sixty days

I covered my face with both hands, groaning. "Fine. Yes. He was big. Yes, he knew exactly what he was doing. And yes, it was the best sex I've ever had. Are you happy now?"

Phoebe squealed. "Does Adrian know about this?. But this is incredible. You hate him. He hates you. And you had mind-blowing, earth shattering, can't-walk-the-next-day sex. This is literally a romance novel."

"Except in romance novels, the guy doesn't show up the next day to gloat about it. And no Adrian doesn't know about this, why the hell would I tell him. Oh I should just call and say hey Adrian, I cheated?!."

"Yeah maybe and don't beat yourself about it he was literally absent and you were lonely." she said, still giggling. "But honestly? This is the most interesting thing that's happened to you in months. You've been so stressed, so sad. At least for one night, you forgot everything."

I was quiet. She wasn't wrong.

"And," she continued, "you have to admit, it's kind of hot. The whole enemies-to-lovers thing. The tension. The hate sex.."

"We didn't have hate sex," I cut in. "It was drunk sex. There's a difference."

"Is there, though?" She was teasing again. "Because from what you're telling me, it sounds like there was a lot of passion. A lot of... chemistry."

I didn't answer. Because she was right. There had been chemistry. So much chemistry it scared me.

"Okay, okay," Phoebe said, her tone softening. "I'll stop teasing. But seriously, Alina? How do you feel about it? About him?"

I thought about Damien's cold eyes. The way he'd looked at me in my office like I was a problem he'd finally figured out how to solve. The way his proposal had felt less like an offer and more like a threat.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I hate him. I've always hated him. But when he kissed me... when he touched me... it was like nothing else mattered. Like I forgot who he was. And that terrifies me."

Phoebe was quiet for a moment. Then she said, gently, "Maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe you needed to feel something other than fear and exhaustion. Maybe, for one night, you let yourself be human."

I swallowed hard. "Maybe."

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll be careful. Damien Black isn't just some guy. He's dangerous. And I don't want to see you get hurt."

I smiled weakly. "I promise."

"Good." Her voice brightened. "Now, enough about your forbidden romance. Tell me everything about the sex. I need details. Position? Duration? Did he?..."

"Phoebe!"

"What? I'm invested now!"

I laughed despite myself. "You're impossible."

"And you love me for it. Now spill."

I didn't say anything but I smiled. For the first time in days, I smiled.

Then, her tone softened. “How’s your dad?”

My heart tightened, but I forced my voice steady. “He’s… he’s getting better.”

“Really?”

I hesitated, gripping the edge of the pillow. “Yeah. Slowly.”

She was silent for a moment, and I could feel her reading between my words. But she didn’t push, and for that, I was grateful.

I thought about telling her about Damien and his insane proposal. But I knew Phoebe. She’d throw a tantrum, tell me to run for the hills, maybe even show up at his office with a bat. And I wasn’t ready for that storm.

“ I wish you were here with me, Phebs.”

“Yeah I know but mum got a bigger opportunity and we had to relocate, I'm so sorry. I also wanna be there with you, i miss you so much.” She said in a comforting voice.

There was a brief silence between us then in the background, a woman’s voice called, “Phoebe! dinner’s ready!”

“That’s Mom,” she groaned. “I’ve gotta go before she drags me by the ear. But we’ll talk tomorrow, okay? And Alina?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let anyone dull you. You’re stronger than you think.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Goodnight, Pheebs. Love you.”

"Yeah, duuhh. Love you too muahhh."

I hung up and went to bed.

****

The next morning, sunlight did nothing to ease the heaviness in my chest. My phone buzzed. Ivy.

We lost another client.

I read the text once. Twice. And then the tears came. Hot, silent, bitter. I buried my face in my hands, shoulders shaking until there was nothing left in me.

Still, I forced myself to shower. Wear Clothes. Makeup to hide the puffiness and I headed to the hospital.

I sat by my father’s bedside, gripping his limp hand. “Dad… I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. The company’s crumbling. I’m crumbling. It's getting too much for me. I feel like I'll soon collapse.But I can’t stop. I won’t. Not until you wake up and tell me what to do.” My voice cracked. “I miss you.”

I stayed longer than usual, whispering every fear into the silence of that sterile room.

***

By the time I reached the office, I was worked out.

Ivy told me that the board had already called a meeting. “They're not here for a meeting. They're here for you.” She said as she gave me a folder for our weekly revenue.

I stood there for a moment, the folder pressed against my chest, watching her retreat to her desk. The hallway stretched before me, seventy feet of beige carpet and closed doors, ending at the conference room.

I looked down at the folder. My name. Not my father's. They'd printed a new label. That stung more than it should have.

