The Frame
title: "The Thunderstorm" wordCount: 3228
The thunder sounds like metal tearing, and I'm out of bed before I'm fully awake, my body remembering every childhood storm in that third-floor apartment where the windows rattled and Mom wasn't home.
My heart slams against my ribs. The penthouse windows are floor-to-ceiling, and the lightning turns everything white for a split second—the city below, the furniture, my hands pressed flat against my thighs. I count. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
The thunder cracks again, closer this time, and I flinch hard enough that my shoulder hits the nightstand.
"Jesus," I whisper.
Growing up, storms meant lying awake listening to the roof groan, wondering if this would be the night it finally gave up. Mom worked nights at the diner, so it was just me and the dark and the sound of rain hammering the windows like it wanted in. I'd pull the blankets over my head and count my breaths until morning.
This penthouse is supposed to be different. Steel and glass and money, built to withstand anything. But the thunder doesn't care about architectural engineering or the fact that I'm twenty-three floors up. It sounds exactly like it did when I was eight years old and alone.
I reach for my phone. 2:07 AM.
The screen lights up my face, and I'm about to text Mom—just to check, just to make sure she's okay even though she's probably asleep and I'm being ridiculous—when I hear it.
A scream. High and sharp and terrified.
Iris.
I'm running before I think, my bare feet silent on the heated floors, my oversized t-shirt tangling around my thighs. The hallway is dark except for the emergency lighting along the baseboards, thin strips of blue that make everything look underwater.
Iris's door is open.
Dominic's door opens at the same moment I reach the hallway, and he's there in pajama pants and nothing else, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild with the kind of panic I've never seen on his face before.
"Iris—" he starts.
She runs past him.
Straight to me.
She slams into my legs with enough force that I stumble back, her small arms wrapping around my thighs, her face pressed against my stomach. She's shaking so hard I can feel it through my whole body, these violent tremors that make my chest ache.
"Hey," I say, dropping to my knees. "Hey, it's okay, I've got you."
She doesn't speak. Just holds on tighter, her fingers digging into my shirt.
I look up at Dominic. He's frozen in his doorway, one hand still on the frame, and the expression on his face—
God. It's like watching something break in slow motion.
"Iris," he says quietly. "Come here."
She buries her face harder against my shoulder.
The thunder rolls again, and she whimpers, this small animal sound that makes my throat tight. I stand up, lifting her with me. She's heavier than I expected, solid and real, her legs wrapping around my waist.
"I'm taking her to my room," I say.
Dominic doesn't move. Just stands there watching his daughter cling to someone else, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"Dominic—"
"Go." His voice is rough. "Just—go."
My bedroom is darker than the hallway, and I don't turn on the lights. Just carry Iris to the bed and sit down with her in my lap, her face pressed against my neck, her breath coming in these short, panicked gasps.
"You're okay," I murmur. "It's just noise. It can't hurt you."
She shakes her head violently.
"I know it's scary." I rock slightly, the way Mom used to rock me when I had nightmares, before the night shifts started. "But you're safe. I promise you're safe."
The lightning flashes again, turning the windows into mirrors, and Iris makes that sound again—that whimper that's almost a sob.
I start singing without thinking about it. Some old lullaby Mom used to sing, the words half-forgotten, my voice off-key and self-conscious. I was never good at this. Mom had the voice in our family, could make even the saddest songs sound like hope.
But Iris's breathing starts to slow.
I keep singing, one hand rubbing circles on her back, and I don't realize Dominic is in the doorway until I glance up and see him there.
He's gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles are white.
I stop singing.
"Don't," he says quietly. "Don't stop."
So I keep going, my barely audible now, and Dominic just stands there watching us. The lightning illuminates his face in flashes—the sharp line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the way he's looking at his daughter like she's something precious and unreachable.
Iris's trembling gradually subsides. Her breathing evens out. Her grip on my shirt loosens, just slightly.
The storm moves farther away. The thunder becomes a distant rumble instead of that metallic crash.
I lose track of how long we sit there. Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour. Time does this weird thing where it stretches and compresses, and all I know is the weight of Iris against my chest and the sound of rain on the windows and Dominic's presence in the doorway like a ghost.
Finally, Iris goes completely still. Her breathing deepens. Sleep, I think. Actual sleep.
"She used to come to me during storms." Dominic's voice is so quiet I almost don't hear it. "Before the accident, I was the one she ran to."
I look up at him. His face is carefully blank now, that controlled mask back in place, but his eyes—
His eyes are wrecked.
"Every storm," he continues. "She would climb into my bed and I would hold her until it passed. She would fall asleep with her head on my chest and her hand in mine."
The past tense lands like a punch.
"Dominic—"
"She has not let me touch her in two years." He's still gripping the doorframe. "Not since the funeral. Not since she stopped speaking."
I don't know what to say. There's nothing to say. So I just sit there with his daughter asleep in my arms, this little girl who chose me over her own father, and I watch something crack in Dominic's expression.
"I do not know how to reach her anymore," he says. "I do not know how to be what she needs."
"You're her dad," I say. "That's what she needs."
