More Than Sorry

16: He Stands His Ground

ZACH

Paperless office, my ass.

My desk is ground zero. My in-tray is a long-lost memory buried under shaky, white stacks of contracts and files piled high all over my desk. Not long ago, this mess would have looked like success to me. The trust of so many high-profile clients. More money to be made. But these days...

These days...

Everywhere I look, it's just... more work.

My email inbox is a sea of red follow-ups, and Tracey has plastered a hundred yellow sticky notes everywhere, reminding me to do things. Even the work I try to get rid of is creating more work.

The graduate hovers near the door to my office, the papers clutched in her hand a clue she has questions about the task I assigned her. Just as she seems to muster up the courage to knock, her hand falters, and she disappears again. Maybe she's scared to admit she doesn't have it all figured out despite graduating top of her class. Too afraid to show weakness.

Ha. As if she's the only one.

Fear thrives in this firm—one false move, and boom, career over. If you want to climb the ladder and make the sacrifices worth it, you learn pretty damn fast to bury any signs of weakness.

I blow out a frustrated sigh and lean back in my chair, throwing my pen down so hard it topples one of the mountains of paperwork. I can't concentrate. I'm nothing but weakness. Ten years of my career teeters on the brink of collapse like the shaky stacks cluttering my desk.

Funny. Everything I used to think was important suddenly means nothing.

My eyes are fuzzy, tired from never sleeping enough, and I seek out the two things on my desk that actually mean something. Framed photos of Eden proudly line the clear space under my computer monitors, and I can't stop the smile creeping on my face. That woman keeps me guessing, frustrated as hell, but she's the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

Tracey's eyebrows shot to the ceiling the first time she saw the photos. It's no secret she has serious doubts that Eden wants anything to do with me. I'm guessing my fuckup with the roses will remain legendary gossip among the Executive Assistants until the end of time. But the nervous twitch of Tracey's lips when she asked me if I understood the consequences of those photos rammed home the real reason for her surprise.

Tracey knows I've gone directly against my boss's orders by allowing any of my personal life to creep back into my work.

Even after three years, Mike's warning still bellows through my mind as clear as day. Personal lives stay at the door. If you can't prioritize the firm as a senior associate, you have no chance as a partner when the stakes are even higher.

Shame burns through me to remember being called before the boardroom of partners. Colleagues—superiors—I respected staring down their noses at me, shaking their heads with disgust, while Mike read me the riot act. Like I needed him to tell me I wasn't performing at my best. Like I didn't know I had let everyone down.

But what else could I do?

Mum's cancer sent everything off the rails. Dad needed help managing all those appointments, all the nights when she couldn't even keep down water. The chemo made her so sick. Dad needed help with all the simple things, too—cooking and taking care of himself.

And what if Mum had...

Shit.

My hand fumbles for the glass of water sitting by my computer. Even after I gulp down a few sips, the lump in my throat still feels tight, suffocating.