Chapter 6
Avery
Avery wasn’t expecting any company.
The night was quiet: just her, a half-finished bowl of pasta, and the dull hum of her laptop on the kitchen island. She’d been pretending to read an investor update but mostly scrolling through old commit logs, trying not to think about Quinn.
When the knock came, she frowned.
Only one person knocked like that, sharp, impatient, like the door was late for something.
“Gabby,” she muttered, pushing back from her chair.
Sure enough, there she was, framed in the doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and her laptop bag in the other.
“Emergency board meeting?” Avery asked dryly.
“Sort of,” Gabby said, brushing past her without invitation, just like she always did. “Except the board is me, and the agenda is: please don’t bite my head off for bringing up the woman who gave me these notes.”
Avery folded her arms. “If you’re here to talk about Quinn—”
“I am,” Gabby said, cutting her off. “And before you start, I come bearing spreadsheets and pinot.”
Avery sighed but took the bottle, anyway, grabbing two glasses. “This better be good.”
They sat at the kitchen table, laptops open, a candle flickering between them. Avery poured while Gabby organized her tabs like she was about to present in front of a venture board.
“I spent half the night pulling numbers,” Gabby said. “Running scenarios, cost analyses, what Halo’s offer could actually mean for us.”
Avery raised a brow. “It’s a full acquisition, Gab. That means ours becomes theirs.”
“I know,” Gabby said patiently. “But it also means we’d have the capital to grow without the constant fundraising treadmill.
Look.” She turned her laptop so Avery could see.
“Right now, our burn rate is sustainable for another twelve months, eighteen if we freeze new hires. With Halo, we’d triple our infrastructure support and halve those expenses.
They’d cover backend costs, international compliance, customer protection, all of it. ”
Avery swirled her wine, staring at the screen. “And in exchange, we hand over control.”
“Yes,” Gabby said simply. “But we’d still run it. Quinn said they want to keep the leadership team intact and keep you in charge of the brand and the product.”
Avery gave a small, humorless laugh. “Under their logo.”
“Under their funding,” Gabby countered. “Which means no more sleepless nights wondering if the servers will crash mid-update or if we can afford another round of safety audits. Avery, they’re not vultures. They’re offering structure.”
Avery leaned back, eyes flicking over the charts Gabby had made, growth projections, cost savings, all color-coded in Gabby’s signature chaos of tabs and formulas. “You really did your homework.”
“I always do,” Gabby said softly. “Look, I know this isn’t what you want to hear. You built Lilith from nothing. It’s your baby. But maybe letting someone help doesn’t mean losing it. Maybe it just means giving it room to grow.”
Avery stared into her glass. “I didn’t start this to make someone else rich.”
“You didn’t,” Gabby agreed. “You started it to make a difference. And if this deal means thousands more people get that safe space, then doesn’t that count towards the very difference you’re trying to make?”
The question hung between them.
Avery didn’t answer right away. She took a sip, eyes on the spreadsheet but her focus miles away.
Gabby reached across the table, hand brushing her wrist. “I’m not saying do it. I’m saying think about it. We owe it to ourselves and the people who use this app to at least look.”
Avery nodded, her throat tight. “I’ll look.”
“Good,” Gabby said, closing her laptop with a soft click. “That’s all I wanted.”
They fell quiet. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window. Avery refilled their glasses. The tension eased a little, replaced by something almost tender.
“Do you want to hear the best part?” Gabby asked finally.
Avery arched a brow. “There’s a best part?”
Gabby smirked. “You still get to tell her no.”
Avery huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” Gabby said, raising her glass. “To impossible women building impossible things.”
They clinked glasses, and for the first time all day, Avery smiled.
* * *
Avery was trying to focus. Trying being the operative word.
Her desk was spotless. Her inbox sat at a manageable thirty-two unread emails. And yet she’d spent the last twenty-five minutes staring at the same block of code like it had personally offended her.
She exhaled hard through her nose, backspacing the same three lines for the third time.
The issue wasn’t even complicated. A bot was triggering fake logins from dummy accounts created through a third-party API loophole, a fix that should’ve taken her ten, maybe twelve minutes.
But here she was, half an hour in, shoulders tense, brain a complete fucking mess.
It wasn’t about the code. She knew that. It was about last night.
