Chapter 3
Audrey
The restaurant is the kind that doesn’t have prices on the menu. I notice the moment I open it—and immediately start scanning for the cheapest-sounding item. Quail. That’s probably cheap, right? Quails are small.
This is what happens when you let Bennett Mercer decide where we eat.
I try to act unfazed. Like I’ve been to places where the specials are written in calligraphic script in a language no one at this table actually speaks.
Is it French, or an extinct dialect revived for prestige?
Even the water goblets are heavy—real crystal, probably hand-blown by a guy with three surnames.
“Stop reading the menu like you’re decoding nuclear launch codes,” says Layla, plucking it from my hands. “Tonight’s on us, and I already ordered for you. It’s molecular, and if you don’t like it, you can blame Bennett.”
Bennett grins at me from across the table: dark hair, white teeth, expensive watch. I get why he’s Layla’s type—he’s engineered for boardrooms, with just enough danger to keep it interesting. “You’ll love it,” he assures. “Layla has great taste.”
I don’t argue. Layla’s always had a sense for rescuing me from existential discomfort. The wrong seat at a company party. A menu so intimidating I want to run into the night. I fold my hands in my lap, focus on the condensation running down the goblet, and ignore the pit in my stomach.
The wine is poured. Serena tastes it first, nods her approval with an over-the-top sigh that almost makes me laugh.
“Not bad for a Thursday, huh?” She winks at me, raising her glass.
“To Audrey, recently returned from the land of the midnight sun. May Chicago treat you better than any Nordic postdoc—or anyone else who doesn’t know what they’re missing—ever could. ”
“To Audrey,” everyone echoes, and I drink because it’s easier than speaking.
The wine is incredible. I can tell because it doesn’t taste like the stuff I buy at Trader Joe’s—the bottles with the cute animal labels that pair well with regret.
I look around the table. Bennett in his tailored suit, checking his phone with the casual confidence of a man who moves markets.
Caleb beside Serena, one hand resting on the back of her chair like he can’t stand not to be touching her.
Layla, glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the candlelight and everything to do with the diamond on her finger.
Three years ago, we were splitting cheap wine at Serena’s apartment because restaurants felt like an extravagance. Now look at them. Serena’s running her own firm, living in Caleb’s penthouse. Layla’s COO of a bio-tech company and engaged to a man who looks at her like she hung the moon.
They didn’t have to become different people to be loved. They just had to be themselves.
And I’m here. Same apartment. Same job. Same Audrey, just with blonde hair, contacts, and a fresh stamp in my passport. I tried to transform into someone worth wanting, and I came back exactly the same.
Just more tired. And blonde.
With dry eyes.
“This is too much.” I gesture at the room. The flowers. The actual cloth napkins. “I was gone for three months, not three years.”
“You were gone for three months without warning,” Layla corrects gently. “You left a group chat message that said, ‘Taking a Swedish fellowship, flight leaves tonight, love you all’ and then you were gone.”
“I gave details later.”
“You sent a follow-up text from the airport. That’s not detail. That’s a hostage proof of life.”
She’s not wrong. I did leave abruptly. I left because if I’d stayed one more hour, I would have called them crying.
And then I would have had to explain why I was crying, and explaining why I was crying would have meant admitting what happened, and admitting what happened would have meant facing the fact that I’d thrown myself at a man who put up his hand like a crossing guard stopping traffic.
We don’t talk about that.
“Well, I’m back now.” I reach for my water glass. “Fully debriefed. Ready to rejoin society.”
“And we’re so freaking happy we’re all in the same city again,” Serena puts in. “Those Zoom catchups in different time zones were a killer. If we all drank wine together, someone would need to go into the office tipsy. And if we had coffee together, someone was going to be up all night.”
“That’s why it became candy hour.” Layla nodded. “We could all handle a sugar crash.”
“The transatlantic gummy bear summit,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I got a stash of Swedish Fish from duty-free. The irony was too good to pass up.”
“Please tell me you have the salty licorice too,” Serena says. “I need to know if it’s actually as disgusting as everyone claims.”
