At Plagatoscal Blueview Hotel, the door to Jasmine's office swung open without a knock. Mr. Parker's shadow fell across the threshold first, long and dark in the amber evening light filtering through the blinds.
Jasmine's fingers froze on her keyboard. The air shifted—cooler, heavier. She rose from her chair, the leather creaking beneath her, pulse quickening in her wrists.
"Good evening, sir." Her voice came out steady, professional, though her palms had begun to sweat.
Mr. Parker didn't smile. His jaw was set, eyes sharp and assessing as they swept over her desk—the scattered files, the half-empty coffee cup gone cold, the lamp still burning though daylight hadn't fully faded. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, deliberate.
"You're still here."
Not a question. An observation weighted with disappointment.
Jasmine's throat tightened. "I wanted to finish the quarterly projections before—"
"Jasmine." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt final. "We need to talk."
Her stomach dropped. She'd heard that tone before—when he'd fired the CEO, when he'd dissolved a partnership that had lasted fifteen years. She remained standing, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles went white.
"About what?"
Mr. Parker moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders rigid. The silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Outside, the city hummed its evening song—car horns, distant laughter, the mechanical whir of the AC unit struggling against the heat.
"I've been hearing things," he said finally, still not looking at her. "About you and that new guy. Delvin."
The name landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. Jasmine's heartbeat thundered in her ears. Heat crept up her neck.
"I don't know what you've heard, but—"
"Is it true?" He turned then, and his eyes—those eyes that had built an empire, that could read a contract's fine print and a person's character with equal precision—pinned her in place. "Did you go shopping with him? Personally?"
Her mouth went dry. The office suddenly felt smaller, the walls pressing in. She could smell her father's cologne, that expensive cedar scent, mixing with the staleness of her own recycled air and anxiety.
"It was nothing. He needed—"
"Nothing?" His voice rose slightly, a crack in his composure. He moved closer, and she could see the vein pulsing at his temple. "Jasmine, you're a Parker. You're 'my' daughter. You could have sent any driver, any assistant. But you went yourself."
She lifted her chin, defiance sparking despite the fear coiling in her belly. "He's a good person. You don't even know him."
"I know enough." Mr. Parker's hand sliced through the air, cutting off her protest. "I know he's nobody. No background, no connections, no future beyond whatever scraps he can hustle together. I did my research the moment I heard rumors."
"You had him investigated?" The words came out sharper than she intended. Her fingernails dug into her pendant.
"Of course I did." He leaned against her desk, looming now, close enough that she could see the disappointed furrow between his brows. "And what I found concerns me greatly. This man is not in your league, Jasmine. Not remotely."
Her pulse hammered. The fluorescent light above them flickered once, twice, humming with electric tension.
"This isn't the nineteenth century, Father. I can choose—"
"Choose?" His laugh was bitter, hollow. "You think this is about choice? This is about wisdom. About protecting everything we've built. Do you know what people will say? What our competitors will whisper? That my daughter has gone soft. That she's consorting with the electrician."
The words stung like a slap. Jasmine's breath caught, her chest constricting. She could feel tears threatening, hot and furious behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"I thought you cared about character," she whispered. "You always said a person's worth isn't in their bank account."
Something flickered across Mr. Parker's face—regret, maybe, or pain—but it vanished as quickly as it came. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, rebuilding his armor.
"Character is important. But so is reality." His voice softened, becoming almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. "Princess, I'm trying to protect you. Men like Delvin... they see someone like you, and they see opportunity. A way up. A meal ticket."
"You don't know that." Her voice cracked. "You don't know him."
"And you do? After what—a few conversations? One shopping trip?" He shook his head slowly. "You're brilliant, Jasmine. Brilliant and accomplished. You deserve someone who matches that. Someone from a good family. Someone with prospects. Someone like Marcus Chen, or David Mwamba's son—"
"I don't want Marcus or David's son." The words erupted from her, raw and unfiltered. Her heart was racing now, adrenaline flooding her system. "And I don't need you arranging my life like a business merger."
Mr. Parker's expression hardened. The softness evaporated. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of command, the same voice he used in boardrooms when negotiations had failed and only authority remained.
"You will stay away from him. That's not a suggestion."
The air left Jasmine's lungs. She stared at her father—this man she'd admired, emulated, worked herself to exhaustion to impress—and saw a stranger.
"And if I don't?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
His silence was answer enough. It hung between them, heavy as chains. Finally, he moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He didn't look back.
"Go home, Jasmine. Get some rest. And think carefully about what matters."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Jasmine stood frozen, her body trembling. The office suddenly felt cavernous, empty. She sank into her chair, pressing her palms against her eyes, feeling the pressure of unshed tears, the ache in her chest where her heart hammered against her ribs like it might break through.
Outside her window, the sun had finally come out. Light pressed against the glass.
---
Inside Grandma Beatrice's house, the screen door banged shut. George barely made it two steps inside before her voice cut through the dim hallway like a knife.
"Where have you been?"
Grandma Beatrice emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a threadbare dish towel. The smell of overcooked cabbage and disappointment hung in the air. Her eyes—sharp, accusing—tracked George's every movement.
George kicked off his shoes, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. "Out."
"Out?" She moved closer, and he could see the network of wrinkles around her mouth deepening with disapproval. "Out with that loser Delvin, I suppose? Why do you waste your time with that poor bastard?"
The words were familiar, worn smooth by repetition. George had heard them so many times they'd stopped hurting, become instead a kind of background noise, like the hum of an old refrigerator in the corner.
"It's Delvin, Grandma. And no, technically, I wasn't with him."
A grin tugged at George's mouth despite his fatigue. Grandma Beatrice wasn't finished. She never was.
"Same person who's teaching you bad manners. Same person who made your father disown you." She jabbed her finger toward him, voice rising. "You need to wake up, George. I'm getting old. One day I'll die. Then what? Who'll take care of you? You threw away the education your father offered, the job he had waiting—and for what? Look at yourself!"
George stood there, letting the words wash over him like rain. His skin had grown thick from this. His heartbeat remained steady, calm. He'd learned long ago that fighting back only prolonged the storm.
"Where's your sister?" Grandma Beatrice demanded, switching targets. "The two of you are driving me into an early grave."
"I just came back from work," George said quietly.
She squinted at him, suspicious. "What work?"
And there it was—the opening. George felt energy surge through his tired body, a spark of triumph lighting in his chest.
"I found a job at Plagatoscal Blueview Hotel. I just finished my first shift." He paused, watching her face, savoring the moment. "And that loser you keep talking about? Delvin just got hired at ZamCorp Base One. Two days ago."
Grandma Beatrice's expression froze. Her mouth opened, closed. Color drained from her weathered cheeks.
"What?" The word came out strangled, horrified, as if George had just announced the world was ending.
And in the terrible silence that followed, George smiled.