm with my rising conviction. "And your son has become something dangerous. Something that threatens everything we've all built."
The conversation shifts—sharpens into something with edges that cut both ways.
"Walter is complicated." Victoria's defense carries no real conviction. "But he's not—"
"He's exactly what you helped create." The accusation lands deliberate and precise. "And now he's weaponizing secrets you should have buried decades ago."
Silence. Heavy and damning.
Then Victoria's voice comes through smaller than before. Almost human. "Take care of her."
The request catches me off-guard. Genuine. Desperate in ways I didn't think Victoria Snyder was capable of showing.
"Please." She continues when I don't respond immediately. "Whatever you think of me—whatever I've done—just take care of my daughter."
Something in my chest softens despite everything. Despite the manipulation. Despite the secrets. Despite all of it.
"I will." The promise leaves my mouth certain and absolute. "I already am."
I end the call before she can say anything else. Before the moment can complicate itself further.
My fingers move across the screen, typing quickly: Almost home.
Jake's response arrives instantly: Waiting for you.
The anticipation hits me like a physical thing—warmth flooding through my chest, drowning out Walter's threats and Victoria's confessions and every complicated piece of Manhattan warfare I've been navigating alone.
Almost home. Almost to Jake. Almost to the moment where everything else fades and it's just us, finally in the same city, finally together.
The rest can wait until tomorrow. Tonight belongs to us.