FORTY-FOUR
JORDIE
The entrance to the Blue Orchid Ballroom looks like someone airlifted a Parisian gala into Queensland.
Golden light spills from the colonnade in soft, dripping cascades.
A navy carpet—because red would be too gauche for Leith—rolls out in a glossy ribbon beneath our feet.
The air smells like gardenias, high-end cologne, and late-spring humidity.
It’s stunning. Lavish to the point of being surreal.
The whole place thrums with the kind of energy that says: Important people are here. Don’t trip.
Donors flown in from the interstate. Specialists in tailored suits. Hospital execs with last names that appear on buildings. Even a few politicians are here, all smiles and subtle campaign pitches.
Leith has gathered the elite of the elite and somehow made it look effortless.
“Loving the Princess Diana vibe,” Liam says, appearing beside me.
“You mean the post-divorce, reclaiming-my-throne energy?”
“Exactly!” He eyes my dress, impressed. “Slaying in the revenge dress, darling.”
I glance down at my gown.
Stormy-sapphire, delicately beaded, with a silhouette that’s both old-world and sinfully flattering.
Hugs at the waist, dips low at the back, flares at the hem—flirty but still determined to be home by midnight.
The slit up the leg is scandalous in theory, but the vintage cut keeps it firmly in the realm of elegance.
I found this while elbow-deep in a box of out-of-print paperbacks at a second-hand store. Looked up and saw the gown in the window. Sophisticated, other-worldly, forgotten—it was catching the late sun, waiting for a second chance.
I tried it on. It fit perfectly, as though it had been holding its breath for me.
Liam offers his elbow, a grin equal parts flirt and mischief. “If Callum doesn’t fall to his knees tonight, the whole room will.”
Liam cornered me last week over one of those hospital sausage sizzles—because nothing says “we appreciate our overworked staff” like a two-dollar sausage wrapped in white bread and, out of nowhere, asked:
“Anything going on with that hot anesthetist who stuck you at the clinic last time?”
I choked. Full-on sausage-lodged-in-trachea levels of panic.
He just smiled, handed me a napkin, and said, “Cool. That’s all I needed to know.”
And because I needed to tell someone who isn’t going to overanalyze (insert Leith), I told Liam about Callum. That I’m stuck somewhere between trying to let him go and hoping he won’t let me. That part of me keeps pushing him toward someone else while another part waits to see if he’ll fight it.
Which, in hindsight, is probably where my villain origin story begins.
I loop my arm through Liam’s. “Thanks for the compliment. And for coming with me.”
He pats my hand. “Happy to be your glamorous decoy. Not to mention”—his voice drops— “this gala is crawling with potential.”
I snort. “So, this isn’t entirely selfless.”
We step inside.
Chandeliers drip gold over white-linen tables. Lights thread through the rafters like constellations, and a string quartet plays something so soft it feels stitched into the fabric of the room.
Ostentation at its finest. And I’m highly allergic.
But standing here in a sea of designer gowns and air-kissed cheeks, I wonder if I miscalculated.
Suddenly, I feel underdressed for . . . what? Revenge? A performance? Whatever tonight is supposed to be. The edges of my intentions feel fuzzy, like when you’re sure you’ve lost something but can’t remember what it is, only that it’s missing.
Liam leans closer, conspiratorially. “You’ve got this. And if you don’t, I’ll cause a scene. Maybe trip into the dessert table. Take the croquembouche down with me.”
“Leith would have your ass and your balls if you do.”
Liam grins, shameless. “Oooh. Kinky.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The bar thrums with low laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of polished conversation. Sleek barstools, backlit bottles, and that faint buzz of liquor-induced camaraderie.
None of it registers.
Because Callum is here.
His black jacket cuts cleanly across broad shoulders, tapering sharply at the waist. Crisp white shirt. Cufflinks catching the light. Bowtie slightly askew—effortlessly cool, too unconcerned with symmetry to fix it. He leans one elbow on the bar, casual in posture and magnetic in presence.
And he’s not alone.
Standing next to him is a woman who looks born to stand under chandeliers.
Her dress is pale gold satin with a plunging neckline. Makeup soft, lips a natural mauve. Her hair is blown out in glossy waves that make my side-twist feel like something I did in a moving car with a bobby pin I found in my cupholder.
Which I did.
My heels click to a halt.
Beside me, Liam murmurs, “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Except for the part where my ribs feel like a struck tuning fork.
Callum’s eyes meet mine. They trail leisurely, blatantly—from the top of my head to the slit in my dress. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t look away as he downs the rest of his drink in one smooth motion.
Lin follows his gaze. Her brow lifts.
“The plot thickens,” Liam hums. “Shall we?”
