FORTY-SEVEN
CALLUM
“Callum! It’s starting!” Jordie calls from the lounge as I let myself into her house.
I step in just in time to catch her glance over the couch—then do a double-take.
“Wait. Why are you still in your button-down?” she asks, eyes doing that squinty, accusatory thing.
“Meeting ran long,” I say. “Had to tick off some last-minute QI metrics.”
She raises an eyebrow.
I lift the popcorn bucket. “My options were: shower at work and get the popcorn. Or go home and risk your wrath empty-handed.”
She grins. “You are smart.”
I toe off my shoes and sink into the couch beside her. She hands me the remote. I hand her the popcorn.
The theme music for Insider Angle kicks in, the camera cutting to Marla Jensen, seated in front of a backdrop of the Brisbane skyline.
“In tonight’s special edition, Insider Angle investigates a series of commercial blocks surrounding Royal North Hospital, Brisbane. Sites currently standing between life-saving infrastructure and families in crisis. And one man, refusing to sell despite generous offers well above market value.”
Drone footage sweeps across a cluster of commercial buildings in Brisbane.
Marla’s voice continues: “The twist? Australia’s biggest tech company, NovaCorp, may have a stake in keeping the deal from going through.”
Jordie’s fingers curl into a fist on the blanket.
“Vincent Harrow, CEO of Iverton Hotel Group, is no stranger to controversy. But new documents suggest his refusal to sell may have less to do with legacy and more to do with leverage.”
Cut to a pre-recorded interview. Harrow sitting in a glassy boardroom, arms folded. Exclusive Interview—Recorded Yesterday glows at the bottom of the screen.
Jordie leans forward, elbows on her knees.
“Mr. Harrow,” Marla asks, “why refuse an offer six times market value, when the proposed development would provide free accommodation for families of critically ill patients?”
Harrow’s mouth hardens. “Because I’m not in the business of emotional blackmail.”
Jordie lets out a short, stunned scoff—disbelief and fury.
Marla presses on. “And the claims that NovaCorp has a vested interest in you retaining the site?”
Harrow leans back. “No comment.”
Back to Marla in the studio. “NovaCorp, the tech empire founded by Clive Morgans, has recently expanded its holdings across several Harrow-affiliated properties, raising questions about corporate alignment and ethical oversight.”
The screen flashes images. Fake business addresses, a ‘headquarters’ listed as a paddock in regional New South Wales, one company listing a director who died in 2019.
“These shell entities, funneling through Cayman-based holding companies, have quietly bought up land surrounding the Iverton site—stalling redevelopment and blocking council approvals. In one case, zoning restrictions tightened days after a Harrow Holdings ‘donation’ to a local campaign.”
A scanned check. A time-stamped email. A redacted name: Source protected.
“And in a further twist,” Marla adds, “one of these companies shares a board member with NovaCorp’s infrastructure arm, quietly appointed months ago to oversee urban expansion contracts.”
More images flash by. Internal memos, maps, projected profit margins for delaying the sale. One document is stamped: Media fallout manageable.
Another, SUBJECT: Morgans Expansion—Mitigate Narrative Risk.
Marla continues: “Records confirm NovaCorp’s minority share acquisition in Harrow Holdings occurred just weeks before the final refusal, fueling concerns of deliberate interference in charitable development.”
In other words: NovaCorp had quietly teamed up with Harrow, hidden the money trail, and helped stall the sale of property meant for Leith’s family-accommodation project.
Jodie lets out a low whistle. “Leith didn’t drop a mic. He dropped a warhead.”
The screen shifts.
A new montage begins. Grainy clips from council meetings, gala speeches, charity launches. Snippets of Leith over the last seven years. Younger. Less sharp around the edges.
Cut after cut:
“We’re not just building hotels. We’re building proximity.”
“Melissa and I didn’t get a second chance. I’m building one for everyone else.”
Jordie’s hand slips from the blanket to mine.
The final clip is quieter. No stage. No gala. Just Leith, seated in a sunlit interview chair.
“Mel was stable when I left. Visiting hours were over. I went to check-in at The Iverton. There was a mum crying at reception. Her daughter had just been transferred to ICU, and every hotel in the vicinity was full. She had nowhere to go.”
He swallows, voice low.
“So, I gave her my room. Figured I’d manage. Took the only thing left—a motel, forty minutes out.”
He pauses, jaw tightening.
“Later that night, I got the call. Mel threw a clot.”
He drags a hand over his mouth. When he speaks again, his voice is frayed at the edges.
“I drove as fast as I could.”
A beat.
“But I was too late.”
He finally looks up.
“Melissa died alone.” Leith’s voice is steadier now, shaped by something deeper. “That’s when I made the call. No one else should ever have to.”
The screen fades to a photo of Melissa—smiling.
