TWENTY-FIVE
CALLUM
There’s a neon pink note aggressively taped dead center on my office door.
TOP SECRET!!!
Jordie’s handwriting. All caps. Three exclamation marks. Underlined three times—once in pen, twice in glittery highlighter.
There’s a doodle of a dumpling (I think) in a party hat. It also appears to be holding . . . swords? No, chopsticks. Or possibly the number 11.
I yank the note down.
Inside, the note is just as chaotic:
Tonight. 7PM. My backyard.
Come hungry.
Bring your best birthday behavior.
I sigh and fold the note, slipping it into my pocket like I might want to read it later to make myself smile.
The door clicks shut behind me as I step into my office, the quiet wrapping around me. I drop into the chair and jiggle the mouse. My new QI project still glowing on the screen, exactly where I left it.
It’s . . . a lot. But somehow, I’m ahead. Way ahead.
Cost-benefit models? Underway.
Ethics draft? Done.
Literature review? Cross-referenced and footnoted with the kind of obsessive rigor normally reserved for serial killers or PhD students on a deadline.
I’ve done plenty of these before. Tick-the-box projects. Strategic. Dry. The academic equivalent of plain oatmeal. Necessary, but no one’s excited about it.
But this? This feels like something that matters.
It’s not a line on my CV. It’s a line in the sand.
Because this isn’t about theoretical improvements or marginal gains.
It’s about every woman who’s ever been reduced to a checklist. About the fact that we have solutions to pain—cheap ones, available ones—and we don’t use them. Not because they don’t work, but because no one’s bothered to prove it yet.
And yeah, I hear the whispers from my fellow consultants. From Trevor.
The looks.
The unspoken he’s throwing his career away over a woman.
I’m not.
It’s about what happened to a woman. To women.
And why I refuse to let it keep happening.
The towel is slung around my neck when I rifle through my wardrobe.
T-shirt? Too casual.
Button-up? Too overkill.
Jeans? Too hot.
Shorts? Too shorts.
I throw in the towel (pun intended) and text her:
CALLUM
What’s the dress code?
No reply.
I call. No answer.
I sigh and settle for a linen shirt—slightly rumpled, mood: neutral. Olive shorts. Sneakers. Hair pushed back. Suitable for dinner or a backyard Nerf war. Good enough.
The doorbell rings. Once. Twice. Then it turns obnoxious. Rapid-fire. Like whoever’s out there wants to get punched.
I swing the door open.
Leith stands there like the last call for a yacht launch rather than a birthday backyard thing.
He’s in a crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled to the forearms like he’s allergic to effort, tailored shorts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, loafers that haven’t seen a footpath in their lives, and a Rolex so offensively shiny I can see my own poor decisions reflected in it.
I squint.
“What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Picking you up. Jordie’s orders.” His gaze flicks to the phone in his hand like I’m an email he’s already archived. “Come on. Driver’s waiting.”
I glance down the corridor like maybe this is a prank someone is filming for reality TV.
“Driver,” I echo.
Leith is already halfway to the lift, thumb flying across his screen. “Yes. Driver.”
I lock the door behind me and trail after him, watching him move with that effortless rich-person glide. The lift dings open, and he steps inside without looking up.
I follow.
The doors close. Silence hums.
Leith types.
Furiously.
Like he’s negotiating a ceasefire. Or dismantling a government.
Knowing Leith, it’s probably both.
When we reach the ground floor and walk out into the evening, the car waiting at the curb makes my brain short-circuit. Parked out front is an SUV that’s definitely not on the market yet.
The engine purrs too quietly for something that big.
I climb in because I’m not stupid enough to reject a free ride in a vehicle that looks like it should come with a non-disclosure agreement. Leith barely spares me a glance as he fires off another message.
Two minutes go by. Three.
His brow furrows. His jaw tightens. His thumb becomes a weapon.
I finally snap. “Problem?”
“Brisbane.”
