They Erased Me. I Owned Their Empire Chapter 13

I held the tea in both hands.

Then I looked at the man who had driven forty minutes in the dark just so I wouldn’t have to wonder.

My whole life, love had been a locked door. Something I had to earn. Something I had to wait outside of, in the cold, hoping someone would remember I was there.

Callum had never once made me wait outside.

He’d just stood in the doorway. Holding it open. Telling me exactly where it was.

“Yes,” I said.

He blinked. Like he’d braced himself for something else.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Dinner. Not as partners.” I smiled. “And this time I’m picking the restaurant.”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that comes from relief, from somewhere deep. He reached out and took my free hand.

His was warm from the cup.

“Anywhere you want,” he said.

I picked a dumpling place in Chinatown with fluorescent lights and plastic chairs. He didn’t blink. We sat by the window

because I told him I love watching people walk by. He said he knew. He’d noticed at the diner.

That spring, the board voted again.

Eight to one. Wren Calloway, Chief Executive Officer. The interim came off my title.

The one vote against was from a man Grant had golfed with. He resigned in June.

Dad stepped down as chairman in July. He asked me to dinner first, so I’d hear it from him and not from a memo. It

was the first time he’d ever told me something before he told Bianca.

I rebuilt the Cape hotel first. New roof. New beds. The ones the renovation fund was supposed to buy two years ago. I

put a framed photo of my grandmother in the lobby, wearing her emeralds.

Theo became my chief operating officer. He was good at it. Better than good. He never once let a meeting end without

asking me what I thought.

Miles started showing up on Sundays. Quietly. He brought takeout and fixed the hinge on Mom’s porch door without being asked.

And Mom.

Mom learned me like a language.

Lemon cake. Earl Grey. My favorite season was autumn. I hated cilantro. I’d broken my wrist in fifth grade and nobody had remembered which one. Left. She wrote it all down in a little notebook that lived on the kitchen counter. Wren, on

the cover. In blue ink.

In November, she called on a Tuesday. Not a Sunday. Her voice was nervous.

“The photographer’s booked,” she said. “For the Christmas card. Saturday at two.”

My chest tightened. I didn’t mean it to.

“Wren?” She paused. “We won’t start without you. I promise. We’ll wait. However long it takes.”

I got there at one forty-five. Early. Old habit.

They were all already standing in the living room. Dad. Mom. Theo. Miles.

There was an empty space in the center. Right in front of the fireplace.

Mom had left my green scarf on the mantel.

“We saved you a spot,” she said.

I stood in it. The photographer counted down. Mom’s hand found mine and held on.

That evening, Callum picked me up. I talked the whole drive about the scarf. He just listened, smiling at the road.

When we pulled up outside my building, he cut the engine. Didn’t get out. Turned to face me.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “Because you should never be surprised by the people who love you.”

My heart started pounding.

“On Christmas Eve, at the gala, I’m going to ask you a question.” His voice shook, just slightly. “I’m telling you now, so you have six weeks to think about it. So you never have to guess what’s coming. Not with me.”

I stared at him.

“Callum.”

“That’s all.” He smiled. “That’s the whole thing.”

And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait for my birthday.