"Clearly not." The words are bitter. "She ran past me. She did not even look at me."
"She was scared—"
"She was scared and she wanted you." He finally lets go of the doorframe, his hand dropping to his side. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you have given her?"
I shift Iris slightly, trying not to wake her. "I didn't do anything special. I just—"
"You were there." He takes a step into the room. "You were there and you did not hesitate and you held her like she was yours."
The way he says it makes my chest tight.
"She's not mine," I say.
"No." He's closer now, close enough that I can see the exhaustion in his face, the lines around his eyes that I never noticed before. "But she wishes you were."
The words hang between us, too honest and too raw, and I don't know how to respond. Don't know what he wants me to say.
Iris shifts in her sleep, her hand curling into my shirt, and I automatically adjust my hold on her.
Dominic watches the movement. Something flickers across his face—grief, maybe, or longing, or something I don't have a name for.
"I should take her back to her room," he says.
"Let her stay." The words come out before I think about them. "She feels safe here."
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch. It's the same look he gave me earlier, in the bathroom, when he said he needed me. But there's something else in it now. Something darker and more complicated.
"You are certain?" he asks.
"Yeah. No, I mean—yes. I'm certain."
He nods slowly. Turns to leave. Gets all the way to the door before he stops, his hand on the frame again, his back to me.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For being what I cannot."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with Iris and the sound of rain and the echo of his words in my head.
I don't mean to fall asleep. I'm just going to rest my eyes for a minute, just going to sit here with Iris warm and solid against my chest until I'm sure she's really out.
But the next thing I know, I'm drifting, that fuzzy space between awake and asleep where everything feels soft and distant. Iris's breathing is steady against my collarbone. The rain has gentled to a whisper. My body is finally starting to relax, the adrenaline from earlier fading into exhaustion.
I'm almost gone when I hear Dominic's voice in the hallway.
"Marcus, it is two-thirty in the morning." His tone is clipped. Controlled. But there's an edge to it I recognize—the same edge he gets when he's trying very hard not to lose his temper. "This can wait."
I go very still.
"I am afraid it cannot." Marcus's voice is smooth. Too smooth. Like oil on water. "The board has questions about your judgment, specifically regarding your new hire."
My eyes snap open.
"We can discuss this tomorrow—"
"The emergency meeting is tomorrow, Dominic. Nine AM. I am simply giving you advance notice as a courtesy." A pause. "They have concerns about Miss Whitley's qualifications. Apparently someone did some digging into her background."
My heart stops.
"Her qualifications are not relevant—"
"Not relevant?" Marcus's laugh is soft. Dangerous. "She lied on her resume. She has no certifications, no formal training, no experience beyond babysitting. And you hired her anyway, gave her access to your daughter, to your home, without proper vetting."
I can't breathe. Can't move. Iris is still asleep against my chest, oblivious, and I'm frozen with my back against the headboard listening to my entire life implode.
"How I run my household is not the board's concern," Dominic says.
"It is when it reflects on your judgment as CEO." Marcus's voice drops lower. "They are already questioning your decisions, Dominic. The failed merger. The restructuring delays. And now this—hiring an unqualified girl from Southie to care for your traumatized daughter? It looks reckless. It looks desperate."
Silence.
Then Dominic: "What do you want, Marcus?"
"I want what is best for the company. What is best for Iris." A pause. "Let me help you fix this before it becomes a larger problem. We can find a qualified replacement, someone with proper credentials, and we can frame Miss Whitley's departure as a mutual decision—"
"No."
The word is flat. Final.
"Dominic—"
"I said no." His voice is cold now. That CEO voice I've only heard him use on phone calls. "Miss Whitley stays. If the board has questions, they can direct them to me at the meeting."
"You are making a mistake—"
"That is my prerogative."
Footsteps. Moving away. Then Marcus again, his voice carrying through the door with perfect clarity:
"I hope she is worth it, cousin. I truly do. Because you are about to stake your entire reputation on a girl who cannot even afford her own interview clothes."
The footsteps fade.
Silence.
I sit there in the dark with Iris asleep in my arms and my chest thudding so hard I'm surprised it doesn't wake her. My borrowed blazer. My lies. My entire fake resume laid out for the board to dissect.
Dominic knows. He's known since the bathroom, since I broke down and confessed everything. But the board doesn't know he knows. They think they're exposing something. They think they're protecting him.
And Marcus—
Marcus knows exactly what he's doing.
The door to my room opens. Dominic stands there, backlit by the hallway, his face in shadow.
"Sloane—"
"I heard." My voice comes out steady. Steadier than I feel. "I heard all of it."
He steps inside. Closes the door behind him. The room is so dark I can barely see his face, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
"The board meeting—" he starts.
"Is about me." I shift Iris carefully, trying not to wake her. "They know I lied. They know I'm not qualified. And they're going to use it against you."
"That is not your concern—"
"Of course it's my concern." My voice rises slightly, and I force it back down. "You're about to stake your reputation on me. Marcus just said it. You're going to walk into that meeting and defend hiring someone who lied on her resume, who has no certifications, who—"
"Who my daughter ran to during a storm." He moves closer. "Who she chose over me. Who she feels safe with."
