What Does Mr Calloway Know?

Chapter Thirteen: What does Mr Calloway Know? 

Nova POV

How the hell does he know?

The question wouldn’t leave me. It clung to me the way tea stains cling to the inside of my favorite chipped mug no matter how hard I scrub.

Grant didn’t just stumble across those words. No one says this is not a charity organization like that in a precise, weighted, almost rehearsed way unless they’ve heard it before. Unless they knew exactly what string they were pulling.

But that’s impossible.

Right?

I forced myself to look at him, to study every detail. He was leaning against my desk now, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting his cufflink with the kind of bored precision people reserve for polishing knives. His face gave nothing away, but there was a stillness in him that made my skin prickle.

Grant Calloway wasn’t a man you could read. He was a vault. A safe with a twelve-digit code and motion sensors. And yet, somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already cracked me open and was peering inside.

“You’re quiet,” he said, voice smooth, low, almost… amused.

My mouth went dry.

“I—uh—I was just… processing.”

“Processing?” He tilted his head, a predator humoring prey. 

“Do you often process by crying in my office?”

My cheeks flamed. Damn tears. Damn clumsy emotions.

“I wasn’t crying,” I lied, swiping at the evidence under my glasses. “It’s just—tea steam. Sensitive eyes.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite mockery.

“Tea steam,” he repeated, as if rolling the words around in his mind to see how ridiculous they tasted.

I wanted to crawl into a hole. Or better, into the nearest fictional universe where robots with auburn bobs and billionaire bosses didn’t exist.

Instead, I hugged my book to my chest like a shield and blurted the question that had been strangling me since he spoke.

“Why did you say that?”

Grant’s gaze sharpened. “Say what?”

“You know what,” I pushed, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. 

“That line. About charity.”

For a flicker of a second so fast I almost doubted it, I saw something in his eyes. A shadow, recognition, maybe even triumph.

And then it was gone, replaced by cool indifference.

“You’re overthinking again, Miss Hart.” He straightened, pocketing his phone. “Not everything is about you.”

But I knew better.

Because those words… those exact words… were mine.

They belonged to a past I never told anyone about.

So how the hell did Grant Calloway know them

I couldn’t sit still. My foot bounced against the carpet like it was powered by invisible electricity, and the more I tried to stop it, the worse it got.

Overthinking? He said it like it was an illness I’d contracted, like my brain was some messy desk he couldn’t be bothered to tidy up.

But no, I’m sure this wasn’t me “overthinking.”

This was me connecting dots. This was me recognizing when someone slipped a knife exactly where the scar tissue already was.

I set my book down carefully, too carefully, like if I moved slowly enough he wouldn’t notice I was one second away from combusting. My eyes flicked to Aivra, the robotic assistant, who stood politely to the side like a well-dressed statue, her fake auburn bob shining under the office lights. Creepy. Almost human. Almost trustworthy. But not quite.

“Miss Hart,” Grant’s voice cut through my spiraling. Calm. Flat. That same unnerving cobra-poise. 

“Are you still with me, or have you drifted back into your—what do you call it—filthy literary obsessions?”

My mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. I wanted to snap at him, to say something sharp and clever that would make him blink for once, but instead, all that came out was:

“You can’t just… say things like that.”

One eyebrow arched. He had perfected the art of weaponizing silence, because he let it hang for so long I thought my lungs might collapse.

“Like what?” he finally asked.

I swallowed. My throat felt raw, like the words were scratching their way out.

“This isn’t a charity organization.”

There. Said it. Out loud. The weight of those words pressed against my ribs.

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened, as though he were cataloging my reaction for later use.

“And?”

“And—” My voice cracked. God, I hated that. “That phrase. It means something to me. Something you couldn’t possibly know.”

Silence again. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He was marble and menace wrapped in a suit.

My chest tightened. He wasn’t going to give me an answer. He never gave answers, only questions disguised as orders.

So I filled the silence myself.

“Unless…” I whispered before I could stop myself. My brain had already run off the cliff, and my mouth just followed. “Unless you do know.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air in the room did. Heavy. Dense. Charged like before a thunderstorm.

And in that moment, I realized something that made my blood run cold.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted the truth.

Because if Grant Calloway knew that—

then maybe he knew everything

I hated the way his silence felt like a verdict.

Like he knew the exact string to pull, the exact bruise to press, and he was daring me to admit it out loud.

“Unless you do know,” I repeated, louder this time, and for the first time, his jaw ticked. A tiny shift, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

My pulse jumped. Got you.

“Careful, Nova.” His voice was low now, not raised, not cold—but edged. 

“Suspicion is a dangerous habit. It turns ordinary men into liars… and women like you into reckless little girls playing detective.”

My cheeks burned hot. Little girl. He said it deliberately, like he was peeling skin from bone.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What would you prefer?” His mouth curved— Mother help me—not into a smile, but something darker. 

“Intern? Charity case? Or maybe the title you really want.”

I blinked. “What title?”

The silence after was lethal. He let it stretch until my insides twisted. And then, like he was dropping a match onto gasoline, he leaned just slightly closer, eyes on mine.

“Mine.”

The word was simple. One syllable. But it detonated in my chest.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Because damn it, the part of me that should’ve been running for the door was… listening. Curious. Even hungry.

And then, just as quickly, I remembered the sting of his words.

This isn’t a charity organization.

I straightened my back, forcing my voice not to shake.

“You don’t know me,” I whispered.

His gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, like a man reading secrets straight off my skin.

“Oh, Nova,” he said finally, his tone a dangerous caress. 

“That’s where you’re wrong.”