My father's study smelled like disappointment and leather-bound books, which was basically his brand at this point.
The door clicked shut behind me with the finality of a coffin lid, and there he sat—Bruce Freeman, architect of buildings and destroyer of daughters' self-esteem, positioned behind his massive desk like a judge about to sentence me for the crime of having a personality.
"Dakota," he started, and I already knew this conversation would require alcohol to process later. "I'm concerned about your behavior at dinner with the Sullivan brothers. It wasn't strictly professional. You were... flirtatious."
The word landed like a slap from a velvet glove.
Flirtatious.
Because apparently laughing at Stephen's genuinely funny story about a construction disaster constituted foreplay in Bruce Freeman's world of emotional constipation.
"Flirtatious," I repeated, tasting the accusation. "Dad, I wore a blazer that could double as body armor and spent half the dinner explaining load-bearing calculations. If that counts as flirting, then structural engineering conferences must be orgies."
His face did that thing where it couldn't decide between disappointment and disgust.
"This isn't a joke, Dakota. The future of Freeman Industries depends on how you present yourself. I wouldn't want a merger with Sullivan Stone, but right now, it's all in your hands. Your behavior determines whether we maintain independence or become another acquisition."
The weight of that landed on my shoulders like a concrete slab.
I'd been killing myself for this project. Eighteen-hour days, triple-checking every calculation, turning myself into a walking encyclopedia of building codes.
But sure, let's focus on how I accidentally smiled too much at dinner.
"I'm doing everything I can," I said, hating how my voice cracked slightly. "Maybe having a genuine connection with our business partners isn't unprofessional. Maybe it's actually helping the project."
"Genuine connection?" He leaned back, studying me like I was a disappointing blueprint. "They're not your friends, Dakota. They're potential threats. Every smile, every laugh, every moment of warmth—they see it as weakness to exploit."
"That's a really healthy way to do business, Dad. No wonder Freeman Industries has been hemorrhaging clients."
The words escaped before I could stop them, three years of frustration crystallizing into one perfect fuck-you.
His face went granite. "Watch yourself. You're walking a very thin line."
"I've been walking that line my whole life. Nothing I do is ever professional enough, serious enough, son-like enough for you." I stood, done with this tribunal. "I'll handle the Sullivan brothers my way. At least my way involves actual human connection instead of treating everyone like potential enemies."
I didn’t wait for a response.
I turned on my heel and left his office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me like a judge’s gavel.
Coming back to my apartment felt like a marathon through molasses. His words echoed in my mind: flirtatious, unprofessional, merger, acquisition.
By the time I reached my door, something inside me had shifted from hurt to fury.
I'd been policing myself into exhaustion.
Canceling impromptu calls with Stephen because they felt too friendly.
Sitting silent in meetings when I had ideas because speaking up might seem too eager.
Maintaining careful distance from all three brothers like they were radioactive instead of brilliant architects who actually valued my input.
And for what? So my father could still find fault? So he could reduce months of brutal work to one dinner where I'd committed the cardinal sin of being human?
Fuck. That.
By Monday, I was a different person. Not reckless, not inappropriate—just fully present.
When Stephen cracked a joke at the morning meeting, I laughed immediately, without overthinking it.
When Titus asked for help with a tricky calculation, I leaned right in instead of staying behind a "professional" distance.
When Raphael complimented my fix for the HVAC issue, I simply said “thanks” instead of brushing it off.
The shift was small but powerful. Our workflow fell into a rhythm—Stephen’s ideas feeding into Titus’s precision, guided by my structural insights and Raphael’s big-picture thinking.
We weren’t just working together; we were building something none of us could have done alone.
Tuesday brought a client crisis that kept us grinding until 2 AM, fueled by coffee and Stephen’s never-ending architecture puns.
Wednesday saw a supplier mix-up solved by Titus’s math magic, while I stress‑ate a whole bag of pretzels.
By Thursday, we’d pulled off three miracles and one near‑miss and admittedly paid the price.
"You look like death," Stephen informed me during our afternoon meeting, helpful as always.
"Thanks, that's the aesthetic I was going for. Exhausted chic is very in this season." I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus on the blueprints that were starting to blur together.
Across the table, Titus had developed a concerning eye twitch, and even Raphael's usually perfect posture had degraded into what could generously be called a slouch.
We were running on fumes, professionalism, and spite.
"Alright, that's enough," Raphael said suddenly, closing his laptop with decisive finality. "We've been pushing too hard. Everyone's making mistakes from exhaustion."
"I don't make mistakes," Titus mumbled, then immediately knocked over his coffee.
The look of betrayal he gave the cup was almost worth the cleanup.
"As I was saying," Raphael continued, "we need a break. Tomorrow night, dinner. All four of us. Somewhere that doesn't serve coffee or have blueprints."
My first instinct was refusal.
Dinner felt dangerous, too close to that line my father had drawn.
Too close to admitting that despite my steel-reinforced professional boundaries, I was still completely gone for all three of them.
The dreams didn't help—those steamy and ridiculous fantasies that left me waking up flushed and pissed off at my own subconscious.
Raphael's hands in my hair, Stephen's voice whispering against my neck, Titus pinning me against a wall. My brain was basically a one-woman HBO series, and I was the star of every episode.
Professional ghost, my ass. More like professionally fucked.
But then I looked around the table at these three men who'd become integral to my daily existence, who pushed me to be better without making me feel lesser, who saw me as Dakota the architect instead of Dakota the not-son.
Even while my traitorous body was cataloguing the way Stephen's shirt stretched across his shoulders, how Titus's fingers drummed against his coffee cup, the barely-there smile playing at Raphael's mouth.
"I don't know if that's appropriate.." I started, the words tasting like ash.
"Appropriate?" Stephen laughed, but not unkindly. "Dakota, we've seen each other at our worst. I've watched you eat lunch standing over a trash can because you couldn't spare five minutes to sit. Titus has your coffee order memorized better than his own birthday. Raphael actually smiled at your joke yesterday—which might be a sign of the apocalypse. We're past appropriate."
He was right. We'd crossed from colleagues to something harder to define weeks ago.
Fighting it was just another form of self-sabotage.
"Fine," I said, feeling something loosen in my chest. "But somewhere with good wine. If I'm blurring professional boundaries, I'm doing it with quality alcohol."
Raphael's smile was small but genuine. "I know just the place. Eight o'clock tomorrow. Don't overthink it, Dakota. Just show up."
Just show up. Like it was that simple.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe I'd been overthinking everything for so long that I'd forgotten how to just exist. Tomorrow night would either be a breakthrough or a disaster.
Either way, I was done playing it safe.