The morning was a masterclass in survival. Pills that promised miracles. Oatmeal so bland it was basically wallpaper paste. Water consumption that would make a camel jealous.
By noon, I'd upgraded from "actively dying" to "mostly human", held together by caffeine, Advil, and spite. Just in time for the meeting I’d been dreading since the moment it was scheduled.
Dad's house looked the same as always—architecturally flawless and emotionally sterile. He greeted me at the door with his trademark cool professionalism, like I was a client instead of his only child.
"We'll talk in my study."
I followed him down the hallway, each step feeling more like a death march. His study hadn't changed since I was eight—same mahogany desk, same leather chairs, same suffocating atmosphere of disappointment.
He took his throne behind the desk. I sat across from him, instantly transported back to every childhood scolding. The chair even felt smaller.
"As you know," he began, fingers steepled like a villain in a bad movie, "Freeman Industries maintains a robust internal security department."
My brain, still operating at hangover capacity, tried to process this left turn. "Okay?"
"They run routine background checks on employees. Standard procedure. Protects the firm's interests."
Was this about Amber? Had she finally snapped and embezzled money for her wedding? Did Bryson hack something while high on Monster energy drinks?
"Recently, I ordered a specific check." His eyes locked on mine. "On you."
The room tilted. Or maybe that was just my equilibrium giving up.
"I needed to ensure everything was... in order." He opened a folder on his desk with the kind of deliberate slowness that made my skin crawl. "Imagine my surprise when they found this."
He slid a printed screenshot across the desk. My Reddit post. The one I'd drunkenly written and never deleted. The one that had started everything. The one that had gone viral in ways I'd never imagined.
"Am I a slut for wanting to fuck three of my father's business partners who are much older than me?"
There it was. Black and white. My biggest mistake and my greatest catalyst, staring back at me.
"The internet is forever, Dakota." His voice was low, calm in that unnerving way that always preceded a verbal execution.
The disappointment in it had weight—thick, oppressive, like it was pressing the air from my lungs.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
My mouth went bone-dry. My pulse skittered. Fight or flight kicked in—and for once, fight won.
"Find out what, exactly?" I asked, my voice sharp but steady.
His jaw tightened, knuckles whitening around the edge of the desk.
"Don’t play games. Did you sleep with any of the Sullivan brothers?"
There it was. The moment everything cracked wide open—my career, my already-crumbling relationship with my father, the image I’d spent years sculpting with blood and discipline.
All of it teetering on the edge of this one moment. One question.
So I made the choice for him.
"My personal life," I said, rising slowly to my feet, "is none of your fucking concern."
His face went through a color palette of rage—red, purple, back to gray. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or collapse. I’d never sworn at him.
Never raised my voice. Never done anything but chase his approval like a dog chasing a car.
"You’re my daughter. My employee. Everything you do reflects—"
"On you?" I cut in, the laugh that escaped me bitter and sharp. "God forbid I exist outside of being Bruce Freeman’s disappointing not-son."
"Dakota—"
"The project is thriving. My contributions have been instrumental in its success. The Sullivan brothers have been nothing but professional in all business matters."
I leaned on his desk, meeting his glare with one of my own.
"What I do outside of office hours is my business."
"Not when it compromises—"
"Compromises what? Your image? Your firm?" The words poured out, years of resentment finally finding voice. "You want to know the truth? Fine. If you never intended to trust me with your firm, if I was always just a placeholder until you could find someone more suitable, then give it to them."
His mouth opened. Closed. Gaping like a fish discovering air was necessary.
"Give Freeman Industries to the Sullivan brothers." I straightened, feeling lighter with each word. "They'll handle it better than you ever believed I could. At least they see me as more than a consolation prize for not having a penis."
"Dakota, you can't—"
"Watch me."
I turned and walked out. No dramatic door slam. No tears. Just the quiet click of heels on marble as I left everything I'd worked for in that suffocating study.
I didn’t look back.
By the time I hit the driveway, adrenaline had given way to something colder—calmer. The kind of calm that comes right after you blow up your life and realize... you’re still standing.
The drive home blurred. Muscle memory navigated while my brain processed what I'd just done. Career suicide? Probably. Worth it? Absolutely.
By the time I walked into my apartment, the weight of it all finally settled in—but so did something else. A strange lightness.
I sent a group text to the brothers: Won’t be on Monday. You’ll manage without me. Everything’s fine, just need rest.
Then I turned off my phone. No explanations. No apologies. No more being the version of myself others expected.
I sat in the silence of my apartment, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but full. Full of space, of breath, of possibility. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, painting soft golden patterns across the floor, like even the light was letting me exhale.
For the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t Bruce Freeman’s daughter. I wasn’t the polished, relentless overachiever trying to claw my way into approval I’d never receive. I wasn’t the Sullivan brothers’ complication, their secret, their maybe.
I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t shrinking. I wasn’t bending myself into someone else’s mold.
I was just Dakota.
Flawed. Messy. Too loud. Too soft. Too much. Not enough. All of it. And none of it for anyone but me.
And for the first time… I didn’t hate her.
Honestly? It felt fucking fantastic. Like freedom. Like coming home to myself.