Emma stood at the stove, half-dressed in her pencil skirt and a faded hoodie with the words "No Future" scrawled across the front. It was a relic from her high school days, somehow surviving two decades, two cities, and one very bad marriage. Her son, Dylan, sat at the kitchen table, shoveling cereal into his mouth like he was racing an invisible competitor.
"Slow down, champ," she said, flipping an egg onto a plate. "The cereal's not gonna sprout legs and run away."
Dylan, eighteen years old and already a force to be reckoned with grinned through a mouthful of milk and Cheerios. "You never know. Mutant food could happen. You've seen the news."
Emma snorted, sliding the plate in front of him. "If our biggest threat is cereal, I think we'll survive."
He gave her a thumbs-up and kept eating. The only reason he was in this much of a good mood was because Simon had left early for work today and they didn't have to cross paths. Was she happy about her son hating her boyfriend? No, but she couldn't force him into anything. As long as Dylan respected her decisions, her lover, that was good enough for her.
She leaned against the counter, sipping coffee that could double as motor oil. It was too early. It was always too early. Mornings felt like sprints: making breakfast and making sure Dylan had homework in his backpack because he would forget his own head if it wasn't attached to his body. At least he packs his own lunch now.
Yet somehow, despite the chaos, she felt... good. Content, even.
Sometimes she had to stop and marvel at how far she'd come -- from late nights in grimy punk bars with her ex, to this: decent coffee, a mortgage payment she could handle, and a kid who actually seemed to like her most days. She shook her head in disbelief, a small smile curling her lips.
"Hey, Dyl," she called. "Remember: if you forget your science project again, I will post your baby pictures on Instagram. I know which one I'll do first too, that day we went to the zoo and--"
Dylan groaned dramatically. "Come on, mom. You're just evil."
"Correction. I'm a mom," she said, tossing him his hoodie. "It's in the contract."
He rolled his eyes before pulling it on and shouldering his backpack. As he moved toward the door, he paused, looking at her with a seriousness that always caught her off guard.
"Love you, Mom."
Emma felt her heart squeeze painfully tight. "Love you too, kiddo. Now go terrorize your teachers."
He shot her a grin and sauntered out the door to get in his car and drive to school.
For a moment, Emma stood still in the kitchen, the quiet pressing down after the morning whirlwind. She let herself think -- really think -- about the journey from there to here.
She hadn't planned on getting pregnant at twenty. Back then, she was too busy sneaking into 21+ shows with a fake ID, or getting high with Travis in some friend's basement. They were punks -- real punks -- the kind who thought a 401k was a government conspiracy and college was for sellouts.
But something shifted when she saw the two blue lines on that test. Fear, sure. But also a fierce, overwhelming determination she hadn't known she had.
She traded mosh pits for night classes. Doc Martens for sensible flats. Travis hated it. Said she was becoming a "corporate zombie." He hadn't hit her, not at first. It started with words -- cutting, cruel -- until finally, fists followed. The night she packed up and left with a diaper bag and two hundred bucks hidden in her boot was the night she promised herself: never again.
Good riddance.
Emma drained her coffee, wiped the small smile off her face, and headed upstairs to finish getting ready for work. She pulled the hoodie off and swapped it for a navy blazer, tugged on some sensible heels, and gave herself a once-over in the mirror.
Her reflection was... fine. Not glamorous, but not bad either. Her hair was behaving, and her makeup was just enough to cover the tired circles without looking like she was trying too hard. Attractive enough that Liam would find another excuse to hover around her desk today.
The thought made her roll her eyes, but she couldn't help smiling a little.
Liam was harmless. A golden retriever in human form. Good hair, good teeth, expensive cologne. And about twelve years too young for her. He wasn't exactly subtle about his crush either -- always volunteering to work late if she was, or asking for "advice" on projects he clearly hadn't even glanced at.
God, to be twenty-five and oblivious to everything except abs and ego.
Emma grabbed her laptop bag and car keys, lingering a second longer. She needed to get serious about her future. She'd been at the bank long enough to know she was one of the smartest people there -- smarter than James, that was for damn sure. But still, she kept her head down. Did her work. Let the idiots run the show.
Maybe it was time to stop hiding behind the safe, quiet routine. Time to start thinking about something bigger -- the CEO wasn't getting any younger, and everyone knew James was just a placeholder. Someone had to step up eventually.
Why not her?
Her stomach twisted at the thought. She could almost hear Travis's voice in her head, dripping with mockery. You? You're not good enough for that. Stay in your lane, babe.
She pushed the thought away like swatting a fly. Travis was gone. His voice didn't get a say anymore.
Simon's voice was better anyway.
And with that, Emma locked the door behind her and headed into a new day.
###
The lobby of Salter Financial smelled like fresh coffee and high hopes, but Emma barely noticed anymore. She breezed through the glass doors, the weight of the morning already tucked neatly behind her smile. Marcy, the front desk secretary with a fondness for sparkly pens and office gossip, perked up the moment Emma walked in.
"Hey, superstar," Marcy called, waving a manicured hand.
"Morning, Marce," Emma said, flashing a grin.
From the corner, Roy the janitor gave her a small salute with his mop. "Looking sharp, as always, Emma."
"You're too kind, Roy," she replied warmly, adjusting her blazer. For whatever reason, people around here genuinely liked her. Emma had earned that respect the slow, exhausting way: by showing up early, staying late, fixing mistakes without pointing fingers, and treating everyone, no matter their title, like they mattered. It wasn't flashy, but it was real.
She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and made her way to the elevators, heels tapping smartly against the polished floors. As she rode up to the fifth floor, she allowed herself a moment to breathe, to slip into her professional skin. Here, she wasn't the former party girl or the single mom scraping by--she was Emma Halston, Senior Accounts Manager, and the glue that kept this branch running.
Not like anyone would admit it.
The elevator doors slid open, and Emma stepped into organized chaos: phones ringing, printers humming, the low murmur of voices blending into the daily grind. Several people looked up from their desks and smiled or nodded in her direction. She returned the gestures easily, stopping here and there to answer quick questions or sign off on last-minute documents.
By the time she reached her corner of the office, Emma was already juggling three new tasks in her mind. She slid into her chair, logged into her computer, and began sorting through the emails that had flooded in overnight. Most were routine, a few were minor crises disguised as polite requests, and one--marked Urgent in all caps--was from James.
Of course it was.
Speak of the devil.
As if summoned by thought alone, James lumbered around the corner, carrying the lingering scent of too-strong cologne and not enough personal space. His tie was slightly askew, and he had the damp look of a man who'd power-walked through a rainstorm, even though the sky was clear.
"Emma," he said, voice a little too loud for comfort. "Busy, are we?"
Emma straightened in her seat, smoothing her blouse with deliberate calm. "Always."
