“Then whose fault is it?”
No one answers. Which is an answer in itself.
“I’m coming in tomorrow.” I’m already reaching for my phone, pulling up my calendar. “First thing. I need to see the CRL, the response plan, all the testing data?—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Bennett’s voice is careful.
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a full stakeholder meeting tomorrow morning. Landon James, Robert, the whole response team. It’s going to be intense.” He exchanges a glance with Layla. “You just got off a transatlantic flight. Give yourself a few days to readjust, and we’ll bring you up to speed next week.”
“You don’t want me back untilnext week?” I stare at him.
“Technically, you have a full seven days?—”
“Honey.” Layla nudges him in the side, and he clamps his lips closed.
“Bennett, this is my project. I’m not going to sit at home while?—”
“It’s one meeting,” he states. “We’ll make sure you’re sent the notes. Youwillsurvive.”
My mouth drops open and Layla’s hand covers mine. “Just give yourself a little breathing room. You’ve been gone for three months. Jet lag will hit?—”
“I don’t need breathing room. I need to work.”
“Audrey.” Bennett leans forward, his expression shifting to stern boss man. “I am officially, as your superior, insisting that you take a beat. Let us handle the initial coordination, and then you can come in fresh.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my stomach tighten. Like it’s more of a warning than it is concern.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll wait.”
Layla squeezes my hand. Bennett nods, but he doesn’t look relieved. He looks like a man who’s bought himself time and isn’t sure it’ll be enough, and all I want to do is push him on why. But now isn’t the time, so I let the matter drop.
For now.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I desperately want to ask more questions about NeuraTech—what tests have been run, what solutions have been proposed, who’s on point for each deficiency—but instead I’m listening to Layla and Serena bantering about reality TV and bachelorette party ideas and pretending to care about the difference between tie-dye and ombre cupcake towers. I laugh in the right places. I even make a joke about staging an intervention if Layla tries to coordinate bridesmaid dresses past 11 pm. There is a point where you just pick a color and move on, but Layla is genetically incapable of surrender.
We laugh. And it’s warm and inviting. I realize how much I’ve missed this. But at the same time, I can’t help but notice that Logan’s name never comes up.
Not once.
They could have referenced his work. A joke he made. The way he used to show up to meetings with his shirt inside-outwhen he’d been up all night coding. Instead, they talk about Dominic and his constant efforts to befriend Jenna despite her code-red allergy to human emotion; Caleb’s habit of multi-task lawyering over FaceTime, which drives Serena to distraction; the time Bennett had to talk Layla out of designating their honeymoon as a tax-deductible ‘synergy retreat.’
But nothing about Logan. Not even a passing reference.
My fingers find the napkin in my lap and twist. I make myself stop.
I can’t decide if that’s merciful or unbearable. Part of me wants to ask—just to prove I can handle hearing his name. And part of me is terrified that if anyone says it, I’ll crack right down the middle.
So I don’t ask. And they don’t offer. And we all pretend the elephant isn’t in the room, wearing glasses and a rumpled Oxford shirt and haunting me from less than a mile away.
By dessert, my appetite is gone. By the end of the meal, my adrenaline is too. The exhaustion hits me all at once—an avalanche of jet lag, stress, and whatever flavor of existential dread has been haunting me for weeks.
And on top of that, I can’t stop thinking about NeuraTech. About the failure that happened on my watch—or because I wasn’t watching.
By the time we leave the restaurant, I’ve already mentally drafted three emails and outlined a testing protocol for the signal interference issue.
I’m going to that meeting.
