Chapter 5: What She Was Owed
1853 Words
Avery almost didn’t recognize her own voice.
“Yes,” she said again, softer this time, wiping the last wetness from under her eye with the heel of her hand. “Mr. Rhodes.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Not long enough to be awkward.
Just long enough for her to realize he had heard the roughness in her throat.
“Are you still at Dawnlight?” Callum asked.
Avery looked around the empty office. The desk lamp cast a small circle of gold over the case file, the pink snow globe, and the damp spot where her tears had landed.
“Yes.”
“Have you eaten?”
She blinked.
Of all the questions she had expected from him, that was not one of them.
“No,” she admitted.
“Come downstairs.”
Avery sat straighter. “Now?”
“My car is outside.”
She turned toward the window.
Through the glass, past the reflection of her own pale face, she saw the black Rolls-Royce waiting by the curb below. Its headlights were off. Quiet. Patient. Like it had been there for a while.
Avery’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Mr. Rhodes, you didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
That was all he said.
No explanation. No persuasion. No polite falsehood about being nearby.
Just I know.
Avery looked down at the snow globe again. The cheap glitter had settled at the bottom.
She should have refused. She should have said it was late, that she was tired, that she could order something herself, that she had work to finish. She and Callum Rhodes were not friends. Not really. He was Jason’s father’s trusted associate. The man who cleaned up Jason’s messes when Jason’s father was out of the country.
And yet, when Callum had asked if she had eaten, Avery’s chest had tightened in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
“I’ll be down in five minutes,” she said.
“I’ll wait.”
The call ended.
Avery sat there for a few seconds, phone still against her ear.
Then she stood too quickly, nearly bumping her knee against the desk. She closed the case file, tucked it into her locked drawer, and picked up her bag. In the restroom mirror, her eyes were still faintly red.
She rinsed her hands in cold water, pressed her fingers beneath her lashes, and told herself she looked fine.
She did not.
But Avery Collins had learned years ago that looking fine was less important than acting fine.
By the time she stepped out of the elevator, her expression was calm again.
The Rolls-Royce waited at the curb. Noah Price stood beside the open rear door in a dark coat, his round, friendly face brightening the moment he saw her.
“Miss Collins.”
“Good evening, Noah.”
He gave her a polite nod and stepped aside.
Avery bent into the car.
Callum sat near the window, laptop open on his lap, the pale blue light outlining the clean edge of his jaw. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie still perfectly straight. His fingers moved over the keyboard with quiet precision, then stopped the moment she entered.
He closed the laptop.
“Miss Collins.”
Avery settled into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of the smallness of the enclosed space. The car smelled faintly of leather, rain, and that same restrained cedar-incense scent she remembered from Jason’s villa.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
Callum looked at her.
“I asked you to come down.”
“Yes, but still.” Avery folded her hands over her bag. “Thank you.”
His gaze stayed on her face for a second longer than necessary, not intrusive, but too observant. Avery wondered if her eyes were still red.
“Drive,” Callum said.
Noah shut the door and got behind the wheel.
The car pulled away from the curb.
For several blocks, neither of them spoke. Avery watched the dark windows of closed shops slide past. She could feel Callum’s presence across from her the way one felt a large flame in a quiet room—not touching, not moving toward her, but impossible to ignore.
Finally, Callum asked, “Do you have any restrictions?”
Avery turned back. “Restrictions?”
“Food.”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “No. I’m not picky.”
Callum’s eyes lowered briefly, as if that answer did not satisfy him.
Then he told Noah, “Westlake House.”
“Yes, sir.”
Avery knew the place. Everyone in Westbridge with money, taste, or a desire to be seen pretending to have both knew Westlake House. Quiet private rooms. Impossibly good food. A waitlist long enough to make people brag when they got in.
“Mr. Rhodes,” she said, “that’s too much for a late dinner.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The answer was so calm that she couldn’t find a way to argue without sounding ridiculous.
So she looked out the window again and tried to convince herself that her pulse had only quickened because she had skipped dinner.
Westlake House occupied the top floor of a renovated stone building near the financial district. The host recognized Callum instantly. There was no waiting, no asking for a name. They were led through a quiet hallway into a private room with one glass wall overlooking the city.
The table was already set.
Avery sat across from Callum and placed her bag beside her chair.
The server handed Callum a menu. He didn’t open it.