She’d told Gabby she’d sleep on it. She hadn’t. She’d just lain awake, replaying every word. Gabby’s spreadsheets, the soft pitch under the wine, the promise of security that sounded an awful lot like surrender.
She could still see the numbers glowing across Gabby’s laptop screen, still hear words like infrastructure support and long-term scalability. All reasonable. All logical. And yet every part of her recoiled.
She hadn’t started Lilith to make it someone else’s brand. She hadn’t sacrificed weekends and sleep just to hand it to a company with glass offices and a woman who kissed like power dressed in silk.
Her stomach tightened. God, Quinn.
Avery sat back, dragging a hand through her hair. She looked good today. Knew it. Felt it.
A structured black blazer cinched at the waist over a soft black tank that dipped just enough to be intentional.
The skirt hit mid-thigh, professional technically; sexy, absolutely.
Her lipstick matched her heels: classic red, high enough to feel dangerous.
Her hair was glossy and loose; the ends curled just enough to bounce when she turned her head.
She hadn’t dressed for Quinn. Obviously.
But if Quinn walked in today? Yeah, Avery looked hot. She looked like power.
And she hadn’t heard a word from her. Not since Monday’s meeting.
No text, no email, nothing.
She opened her calendar, then minimized it. Opened her email. Clicked a Slack notification. Closed it. Opened Instagram for half a second, then shut it again.
“She’s just another corporate raider in very good tailoring,” Avery muttered. “Who cares if she hasn’t called?”
She told herself she was glad. It confirmed what she already knew, Quinn Sinclare was all business.
What happened between them had meant nothing to her.
She could compartmentalize. She could bend Avery over and fuck her within an inch of her life and still walk into a boardroom like it had never happened.
Cool.
Avery opened her Notes app. Typed one word: Quinn. Then deleted it immediately.
The door to her office opened at 11:30.
Gabby breezed in like chaos in sunglasses, two iced coffees in hand and her sunglasses perched in her curls. “Okay. Are you alive, or have you been possessed by the ghost of every overworked startup founder ever?”
“I’m fine,” Avery said flatly.
Gabby handed her a coffee and dropped into the chair across from her desk. “You look like you haven’t blinked in twenty minutes. What’s going on?”
“Bug in the product backend,” Avery muttered. “Fake logins hitting the auth route in waves. I patched the loophole, but the bots are still pinging.”
“Sounds riveting,” Gabby deadpanned. “Also, bullshit.”
Avery narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“I’m calling bullshit. This isn’t about the bug, Av. This is about your little corporate one-night stand.”
“It was not,” Avery inhaled sharply. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, because I came here specifically to talk about her.”
Avery groaned and leaned back.
Gabby smirked. “Look, you don’t have to like her, but you should at least think about what we discussed last night.”
“I did think about it,” Avery said, tone clipped but honest. “And I’m willing to hear her out if only to make sure she understands where I stand. But the answer is still no.”
Gabby studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Good,” Avery said, tapping her pen against the desk. “Glad we’re done here.”
“Sure,” Gabby said, unconvinced. She reached into her pocket and set a card on the desk. “Quinn’s number.”
Avery blinked. “Why do you have that?”
“She gave it to me. Said to reach out if we had questions.”
“I don’t have questions.”
“Of course you don’t,” Gabby said with a knowing grin. “But you’ll put it in your drawer anyway.”
“I won’t.”
“Sure. And I’m sure you also didn’t spend half the morning glaring at your screen like it personally offended you.”
Avery glared harder. “Get out of my office.”
Gabby stood, smirking. “Text me when you’re ready to admit you’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Sure, babe. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Avery muttered as the door clicked shut.
Silence again.
Avery stared at the card. Reached for it. Turned it over. No note. Just clean white stock and elegant serif font.
She opened her desk drawer and dropped it in.
Five minutes later, she opened the drawer again and lifted it out.
And just stared at it holding it between her fingers. Debating.
* * *
It was nearing four when Gabby reappeared, iced coffee in one hand, mischief in her eyes.
Avery barely glanced up. “What?”
Gabby didn’t answer right away, she just gave her that look. The one that always came right before chaos.
“Shit,” Avery muttered. “What now?”
“Quinn’s… here,” Gabby said, almost too casually.
Avery’s head snapped up. “Here here?”
“Conference room.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Gabby winced. “Just please trust me. I think we need to have this conversation.”
“Gabby.” Avery’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass.