Page 32 of Bun Sticker

Just when I think the silence can't get more suffocating, the helicopter takes a gentle tilt and starts descending. As we closein on the cityscape, the miniature squares morph into a mesh of steel and glass, a stark contrast to the rustic simplicity of Cedarwood Valley. Skyscrapers pierce the horizon as far as the eye can see, their gleaming panes reflecting the late afternoon sun, casting an ethereal glow over the concrete jungle. The bustle of the city below comes into view, toy-sized cars wiggling between lanes, a river of bustling people flowing on sidewalks.

The helicopter makes a gentle touchdown on a helipad nested atop one of the towering buildings. The words 'Calloway Industries' emblazoned in bold, intimidating letters across the side of it.

"Home sweet home, huh?" I say to Clark, unable to bite my tongue any longer.

He gives me a blank look before his gaze follows mine to the side of the building, and he winces again, this time a hint of shame in his eyes. "Not as sweet as it looks," he mutters, almost too low for me to hear.

With an uncanny mix of trepidation and indignation, I unbuckle my seatbelt, barely paying attention to Clark's words. My heart thunders in my chest as we prepare to disembark. Before I can follow Miles out of the cabin, Clark restrains me by the arm, his grip gentle but firm. "Mariah...I need you to understand," he pleads, his eyes burrowing into mine. The warmth of his hold sends a jolt of electricity up my spine. A jolt that feels all too familiar and yet so foreign at the same time.

"Understand what?" I retort, yanking my arm away, though a part of me longs to stay within his grasp. "That you've been promising me a fairytale that doesn't even exist? That the man I fell in love with is a fake?"

He flinches at that, but then quickly shakes his head and regains his composure. "No!" His voice rises above the dying whir of the helicopter blades. "That's not it at all, Mariah. Yes, I didn't tell you about my family, about this life, but that’s becauseI walked away from it years ago. This place isn't where I belong. The guy you met at the bar is who I am. In my heart I'm Clark West, the ranch hand. Not Clark Calloway, the city boy with a silver spoon in his mouth. And everything—everything—I told you about me... who I am... how I feel about you... it's all real." He pauses and bites the inside of his lip. "The voice is real, too. I spent most of my childhood on my grandfather's ranch."

I stare at Clark in stunned silence, struggling to reconcile the man in front of me with the man I thought I knew. The helicopter's engine idles, creating a rhythmic humming that breaks the tense silence between us. He looks sincere enough, but is it all an act?

"Sorry to interrupt, you two," Miles calls out with an apologetic look in his eyes. "But thisisan emergency. Mr. Calloway is expecting us, and he's not one to be kept waiting." His words bring us rudely back to the reality of our situation. My cheeks flush red, and I cast my gaze to the floor.

Clark sighs, his expression hardening. For a moment, the ranch hand is gone, replaced by the man of industry his family bred him to be. He gives me a nod, his grimace telling me he's as embarrassed as I am.

"Right," he says, taking a deep breath before he gestures for me to walk ahead through the helicopter door. The crisp, chilly air makes my breath catch and goosebumps scatter across my exposed skin once I'm outside. "Let's go."

With a last lingering glance in my direction, Clark squares his shoulders, taking it all in like a man about to step into a battlefield. Except this isn't war, it's family. And now, more than ever, I don't know where I fit into all this. I'm more uncertain than ever.

CLARK

While that helicopter ride was agonizing, being led into my father's office to face him alone after more than a decade away is brutal. All I want to do is go back to the ranch where the only hurdle I faced was proving to Mariah that I'm the man for her. But of course my family name had to step in and ruin that before I could explain anything myself.

So now Mariah's walls are back up, and I'm stuck walking into the lion's den, about to face my father. The man who never saw me for who I am, but rather, for who he wanted me to be.

The door to his office swings open with an ominous creak and there he is, seated behind a mammoth of a mahogany desk that’s as much a fortress as it is furniture. I clear my throat, summoning a confidence that feels as frail as dried leaves in fall.

"Father," I greet, tasting the word like old regret. He glances up, his iron-gray eyes sharp and evaluating, the way they've always been. His mouth is set in a thin line, just like the old days, and I suddenly feel the weight of my years away. He doesn’t bother responding, just gestures to the chair across from him. His silence is louder than any words he could throw at me. The tension is palpable, a suffocating fog that seems to choke thevery life out of the room. I swallow hard and cross the room to the waiting chair.

"Nice of you to finally show up," my father says after a moment, his voice gravelly and coarse from years of cigars and whiskey.

"And here I thought you missed me," I retort, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My father narrows his eyes, but remains silent. I avert my eyes and shake my head slowly. Years of living life my own way have molded me into the kind of man I chose to be, and that man doesn't have the patience for my father's power games.

"So what's happened, Father?" I ask, pushing aside the bitter cocktail of emotions bubbling in my throat. "You obviously didn't haul me back here for a cheerful family reunion."

"No, I didn't," he admits, his voice gruff as he folds his hands on his desk. “I brought you back because it's time. This is your home, Clark. It's time for you to come back and accept your responsibilities.”

"Responsibilities? I thought I made it clear when I left that I want no part of your corporate empire. That life smothered me."

My father's eyes flash. "That's enough. I've indulged this childish rebellion of yours long enough."

"It's not childish to want a simple life," I fire back.

"Simple?" He scoffs, his laugh ringing out like the echo of a gunshot. "You traded in your legacy for cows. Cows, Clark!"

"Those cows..." I start, feeling my neck heating in my frustration. "Those animals are more of a family to me than this cold empire ever was."

My father laughs again, the sound empty and hollow, bouncing off the walls of the cavernous office. "You always had a flair for the dramatic," he says, rolling a cigar between his thick fingers. I watch as he lights it and inhales deeply, smoke curling lazily in the air between us.

"Of course," I mutter, my fingers tapping restless rhythms on the arms of the chair. "And you always had a knack for avoiding the issue."

He blows out a cloud of smoke, his eyes bored and distant. "Says the boy who ran away."

"Man," I correct, my jaw tightening. "A man who chose to live his life rather than just inherit it."

---