"That's not enough—"
"It is everything." He's right in front of me now, his voice low and intense. "Do you understand? It is everything."
Iris stirs against my chest, making a small sound, and we both freeze. She settles again, her breathing evening out, and I realize my hands are shaking.
"They're going to tear me apart," I whisper.
"They are going to try." Dominic's hand touches my shoulder, the same light, tentative touch from earlier. "But I will not let them."
"You can't promise that—"
"I can promise that I will fight." His thumb brushes against my collarbone, just once, and my breath catches. "I can promise that you are not alone in this."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
But I grew up in Southie. I know how this works. I know what happens when people like me try to exist in spaces like this. We get chewed up and spit out and sent back where we came from.
"Dominic—"
His phone rings.
We both look at it, glowing on the nightstand where he must have set it down earlier. The screen lights up: Marcus Ashford.
Dominic doesn't move to answer it.
It rings. And rings. And rings.
Finally, it goes to voicemail.
Ten seconds later, it starts ringing again.
"Answer it," I say quietly.
He picks up the phone. Doesn't put it on speaker, but in the silence of the room, I can hear Marcus's voice anyway, smooth and concerned and absolutely poisonous:
"Dominic, I apologize for calling again, but there is one more thing you should know before tomorrow." A pause. "The board has requested Miss Whitley's presence at the meeting. They want to ask her some questions directly. I thought you should be prepared."
I watch Dominic's face go completely blank.
"What kind of questions?" he asks.
"Oh, just standard verification. Her qualifications, her experience, her understanding of child development and trauma response." Marcus's voice is so reasonable. So helpful. "Nothing to worry about, I am sure. Unless, of course, she has something to hide."
Dominic's hand tightens on the phone.
"Nine AM," Marcus continues. "Conference room A. I will see you both there."
The line goes dead.
Dominic stands there holding his phone, his face illuminated by the screen, and I can see the moment he realizes what this means. What Marcus is doing.
"He is going to destroy you in front of the entire board," he says quietly.
"Yeah." My voice is steady. Flat. "That tracks."
He looks at me, and in the dim light, I can see something shifting in his expression. Not panic. Not fear. Something colder. Something calculating.
"Then we will have to ensure you are prepared," he says.
"Prepared for what? I lied, Dominic. I lied about everything. There's no preparing for that—"
"There is always a way." He sits down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Iris. "We have eight hours. We will use them."
I stare at him. "You're serious."
"Entirely." His eyes meet mine, and there's something fierce in them now. Something that makes my pulse kick up for an entirely different reason. "You are not going into that meeting alone. You are not going to let Marcus Ashford make you feel small. And you are certainly not going to let him take you away from Iris."
The way he says it—like it's already decided, like there's no other option—makes something crack open in my chest.
"Why?" I whisper. "Why are you doing this?"
He reaches out, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. The touch is so gentle it makes my eyes sting.
"Because she needs you," he says quietly. "Because I—"
His phone buzzes in his other hand.
We both look down at it.
A text from Marcus: See you in the morning, cousin. I do hope Miss Whitley is ready.
Dominic's jaw tightens.
He stands up, pocketing his phone, and looks down at me and Iris curled together in the bed.
"Get some rest," he says. "We will talk strategy in the morning."
"Dominic—"
But he's already walking toward the door, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
He pauses at the threshold. Doesn't turn around.
"For what it is worth," he says quietly, "I am glad she chose you."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with Iris and the sound of rain and the knowledge that in seven hours, I'm going to walk into a room full of people who want to prove I don't belong here.
I look down at Iris, her face peaceful in sleep, her hand still curled into my shirt.
"Your dad is going to get himself fired over me," I whisper to her. "You know that, right?"
She doesn't answer. Just breathes, steady and warm against my chest.
I close my eyes and try not to think about tomorrow. Try not to think about Marcus's smooth voice or the board's questions or the way Dominic looked at me like I was worth fighting for.
Try not to think about how badly I want to believe him.
I'm almost asleep when I hear it—Dominic's voice in the hallway again, low and tense.
"Marcus, it is two-thirty in the morning. This can wait."
Wait.
That already happened.
I force my eyes open, confused, my brain foggy with exhaustion—
"I am afraid it cannot." Marcus's voice carries through the door, smooth as oil. "The board has questions about your judgment, specifically regarding your new hire."
My eyes snap fully open.
That's not a memory.
That's happening right now.
"We can discuss this at the meeting—"
"I am calling as a courtesy, Dominic. To let you know that the board has requested additional documentation. Miss Whitley's certifications, her references, her background check." A pause. "All of which, I am told, are either falsified or nonexistent."
Silence.
Then Marcus, his voice dropping to something almost gentle: "Let me help you, cousin. Let me make this go away before it destroys everything you have built. All you have to do is let her go."
I hold my breath, waiting for Dominic's response.
But all I hear is the click of a door closing, and then—
Nothing.
Just silence, and the rain, and Iris's steady breathing against my chest.
And the terrible, creeping certainty that tomorrow, everything is going to fall apart.