More Than Sorry

25: He Avenges the Girls

ZACH

🚧 Content Warning 🚧
Violence and mention of suicidal ideation

"Mike's on the fuckin' warpath."

Tracey's heels click at a frantic pace behind me. She should give up. Her legs are too short, and she struggles to keep up as I charge down the corridor to my office.

"Is he."

"Yeah, boss. You missed the mediation for that boundary dispute."

"Did I."

"Jeremy has gone instead," Tracey explains as if I should care.

Autopilot gets me through the door to my office, and I kick out the chair from my desk and sit down. Tracey takes cautious steps toward me. Her head is tilted, and confusion pinches her gray brows together. Is she scared? She's acting like she's preparing for me to make some sudden movement.

"Boss... Everythin' okay?"

I lift my chin to look her squarely in the eye. "Everything's great," I say, forcing my lips to twist up in a smile. She rears back, eyes wide. Huh. Guess the smile didn't calm her fears, but that's the best I can offer right now.

"Zach... Hon—"

"Give me a minute, okay, Trace?"

"O-okay."

Tracey throws a final concerned look over her shoulder as she shuts the glass door behind her.

My gaze drifts around my office. This space was a reward when I was promoted to Senior Associate. There's a nice view of the harbor—one of the nicest on the floor. Funny how important that was to me once upon a time.

I thought my happily ever after would be when I made partner and was rewarded with the office next to Mike's—a prison with an even nicer view. I never dreamed there was another option—a different ending—where the princess climbed the tower to save the big dumb ogre.

I like that ending better.

My new fairytale brought me the best memories I have of this office. All those times Eden visited me, playing noisy games on her phone or distracting me with her endless chatter while we ate dinner. How many hours did I waste wishing I was with her instead of being chained to this desk?

My eyes fall on the framed photos of Eden under my computer monitors. I touch my fingers to my lips before I press them to the cold glass. My beautiful girl.

Emotionless, like a robot, I turn my focus back to my computer and click open a new email message. The cursor blinks in the white box. What do you say in a message like this? If I had planned this, I would have scanned the card Eden sent me all those months ago—the one with the cat that said giving zero fucks. That pretty much sums up how I feel right now.

I start typing a message to my team.

Your hard work and dedication have never been appreciated enough. It has been my pleasure to work with all of you, but I can no longer work for this firm. I'm sorry.

I click send.

I slip off my glasses, fold them closed and arrange them neatly beside my keyboard. I stand up, shrug off my suit jacket, and drape it over the back of my chair. Next, I flick off my cufflinks. There's a clunk when I drop them next to my glasses. My tie comes off. Finally, I fold up my shirt sleeves.

Twelve years of my life will end soon. How long will it take them to call the cops? I hope Mum doesn't cry. Bet Dad will be proud. I don't think he ever told Mum what happened three years ago—I hope he didn't—but he always hated that I came back to Worley & Stone.