The Memory Keeper: Twisted Roots

I was at the office, the familiar scent of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air as the board meeting and quarterly reviews were about to start. The conference room buzzed with quiet murmurs, tension woven into every conversation. All the executives were present—investors, department heads—each one watching me closely, their curiosity barely concealed.

Rain was seated at the far end of the table, poised and composed. As the head of finance and business operations, she was set to present the financial report for the past three months. Her eyes flicked to me briefly, filled with an unspoken concern.

I adjusted my blazer and stepped into the room, my expression impassive. Before I could take my seat, Mr. Langley, one of the senior board members, approached me with an apologetic look.

"Khai, it's good that you're back," he said in a solemn tone. "I'm sorry for your loss—Lucan was a great man—"

I cut him off sharply, my voice cold and clipped.

"Thanks, Mr. Langley. I appreciate your condolences, but don't we have a meeting to start?"

Without waiting for a response, I turned my back on him and walked straight to my seat at the head of the boardroom table. My heels clicked against the floor, punctuating the tense silence.

Mr. Robertson, one of our longest-standing investors, approached next, his voice laced with concern.

"Khai, how are you holding up—"

"Jane," I interrupted, not bothering to look at him, "begin the presentation now."

The room fell silent, and I could feel the weight of their stares. Rain's gaze lingered on me longer than the others, her brow slightly furrowed. She had always been good at reading me, and I knew she could sense the storm brewing beneath my detached exterior.

As the presentation began, I focused on the numbers flashing across the screen, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. Every word, every graph felt distant, like white noise against the hurricane of thoughts in my mind.

Lucan was gone. Letty was still out there. And Frederick Whitmore was moving pieces behind the scenes.

There was no time for grief.

No room for weakness.

But as Rain spoke, her voice steady and confident, I couldn't help but steal a glance at her. In that moment, I envied her composure—the way she carried the weight of responsibility with grace, while I was barely holding myself together.

I clenched my jaw and refocused.

This wasn't about feelings.

It was about survival.

As the meeting wrapped up, the tension in the boardroom slowly dissolved. One by one, the executives and investors filed out, their murmurs fading into the hallway beyond. Eventually, only Jane, Rain, and I remained.

Rain leaned against the edge of the table, her warm eyes searching mine.

"Babe—let's get lunch together," she said softly, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

I barely looked up from my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Jane," I said instead, my tone all business. "What's my schedule for today?"

Jane, ever efficient, checked her tablet. "You're packed for today. You have lunch with your grandfather."

I heard Rain exhale, and when I glanced up, she offered me a tired, weary chuckle.

"Another time, I guess," she murmured, disappointment barely masked in her voice.

She turned away, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor as she walked out of the boardroom.