“We don’t need to—”
But he’s already steering me toward the social landmine.
“Dr. Han,” Liam says brightly. “Looking criminally sharp tonight.”
Callum’s reply is smooth. “As do you.” But his eyes zero to Liam’s hand currently parked around my waist like it pays rent.
When did that get there?
Liam turns to Lin. “And you must be the woman making every other dress here look like a regret.”
“Dr. Lin Zhang. Anesthetic fellow,” Lin laughs, demure and glossy.
“Liam. Not Hemsworth, but people ask.”
“They do not,” I mutter.
“They could,” he whispers back.
Lin’s gaze swings to me, warm but curious. “And you’re . . .?”
“Jordie Mitchell,” I supply, smile pleasant, jaw clenched.
“Ah!” Her eyes flicker with recognition. “You’re Callum’s nurse friend.”
There’s no malice in her tone, but the word friend lands with the grace of a brick.
Liam, probably sensing I’m two seconds from throwing said metaphorical brick, leans in, full of charm. “Dr. Zhang, how are you finding Townsville?”
“It’s lovely,” Lin says, all honey and soft vowels, “Callum’s been so helpful. Showing me around. Helping with accommodations.”
Her hand drifts to his arm, fingers curling around his bicep.
Okay, cool. That’s fine. I also casually grip people’s limbs mid-sentence when I talk about real estate.
“Did he mention the apartment next to his is available?” I supply. “Super convenient. You’d really get to know each other.”
Callum levels me with a look—one eye-twitch away from exasperation, and two from “are you really dying on this hill?”
Lin’s laughter fades a shade. She retracts her hand, brushing invisible lint off her dress.
“Well,” says a familiar voice, all velvet and menace, “don’t you all look cozy.”
Leith strides in, tuxedo razor-sharp, his emerald pocket square a deliberate echo of the ballroom’s lighting. I recognize the woman on his arm immediately—black dress, blonde hair, poised and calm in the way only women who regularly dismantle politicians on national TV can be.
“I’d like you all to meet Marla Jensen,” Leith says. “You’ve probably seen her work.”
Current affairs anchor for Insider Angle. Two-time Walkley winner. Known for making politicians cry and PR teams scramble.
Beside me, Liam lets out a sound that can only be described as reverent awe. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”
Leith’s gaze lands on Liam, before cutting in on me. The subtle arch of his eyebrow suggests he’s deciding whether to eviscerate me now or save it for dessert.
There’s a round of polite handshakes—names exchanged, nods offered, a swirl of introductions I barely register.
Then Leith, ever the gracious host, gestures toward the far end of the ballroom. “Liam, why don’t you take Dr. Zhang and Ms. Jensen for a tour. The ice swan this year is particularly lifelike.”
Liam, grinning, offers both arms. “This way, ladies.”
And just like that, it’s me, Callum, and Leith.
Leith tips his head back like he’s summoning patience.
“Now, back to the real show,” he says, looking lazily between Callum and me. “And by that, I mean this Greek tragedy you two keep staging like it’s opening night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, feigning boredom.
“Don’t you?” His voice is silk-wrapped mockery. “From where I’m standing, it’s Dante’s Divine Comedy meets a Townsville med soap.”
Callum deadpans, “Hilarious.”
“You’ve got all the classics here. Pride, misunderstandings, an ensemble cast of meddlesome idiots—” Leith says, flicking invisible lint from his cuff. “And, of course, the inevitable tragic flaw.”
“Which is?” I ask.
He looks right at me. “You tell me. But if I had to guess? Stubbornness.”
When Leith speaks next, the teasing drops away. “If you two are going to keep playing out a scene, you might want to make sure you’re not reading from different scripts. Because miscommunication makes for great drama, but absolute shit endings.”
I smile like I’m not bleeding under my ribcage. “I’ll leave you to your monologues. I’m off to find my date.”
Callum’s voice follows, acid-edged, “You mean Liam? The guy you’re parading around? You realize he’s been ogling Marla since she walked in.”
I spin on my heels. Smile wide. Walk away.
Behind me, Leith sighs. “You realize Liam was eyeing me, not Marla.”
Callum chokes. “What?”
“Liam’s gay, you dimwit.”
Leith has taken center stage for his speech. No cards in hand. He never pre-writes his speeches when it comes to Melissa.
“Melissa used to say beauty wasn’t something you owned.
It was something you noticed. A well-worn doorknob.
Light hitting old brick. The shape of a room when the morning rolls in.
Mel was an interior designer. She had this wild way of seeing the world—finding details no one else noticed.
She could walk into a space and tell you what memory it wanted to hold. ”
A pause. The room holds its breath.