Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
Callaway
The moment I end the call, the kitchen feels too clean for what just happened in it.
It’s too bright, as if the room is pretending it didn’t just hear my family threaten to turn my life into a headline and my love into a bargaining chip.
The lake sits beyond the glass, smooth and indifferent, a dark stretch of water that has never once cared about a “family agreement.” The lake doesn’t know what it feels like to be raised as a commodity.
To have your worth measured in revenue streams and appearances. To be loved only when you’re useful.
I set my phone on the counter and stare at it like it might ring again out of spite.
My hand finds the edge of the island. Cool stone, grounding, and I take a few breaths in through my nose, slow, and let my brain do what it does best when it’s scared: build a plan so I don’t have to feel the fear.
Step one: Tell Monty and Vesper.
Step two: Tell Harvey that we need to air everything he’s gathered about my parents throughout the years.
Step three: Most importantly, we bring in the people who enjoy burning rich monsters for sport.
I tap my screen and open Harvey’s thread, thumbs moving faster than my pulse.
Callaway: They’re moving. Kline called. Threats: statement, “breach,” cohabitation, pregnancy.
They’ve been digging into Vesper. I need every doc tied to “family agreement.” Also: immediate protective steps—injunction/restraining order if possible.
Options in writing today. Green light. Use everything.
I’m done playing nice. Bury them. Also .
. . we might come out. Need to talk to Ves and Monty.
The response comes back almost instantly.
Harvey: Good morning to you too.
Callaway: Sorry. My family started harassing me . . . earlier than usual.
Harvey: It’s past eight in New York. I can see how they’d drag you out of your routine at such an ungodly hour.
I exhale, sharp and almost a laugh, because even that tiny thread of banter keeps me from punching a hole through glass.
Callaway: So will you do it?
A beat.
Harvey: Yeah. We’ve been getting ready. I’ll keep you updated.
My stomach turns again, that same stupid revolt it pulled when I tried to drink coffee, and for a second I want to laugh at my own body. Sympathy? Adrenaline? Some internal protest because I’m about to go to war before breakfast?
Fine.
I can fight on a sour stomach. I’ve done worse. I’ve played entire playoff series with injuries that should’ve benched me. I’ve smiled for cameras while my father shredded me with a compliment. I’ve survived dinner tables that felt like trials.
I pick up the mug, dump the coffee in the sink, rinse it like I can rinse away the last five minutes of my life, and then I’m walking.
Bare feet on warm stone. A hallway that’s too quiet. Soft light slides under doors like the house is holding its breath.
Upstairs, Vesper is still asleep. Down here, Monty is still in the gym, punishing iron like it can keep the world from touching us.
I pause at the bottom step and listen.
The home gym has its own rhythm—metal, breath, the muted thud of a bar racked with control. Monty doesn’t play music out loud in the mornings. He keeps it in his ears. Like he’s guarding silence for later. Like he knows we’ll need it.
I open the door.
The room smells like clean rubber, sweat, and effort. Monty’s facing away from me, headphones on, shirt off, skin slick with heat, forearms corded as he grips the bar. He’s on the bench, pushing through a set like he’s negotiating with pain and winning.
When he locks out and racks the bar, his chest rises fast. His throat works as he swallows. He sits up, drags a towel across his face, reaches for his water bottle—and that’s when he finally notices me.
He turns his head.
One look at my face and his whole body changes.
He pulls one earbud out. “What happened?” His voice is rough, still coated in sleep and exertion. Then, without missing a beat, like it’s the only question that matters, “Who upset you?”
“I got a call,” I say.
“A call?” He frowns and curses under his breath. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”