Chapter 4
Chapter four
Avery
Aweek after Oliver showed up at work, I stand outside the Vance family home in Pacific Heights on a Saturday evening, wondering if I’m reading too much into this invitation.
Is it more than professional courtesy? More than friendly interest?
The house rises before me, all warm brick and glowing windows, elegant but somehow inviting in a way that makes my chest tight with longing I don't want to examine. This is Dylan Vance opening a door I'm not sure I'm ready to walk through.
My hands smooth down the front of my dress for the third time. I chose something simple but nice, navy blue that Jessica says brings out my eyes, professional enough to maintain the colleague fiction but soft enough to acknowledge this isn't just a business meeting.
The past week has been an exercise in careful avoidance dressed up as professionalism.
I arrived at the office before Dylan, left after him, kept our interactions focused on the Miller acquisition and nothing else.
But the tension has been building anyway, crackling in the space between us during meetings, burning where our hands brush when passing documents, thickening the air during those late nights when we're the only ones left on the executive floor.
I check my phone. Five fifty-eight. I could still leave. Could text Dylan with an excuse about sudden illness. Could maintain the walls that keep me safe, but also keep me alone.
My car keys feel heavy in my purse—an escape route I'm already calculating.
Before I can move, the front door opens, and Dylan is there.
"You came," he says, and oh my gosh, that damn gorgeous smile of his.
How could anyone smile so stunningly?
The relief in his voice stops me short. He wasn't sure I would appear. This matters to him in a way that makes my pulse race.
He looks different outside the office, more relaxed in dark jeans and a gray sweater that matches his eyes. The casual clothes make him seem younger somehow, less like the intimidating CEO who rebuilt an empire and more like a man who's nervous about introducing a woman to his family.
"I said I would," I manage, though he might be aware that doesn't mean much. I've become an expert at keeping promises while keeping my distance.
"I know." His smile is warm, understanding. "Come in. Fair warning, Jake's been preparing embarrassing childhood stories all week."
I laugh nervously and step inside.
The entry hall is all rich wood and family photos, decades of memories lining the walls.
I catch glimpses as Dylan leads me through: a young Dylan in a graduation cap, Jake with a soccer trophy, family vacations and holiday gatherings, and everyday moments captured and cherished.
This is what a home looks like when it's full of love.
"Avery!" A woman's voice calls out, and then Margaret Vance is there, elegant in a way that speaks of confidence rather than effort. She takes both my hands in hers, her smile genuine and welcoming. "We're so glad Dylan brought you. He's told us wonderful things."
I glance at Dylan, who has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Mom."
"What? I'm not allowed to be happy if my son finally brings someone to dinner?" She squeezes my hands gently. "Come, everyone's in the living room arguing about whether the Warriors have a chance this season."
The living room is warm and lived-in, nothing like the formal spaces Oliver's family inhabited. Thomas Vance, Dylan’s father whose face I remember from the magazines, rises from a leather armchair when we enter, those same gray eyes Dylan inherited assessing me with sharp kindness.
"Avery," he says, offering his hand. "Dylan tells us you're the one keeping him honest on the Miller deal."
"Someone has to," I reply, and his laugh is rich and approving.
"Good. He needs people willing to challenge him."
Jake bounds over with the energy of someone who never quite grew out of being the younger sibling. "So you're the famous Avery who has my brother actually leaving the office before midnight."
"Jake," Dylan warns, but there's affection in it.
"What? It's true. Three months ago, you were practically living at the office. Now suddenly you have reasons to go home at reasonable hours." Jake grins at me. "I like you already."
Dinner is Italian, served family-style with everyone reaching across each other for bread and passing dishes with easy familiarity.
The conversation flows naturally, topics shifting from business to books to Jake's latest dating disaster that has everyone laughing while he protests their lack of sympathy.
"She said she was allergic to commitment," Jake complains, helping himself to more pasta. "Who says that on a second date?"
"Someone being honest about what they want," Margaret says gently. "Better to know early than be surprised later."
