Chapter 9 Meeting adjourned.

The boardroom reeked of ego and artificial cologne.

Dylan sat at the head of the long mahogany table, one hand curled into a fist beneath it while the other tapped impatiently against his tablet screen. Around him, executives droned on about market projections, failed deadlines, and marketing strategies that sounded like recycled fluff. Charts flew across the projector like they meant something. But Dylan's jaw tightened with each passing second.

He was tired.

Tired of the chaos, the pressure, the constant balancing act between work, family, and the quiet storm brewing inside his chest-the one named Molly.

"Sir?" a voice pierced through his thoughts.

Dylan blinked. "What?"

"We asked if you'd like to approve the revised proposal for the Valencia deal," one of the associates repeated nervously.

Dylan glanced at the tablet, barely registering the numbers. "No. It's weak. Get me a better angle. We're not handing them a 2.5 million-dollar project with that pitch."

The room fell quiet. A few people exchanged uncomfortable glances.

A junior executive-Harold-cleared his throat. "Sir, with all due respect, we've already committed to Valencia. Pulling out now would cause a serious PR blowback. They've already released the partnership announcement."

"I don't care what they've released," Dylan snapped. "I won't back a proposal that looks like it was slapped together by interns."

Murmurs broke out. One of the senior board members, a man older than Dylan's father and twice as condescending, leaned forward.

"With all due respect, Mr. Scott, perhaps your focus has been... divided lately? Your name is being whispered in very interesting ways after you made headlines last quarter-and now, this little rebellion at home?"

Dylan's spine stiffened. "What rebellion?"

"The help at your dining table," the man said with a half-smile. "My wife plays bridge with your mother. Word travels."

Dylan stood.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion on my personal life," he said, voice cold as steel. "And if anyone here thinks they can question how I run this company or my house, feel free to take your concerns to the exit."

No one moved.

"Meeting adjourned."

He grabbed his files and walked out before anyone could stop him.

Back in his office, Dylan slammed the door shut and paced. The anger clawed at his throat like a wild animal. His pulse thundered in his ears. He knew the board was losing confidence. Knew his father was behind some of the gossip. And he hated-hated-how much it got under his skin.

He was trying.

Trying to be better. To be his own man. To keep things in control.

But nothing felt like it was enough.

His phone buzzed on the desk. Mother, again.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

By the time he drove home, the sun had disappeared behind gray clouds, and a soft drizzle coated the windshield in streaks.

He pulled into the driveway like a storm coming in.

Inside, the house was warm, softly lit, and quiet.

Too quiet.

Molly was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove. The scent of butter, garlic, and fresh herbs filled the air. She turned slightly, sensing him.

"You're home early," she said with a soft smile. "I made creamy pasta with grilled-"

"I'm not hungry," he snapped, brushing past her.

She blinked, startled. "Oh. I-I thought you might want-"

"I said I'm not hungry!" His voice echoed through the kitchen like a whip.

Molly froze, the spoon slipping from her hand and clattering into the pot. Her eyes widened, confusion etched across her face.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean-"

"God, just-stop apologizing," Dylan growled, turning to face her, chest rising and falling heavily. "Stop acting like everything you do is perfect. Stop hovering, stop smiling at me like you don't see what's going on. You don't know anything!"

Molly's lips parted slightly. Hurt flickered in her eyes.

"I wasn't trying to upset you."

"You think because you make a few meals and clean some floors that you know me? That you understand how this world works?" he barked. "You don't. You're just here-doing what you're told. You're not part of this!"

She took a step back, stunned.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, this time with real pain behind it. "I was only trying to help. I didn't mean to make things worse."

Dylan stared at her, chest heaving. And for a second, all the anger, all the pressure, all the humiliation he'd felt today had a target. An easy, quiet, undeserving target.

And that made him feel like the worst kind of man.

The silence stretched between them like a bridge about to collapse.

Then Molly turned to the stove, switched it off with trembling fingers, and began clearing the counter.

She didn't say another word.

She didn't have to.

Dylan stood there, rooted to the floor, watching her movements.

Her shoulders were tense. Her back was straight, but not in pride-in pain. She moved mechanically, like a girl who'd been yelled at one too many times and had learned not to fight back anymore.

He hated himself in that moment.

He hadn't yelled at her because she deserved it.

He yelled at her because she was there.

Because he could.

Because he knew she wouldn't yell back.

The guilt hit him like a wave, followed by shame.

"...Molly," he said quietly.

She didn't turn around.

"I didn't mean that."

Still, she didn't respond.

He stepped closer. "Molly. Look at me."

Slowly, she turned. Her eyes were glassy but dry. Stronger than he expected.

"You did," she said. "You meant it."

"No. I just... I had a terrible day."

"That's not an excuse," she whispered.

Dylan closed his eyes. "I know."

"I may work for you, but I'm still human. And today... you made me feel like nothing."

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

"Please," he said, voice low. "Don't walk away."

"I'm not walking away," she said. "I'm just going to my room... because right now, I need to remember who I was before this house. Before you."

She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Dylan alone with a cold stove and a heart that felt heavier than it had all day.

He stared at the untouched dinner she'd made for him.

The one thing that had been warm and good today.

And he'd ruined it.