Insider Angle fades to black.
My phone buzzes.
Leith
Channel 3. Breaking news.
Jordie reads it over my shoulder. We lock eyes—then dive for the remote, popcorn abandoned.
The anchor’s voice cuts in, urgent.
“Fallout continues after tonight’s explosive Insider Angle special. NovaCorp stock has dropped eighteen points in after-hours trading amid allegations of corporate interference in charitable infrastructure.”
A graph flashes across the screen. NovaCorp’s logo plummeting.
Another buzz. Group chat.
Leith
About to walk out of Luxeon Suites Brisbane on live TV. Channel 21.
Jordie fumbles through channels. Finds it.
A live feed. Luxeon’s front entrance. Leith steps through the doors, face unreadable, security flanking him. Reporters swarm. Mics out. Cameras flashing. Questions fly.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. Keeps walking.
Then, “NovaCorp has just issued a statement calling your exposé a ‘baseless smear campaign.’”
Leith stops. Turns. Smiles. Cold. Ruthless.
“Well,” he says, voice all steel, “there’d be no smear campaign if there wasn’t shit to smear.”
He pivots without another word, slides into the backseat of a waiting car, and disappears behind tinted glass.
Our phones buzz five minutes later.
Leith
Flying back home tonight. See you tomorrow. P.S. I’m bringing celebratory pastries. Revenge tastes sweeter with actual sweets.
Jordie leans back into the couch, dazed. “He did it.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes still on the screen. “He really did.”
She stretches, arms over her head, “I’m gonna need wine after that.”
“Me too,” I say, still stunned by the slow-motion takedown we just witnessed.
She disappears into the kitchen. “I’ve got half a bottle of Sauv Blanc. Might be vinegar at this stage.”
I follow. “Will it hiss when you open it?”
She pours into mismatched glasses—one with a chip on the rim, the other with a faded “world’s okayest Nurse” sticker.
I swirl my glass. “Remind me never to get on Leith’s bad side.”
She sips. Winces. “Yup. That’s vinegar.”
Then shrugs and takes another sip, anyway.
“What about you?” she asks. “You ever gotten revenge on anyone?”
I pretend to think. “Changed the Netflix password on my ex the night the finale of our show dropped.”
Her eyes widen. “Noooo.”
“New season. New boundaries.”
She snort-laughs, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“What about you?” I ask. “You’ve got that chaos-goblin-queen glint.”
“Burned pictures of my high school ex outside the Pizza Hut where he worked. Then cling-wrapped his Prius.”
I raise my glass in salute. “I take it back. You’re more terrifying.”
She grins, unapologetic.
I study her, softer now. “And Alec?”
“No revenge. I threw his ‘promise necklace’ into the ocean. Binned everything else that reminded me of him.” Her finger traces the rim of her glass. “Only thing I haven’t tossed is the green lingerie.”
I glance at her.
She’s not looking at me.
She keeps tracing. Round and round.
“I don’t know why I keep it. Maybe I thought I’d wear it for me. Maybe I liked pretending someone might want me like that.” A pause. “I should just burn it.”
“Seems a shame to waste good lingerie. But hey. If you want to torch it, I’ll set up a fire pit. We’ll even dance around it.”
She laughs sharply and self-mockingly. “Or . . . I don’t know.” Her thumb smudges the condensation. “What if you fuck me while you rip it off.”
My pulse kicks hard.
I blink.
I’m sure I’ve misheard.
Her gaze flicks up, like she’s just realized she said it out loud. Color floods her cheeks. She blinks fast and embarrassed—and the panic rushes in. She laughs again, brittle now.
“Sorry. That was dumb.” She waves a hand, then drops it. “Forget I said anything.”
She turns quickly, as if she can leave her words behind.
Not a chance.
I reach out, catch her by the elbow.
“Would you like that?” I ask.
She looks at me, then away, already gearing up to brush it off again. “Callum, I was just—”
I shake my head.
No.
Not letting her deflect. Not when she’s standing there, cracked open, not even realizing she’s bleeding truth.
My hand drifts down the length of her arm until I find her wrist. Let my fingers wrap around her delicate bones.
“Is that what you want? For me to take that lingerie off you,” I say, my voice a thread pulled taut. “To take my time with you. To show you exactly how astonishingly beautiful you are, how you wreck me just by looking at me like this.”
She nods once. Then, quietly—shy but clear, “Yes.”
“Then why do you keep running?”
She breathes the words out, almost like they sting, “Because sometimes it’s easier to want something in your head than to believe you can actually have it.”
I take a step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.
“You can have it,” I assure her. “You can have me.”
She opens her mouth, but no words come out.
I tilt my head, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse is skittering wild.
“So go ahead,” I whisper. “Put it on. Let me show you what you deserve.”