CHAPTER 6 :The Cost of an Unanswered Question

Avah Morne had learned that the most expensive mistakes were rarely the ones that looked like mistakes.

They were the ones somebody called a misunderstanding and expected everyone else to pay for.

She stared at the engineering note on her laptop while Clove placed a mug of coffee beside her.

“Tell me you're not planning to fight a billionaire before breakfast,” Clove said.

Avah scrolled back to the bottom of the document. “I'm planning to ask a question.”

“That's what you called it before you made a supplier cry.”

“He was overcharging us.”

“He cried, Avah.”

“He stopped overcharging us.”

Clove sighed and pulled a chair closer. “Fine. Ask your question. But please don't use that calm voice you use when you're about to destroy someone's entire argument. It's unsettling.”

Avah almost smiled.

The note was straightforward. The central gallery at Meridian House could not be constructed exactly as originally proposed without relocating support columns, a change that would affect the budget and schedule. The information had existed before the design competition began.

Yet the shortlisted studios had received incomplete documentation.

No dramatic revelation. No evidence of sabotage. Just an omission that could cost Avah a contract she had worked hard to earn.

And that was precisely what bothered her.

Someone had decided the information was not important enough to share.

Someone else would now decide whether the consequences were hers to bear.

“I'm not accusing anyone,” Avah said. “I'm requesting a written explanation of when the restriction was identified, when the design teams were supposed to receive it, and whether every shortlisted studio is being given the same opportunity to revise.”

Clove lifted her mug. “That sounds reasonable.”

“Which means somebody will probably find it offensive.”

“Then they can be offended in writing.”

Avah turned back to her laptop and composed the email.

She copied Mira, the project coordinator, and the engineering department. She kept the wording precise, professional, and impossible to mistake for a personal complaint.

Before sending it, she read the message once more.

There had been a time when she would have softened every sentence because she feared being difficult. During her marriage, she had become skilled at swallowing the second half of her thoughts, especially when Calder's expression suggested that he had already moved on to something more important.

She had mistaken silence for maturity.

She had mistaken accommodation for love.

She pressed Send.

The email disappeared from her screen.

“Look at you,” Clove said. “Being assertive before caffeine.”

“I've had three sips.”

“Then we're witnessing a miracle.”

Avah finally laughed, but the sound faded when a notification appeared.

A reply from Mira.

Ms. Morne, your request has been forwarded to the project review team. All shortlisted studios will receive the same updated engineering documentation and clarification. The review process will remain independent.

Avah read it twice.

It was the right response. It was also carefully worded, which meant somebody inside Ives Holdings had recognized the problem.

She opened her design file.

The gallery still mattered. Not because she was determined to win an argument, but because the space had been the heart of her proposal from the beginning. She wanted residents to enter Meridian House and feel that the building belonged to them, not merely to the people who could afford its most expensive apartments.

If the columns could not be moved, she would make them part of the design.

She pulled the latest floor plan onto the screen and began sketching.

The columns could become narrow display structures, each with recessed lighting and rotating panels for local artists. The central path would remain open. A curved seating area could draw people toward the communal lounge without obstructing the entrance.

It was not the solution she had imagined.

It might become a better one.

By the time the first revised sketch took shape, Avah had forgotten to check her phone.

That was how she preferred to work. The world could make its demands outside the studio; inside, she could turn an obstacle into something useful.

Then Bex leaned over her shoulder.

“That's clever.”

Avah glanced at her junior designer. “It's unfinished.”

“Still clever. You made the columns look intentional.”

“That's the goal.”

Bex pointed to the circulation route. “What about wheelchair access if we add the seating here?”

Avah studied the line.

Then she moved the seating.

“Good catch.”

Bex grinned. “Does this mean I get to put my name on something?”

“It means you get to check every measurement before I put my name on anything.”

“Cruel leadership.”

“Effective leadership.”

Their laughter filled the studio, light and brief, before Avah returned to the drawing.

She had a design to save. She had a business to protect.

And she had no intention of letting her former husband become the center of either.

Calder Ives disliked explanations that arrived after the damage.

He stood at the end of the conference table while Mira displayed the original engineering note on the wall screen. Across from him, project coordinator Julian Cross adjusted his glasses.

“The restriction was included in the preliminary engineering package,” Julian explained. “It wasn't classified as a final design constraint at the time.”

“Was it included in the materials sent to the shortlisted studios?” Calder asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

Julian hesitated.

“Because the team believed the architects and designers could develop initial concepts around the existing structure. We intended to clarify the restriction during the technical workshop.”

Calder looked at the document again.

“Then why were the studios allowed to develop proposals without knowing which parts of the brief were physically impossible?”

“We didn't believe the gallery concepts would depend on relocating the columns.”

“You didn't believe they would,” Calder repeated. “That isn't the same as knowing they wouldn't.”

Julian's jaw tightened. “The intention wasn't to disadvantage anyone. We were trying to keep the schedule on track.”

“And now every studio has less time to revise its work.”

“Yes.”

“Then the schedule was not protected. The problem was postponed until it became somebody else's problem.”

