CHAPTER 7: The Question He Had No Right to Ask

Avah knew something was wrong when Reid Calloway called her instead of sending a message.

Reid was a man who respected working hours, email trails, and the sacred right of a designer to ignore her phone while wrestling with a difficult floor plan. He did not call without a reason.

She answered with her pencil still between her fingers.

“Please tell me you're calling to congratulate me on making structural columns fashionable.”

“I was going to congratulate you on making them functional,” Reid replied. “But now I'm curious. Have you actually made them fashionable?”

“I'm considering gold leaf.”

“That's terrible.”

“I knew you'd understand.”

His quiet laugh eased the tension in her shoulders.

Then his voice changed.

“Avah, have you received the corrected deadline for Meridian House?”

“Yes. Mira sent it to all the shortlisted studios.”

“Good. My team received the wrong date first. It cost us a chunk of our preparation time, and I wanted to be certain the correction went to everyone.”

“It did.”

“Then at least someone is taking the process seriously.”

Avah set down her pencil. “Is there a problem?”

“Not one I can prove. I requested an independent review of the competition process. I don't want any studio to benefit from an information gap, whether deliberately or accidentally.”

She appreciated that he had said any studio. Not her studio. Not his studio. Everyone.

“That's reasonable,” she said.

“I thought so. Unfortunately, reasonable requests can make people defensive.”

“Then perhaps they should try being reasonable more often.”

“Remind me never to argue with you in public.”

“You'd lose.”

“I suspect I'd enjoy the experience.”

Avah's smile came before she could stop it.

There was something uncomplicated about talking to Reid. He didn't make every conversation feel like a test she had unknowingly agreed to take. He asked questions and waited for the answers. He disagreed without making disagreement feel like a punishment.

She had forgotten how refreshing that could be.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question caught her off guard.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because you've spent your professional life earning the right to be in that competition, and now you're being asked to solve a problem you didn't create.”

Avah looked at the revised gallery sketches spread across her desk.

“I'll solve it.”

“I know you will. I wasn't asking whether you could.”

For a moment, she had no answer.

Then she glanced toward Clove, who was pretending to organize fabric samples while very obviously listening.

“I'm fine,” Avah said finally. “I'm just not interested in being treated differently because of my history with Calder.”

“Then don't let anyone turn your history into a reason to question your work.”

The words settled somewhere deep.

“Thank you, Reid.”

“Don't thank me yet. We may end up competing for the same contract.”

“Then I hope your proposal is excellent.”

“Excellent?”

“Good enough to lose gracefully.”

He laughed. “There she is.”

When the call ended, Avah remained still for a moment, listening to the ordinary sounds of the studio.

Clove appeared beside her desk.

“Reid?”

“Business.”

“Of course.”

“It was.”

“I didn't say it wasn't.”

“You're making a face.”

“This is my face.”

“Your face is judgmental.”

“My face has excellent instincts.”

Avah shook her head and returned to her sketches, but Clove's teasing left a small, uncomfortable question behind.

When had being treated kindly started feeling unusual?

She refused to follow that thought.

Calder was not the center of her life anymore. Neither was the marriage, nor the woman she had been inside it. She had work to do, a business to build, and a future that did not require her former husband to understand it.

She picked up her pencil.

The columns would become display structures. The gallery would retain its open circulation. The seating would shift toward the lounge, and the lighting would turn the supports into deliberate architectural features.

It was a better design than the first.

She was almost proud enough to forget the email that had arrived that morning.

Almost.

Calder read the anonymous message again.

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

He disliked anonymous accusations. They encouraged suspicion without requiring evidence and made it easy for the sender to avoid responsibility.

Still, he couldn't dismiss the timing.

Someone knew about the missing engineering note. Someone knew he was concerned about the competition's fairness. And someone had chosen to involve Avah's name.

He forwarded the message to Mira with instructions to preserve it and verify the sender through appropriate channels. He would not allow an unidentified text to become an excuse to question Avah's integrity.

Then he opened the project records.

The original brief had been assembled by Julian's team, reviewed by engineering, and approved for distribution. The omission appeared to have originated in a handoff between departments. There was no evidence that anyone had intentionally concealed the restriction.

Yet the anonymous sender seemed determined to suggest otherwise.

Calder leaned back.

He could ask Avah directly.

The thought came easily. He knew her number by heart, although he had no reason to believe she still wanted to hear from him. He could send a message that sounded professional, explain the situation, and ask whether she had received any unusual correspondence.

It would take less than a minute.

He picked up his phone.

Then he put it down.

Mira had been right. Avah would expect the competition to be fair, not for him to personally intervene whenever something became uncomfortable. Contacting her about an anonymous accusation could make her feel pressured to defend herself to a man who no longer had any claim on her time.

He would not do that.

Instead, he called the independent review lead.

“Has any studio reported receiving information outside the official process?” Calder asked.

“Not at this point.”

“Please confirm that in the review record. Also, I want the anonymous message documented without treating its contents as established fact.”

“Understood.”

“And make sure Ms. Morne's submission is evaluated independently. I don't want my involvement in this review to create another problem for her.”

The review lead agreed.

When Calder ended the call, he expected to feel relieved.

He didn't.

He had spent much of his adult life believing that if he removed enough obstacles, he could make the outcome acceptable. He had treated problems as things to manage and emotions as inconveniences that would eventually settle if he gave them enough time.

That approach had failed him spectacularly in his marriage.

Avah hadn't needed a husband who could arrange every detail of her life. She had needed one who noticed when she was unhappy before she became exhausted from explaining it.

