Chapter 8

By the time Cain got back to the Northern Territory, his Pack had already changed.

The two months he'd been gone, three key clients hadn't renewed their contracts. Five people had left the project team.

His finance officer told him they had an eighty-thousand-credit cash flow gap this quarter.

He sat at his desk and stared at the numbers, his head full of static.

The bigger blow was still coming.

Before Serena was terminated, she had copied the entire client contact database.

By the time Cain caught on, she had already registered a competing firm and walked out with three of his core clients.

He called her.

Serena picked up.

Her voice wasn't the soft, honey-sweet one anymore. It was clean and clipped, like a different person.

"Cain. Or should I say Mr. Thorne now — what can I do for you?"

"You took my client database."

"I did. So?"

"You know what that's called?"

Serena laughed, a single sound.

"Hmm. What is it called? Using someone up and throwing them out? You taught me that, Mr. Thorne."

"You told me to act like your mate. Help you push Wren out. Be your tool. Then when you were done with me, you put the termination letter on the desk and didn't even give me a month's notice."

"Did you think you were the only one who knows how to use people?"

The call ended.

The coffee mug in Cain's hand hit the floor. Black liquid spread across a stack of contracts.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The video from the team-building event had been leaked by someone.

The footage showed Wren being scalded by the broth, clutching her arm as she stepped back.

And Cain running over — to put his arm around Serena.

The video made its way through the industry chat groups.

Someone added a caption: "Pack Alpha watches his mate get burned, then comforts his subordinate."

Comments stacked up.

"I wouldn't trust this guy with a contract."

"No integrity, no character. Treats people like tools."

"I'd think twice before signing anything with this Pack."

Within two weeks, four more clients were gone.

His business partner met him for lunch and said, in a tone that was technically still consulting:

"Old Cain. Maybe we should split the Pack up. Go separate ways for now. See what happens later."

Cain held his glass and said nothing for a long time.

Something worse happened in the third week.

The industry news broke with a major announcement: the Calloway Kitchen brand was entering the Northern Territory, with the first location in his city.

Budget of twenty million credits. Looking for a long-term brand partner.

Cain barely glanced at it at first.

Until he pulled up the Calloway Kitchen brand profile page.

Founder: Alan Calloway.

Brand Director: Wren Calloway.

The photo showed Wren standing in front of one of their locations. White shirt, jeans. Holding a bowl of scallion oil noodles.

She was barely smiling.

The scar on her right forearm was visible just below the sleeve.

Behind her, the sign read: "Calloway Kitchen — Three Generations of Pack Tradition."

Cain sat in front of his computer for a long time.

He thought about the day Wren had moved some of her things in and mentioned, offhandedly: "My dad's business in the Southern Territory is doing pretty well."

He'd made a vague sound in reply and hadn't asked anything more.

He hadn't known how large the Calloway operation had grown.

He didn't know that what he kept throwing in her face — "your Pack collapsed" — was only a stopover. That they had moved on and gone further than he ever would.

This contract could have been his.

If he hadn't lost her.

Cain closed the computer.

The office was quiet.

Outside the window, the city skyline sat under a flat grey sky.

He opened his drawer. Wren's sticky note was still in there, where she'd left it.

【The south-facing room is yours again.】

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he laughed.

Alone in the empty office, he laughed until tears ran down his face.

A year and a half later.

The twelfth Calloway Kitchen location in the Northern Territory opened on the west side of the city.

I stood at the door and watched the ribbon get cut, confetti raining down.

My mom was next to me holding her phone up for a live stream, grinning.

"Everyone watching — my daughter just opened her twelfth!"

Comments streamed past: "Amazing." "Can I franchise?" "The owner looks so young."

I smiled and waved my hand, then went into the back kitchen.

Six stovetops running, steam rising.

On the wall, the menu board. At the top:

"Signature — Wren's Noodles."

It started with my grandmother's scallion oil noodle base. I added a caramel soy glaze I'd worked out myself — half the sweetness, twice the depth.

The day I had the kitchen team taste it, one of the senior cooks went quiet for a long moment.

"Where did this recipe come from?"

"My grandmother taught me."

"She was a master, wasn't she?"

I didn't answer. I just smiled.

The days passed fast.

Busy enough that I forgot to notice the seasons change.

One day Ivy came by to eat, and mentioned Cain in passing.

"Heard his Pack dissolved. He's doing freelance work now, writing plans for people, one project at a time. Getting by."

"What about Serena?" I asked, just to ask.

"Her firm folded too. Couldn't hold onto the clients she took. They all walked within a year. Word is she left the territory."

I made a sound of acknowledgment.

Nothing particular.

Not satisfied. Not sorry.

Just... far away. Like looking at something on the other side of a very wide body of water. Whatever was happening over there belonged to a different world now.

One evening, there was a heavy rain.