Chapter 5: After Hours
Callum
She walks out of the boardroom like she owns the air in it.
Because she does.
Fifty-three percent.
I let that number run through my head again while everyone else files out, avoiding eye contact, pretending this isn't as bad as it is.
It's worse.
I stay seated until the room empties, then pull up my phone and dial my lawyer.
"Tell me she's bluffing," I say.
"She's not," he responds immediately. "The acquisitions are clean. She used three shell companies and a private equity fund no one traced back to her. The filings are airtight."
"How?"
"She knew the structure," he says. "Inside out."
Of course she did.
She built it.
I hang up and sit in the silence for a minute, staring at the chair she sat in. The confidence. The calm. The way she didn't raise her voice once—just let the numbers speak.
Five years ago, I let her walk out of my life like she was nothing.
She came back like a storm no one predicted.
By the time I leave the building, it's past seven. The city is dark, and I'm driving without thinking, running the same questions on loop. How long has she been watching me? How much does she know? How did I miss this?
My phone rings again.
"She's requesting a one-on-one," my assistant says.
"When?"
"Now."
My jaw tightens. "Where?"
"Your office."
I consider refusing. But refusing means I'm scared.
I'm not.
Not of her.
When I walk into my office twenty minutes later, she's already there. Standing by the window, looking out at the skyline, her reflection ghosted in the glass.
She turns when she hears the door.
"You kept the layout," she says.
"You remember it."
"I designed it."
She's right. She did.
I shut the door behind me. Don't sit.
"What do you want?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "Direct. I like that."
"I'm not in the mood for games."
"Good," she says. "Neither am I."
She steps away from the window and faces me fully.
"I want three things," she says.
"Name them."
"Your logistics division," she says. "Your Asian market contracts. And your resignation as CEO."
I laugh.
Once.
Hard.
"You're insane," I say.
"I'm your boss," she replies calmly.
That word hits different.
"You're not my anything," I snap.
She smiles. Small. Satisfied. "That's not what the paperwork says."
I step closer without meaning to. Old instinct. Something territorial. Something that remembers what she looked like underneath me and doesn't know how to separate that from this.
"You think buying shares gives you control?" I ask.
"I think owning a majority gives me a vote," she says. "And my vote says you're done."
"You'd burn the whole thing down just to prove a point?"
"No," she replies. "I'd restructure it to prove I built it."
Silence sits between us.
"Why now?" I ask. Lower.
She meets my eyes. "Because you made me wait five years to hear you say my name again."
That stops me.
"And now that I've heard it," she continues, "I don't want it anymore."
She walks past me toward the door.
Her arm brushes mine.
Just barely.
My hand catches her wrist before I can stop it.
She stops.
Doesn't pull away.
Doesn't look at me.
"Let go," she says.
I don't.
"We're not done," I say.
She turns her head just enough that I can see the edge of her jaw, the line of her throat.
"We've been done," she says, "for five years."
Then she pulls free.
And she's gone.
She walks out of the boardroom like she owns the air in it.
Because she does.
Fifty-three percent.
I let that number run through my head again while everyone else files out, avoiding eye contact, pretending this isn't as bad as it is.
It's worse.
I stay seated until the room empties, then pull up my phone and dial my lawyer.
"Tell me she's bluffing," I say.
"She's not," he responds immediately. "The acquisitions are clean. She used three shell companies and a private equity fund no one traced back to her. The filings are airtight."
"How?"
"She knew the structure," he says. "Inside out."
Of course she did.
She built it.
I hang up and sit in the silence for a minute, staring at the chair she sat in. The confidence. The calm. The way she didn't raise her voice once—just let the numbers speak.
Five years ago, I let her walk out of my life like she was nothing.
She came back like a storm no one predicted.
By the time I leave the building, it's past seven. The city is dark, and I'm driving without thinking, running the same questions on loop. How long has she been watching me? How much does she know? How did I miss this?
My phone rings again.
"She's requesting a one-on-one," my assistant says.
"When?"
"Now."
My jaw tightens. "Where?"
"Your office."
I consider refusing. But refusing means I'm scared.
I'm not.
Not of her.
When I walk into my office twenty minutes later, she's already there. Standing by the window, looking out at the skyline, her reflection ghosted in the glass.
She turns when she hears the door.
"You kept the layout," she says.
"You remember it."
"I designed it."
She's right. She did.
I shut the door behind me. Don't sit.
"What do you want?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "Direct. I like that."
"I'm not in the mood for games."
"Good," she says. "Neither am I."
She steps away from the window and faces me fully.
"I want three things," she says.
"Name them."
"Your logistics division," she says. "Your Asian market contracts. And your resignation as CEO."
I laugh.
Once.
Hard.
"You're insane," I say.
"I'm your boss," she replies calmly.
That word hits different.
"You're not my anything," I snap.
She smiles. Small. Satisfied. "That's not what the paperwork says."
I step closer without meaning to. Old instinct. Something territorial. Something that remembers what she looked like underneath me and doesn't know how to separate that from this.
"You think buying shares gives you control?" I ask.
"I think owning a majority gives me a vote," she says. "And my vote says you're done."
"You'd burn the whole thing down just to prove a point?"
"No," she replies. "I'd restructure it to prove I built it."
Silence sits between us.
"Why now?" I ask. Lower.
She meets my eyes. "Because you made me wait five years to hear you say my name again."
That stops me.
"And now that I've heard it," she continues, "I don't want it anymore."
She walks past me toward the door.
Her arm brushes mine.
Just barely.
My hand catches her wrist before I can stop it.
She stops.
Doesn't pull away.
Doesn't look at me.
"Let go," she says.
I don't.
"We're not done," I say.
She turns her head just enough that I can see the edge of her jaw, the line of her throat.
"We've been done," she says, "for five years."
Then she pulls free.
And she's gone.