Silence settled over the room.

Calder knew the tone of a man who had made a poor decision and was hoping good intentions would reduce its cost. He had used that argument himself often enough.

He turned to Mira. “What are we doing to correct it?”

“Every shortlisted studio will receive the same technical note, revised drawings, and clarification period. Their submissions will be evaluated against the same criteria. I'm also recommending that the review panel document how the restriction affects each proposal.”

“Approved.”

Julian shifted in his chair. “There is another consideration.”

Calder looked at him.

“Ms. Morne's studio is involved. Given your history, some people may interpret any accommodation as preferential treatment.”

There it was.

Calder felt the familiar impulse to defend himself before anyone had accused him of anything. He could say that Avah was qualified, that she had earned her place, that he had no intention of interfering with the competition.

But none of those statements would change the appearance of the situation.

“Then we make the process transparent enough that nobody has to take my word for it,” he said. “I will not review her revised submission. I will not contact her privately about the project. The independent panel will make its decision.”

Mira nodded. “I'll put that in the review record.”

Julian gathered his papers, looking relieved that the discussion had ended without a reprimand.

Calder stopped him before he reached the door.

“One more thing. The omission needs to be recorded accurately. Not as a technical update that arrived at the last minute. As information that should have been provided earlier.”

Julian's expression changed.

“Understood.”

When the door closed, Mira remained beside the screen.

“You realize this will make the process slower,” she said.

“It should have been done properly the first time.”

“I agree. I meant the personal side.”

Calder looked at her.

Mira rarely volunteered opinions about his private life. He had employed her long enough to know that when she did, she had already considered whether the truth was worth the discomfort.

“Avah won't thank you for protecting the fairness of a competition,” Mira continued. “She'll expect the competition to be fair.”

“She should.”

“And she won't want you fixing things for her.”

“I know.”

Mira gave him a look that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.

Calder turned toward the window. Aurelia City stretched below him, all glass towers and sunlight catching on the river. He had spent years believing that providing the right answer was the same as understanding the problem.

Avah had asked him questions during their marriage. Small questions, at first. About the rooms they lived in. About the work she wanted to do. About whether he would be home for dinner.

He had answered with schedules, expenses, and assurances that everything was fine.

He had never understood that sometimes she wasn't asking him to solve anything.

She was asking him to listen.

His phone vibrated on the table.

An email notification appeared from the Meridian House project team. Mira had copied him on the updated correspondence.

Avah's message was concise. She had requested clarification, insisted on equal treatment for every studio, and asked that the review panel record the correction formally.

There was no accusation. No emotional appeal. Not even a reference to their marriage.

He read it again.

Then he noticed the final attachment: Morne Studio — Revised Gallery Concept, Preliminary Sketches.

Calder did not open it.

The file belonged to the independent panel. Looking at it would give him information the other evaluators might not yet have, and the last thing Avah needed was another reason to question whether she had been treated fairly.

He closed the email.

For once, doing nothing was the most respectful choice available to him.

He was still looking at the screen when Mira's phone rang.

She listened, asked two questions, then ended the call with a troubled expression.

“What is it?” Calder asked.

“The independent panel has requested confirmation of the revised submission deadline.”

“Why?”

Mira glanced at the meeting notes.

“Because Julian's team sent the wrong date to one of the other shortlisted studios.”

Calder straightened.

“Which studio?”

“Calloway Design Group.”

The name landed harder than it should have.

Reid Calloway wasn't merely a professional contact of Avah's. He was one of the people who had shown interest in her work without treating her success as an inconvenience.

Calder forced himself to focus on the actual problem.

“Correct the deadline for everyone. In writing. Give every studio the same amount of time from the moment the corrected notice is received.”

“Already doing it.”

“And document the error.”

Mira nodded, then hesitated. “There's something else. Mr. Calloway has requested an independent review of the competition process.”

Calder's expression hardened.

“Is he alleging favoritism?”

“He hasn't made a formal allegation. He wants assurance that no studio has received information or additional time privately.”

It was a reasonable request.

That did not make it comfortable.

Calder looked down at Avah's unopened attachment, still visible in the corner of his screen. He had not read it. He had not contacted her. He had done everything he could to keep his history with her from influencing the project.

And somehow, his history was already influencing it.

“Give him the assurance,” Calder said. “And make sure the other studios receive the same response.”

Mira left to handle it.

Calder remained alone, staring at the closed file.

He had once believed that losing Avah meant losing the woman who waited for him at home.

Now he was beginning to understand that he had lost something far more important: the privilege of being the person she trusted.

His phone vibrated again.

This time, the message was from an unfamiliar number.

Mr. Ives, I believe we need to discuss the Meridian House competition before this becomes a larger problem.

No name. No explanation.

Only a final line beneath it.

You should ask Ms. Morne what she knows about the original brief.

Calder read the message twice.

Then he looked toward the door Avah had walked through at the technical meeting, refusing to stay behind with him.

For the first time, he wondered whether the missing information was only the beginning of the problem.

And whether Avah was already closer to the truth than he was.