THE HUSBAND SHE THREW AWAY

CHAPTER FIVE: WE SHALL SEE

 

The boardroom on the forty-second floor of the Solstice Tower on Brickell held six of the most influential agency executives in Miami. Caelen Blacksew walked into the space wearing a charcoal suit Eldridge Ward had helped him select that very morning—sharp, impeccably tailored, and entirely devoid of the loud, theatrical branding favored by the city's fashion elite. He was acutely aware of how out of place his broad shoulders, calloused knuckles, and weathered skin should have rendered him in a room scented with expensive espresso and jasmine. Yet, he was equally aware of how little any of that mattered the moment men learned what percentage of the company he held in his hands.

Gideon Callahan sat two seats down from the head of the polished mahogany table. When Caelen entered, Callahan offered a small, satisfied nod—the look a seasoned maritime broker gives when an investment made two years ago in the wake of a blinding ocean storm finally pays its full dividend.

The meeting itself was conducted in the bloodless, clinical language the industry used to discuss the human beings whose faces and bodies it commodified. They spoke of projected season revenue, brand leverage, asset retention, and portfolio optimization. Caelen sat quietly at the head of the table, his heavy hands resting flat on the dark wood, listening with absolute discipline.

 

Within twenty minutes, he understood everything he needed to know. Most of the men in this room had built their fortunes on the exact logic Elowen had used to justify her affair—talent treated as temporary inventory, human affection weaponized as leverage, and quiet labor exploited until there was nothing left to wring out. He filed that realization away without a word, his face a cool, unreadable mask.

When Eldridge Ward formally laid the signed restructuring documents on the center of the table and announced that Caelen Blacksew held eighty-five percent of the agency’s voting equity, a heavy, suffocating stillness fell over the room. The board members exchanged guarded glances. No one asked about his background. No one questioned his total lack of experience in high-fashion management. In a city constructed entirely on surface illusions and borrowed wealth, eighty-five percent real control was the only language that commanded absolute silence.

When the meeting adjourned, Caelen gathered his leather folder under one arm and stepped out into the carpeted executive hallway. The air here was cool and filtered, a stark contrast to the thick, sulfurous heat of the Gulf platforms where he had spent four years earning every dollar that made this morning possible.

Halfway down the hall, near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Miami Harbor, he spotted Dunstan Cray. Dunstan was attempting to corner one of the agency’s major commercial investors, his arms gesturing animatedly, his tone laced with his signature oily charm as he worked to repair a partnership that had clearly begun to fray once rumors of the secret takeover hit the wire. The investor caught sight of Caelen approaching, murmured a hasty excuse, and ducked into an adjacent office, leaving Dunstan standing alone against the glass.

Dunstan turned slowly, his pale eyes narrowing as he recognized the man walking toward him. There was no missing the swollen split lip still healing across his mouth, nor the visible effort it cost him to smooth down his silk tie and project an air of effortless superiority.

"Blacksew," Dunstan said, his voice dripping with a casual, practiced disdain that failed to entirely mask his agitation. "Here to play corporate savior and clean the place up, I take it?"

"Something like that," Caelen said, coming to a stop a few paces away. His tall, imposing frame blocked the light from the hallway, casting a long shadow over the carpet.

"You know I haven't forgotten Tuesday night." Dunstan touched the dark scab at the corner of his lip with the tip of his manicured finger, making sure Caelen saw the mark. A faint, venomous sneer touched his eyes. "I'll get back to you for those two punches. In my own time, and in a way that hurts far worse than a fist."

Caelen didn't flinch. He didn't clench his fists or step into the man's space. He simply looked at him with the calm, terrifying focus of a man who had weathered ocean gales that ripped iron off steel frames. "I'd expect nothing less."

Dunstan let out a dry, humorless laugh, though his gaze darted nervously toward Caelen’s heavy shoulders. "You think buying paper gives you real power here? It doesn't matter what legal documents your lawyer filed, Blacksew. Elowen walks as the headline talent at the autumn season gala this Friday. It is the single largest showcase of her career, backed by Halcyon sponsors and every major press outlet in South Florida. She is the face of Solstice, and there isn't a single thing a disgraced oil worker can do to stop that."

Caelen let the silence stretch between them, long and unhurried. He watched the subtle shift in Dunstan’s posture—the slight tightening of his jaw, the tiny twitch in his eyelid when the explosive, emotional outburst he had clearly prepared for failed to materialize. Caelen stood there, immovable as a granite reef.

"I'd love to see her walk," Caelen said finally, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely steady.

Dunstan adjusted his cuffs, his chest expanding as he tried to reclaim the upper hand. "Well, you'll have to read about it in the morning papers. There's no version of reality where you get through the front door. I manage the VIP credentialing for the gala, and your name isn't on the list."

"We shall see," Caelen said softly.

He didn't wait for Dunstan to construct another retort. Caelen turned on his heel and walked toward the waiting elevators, the steady, rhythmic click of his dress shoes echoing against the marble floorboards. He left Dunstan Cray standing entirely alone in the sunlit corridor of a building that, as of eight o'clock that