I started walking. Slowly at first, then with purpose. Each step felt heavier than the last. I passed the empty cubicles, the darkened offices, the framed photos of company milestones,all of them featuring my father's face, his handshake, his smile. I wasn't in any of those photos. I'd been in the background, learning, waiting. Now the foreground was mine, and it was on fire.

My mind raced through possibilities. They could vote me out. They could install an interim CEO. They could demand I step aside until my father recovered..if he recovered. Harris, the chairman, had never liked me. He'd called me "the girl" for years, even after I'd earned my MBA. He'd watched me fumble through quarterly reports while my father gently corrected me. He'd been waiting for this moment.

I reached the door. The murmuring stopped. Silence on the other side,the kind that knows you're there.

I pressed my palm flat against the glass. For a second, I imagined my father's hand over mine, guiding me, the way he used to when I was a child learning to write my name. But the ghost of that touch faded. I was alone.

I pushed the door open.

The room smelled like stale coffee and cologne. The long mahogany table gleamed under low lighting. Seven men sat around it. Harris at the head, the rest flanking him like soldiers. No one stood. No one smiled. Their folders were open, their pens poised. They'd been rehearsing this.

"Good morning," I said. My voice was steady, but I felt my pulse in my throat.

Harris didn't return the greeting. He gestured to an empty chair at the opposite end far from him, isolated. "Sit down," he said. "We've been going over the numbers. They're worse than you told us."

I sat. I placed my folder on the table and opened it, even though I already knew what it said. "The Barclay loss was unexpected. I have a recovery plan"

"Your recovery plan," Harris cut in, "involves cutting our marketing budget and renegotiating vendor contracts. That's not a plan. That's a bandage on a hemorrhage." He leaned forward. "Your father would never have let Barclay walk. He would have been on a plane to their headquarters the same day. You didn't even call their CEO."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. "I sent a written proposal."

"A proposal." Harris laughed, but it was dry and cruel. "They've known us for twenty years. They expect a phone call. A face. A relationship. You gave them paper."

Around the table, the other six shifted in their seats. One of them,a gray-haired man named Davies who'd always been kind to m e,looked down at his notes. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

I gripped the edge of the table. My father's voice echoed in my head: Never let them see you bleed.

"I'm aware of what my father would have done," I said, carefully. "But my father is in a coma. He's not coming back tomorrow. He may not come back at all." The words tasted like ash. I forced myself to continue. "So the question isn't whether I'm him. The question is whether you're willing to let this company die while you wait for a ghost."

Harris's jaw tightened. "Bold words for someone who lost our anchor client in her first week alone."

I stood up. Not aggressively, just enough to shift the balance. I walked to the whiteboard behind me and picked up a marker. "You want a plan? Here's the plan." I started writing numbers, timelines, contingency clauses. I didn't pause. I didn't second-guess. I drew a flowchart of acquisitions we could pursue, partnerships we'd ignored, a new market segment my father had always dismissed as too risky.

I spoke while I wrote. "I've already contacted three mid-size firms that complement our portfolio. Two are interested. I've got a meeting with their principals tomorrow. Barclay took their annual spend -two million. But if we pivot to these smaller accounts, we can diversify. We won't put all our eggs in one basket again."

I turned back to face them. The marker squeaked in my hand. "That's the difference between my father and me. He built this company on loyalty and handshakes. I'm building it on agility and data. Both work. But only one works when the man at the top is gone."

Silence. Davies looked up, something like hope flickering in his eyes. Harris stared at the whiteboard, reading my scrawl. The other board members exchanged glances.

Harris finally spoke. "You've been busy."

"I've been working," I said. "While you were planning this ambush, I was saving your investments."

He leaned back. He studied me like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet. Then he said, "We'll give you sixty days. Prove this works. Or we find someone who can."

Sixty days. It wasn't a vote of confidence. It was a leash.

I nodded once. "Sixty days." I capped the marker and returned to my chair. I didn't sit. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have calls to make.”

I gathered my folder. I walked to the door. My hand was on the handle when Harris's voice stopped me.

"Your father," he said, softer now. "How is he?"

I didn't turn around. "He's still fighting," I said. "Like I am."

I walked out. The door clicked shut behind me. My secretary looked up from her desk, eyes wide. I gave her a small, tight nod. Then I walked to my office, closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a breath I'd been holding.

Sixty days.

I looked at my phone. A missed call from the hospital. My heart stopped. I called back, my hands shaking.

The nurse said, "Your father's vitals improved slightly. He squeezed the nurse's hand this morning."

I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor. I pressed the phone to my ear and I cried quietly, silently, with my free hand covering my mouth.

He squeezed a hand.

He was still in there.

And I had sixty days to make sure there was a company for him to come back to. I was so exhausted, cramped all over. I couldn’t stay any longer. I told Ivy I was taking the rest of the day off and drove home, drained to my bones.

As I got home waiting on my doorstep was an envelope thick, heavy.

My name written across it in bold ink.

I froze.