Page 113 of The Pucking Date
Wai Po rests her palm against my lower belly. Her gaze narrows. “The father,” she murmurs. “Where is he?”
My throat tightens. “Not…here.”
She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t frown. Just breathes.
“His energy clings to yours,” she declares. “It’s pulled thin, stretched like thread caught between teeth. He’s trying to let go. But he can’t.”
My pulse stutters.
“He chased you until his feet bled,” she continues, her voice low. “Now his heart is cracked open. He bleeds because he loved without return. He thinks you don’t want him.” I blink fast, breathing shakily. “But your spirits are meant to walk together,” Wai Po says. “That’s why the ache doesn’t fade. Why the silence roars.”
She glances toward the altar, fingers still resting on my pulse. “These children? They’re no accident. They’re here with purpose. Just like you were.” My breath catches. “You think you were unplanned,” she continues, words quieter now, but unwavering. “But you were always meant to come. And so are they.”
She tilts her head, her expression knowing and prickling my skin. “This is your path. Not clean, not easy. But yours towalk. Go to him. He’s waiting for you to mend him, whether he knows it or not.”
Mom stays quiet, hands clasped. Sophie swears under her breath and pivots for her ginger tea.
Wai Po pats my shoulder. “Now drink this,” she says, handing me a steaming bowl of something that smells like hope mixed with centuries of questionable life choices. “And then we’ll fix your spleen. It’s been shouting all morning.”
Sophie blinks. “Is that a metaphor?”
“No,” Wai Po says. “Your sister’s spleen is complaining.” She lifts her gaze to me. “Then we fix your qi. Clear what we can. But the rest?” She gestures toward the door. “That path only opens when you start walking it.”
28
THE BREAKING POINT
JESSICA
Rothschild’s office smells like a mausoleum for the living—leather, mahogany, and the stale air of decisions made in 1962 and never questioned since.
“Jessica.” His plastic smile clicks into place. “Please, sit.”
“It’s about Chad Vanderbilt.” I get straight to the point as I settle in the chair designed to make visitors feel small, each word precise as a scalpel. My spine is straight, legs crossed at the ankle, tone steady. “I have serious concerns regarding his recent interactions with our sponsorships, specifically the Under Armour deal involving Finn O’Reilly.”
His eyebrows arch slightly, interest sparked. “I’m listening.”
Behind him, the Stanley Cup gleams on its pedestal, the team’s triumph turned into his office decor.
I fold my hands in my lap. My nails bite into my palms, but my smile never wavers. “Vanderbilt’s firm has historically managed our financial and sponsor relationships effectively. However, I’ve uncovered that Chad Vanderbiltdeliberately diverted Under Armour’s interest away from Finn O’Reilly based purely on a personal vendetta. His actions weren’t strategic or data-driven, and they directly damaged the Defenders’ bottom line.”
He shifts subtly, settling back into his chair.
“His actions were personal, vindictive, and nearly cost the Defenders a seven-figure sponsorship. More importantly, they put our reputation at risk. Because when a deal collapses without explanation, it doesn’t just disappear, it lingers. And it reflects badly on the entire brand.”
I press forward firmly, unwilling to lose momentum.
“This interference could have seriously harmed the Defenders. Given these circumstances, I strongly advise engaging another financial and sponsorship management firm going forward. He has crossed professional boundaries, and the risk he poses to our team’s reputation is unacceptable.”
Rothschild’s fingers steeple under his chin. Gray eyebrows don’t even twitch. His Patek Philippe ticks between us, counting money while I count reasons not to scream.
React, you fossil. Pretend you care about something besides your portfolio.
“I verified with the outlet that the information for the article was provided by Chad Vanderbilt,” I slide my tablet across his pristine desk. “Under Armour confirmed they nearly pulled out based solely on that hit piece.”
He glances at the screen, disinterested. Like he’s checking the weather app.
My heel digs into the Persian rug.
