Chapter 31
Callum
Spring term was done, but the ghosts of it still lingered—scattered papers, red pens, the sterile scent of the physics lab clinging to my skin.
I sat in my office where the overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly.
Absently, I reached for the coffee cup on my desk as I reviewed the next row of grades.
The first sip caught me off guard—bitter, thin, and tepid.
I grimaced but swallowed it anyway. It was the standard office blend: weak, industrial, and barely drinkable.
A far cry from what I brewed at home. But I needed something—anything—to push through the end-of-term tedium.
A stimulant and a distraction. Both were in short supply as I entered the last of my grades.
Two screens flanked me like sentries—one with my online grade book, the other with the university’s portal.
I worked methodically, the names blurring into numbers, into decimals, into letters.
A few more entries, and I’d be free. Free of this place.
Free to take Gabrielle to England, where there would be no secrets and no pretense, only the truth of us, laid bare in the long shadow of my family’s approval.
I reached her name.
Clark, Gabrielle Suzanne
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, a slight tremor in them as I paused, savoring this last act.
She had scored a 94 on the final exam, well above the class average of 85.
Her overall grade was a 95.7. I let the numbers settle in, let the pride unfurl in me like a slow bloom.
She’d done an exemplary job, and in one decisive motion, I entered an A for her final mark.
Sitting back, I allowed myself a moment to bask in the quiet triumph of it, a smile tugging at the edges of my mouth. “Well done, love,” I said softly to the empty room. She had earned every bit of it on her own—no favors, boosts, or advantages. Merely her determination. Her brilliance.
A sharp chime from my laptop fractured the quiet, and the name flashing on the incoming video call sent an icy spike through me: Father. Unscheduled, though hardly a surprise.
I stood—briskly enough to send my office chair skidding with a muted scrape against the linoleum—and crossed to shut the door.
The old handle stuck slightly before clicking into place.
I turned the lock. Then I slipped on my headphones—a preemptive shield against the hallway beyond—and perhaps against what I was about to hear.
I drew a full breath and accepted the call.
His face filled the screen—those familiar lines and angles sharpened by distance and disapproval. Crisp shirt. Immaculate tie. Silver hair. Eyes like twin blades.
“Father,” I said, clipped and cool.
“Callum.”
The use of my full name grated like a dull saw. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His eyes flicked over me, thoughts no doubt forming, crisp and predictable as a ledger. “You look…comfortable,” he said, dry as a bone.
I glanced down, noting the loosened tie, the rolled-up sleeves, the too-casual state of everything. “Yes, well,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze. “I find it rather liberating.”
He sniffed, displeasure crackling across the Atlantic. “You’re still arriving Monday?”
“We are,” I said, tight and measured.
He pressed his lips into a line. “And you’re still bringing your…guest?”
The pause stung like a nettle, but I schooled my features, refusing him the satisfaction of a reaction. “I am.”
The leather of his chair creaked like an old joint as he shifted. “And she…knows what to expect?”
“What should she expect, Father? Other than the warm reception of my family?”
“Come now, Callum.”
I raised an eyebrow. “We’re being candid, then?”
His expression barely shifted, eyes sharp and narrow. “Only as much as the situation requires.” He folded his hands, cuffs perfectly aligned. “You’ll be bringing…Miss Clark, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s not much we know about her.”
I paused, just long enough to let the implication settle. “Don’t insult us both by pretending you haven’t already looked up everything there is to know.”
A flicker passed over his face—disapproval, perhaps, or irritation. Likely both. Hard to tell with him.
“She’s considerably younger.”
“So was Mother, if I recall.”
He ignored that. “Is she aware of what’s expected?”
“She knows she’s meeting my family. That’s all she needs to know.”
Father gave a slow, precise nod. “Well. I hope she knows how to conduct herself.”
“She does,” I said. “And she doesn’t rattle easily.”
We stared at each other for a long, unblinking beat—his face impassive, mine immovable—until he gave a single nod. “Monday, then.”
“Monday.”
The screen went black.
I exhaled, slow and controlled, and let the silence close in around me like armor. Then I reached for the stone-cold coffee again—and drank it down like penance.