“It’s worse. I’ll bring some over so you can suffer.”
The conversation flows easily after that—Layla’s latest battle with a florist who apparently doesn’t understand the difference between ‘blush’ and ‘dusty rose,’ Serena’s nightmare client who keeps changing the crisis narrative, Caleb’s niece Michaela and her increasingly elaborate schemes to get a puppy.
It feels normal. It feels like before.
Almost.
“So,” Caleb says during a lull. “Sweden. What was it really like? Beyond the meatballs and the sub-zero depression?”
“It was...” I look into my wine, searching for the right word. “Quiet. The lab was incredible—cutting-edge equipment, brilliant researchers, really innovative approaches to neural interface design. But the days were short and dark, and I spent a lot of time alone.”
“By choice?” Layla asks carefully.
“Mostly.” I shrug. “I needed the space. Time to think. Time to—” I stop myself. “Time to focus on work.”
The table goes slightly quiet. They know what I’m not saying. They’re too polite to push.
“Well, you’re back now,” Bennett says, smooth as ever, redirecting the conversation. “And you’ve got a whole week to decompress before you have to think about work again. Robert was very clear that you should take the full time.”
“Robert Carmichael said that?”
“He did. Unprompted.”
That’s... unusual. Robert is not known for his generous approach to employee wellness. The man once sent an email at 4 a.m. asking why a report wasn’t finished yet—a report that wasn’t due for another week.
“That’s weirdly nice of him.”
Bennett and Layla exchange a look—his eyebrows lifting a fraction, hers tightening in response. A whole conversation in micro-expressions.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Layla reaches for her wine. “He’s just been... there’s been a lot going on. I think he’s trying to be more conscious of burnout.”
“A lot going on with what?”
Another look. This one involves Caleb and Serena too, a four-way glance that makes me feel like I’m missing something obvious.
“What?” I repeat, more insistent this time. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about right now,” Bennett says. “You just got back. Let yourself settle in before you—”
“Bennett.” I put down my wineglass. “What’s going on?”
Layla sighs. “It’s NeuraTech.”
My stomach drops. “What about NeuraTech?”
“Layla,” Bennett says, a warning in his voice.
“She’s going to find out, anyway. And she’ll be more upset if we hide it.” Layla turns to me, her expression apologetic. “There was an FDA issue. A Complete Response Letter. The approval is on hold.”
The words feel like a glass of ice water to my face.
NeuraTech. My project. The neural interface system I spent years developing before I left. The technology I poured my heart and soul into. The device that could change millions of lives. The thing I was most proud of in my entire career.
On hold.
“What kind of deficiencies?” My voice comes out clinical. Detached.
“Signal interference in high-density neural environments. Some biocompatibility concerns with long-term use. And the data security protocols didn’t meet the new FDA requirements for medical-grade devices.” Bennett’s tone is careful, measured. “We’re working on it. The team is working on it.”
“What team?”
“Our team—a joint effort between Carmichael, JamesTech, and Mercer. The best we have. It’s under control.”
“Under control.” I repeat the words like they’re in a foreign language. “The FDA sent a Complete Response Letter—which means they found significant deficiencies in the submission—and it’s ‘under control’?”
“Audrey—”
“How long do we have?”
Bennett hesitates. “Ninety days from the date of the letter.”
“Which was when?”
“About a week ago.”
A week. One hundred sixty-eight hours of my project falling apart, and no one told me. I was in Sweden, eating meatballs and pretending I was fine, while everything I built was crumbling.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The question comes out calm. But underneath is the creeping suspicion that they didn’t call because they didn’t think I could handle it. Or worse—because they didn’t need me. The team was doing fine without me. I’m not as essential as I’d always told myself I was.
“You were on fellowship. You needed the space.” Layla reaches across the table, but I pull back before she can touch me. “Audrey, this isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known—”
“It’s my project.” My stomach twists in knots. “My design. My protocols. If there are deficiencies, they’re deficiencies I should have caught before I left. Deficiencies I would have caught if I hadn’t—”
I stop. If I hadn’t run away. If I hadn’t let a man’s rejection send me fleeing to another continent. If I’d been stronger, braver, less pathetic.