“Seared cod, braised short rib, the seasonal greens, mushroom risotto, and the soup,” he said. “No scallions in the soup.”
Avery looked up.
The server wrote it down without question and left.
“You don’t eat scallions?” Avery asked before she could stop herself.
Callum unfolded his napkin. “You don’t.”
Her lips parted slightly.
He looked at her then, expression unchanged. “At dinner before the engagement party, you picked every one of them out of your soup.”
Avery remembered that dinner.
Jason’s father had flown back from London for a week. Helen and George had joined them. Jason had spent half the meal texting under the table. Avery had tried to be gracious, tried to impress everyone, tried to pretend she was not bothered by the way Jason kept pushing plates toward her without looking.
Callum had sat at the end of the table, quiet and unreadable.
She had assumed he noticed nothing.
Apparently, he had noticed scallions.
Avery lowered her eyes to the napkin on her lap.
Jason had known her since she was seven. Every New Year, the Blakes’ housekeeper made savory pastries full of scallions. Every New Year, Jason put three on Avery’s plate and told her they were good.
Every year, she ate around the filling and smiled.
How strange, she thought, that a man she barely knew had noticed what the man she almost married never had.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Callum poured water into her glass. “You don’t need to thank me for soup.”
Avery almost smiled.
Then her phone, face down on the table, lit up.
She didn’t touch it.
She knew who it wasn’t.
Jason was blocked.
And that, somehow, made her think of him more.
Callum’s phone rang before the silence could become too thick. He looked at the screen, then answered.
He spoke in English, his tone smooth and cold, shifting easily into business. Acquisition timeline. Board resistance. Final review. If the West Coast team delayed again, he wanted the numbers by morning, not excuses.
Avery understood enough to know someone on the other end was probably sweating.
She lowered her head and opened her own phone, intending to check work messages.
Instead, her thumb moved by habit to Jason’s social profile.
Nothing new.
No apology post. No dramatic quote. No sign of regret. No sign of anything at all.
Avery stared at the blankness and felt foolish.
What had she expected?
A picture of rain? A song lyric? Some coded message only she would understand?
She locked the phone and set it down.
Across from her, Callum ended his call.
Dinner arrived soon after.
He ate quietly. Avery did the same. The food was excellent, but she tasted more texture than flavor. The seared cod flaked beneath her fork. The soup was warm and rich and had no scallions.
For some reason, that almost made her cry again.
She forced herself to swallow.
When the plates were cleared, Callum reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and took out a slim envelope.
He placed it on the table and slid it toward her.
Avery looked down.
“What’s this?”
“Settlement from the Blake family.”
Her hand froze above the envelope.
Callum withdrew his fingers. “Jason’s father asked me to handle it.”
Avery didn’t touch it. “My mother already has the wedding contribution card.”
“This is separate.”
Her eyes lifted.
Callum’s expression remained composed. “The canceled wedding will create expenses. Public embarrassment. Time lost. Emotional damage that can’t be put into a number, but still should not be ignored. Take it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want anyone thinking I’m taking money because Jason—”
“Because Jason humiliated you?” Callum asked.
The words were clean. Merciless. Accurate.
Avery’s fingers curled against her lap.
Callum’s voice lowered. “He did. That does not make the compensation shameful. It makes it overdue.”
She looked at the envelope again.
It might as well have been a stone.
“I need to call my mother,” Avery said.
Callum nodded. “Of course.”
She stood, grateful for the excuse to leave the room.
In the restroom, Avery locked herself in a stall and called Helen.
Her mother answered on the second ring. “Avery?”
“Mom.” Avery lowered her voice. “Mr. Rhodes is giving me a settlement from the Blakes. Separate from the wedding funds.”
Helen was quiet.
“It’s probably a large amount,” Avery said. “I don’t know if I should take it.”
“Did he say it was from Jason’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Then take it.”
Avery closed her eyes. “Mom—”
“No. Listen to me.” Helen’s voice was tired but firm. “You did nothing wrong. If the Blake family wants to preserve dignity, they can afford to do it properly. George can balance business terms with them later if needed. You don’t need to protect their pride at the cost of your own.”
Avery’s throat tightened. “You were angry this morning.”
“I still am.” Helen exhaled. “But not at you.”
Avery pressed her lips together.
“Take it,” Helen said. “Come home after dinner.”
“I will.”
- Writer
