Page 7 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Someone somewhere is probably calling me a wunderkind.
The new CEO of CY8. Fresh-faced. Determined. Daughter of a legend.
They don’t see the migraines. The sleepless nights. The panic spikes when I realize I just signed off on a budget reallocation without fully understanding the clawbacks.
I blink through a lens overlay, flipping through reports and vendor disputes and flagged correspondence. There’s a soft ping I nearly miss—personal message, low priority. From Molly Jaiden.
I frown.
She’s one of those names you hear if you swim long enough in elite social circles. Not just a matchmaker—thematchmaker. High-end emotional architect. Facilitator of genetically optimized power pairings. Mostly a joke to me, until she wasn’t.
The message is clean. Discreet. Polished.
Yara,
I understand your schedule is relentless. But I believe I’ve found someone who deserves your attention.
No obligations. Just one evening. Think of it as breathing room.
—MJ
I stare at the words.
The audacity of her timing is almost funny.
Breathing room?
I can’t eveninhalewithout thinking about whether I’ve authorized procurement clearance for the next-gen prosthetics line or approved the latest R&D resourcing shift from the Centauri node.
Dating?
Romance?
It feels like something that belongs to a different person. A different lifetime.
When I was in university, I thought about love all the time. Not just the rush of hormones and daydreams, butthe shape of it. I thought I’d fall hard and fast and whole. I thought I'd meet someone who saw all of me and didn't flinch. Someone who wouldn’t care about the name I carried or the capital I represented.
Now?
Now I have quarterly earnings reports to analyze and hostile competitors to anticipate. I have systems integration failures and declining vendor confidence metrics and Jonathan Tidball’s gentle voice in my ear, always calm, always ready with a solution that makes me feel like I should’ve come up with it myself.
I close the message without replying.
No.
I can’t do indulgent right now. I can’t do soft or slow or flirty.
Romance is a luxury.
And I’m drowning in responsibility.
I don’t remember inviting Jonathan back in.
But an hour after I ghost Molly’s message, he reappears in my doorway like he never left, holding a glass of that god-awful nutrient fizz he insists I drink on low-energy days. The man’s a walking reassurance campaign. Polished shoes, steady voice, warm smile that saysyou’re not drowning, you’re just acclimating to the depth.
I close the ledger tab and lean back in my chair, arms crossed.
“You look like hell,” he says conversationally.
