Chapter 20
GEORGIA
Time is a strange thing. When you stay up late talking into the night with your friends, seven hours feels like one. And a kiss from the right person, while from the outside it can look like only a minute, can make time stop altogether.
Tonight, time is twisted, curled in on itself. Minutes rush by, then hours drag. I lie in my tent with Ella curled beside me, staring at the canvas ceiling, replaying the argument over and over in my mind.
You want to share it for the wrong reasons.
That’s not a good enough reason to rush this.
If you can’t trust me to do it right, then maybe you hired the wrong person.
I shouldn’t have said that last part. It was unprofessional, emotional, born from hurt rather than logic.
But God, I meant it.
Because the Calvin who showed up demanding press coverage and immediate announcements—that was the same Calvin who showed up at my cottage in Maine.
The businessman who sees everything as a transaction, who measures success in headlines, who doesn’t understand that some things require time and care and can’t be rushed.
I thought he’d changed. I really did.
I thought the man who made toys for my daughter and held me in his tent at night while we talked about futures… I thought that was the real Calvin. The one he’d been hiding under layers of defensive armor.
But maybe I was wrong. Maybe that was just another performance. A way to get what he wanted—my expertise, my cooperation, my body—until something more important came along.
Like headlines. Like proving his father wrong. Like validation from the world that matters more than respecting the work.
Ella stirs beside me, making sleepy sounds, and I pull her closer, breathing in her baby-shampoo smell, feeling tears prick my eyes.
I let him in. Not just into my life, but into hers. I let Ella get attached to him. Let her call him by name, trust him, love him. And now, when we leave, because we will have to leave, she’ll be hurt too.
Mike taught me this lesson. Men say what you want to hear until it’s inconvenient.
They seem supportive until your needs conflict with theirs.
They act like they care until they don’t.
And I fell for it again. Let myself believe that Calvin was different just because he was good with my daughter and made my heart race.
My picker is still broken. Maybe more broken than I thought.
Dawn light begins to filter through the tent, and I realize I’ve stayed up through the night. My head is throbbing, and I’ll be no good when it comes to concentrating on the site.
But maybe that doesn’t matter. As excited as I am about yesterday’s discovery, I have to face an important truth: I don’t own what I’ve found here in the desert. I’ve only been borrowing it for a short amount of time.
I wait until after breakfast, which he doesn’t show up for, to confront him. Ella is with Fatima, happily eating fruit and making a mess, and the team is preparing for the day’s documentation work at the tomb site.
I find Calvin in his tent, already on his laptop. Probably drafting press releases, I think as bile rises from my stomach.
“We need to talk,” I say from the entrance, my only greeting.
He looks up, and his expression is carefully neutral. Professional. Like the past three weeks never happened. Like we didn’t share secrets and touches and futures in the darkness.
“Come in.”
I do, but I don’t sit. This needs to stay professional too. “I’ve been thinking about yesterday,” I start. “About what you said. About how you want to handle the discovery.”
“And?”
“And I can’t work under those conditions. I can’t rush the analysis of the tomb to fit your PR timeline. These remains deserve proper care and study, and that takes time. If you can’t accept that, then…” I take a breath. “Then I need to leave.”
Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before I can identify it. “You’re threatening to quit?”
“I’m setting boundaries. This is my professional expertise, Calvin. You hired me to lead this excavation, and I’m telling you what the work requires. If you can’t trust me to do it right, then there’s no point in me being here.”
“So, it’s your way or nothing?”
The coldness in his voice makes me flinch. “It’s the right way or nothing. There’s a protocol for handling discoveries like this. Standards. Ethics. You can’t just ignore them because you’re impatient.”
“Everything is business, Georgia. The sooner you learn that, the better.”
The words feel like a slap. “Fine,” I say, my voice tight. “Then I’m done. I’ll pack up my things today. You can find someone else to rush through the analysis and get you your headlines.”
I turn to leave, expecting him to call me back. To say he didn’t mean it. To choose me and the work I do over his pride.
“Georgia.”
I stop, hope flaring despite myself.
“Make sure you complete all documentation of your work so far before you go. I’ll need it for the next archaeologist.”
Thank God I have my back to him. The last thing I need right now is him seeing my face fall.
“The next archaeologist,” I repeat numbly.
“Yes. You said yourself—now that we’ve made this discovery, other archaeologists will be interested. Getting someone qualified won’t be difficult.”
I slowly turn to face him. “Right. Of course. The discovery is what matters. Not who makes it.”
“I hired you because you were the best available. But if you’re not willing to work within reasonable parameters—”
“Reasonable?” The word bursts out. “Reasonable is taking the time to do this right!” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
“You know what? Never mind. You’re right.
You’ll find someone else. Someone who doesn’t question your decisions.
Someone who’ll give you exactly what you want, when you want it. ”
“I’ve been patient,” he grits out through tight teeth, and I notice that there are bags under his eyes.
So, he barely slept either. Good. “That’s not a word I would ever use to describe you,” I quietly say.
He stands, and for a moment I see something like hurt flash across his face. But it’s quickly replaced by cold anger. “I don’t have to justify my decisions to you. You work for me, Georgia. Not the other way around.”
The words land like stones in my stomach.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. “I work for you. Past tense, actually. I quit.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We stare at each other, and I want to scream. Want to shake him. Want to ask how we got here, how we went from tangled together in his tent to standing on opposite sides of a professional divide.
But I already know the answer. We got here because I was stupid enough to think he’d changed. But he didn’t. Or not enough, anyway.
“I’ll have my documentation completed by tonight,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“What about Ella?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that almost sounds like concern. “The journey back to the city—”
“Is not your problem. We’ll be fine. We’ve always been fine on our own.”
The words are meant to hurt, and I see them land.
“Georgia.” He’s staring at me like there’s more he wants to say, but his expression is unreadable, and I certainly won’t be forcing any words out of him.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Aarons? Any other instructions before I go?”
His jaw tightens. “No. That’s all.”
I turn and walk out of his tent, my spine straight, my head high.
I make it exactly ten steps before the tears start.