He had noticed the quietness.

He had simply mistaken it for contentment.

His phone rang again. Mira.

“Mr. Ives, I've confirmed that the anonymous number isn't linked to the project team. We can't establish who sent it yet.”

“Fine. Don't speculate.”

“There is one development you should know about. The independent panel has requested a copy of every version of the original design brief.”

“Give them everything.”

“Even the internal notes?”

“Especially the internal notes.”

A pause followed.

“Understood.”

Calder ended the call and turned back to his work.

He would let the process unfold. He would not chase Avah, manufacture reasons to speak to her, or confuse his concern with a right to be involved in her life.

It was a simple decision.

It felt harder than any negotiation he had ever led.

By the time Avah finished the revised gallery concept, the studio had gone quiet.

She stood before the large presentation board, examining the lines and proportions. The support columns no longer looked like obstacles. Their new finishes would complement the warm stone flooring, while the recessed lighting would draw attention to the artwork rather than the structure itself.

Bex had solved the accessibility issue by shifting the seating and widening the central path. Clove had found a local supplier who could produce the display panels within the revised budget.

It was good work.

Not perfect, but thoughtful.

Avah was adding a final note to the materials schedule when her laptop chimed.

The email came from the Meridian House independent review team.

The subject line read: Formal Clarification Regarding Competition Submissions.

She opened it.

The panel confirmed that the original engineering note had been omitted from the brief distributed to the shortlisted studios. The omission had occurred during document preparation, and the available records did not establish any deliberate attempt to disadvantage a particular studio.

All shortlisted participants would receive identical technical information and the same revised deadline. Their submissions would be evaluated independently, with the review panel documenting any adjustments made in response to the structural restrictions.

Avah exhaled slowly.

It wasn't a dramatic revelation. Nobody had confessed to a grand scheme. There was no villain hiding behind an expensive desk.

There was a mistake, a process that had failed, and a team finally acknowledging the consequences.

She could work with that.

Then she noticed the final paragraph.

To preserve the integrity of the competition, Mr. Calder Ives has recused himself from reviewing or scoring any shortlisted submission.

Avah read the sentence again.

She hadn't asked him to do that.

She hadn't expected him to.

And she wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he had.

“Good news?” Clove asked from the doorway.

“The review panel has confirmed the omission. Everyone gets the same information and deadline.”

“Excellent. And the billionaire?”

Avah glanced at the screen.

“He won't be reviewing the proposals.”

Clove studied her expression. “Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like someone has handed you a gift you don't want to unwrap?”

“Because I don't need gifts from Calder.”

“Wasn't a gift. It was the bare minimum.”

“Exactly.”

Clove came closer and read the email. “Well, at least he seems to understand that he shouldn't interfere.”

“He should have understood that without being reminded.”

“Maybe he does now.”

Avah looked away.

She didn't want to defend him. She didn't want to condemn him either. The man who had signed their divorce papers was still the man who had once known how she took her coffee, what music she played when she was nervous, and which side of the bed she preferred.

Remembering those details was not the same as wanting him back.

She had to keep reminding herself of that.

Clove touched her shoulder. “You don't owe him a reaction, Avah.”

“I know.”

“Not gratitude. Not forgiveness. Not another chance.”

“I know.”

“Good. Because I'm prepared to be deeply unpleasant on your behalf.”

That earned a genuine laugh.

Avah closed the email and returned to the presentation board.

Her revised proposal was due soon. She would submit it on its merits, without trying to anticipate Calder's opinion or prove anything to the man who had once made her feel as though her ambitions were an inconvenience.

If Morne Studio won, it would be because the work deserved to win.

If it lost, she would survive that too.

She had built a life that could withstand disappointment.

What she had not yet learned was how to stop expecting it.

The revised submission was ready for the panel's review when another email arrived.

This one came from Reid.

I saw the formal clarification. I'm glad the process is being corrected.

A second message followed.

There's something I should tell you before the next workshop. My team has been asked to provide additional documentation about our initial proposal. It may be routine, but the request references an internal note I haven't seen.

Avah sat upright.

She typed a response.

What kind of note?

His reply arrived quickly.

I'm trying to find out. I don't want to make assumptions before I have the facts.

Avah appreciated that. She also recognized the shape of the problem: the original brief had been incomplete, and now another studio had been asked to provide documentation linked to information that might not have been shared equally.

She forwarded the message to the independent review contact, asking whether the request had been made to all shortlisted studios and whether the panel could confirm that the same standards applied to every submission.

She did not contact Calder.

She did not need to.

The review team acknowledged her email and promised to clarify the request.

Avah set down her phone.

Then a new notification appeared.

An official message from the panel.

Ms. Morne, please attend a short clarification meeting before the revised submissions are evaluated. The panel has identified a discrepancy between the original brief and an internal project note that may affect the assessment of your proposal.

Avah read it once.

Then again.

The omission had been acknowledged. The process had been corrected. Every studio was supposed to have the same information.

So what had the panel found now?

She opened the attachment.

It contained a single page from the original project archive. At the top was the Meridian House project code. Beneath it was a note about the gallery concept.

And at the bottom was a line that made her fingers go cold.

DESIGN DIRECTION TO BE CONFIRMED WITH EXECUTIVE SPONSOR BEFORE FINAL REVIEW.

The note carried a date from before the shortlist had been announced.

Avah stared at the words.

The executive sponsor was Calder Ives.

And she had no idea what he had been asked to confirm.