I feel Dylan's eyes on me at that, but I focus on my wine, on the way the light catches in the crystal, on anything but the understanding in his gaze.
Thomas asks me about my work at Collins & Associates, and I find myself relaxing as we discuss a recent precedent-setting case.
He listens like my thoughts matter, asks follow-up questions that show he's genuinely interested, not just being polite.
Margaret chimes in with her own observations, clearly someone who's been part of business conversations for decades and holds her own with quiet authority.
"You clerked for Judge Harrison?" Thomas asks, impressed. "She's brilliant. Tough, but brilliant."
"She taught me that being right isn't enough if you can't articulate why," I say. "That precision matters as much as passion in law."
"Sounds like someone else I know," Jake says, nudging Dylan. "Mr. Everything-Has-To-Be-Perfect over here once made me redo a report seven times because one footnote wasn't properly formatted."
"It was going to the board," Dylan protests. "Details matter."
"Seven times, Dylan. Seven. Times."
The banter continues, stories flowing like wine, each one revealing more about this family that teases and supports in equal measure.
Dylan tells a story about Jake's first business presentation where he accidentally included vacation photos instead of quarterly projections.
Jake retaliates with a tale of Dylan trying to impress a girl in high school by writing her a business proposal for why they should date.
"It had charts," Jake says gleefully. "Actual charts showing compatibility metrics."
"I was sixteen," Dylan groans. "And if I remember correctly, you helped make those charts."
"Because I'm a supportive brother."
"Because I paid you twenty dollars."
Margaret laughs, reaching over to pat Dylan's hand. "You've always been thorough, sweetheart. It's what makes you good at what you do."
After dinner, Margaret draws me into the kitchen while the men clear the table, their voices carrying from the dining room. She hands me a dish towel, and we work side by side drying wine glasses.
"I haven't seen Dylan this happy in years," she says quietly, not looking at me but somehow seeing everything anyway.
"After Elena..." She pauses, seems to reconsider.
"Well. After everything that happened, he closed himself off.
Threw himself into work, into saving the company.
We worried he'd forgotten there was more to life than spreadsheets and acquisitions. "
I don't know what to say to the gentle weight of her words.
"But these past few months," she continues, "something's changed. He smiles more. He comes to family dinners without us having to guilt him into it. He seems more like himself." She turns to me then, her expression soft but serious. "Thank you for that."
"I haven't done anything," I say, because it's true.
Margaret's smile is knowing. "Sometimes just being yourself is exactly what someone needs."
The words lodge in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Being myself was never enough for Oliver. I was always too ambitious, too independent, too unwilling to shrink myself to fit his vision.
But here, with Dylan's family, being myself seems to be exactly right.
We rejoin the others in the living room where Jake is showing the photos from their first family trip to Tokyo, telling stories that have everyone laughing.
I settle into the couch, and Dylan sits beside me, not touching but close enough that I feel his warmth and smell his cologne mixed with something that's just him.
"This one," Jake says, pulling up a photo from the family album, "is Dylan trying to eat sushi with chopsticks for the first time. He dropped the same piece three times before giving up and using a fork."
"I was twelve," Dylan protests.
"And stubborn," Thomas adds fondly. "Refused to ask for help even though the waiter offered to show him."
"Sounds familiar," I murmur, and Dylan turns to me with mock offense.
"Are you saying I'm still stubborn?"
"I'm saying you once spent three hours trying to fix a formatting error yourself instead of calling IT."
Jake laughs delightedly. "Call him out, Avery."
The evening winds down naturally, comfortable tiredness from good food and better company.
As I help gather coffee cups, I catch a moment between Thomas and Margaret in the kitchen, the way he touches her lower back as he passes, the way she leans into him briefly, forty years of marriage distilled into these small intimacies that speak of enduring love.
"Avery," Thomas says as I'm putting on my coat. "You're welcome here anytime. With or without this one." He nods toward Dylan. "We'd love to have you back."