“Thought you had that sorted. What happened to leverage?”
Leith’s mouth twists. “Yeah, well. Turns out leverage means jack when your old man decides to interfere. Fuck if I know what Dad promised Harrow. Stock options, blood pact, his firstborn. Now Harrow’s dug in like we’re fighting over a beachfront in Monaco.”
“Why would your dad—? I mean, you’re building this for the hospital.”
The car glides through streetlights that streak gold across the windows. Outside, Brisbane blurs. Inside, Leith simmers.
“God forbid I build something that isn’t about profit.” Leith lets out a hollow laugh. “I’m on Dad’s permanent shit list ever since I turned down the keys to NovaCorp and chose hospitality instead.”
My jaw slackens. “Wait. The tech empire? The one behind the system that locks me out of my own apartment every time I wear a hoodie—that’s your dad’s software?”
“If it tracks, stores, or controls access, Dad’s probably got his fingerprints on it.” He pauses, then adds, dry as sand, “Which is why I had to hunt down a security software that isn’t a NovaCorp subsidiary. Trust me, that was no easy feat. And Dad getting in bed with Harrow won’t be either.”
He pockets his phone with the finality of someone putting a knife away. Then leans back. Rolls his neck once. “Sorry. It’s your birthday. You don’t need to hear me unravel my corporate trauma.”
“Don’t worry. My bar for birthdays is subterraneanly low. Last ‘surprise’ I got was a Kumon workbook. Year Four.” I glance at him. “Mum wrote ‘Happy Birthday, study hard’ on the front page.”
A sharp laugh bursts out of him. Quick and real and not controlled for once.
“Well,” he says, “nothing screams celebration like long division.”
“Right?” I shake my head, staring out the window. “I’m still recovering.”
The car slips into a quiet rhythm after that. Streetlights. Headlights. The faint hum of tires. The world outside streaking past like we’re leaving one version of the night and driving into another.
And I know I shouldn’t.
I know this is the part where you let things be. Where you don’t poke sore spots. Where you don’t say the thing that’s been itching at you since Jordie started texting and organizing and insisting.
But I’ve never been good at staying in my lane.
So I clear my throat and ask, because I’m a dumbass who enjoys walking into oncoming traffic . . .
“Is Jordie always like this?”
Leith lifts a brow. “Define ‘this.’”
“All in,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Thoughtful. Heart too big for the damn room.” I swallow, suddenly aware of how stupid I sound. “I’m just not used to people making an effort.”
Leith doesn’t speak.
He turns his head slightly, staring out the passenger-side window as if the answer is written in the dark.
The silence stretches long enough for regret to crawl up my spine.
Long enough for me to wish I could snatch the words out of the air and shove them back down my throat.
For a second, I think he’s going to let it die there.
Then Leith says, softly, like he’s thinking aloud—
“Huh.”
I frown. “What?”
His mouth pulls into a smile that doesn’t happen often. Rare. Almost wistful. Like it’s an old memory he doesn’t take out much.
“Nothing. Just . . .” He turns then, finally, eyes meeting mine. “Now that I think about it—Jordie hasn’t pulled a grand gesture like this since Alec.”
My stomach drops.
I swallow hard and snap my gaze back to the window like there’s something fascinating in the trees. Like streetlights aren’t suddenly too bright. Like I’m not suddenly holding my breath.
Because I don’t want to ask.
Don’t want to wonder what it means that she’s doing it now.
Don’t want to consider what kind of person makes someone stop trying—and then try again.
The car slows. Indicator ticking.
We turn onto Jordie’s street, roll past familiar fences and letterboxes. The driver pulls into her driveway, and the engine cuts, leaving us suspended in thick silence.
Neither of us moves right away.
The sky is fully dark now.
But the backyard—her backyard—glows.
Warm fairy lights. Golden light spilling through leaves. A soft, inviting kind of magic.
Leith clears his throat.
“Ready, birthday boy?”
I’m not.
Not even close.