This is what I do. I figure things out. I solve problems. And I wasn’t here to do it. I let my broken heart override my brain, and while I was gone, everything fell apart.
“Audrey.” Bennett’s voice is firm. “FDA requirements changed after you submitted. The signal interference issue was edge-case testing that wasn’t in the original protocol. None of this is your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?”
No one answers. Which is an answer in itself.
“I’m coming in tomorrow.” I’m already reaching for my phone, pulling up my calendar. “First thing. I need to see the CRL, the response plan, all the testing data—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Bennett’s voice is careful.
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a full stakeholder meeting tomorrow morning. Landon James, Robert, the whole response team. It’s going to be intense.” He exchanges a glance with Layla. “You just got off a transatlantic flight. Give yourself a few days to readjust, and we’ll bring you up to speed next week.”
“You don’t want me back until next week?” I stare at him.
“Technically, you have a full seven days—”
“Honey.” Layla nudges him in the side, and he clamps his lips closed.
“Bennett, this is my project. I’m not going to sit at home while—”
“It’s one meeting,” he states. “We’ll make sure you’re sent the notes. You will survive.”
My mouth drops open and Layla’s hand covers mine. “Just give yourself a little breathing room. You’ve been gone for three months. Jet lag will hit—”
“I don’t need breathing room. I need to work.”
“Audrey.” Bennett leans forward, his expression shifting to stern boss man. “I am officially, as your superior, insisting that you take a beat. Let us handle the initial coordination, and then you can come in fresh.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my stomach tighten. Like it’s more of a warning than it is concern.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll wait.”
Layla squeezes my hand. Bennett nods, but he doesn’t look relieved. He looks like a man who’s bought himself time and isn’t sure it’ll be enough, and all I want to do is push him on why. But now isn’t the time, so I let the matter drop.
For now.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I desperately want to ask more questions about NeuraTech—what tests have been run, what solutions have been proposed, who’s on point for each deficiency—but instead I’m listening to Layla and Serena bantering about reality TV and bachelorette party ideas and pretending to care about the difference between tie-dye and ombre cupcake towers.
I laugh in the right places. I even make a joke about staging an intervention if Layla tries to coordinate bridesmaid dresses past 11 pm.
There is a point where you just pick a color and move on, but Layla is genetically incapable of surrender.
We laugh. And it’s warm and inviting. I realize how much I’ve missed this. But at the same time, I can’t help but notice that Logan’s name never comes up.
Not once.
They could have referenced his work. A joke he made.
The way he used to show up to meetings with his shirt inside-out when he’d been up all night coding.
Instead, they talk about Dominic and his constant efforts to befriend Jenna despite her code-red allergy to human emotion; Caleb’s habit of multi-task lawyering over FaceTime, which drives Serena to distraction; the time Bennett had to talk Layla out of designating their honeymoon as a tax-deductible ‘synergy retreat.’
But nothing about Logan. Not even a passing reference.
My fingers find the napkin in my lap and twist. I make myself stop.
I can’t decide if that’s merciful or unbearable. Part of me wants to ask—just to prove I can handle hearing his name. And part of me is terrified that if anyone says it, I’ll crack right down the middle.
So I don’t ask. And they don’t offer. And we all pretend the elephant isn’t in the room, wearing glasses and a rumpled Oxford shirt and haunting me from less than a mile away.
By dessert, my appetite is gone. By the end of the meal, my adrenaline is too. The exhaustion hits me all at once—an avalanche of jet lag, stress, and whatever flavor of existential dread has been haunting me for weeks.
And on top of that, I can’t stop thinking about NeuraTech. About the failure that happened on my watch—or because I wasn’t watching.
By the time we leave the restaurant, I’ve already mentally drafted three emails and outlined a testing protocol for the signal interference issue.
I’m going to that meeting.
I don’t care what Bennett says. This project was mine at the start, and I’ll see it through to the end—even if I have to kick the doors off their hinges.