"Thank you," I manage around the tightness in my throat. "This was... lovely."
Jake hugs me goodbye like we've known each other for years. "Next time, I'm bringing my girlfriend," he says. "If I ever find one who isn't allergic to commitment. You can help me screen candidates."
"Jake, leave her alone," Dylan says, but he's smiling.
Margaret hugs me too, whispers, "Don't let him overthink everything. He has a tendency to do that."
Then Dylan is walking me to my car, and we're alone in the driveway with the city lights spread around us like scattered diamonds. The fog is starting to roll in, softening the edges of everything, making the world feel smaller, more intimate.
"Thank you for tonight," I say softly. "Your family is..." I trail off, not sure how to capture what I've just experienced. Warm. Loving. Everything I didn't know I was missing.
Dylan steps closer, and that electric charge that's been building all week sparks between us. "They liked you," he says. "Just the way you are."
My heart stutters.
"I wanted you to know—" He stops, seems to reconsider his words, choosing them with the same care he brings to everything.
"My family isn’t one of those ‘fancy’ families that push others to act a certain way just to match some pointless standards.
I hope you felt comfortable being yourself with us. "
The observation is so precise, so carefully targeted at the hurt I've never fully voiced, that I realize he understands me in ways I haven't even articulated to Jessica. He sees the wounds Oliver and his family left, sees the way I've wrapped myself in armor to prevent it from happening again.
I look up at him, heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. The fog makes everything feel dreamlike. His eyes are dark in the dim light, focused on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
For one suspended second, I feel myself leaning toward something dangerous—toward him, toward the possibility of more. My breath catches, my body tipping forward a fraction before terror slams into me like a wall.
No.
Not again. Not when I'm barely holding myself together.
Dylan steps closer—just an inch, barely anything—but it’s enough to make the air between us thicken, charged and dizzying. His hand lifts, hesitates in midair like he's fighting the urge to touch me, to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
And God, I want him to. I want him so much it terrifies me.
I step back sharply, breath shaking. "I—I can’t do this."
"Avery—"
The way he says my name nearly undoes me. Gentle. Steady. Nothing like Oliver’s demanding neediness or manipulative charm. Dylan doesn’t push. He never pushes. And somehow, that makes the ground tilt harder beneath my feet.
"I’m sorry," I choke out, voice cracking. "I’m not— I’m not ready for whatever this is."
The words feel like tearing open stitches. My chest hurts. My throat burns. I can’t breathe.
Dylan’s brows draw together, worry etched across his face. He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t trap me, doesn’t ask me to stay—he just waits, giving me space I don’t know how to accept.
Which is exactly why I run.
I fumble with the keys with my shaking hands. Dylan doesn't try to stop me. He just stands there in the driveway, shoulders tense but posture open, letting me make the choice Oliver never gave me. I reverse out without looking back.
I make it three blocks before I have to pull over, my vision blurring with tears. Tears for the family warmth I've just left behind, for the acceptance they offered so freely, for the way one almost-moment with him cracked something open in me I’m terrified to face.
My phone buzzes. Dylan: You don't have to apologize. Take the time you need. I'm not going anywhere.
The tears come harder then, because somehow his understanding makes everything worse.
He's being patient and kind and everything Oliver never was, and I'm terrified I'm going to break his heart the same way Oliver broke mine.
Or worse, that I'll let him in and he'll break mine all over again, and this time I won't survive it.
I sit in my car on the side of the road, city lights blurring through my tears, and wonder if I'll ever be brave enough to let someone love me again.
The fog rolls in thicker, obscuring the world beyond my windshield, and I let myself cry for all of it. For the girl who believed in forever, for the woman who's terrified of wanting again, and the fear that made me run from it.
When I finally make it home to my apartment, I curl up on my couch in the dark, still wearing my dress, still smelling Dylan's cologne on my skin. My phone sits silent on the coffee table, that last text from Dylan glowing in the darkness.
I'm not going anywhere.