Page 121 of Fixing to Be Mine

I turn toward the stairway as she steps back into view, phone still in hand. She looks executive, like someone who knows how to walk through fires.

When she notices me watching, she lowers the phone to her side.

“I have a meeting with my father tomorrow,” she says.

There’s a beat before I respond because I’m still catching up to the pace of her world.

“Great. Can’t wait to meet him,” I say.

Stormy walks past me toward the kitchen without missing a beat. She opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and takes a long drink before answering. “It won’t be a happy get-together. I’m quitting,” she says, setting the cap back on.

I tilt my head at her.

“I was groomed to take over the family business since I was old enough to speak. I’m the best at what I do, but it was never my dream. I was never given a choice.”

She’s not unraveling. She’s organizing. Planning her next move with the kind of focus that comes from knowing exactly what she wants in life.

“What is your dream?” I ask.

She pauses, bottle still in her hand. Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s no scripted answer behind them, only a flicker of something unfinished.

“I don’t know,” she says and pauses. “But I know what’s not. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life spinning lies and truths into something marketable. I no longer want to protect men like Donovan because they cut the biggest checks. And it sure as hell isn’t pretending I’m proud of being a part of a family that never felt like one.”

I move to her, wrapping my arms around her. “I support any decision you make.”

She holds me tight. “I used to think power was having a seat at the table. The real power is knowing when to walk away.”

I let that sit between us for a second because there’s something sacred in how she said it. Something that sounds a lot like freedom.

“I’m proud of you,” I tell her because I can’t imagine how hard this will be. But I know the ache of letting go of something you built.

“I met you, and my entire outlook on life changed. I felt alive, something I wasn’t used to. In Texas, I learned how to breathe without being worried about who was watching or snapping photos.”

My hand finds the edge of her hip.

“What about your sister?” I ask. “She’s still on your list, isn’t she?”

Stormy doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes shift toward the window, then back to mine, her jaw working through whatevershe’s not saying yet. But when she speaks, her voice is clear. Certain.

“Yes. But I won’t have to chase her. She will come to me after I confront my father,” she says with confidence. “I know her better than anyone. Or at least, I thought I did. Her secretly being with Donovan shocked me.”

I don’t speak as I tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear and listen.

“She doesn’t get to rewrite what she did. I’ve let them control the version of me they liked best. That stops now. I’ll look her in the eye, and I will not let her forget that she was one of the reasons I had to rebuild my life from ash.”

Every word she says lands with weight.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I tell her. “Whatever you need.”

She nods, and the tension in her shoulders ease. “I don’t want you to fight my battles.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m standing beside you while you win them.”

Her lips twitch, and it’s something between a smile and a breath of relief.

We don’t move for a while. I hold her and hold on to the space between who she was and who she’s choosing to be.

Since we landed, I realize she was never returning to New York to walk back into her past, but to confront it so she can leave it behind.

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